#5k...holy god

“I thought you wanted to cut your hair?” Steve calls, cutting his eyes towards the rotting tree stump as Bucky sheds out of his pants.

Steve tosses his eyes back in time to catch Bucky shrug before he steps into the cool water, hissing soft at the abrupt temperature change, “I’m not rushing,” Steve answers quick, “It’s just… we can’t go around looking like Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes anymore.”

“America’s golden boy and his unstable, untrustworthy, can’t be rehabilitated, murder buddy, you mean?”

Steve places a hand on his hip, eyes furrowing as he watches Bucky float aimlessly in the water, blinking slow towards the sky, “That’s not who you are, Buck.”

“That’s exactly who I am,” Bucky bites back, cutting his eyes back to Steve, “No matter how bad you want to, you can’t—” Bucky’s words stick in his throat when Steve turns away abruptly, then holds up his hand to silence him, “What is it?”

Steve turns his head slightly, listening. Bucky stands, pushing the water off of his head as he runs his hands over his hair, “What is it?”

Steve takes a breath, something sweet— perfume— filling his nose, “Someone’s here.”

“How many?”

“Just one,” Steve mumbles, his breaths getting deeper as the smell intensifies, “But it’s not—”

“How far?”

“A couple of miles, maybe three or four,” he reaches out, catching Bucky by the arm as he rushes by, “Buck, wait.”

“I can take one guy, Steve. I just don’t want to do it naked.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s not someone from the Government.”

Bucky huffs, clenching his jaw as he stares at Steve, “HYDRA then?”

All Steve can do is shake his head, “HYDRA doesn’t wear perfume.”

~~~

You squint as you drive slow, pinching the handwritten directions between your fingers and the steering wheel. The paperweight you call an iphone lost its wifi connection hours ago, and then actually died several miles back, so it’s just you, a sheet of paper with half ass instructions scribbled on it, and your car venturing down a gravel, overgrown road. You’ve lost count how many times you’ve literally prayed to every God you know that you don’t get a flat— because, you know, that happens to stupid girls like you that just take off without telling a soul you’re leaving.

The radio fades in and out as you go, more static than music. Quick eyes dart around from side to side, finding nothing more than the lush of trees and grass and a few pops of color from random wildflowers. A frazzled mind screams at you. This is crazy, you’re crazy… but you dull the voice and just grip the wheel harder. You blink, cutting your eyes to the passenger seat, the deed to your new home staring back at you.

You tear your eyes away, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you press numb fingers into your temple and rest your elbow on the door. Funerals always made you queasy, no matter whose it was. This one happened to be for a long lost aunt, who you knew nothing about but she somehow knew a lot about you. Her love for you, a child she never laid eyes on physically, shown through every word she wrote in her will.

To my beloved niece. I leave the oldest, most precious heirloom in our history. The very house where our lineage began some two hundred years ago. Take care of it, thrive in it, let it inspire you. For you are more than you’ll ever know. Aunt Bea.

For you are more than you’ll ever know

Tears sting the backs of your eyes just having the words flit around in your brain again. With the backs of your fingers, you rub your lips trying to fight the urge to cry. The gravel road and trees in front of you go blurry as you tighten your hand on the wheel. You just need to get there. Maybe fix it up a bit, make it yours, start a garden. Become one with nature… because you honestly can’t handle having life run you over anymore and you’re sick and tired of being sick and tired all the time.

If you ever needed a reset button, it’s now and this house is it.

There’s a slight turn in the road. You take it slowly and then, just like it was dropped out of the sky, there it is. Home.

Long, green vines slither up the sides, the grass and wildflowers probably as high as your hip.  An old, weathered rocking chair sits in the corner of the porch, a small flower pot with a long dead plant right next to the door. The roof a little lopsided, weighed down underneath an overgrown tree, and two of the three steps leading to the porch look to be rotted, but a smile covers your face anyway as you stare out of the windshield.

There’s a bond between you and this old house already. A strength is here, a warmth— the air even smells sweeter as you exit your little Volvo. Generation after generation of your family have walked in this grass, worked this land, and now it’s all yours. Even though you don’t know these people, a need to make them proud fills your chest.

You grab your suitcase and move to the front porch, barely navigating the rotten steps before your high heel gets stuck in a hole in one of the boards. Who needs four inch heels out in the woods anyway. The boards on the porch creek and squeak as you move towards the front door, more of them needing to be replaced than not.

One, two, three jams of your hip against the door later, and you’re finally inside. Stagnant dust fills the air from all of the new movement, but you breathe a sigh of relief. The inside is definitely in better shape than the outside. White sheets cover the furniture, and beneath a layer of dust is brand new wood flooring. The kitchen has a new sink, and a relatively in shape refrigerator. A toaster still in the box sits atop the granite countertop.

Great uncle Ernest was busy when this was all his.

You run your fingers over the countertop as you move towards the back door just off to the right of the refrigerator. As you pull it open, the top hinge gives, separating from the rotting door frame, sending rusted nails and the hinge itself to the floor. A loud thud sounds through the house when the bottom of the door slams against the floor, leaving you to jump back and shout, clutching your chest all the while.

“Fuck!”

Alright, so great uncle Earnest didn’t get as far in with the renovations as he’d planned. Nothing you can’t handle.

You push through the screen door (where most of the screen is missing) and find yourself on an uneven, boards missing back porch. With a hop, skip, and a jump for fear of falling straight through, you’re standing in the backyard, pulling off your pumps so you can feel the dirt and grass. You blink slow, hands on your hips, staring back at your fixer upper, the reality of it all starting to swirl.

It’s gonna take a lot— money, time, effort— to get this place livable after sitting vacant for almost five years. You’re also no handyman. How the fuck do you replace a door? Where do you get a door? Does Amazon even deliver this far out?

Heavy hands fall to your sides as you let out a huff. Don’t start, you chide yourself, you wanted a sign and you got one. Take that shit and quit complaining.

Plus, it’s Amazon. They deliver everywhere.

The rush of water starts to fill your ears, fading in as you start to pay attention to the chirps of birds and buzzes of little insects. Bare, manicured feet start stepping through the wild, tall grass, black French tipped fingers brushing it off to the side as you pass through.

Low hanging branches scrape along your head, old apples from a ripening, unattended apple tree litter the ground as you step into damp dirt. Whatever thoughts you had mere moments before, fuck off back into the depths of your brain as your eyes settle on the rushing stream just a few feet away. The water is clear, rippling and burbling, little green and blue fish swimming along.

The earth fills your nose, the grass, the dirt, the water— you’ll learn how to fish. You’ll learn how to install a door, and how to rip up old slats, and replace broken windows.

Because you’re supposed to be here.

~~~

Two sets of blue eyes peer through leaves and broken branches, Bucky standing behind Steve as they gaze.

“You seen her out here before?”

Steve shakes his head soft, eyes trailing down your frame as you stand at the water's edge, “No. I didn’t even know there was a house down this far,” He blinks again, “It’s hidden,” the words hesitate, “By um, by all the trees.”

Bucky slides his eyes to the back of Steve’s head before moving up beside him. He inhales deep, pulling in the sweet rose scent of your perfume, the soft undertones of vanilla and… strawberry? Maybe a concoction of body wash and body butter. It’s enticing, sending him right back to 1943. Dorothy… Dolores… Dot… smelled just like you. Hell, he can still hear that cute little giggle, feel those soft tits pressed right up against his chest as his big hands hugged those hips while she danced.

He knows Steve smells it too— if not more of you. Steve can probably hear your heart beating. Maybe smell the lingering traces of a man; cologne, aftershave, or just the musk of him.

Bucky cuts his eyes towards Steve again and just knows Steve can smell your pretty, sweet little cunt. Smell your slick— can practically taste it on the tip of his tongue. Smell the smallest bit of perspiration on your skin as the sun beats down on you out here. Hear you swallow behind those plump, mauve colored lips.

It’s moments like these that make Bucky jealous. He’d take Steve’s perfected serum over his clipped poison any day.

Then his mind really goes, but that’s nothing new for Bucky. Once a flirt, always a flirt— no matter how much HYDRA is in him. The soft, thick meat of your hips in his calloused hands. Pathetic whimpers stuffing his ears. Nipples hard and piqued as he prods at them. That mouth, God that pretty mouth stretched wide around his cock, tears leaking down your cheeks as you slurp him up.

“Don’t start,” a quick clap on the back brings Bucky back, “Come on, Buck.”

Bucky watches Steve turn and take a few steps before he glances back across the stream, blinking at you as you swish your hand back and forth in the water. Knees drawn into your chest, head lolled just to the side, eyes sad and lost.

His cock twitches in his pants.

Steve’s hushed voice breaks through the rushing water and the rustling leaves again, and Bucky tears his eyes away, turning on his heel, “I’m comin, alright? Stow the mom voice.”

“We have to stay to ourselves if this is gonna work.”

“Did I say anything?” Bucky answers quick.

Steve chuckles, pushing a wild branch out of his way as they walk side by side, “You didn’t have to. I saw how you were looking at her.”

“Yeah well,” Bucky starts, eyes darting back and forth as his mind moves back to you, “She’s gonna need help fixing that place up,” he shrugs a few seconds later, feeling Steve’s eyes on the side of his face, “She is, you saw the roof— that back porch.”

“Bucky—”

“I know she smelled good, Steve. What I could get was incredible, so I know you got every last little sublime detail.”

Steve’s eyes drift, the greens of the grass and leaves, the blue of the sky, the white of the sun rays all blur together as Bucky’s words fade. You’re sweet. Delicate. Soft and ripe— ready for anything, anyone to just take you away. Mark you. Own you.

He blinks.

Blinks again.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, scoffing as a smirk lingers on his lips, “You never did like to share, asshole.”

“I’m serious, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It’s been a long time for Steve. Too many days to count, which turned into months, turned to years. He was good at ignoring it at first. Took him years to not let all the sounds, the smells, the visuals overwhelm him— going from barely able to see his own hand in front of his face to correctly identifying a semi-familiar face three hundred feet away in a crowd was… a lot. But he dealt with it over time. The sights, the sounds…

Every now and again though, a smell will get him. Make him weak in the knees. Keep him up at night— and he’ll probably be doing a lot of that tonight. Staying up, that is. Trying not to jerk his cock to the lingering smell of you. To smooth brown skin and plump lips. Long, manicured fingers. Gentle, round eyes. Steve licks his dry lips and tastes the salt on your skin— the little bead of sweat that slipped down your neck and into your cleavage.

“She looks young,” Steve murmurs, clearing his throat.

Bucky rolls his eyes, lips curling into a knowing smile, “Uh huh.”

“She does,” Steve counters quick, “She probably doesn’t even know who we are,” Bucky opens his mouth but Steve cuts him off, “Like, not old enough to remember us.”

Bucky drops his head back, widening his eyes, “Are you stupid? Or are you dumb? You broke me out of a federal prison six months ago, you’d have to be living under a rock to not—”

Steve whips around suddenly, eyes scanning the brush as he gets a whiff of roses and strawberries. Bucky follows suit, perking up as water splashes, leaves crunching with hurried footsteps. Out of habit, he clenches his fists, rolling his shoulders as the silver metal plates on his arm shift.

There’s muffled cursing, a quick squeal and then within the blink of an eye, you’re stumbling out in front of them, wiping at your forehead roughly as you try to find your footing.

“Oh,” you gasp, stopping short when you find two pairs of eyes trained stiffly on you, “Oh, uh, hi,” you smile bright, but quick, the gesture leaving your face as the two men shift their eyes towards each other before returning their gazes to you, “Um, sorry, I heard voices. I, uh,”

“Hi,” Bucky pipes up, offering a soft smile, “I’m Bucky, this is Steve.”

Steve rolls his eyes, his lips parting before they purse as he stares over at the Winter idiot. It’s amazing, really. Six hours ago, Bucky was hurling knives at Steve’s face and reminding him that he is his mission. Put a pretty girl in front of him, he’s a goddamn teddy bear.

You push out a breath, the smile returning to your face, “Hi Bucky, Steve. This is probably really strange,” you laugh, “But um, do you think you could help me? Really quick?” you turn slightly, pointing your thumb over your shoulder, “My backdoor kind of, uh, fell off. Could one of you help me lift it back into place?”

Steve’s mouth opens, fully intent on having words come out of it but all he can do is blink— and then snap his lips closed again. Bucky cuts his eyes towards him. Seventy years and two hundred pounds of FDA approved American meat later, and he still can’t talk to women.

“Sure thing,” a smile nearly splits Bucky’s face in two, “Lead the way.”

You keep your hands wrangled within one another, right thumb pressed into your left palm, rubbing gently as you walk ahead of these two strange men. If your mother could only see you now— inviting two strangers right to your back door. Two strange men that you found walking randomly in the woods. They make slasher films that start out just like this. Dumbass.

But it’s too late now, as you’ve begun to cross the stream— in your heels, cuz, you know, you completely thought this through— and your modest shithole of a cabin in view. You step cautiously into the water, placing one foot slowly in front of the other, hands held out to your sides to balance yourself, but of course—

“Shit!”

You stumble, life flashing before your eyes as you start to fall sideways. Before you have a chance to hit the water, there’s a silver hand on your hip, and then another wrapped around your right bicep, keeping you upright and dry.

“I gotcha, I gotcha,” Bucky says, holding you still for a second, “Y’okay, sweetheart?”

With a quick glance over your shoulder and a nervous smile, you nod, “Yeah, th-thanks. This probably wasn’t the best choice of shoes.”

“No… probably not,” he chuckles, “Let me help you across.”

That big hand stays on your hip, the other sliding down your arm before it too lands a little higher up of your waist. You have to clear your throat and blink multiple times to try and focus on getting across the water and not on his firm, yet incredibly gentle grip. His metal fingers flex just a little, tightening, digging just a bit into your skin and hip, before they relax. When you get to the bank, his flesh hand caresses your elbow, holding it gently as he extends his arm to help you up into the grass.

A warmth spreads through your arm and down your body as you walk through the grass. On top of quitting your job and breaking your lease on a whim, you also have not been touched by a man in… let’s not get into that, okay? you gripe at yourself, we’ll work on that later.

“So, umm, yeah,” laughing nervously, you point towards the door, which has now completely fallen off the second and third hinges and laying flat on the floor, “Fuck, it wasn’t like that when I came out here. It was… fuck.”

Steve steps past you and moves just inside the door, eyes on the frame. He reaches up and runs his hand down the rotted wood, his red plaid button down lifting with the motion— exposing a sliver of skin. You instantly take a breath, a slow, deep one before dragging your bottom lip between your teeth. Eager eyes find a smattering of hair, just under his belly button as he reaches higher, shirt creeping up even further as he murmurs more to himself than anyone else.

“Wood’s rotted, so it won’t stay for long, but we can put it up for you for the night at least,” he says after a few moments, his eyes still moving up and down the side jamb, “If you don’t mind us ripping up your back porch, that is.”

You snap your eyes up to his, your brain playing catch up with the words, “Oh, um, why… exactly do you have to rip up the porch?”

“We can take a plank or two from the deck,” Bucky starts, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little, testing the old wood as he eyes it, “and nail ‘em into the rotted piece. Then screw the door into that until you can replace the whole thing.”

You nod, smiling again, “Sure, thanks. I’m planning on redoing the deck anyway. Do you need—” before you can get the words out, Bucky bends, grabbing the end of a random plank with his metal arm. With one swift yank, nails are flying, plopping in the grass as he rips it up and hands it to Steve, “ — a hammer?”

He winks at you, and your stupid stomach flutters, “I got it, honey.”

It’s been too long. The mere sentiments honey and sweetheart have you shaking. Touch starved and praise deprived. What a combo.

“I could use the hammer though,” Steve says, offering a smile, “Or a drill.”

“Right, yeah,” mumbling as you turn on your heel, “One sec.”

After rifling through a few drawers and a supply closet, you find a dead drill but also a pack of batteries, so you hand them over and lean against the fridge to watch. Fingertips prod at your bottom lip slowly as the two men get to work, Bucky deciding to rip a chunk of the rotted wood of the door jamb with his flesh hand this time. The sight makes you take another breath. It’s just so… yeah.

The two of them bicker, playfully, each thinking they know something more about installing a door than the other. Bucky makes another trip to the deck to rip up another board, breaking the damn thing over his knee like it’s a spaghetti noodle to get it to the size Steve needs. Your eyes start to drift again, finding more sun tanned skin as they reach and stretch and bend. Bucky’s tank top leaves little to the imagination— his deltoids and biceps flexing with each little movement.

Veins in Steve’s mammoth hands push up hard against his skin as he drills a repurposed board into the door frame. The arm of his shirt rides up, exposing a forearm covered in dark blonde hair. There you find another vein, prodding against his skin, creeping up his arm.

He’s flushed a little, Steve, his skin fairer than Bucky’s. You can see the red blooming across the top of his chest, across his collar bones, moving up his neck where it disappears into the thick beard on his chin and cheeks— it looks so soft. His beard. Your fingers start to itch, just wanting to feel it.

Bucky’s is lighter. More than stubble, but not a full grown creature just yet. It highlights his sharp jawline and chin; his lips. A little chapped, but pink and full for a man.

“Okay,” Steve huffs, the puff of air pushing his long hair out of his face, “That should do it. It’ll hold until you can get the whole jamb replaced.”

You push away from the fridge, hands and fingers intertwined because their mere presence makes you stupid, “Thank you so much. I wish I had something to offer you, like food or… something, for your help.”

“Oh no, that’s okay,” Steve smiles, running his hand through his hair, “Well, we better—”

“Are you out here all by yourself?” Bucky cuts in, glancing around the kitchen before taking a few more steps inside.

“Yes. I just inherited this place from my great aunt.”

“She passed?” you nod, “Sorry to hear that,” the soft in Bucky’s voice sends a ripple up your spine, “So, you’re gonna renovate this place by yourself? That’s a lot of work by the looks of it.”

You laugh, “Don’t remind me. But, uh, yeah, I’m gonna tackle it all by myself, unless Amazon can deliver a handyman and an electrician.”

“I don’t know about all that,” he chuckles, “but Steve and I can help— if you want, that is. We’re not doing much these days.”

Both you and Steve stare at him like he’s suddenly sprouted another head, “Oh no, no, no. I couldn’t ask you to do that. There’s so much to do and I’m sure you two have more important things to do than help me.”

With a shrug and a smirk, Bucky answers simply, “We don’t,” he turns his head, smiles wide at Steve, “Right bud?”

Bud. Steve could fucking kill him, “Right. It’d be our pleasure.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Bucky says, reaching out as he passes by you, letting his fingertips lightly brush along your forearm, “You can make us dinner when we’re finished.”

Bucky winks at you again and it takes every ounce of strength to stay on your feet. You open your mouth to speak, but kinda like Steve when you stumbled out in front of them, you can’t seem to find any words.

“We’ll be by tomorrow, okay? We’ll take you into town, get some supplies. But if you need us before then, we’re just a couple miles down the road— just follow the bend,” they both step out onto the back porch with you stopping just at the door, “Or you and those heels of yours can venture across the stream again. It’s a straight shot from there.”

You offer a weak smile and lift your hand as they move across the backyard, “Thank you.”

Bucky tosses another smile over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow, sugar.”

Sugar.

God, you’re in trouble.

~~~

Steve rolls over hard, slams his head back into the pillow as he pushes out a hot breath. Tired eyes blink slow up at the ceiling, focusing on nothing at all as his mind wanders. The air is still, the heat still suffocating even in the dead of night. The fan spins slow. The wispy, old curtains covering his open window shift with a random, soft breeze. Crickets chirp. Water ripples in the distance, an animal moves through the sun dried leaves.

He blinks again and there you are, right in front of his eyes. You’ve got to be the sweetest little thing to cross his path in what feels like forever. The shampoo and body butter weren’t enough to drown out the smell of you. Heady. Thick. So feminine. His eyelids get heavy, slip closed as he lifts his hips from the mattress, adjusting a bit, having to take a deep breath.

Steve licks his lips again as thoughts of his hands grazing over your naked thighs, squeezing gently as your teeth dig into your bottom lip fill his head. The pads of his fingers find that little wet spot on your silk panties, tease your slit and folds through the material. You spread those legs for him with a little more coaxing from him, your back pressed against his chest, head lolling on his shoulder as his lips skip along your exposed neck.

A moan chokes in Steve’s throat when he palms himself, already rigid from the fleeting thoughts. Thick fingers wrap around his girth, squeeze the base before he tugs upward, real slow, all the way to the tip as he imagines how soft your cunt is. How wet. Warm. How he’d push two fingers in, stopping as you tense— squeal. Tits jiggling when you jump and gasp when he adds a third.

“Shit,” he huffs, the innate urge to scold himself pausing his hand.

But it’s too late for all that now, cock standing tall, a blush of red creeping across his thighs and up his neck. Stomach going tight as his flesh warms at his touch.

He wishes it were yours— the touch.

He’d finger fuck you real slow, right there on that back porch of yours. One of your small hands wrapped around the back of his neck, the other holding his forearm, nails digging into his skin as your hips roll into his fingers and cock.

Blue eyes pop back open as he rolls to the side, pushing his hand between the mattress and box spring to pull out a small bottle of lube. Bucky can’t mind his fucking business nowadays… he also never puts shit back where he found it and doesn’t understand the saying a dollop will do ya, so, this bottle of water based lube will stay hidden between the mattress and box spring.

They’ve been on the run for almost six months, Steve’ll be damned if a trip to a sex store gets them caught now.

A soft click breaks the silence, but Steve hesitates anyway. Bucky’s serum may not have enhanced his senses to the same hypersensitive degree as Steve’s, but the fucker can still hear a pin drop on a carpeted floor while a radio plays in the background.

The room temperature gel squirts easy in his hand, starts to warm as soon as Steve closes his mammoth palm around his hot cock, sending another ripple right down his spine. Hips start to rock as he finds a rhythm. Up, down, up, down. Fingertips sweeping over his wet tip before dragging back down to his stomach. He ruts up into his palm, stomach and balls tight as he pushes out a heavy breath.

Steve, you rasp, heady and thick, Steve, please baby. Fuck me, Steve.

A thick breath hitches in his throat as he imagines the words tripping off your tongue; so desperate and needy. A quick spurt of silk wets his cock head, dribbles down before his palm catches it. A tight, slow tug smearing it along his length as he fucks up into the canal of his hand again.

Free fingers slip down his side, find his strung up balls, heavy and swollen. He rolls them between his fingers, squeezes, imagines you grinding that perfect ass against his hard cock before reaching back to grab him. Begging him.

Steve. Fill me up. Stuff me full, baby. Please.

And he would— stuff you full. He’d ruck that black skirt right up over your hips, rip that thong in two. Teeth would find your earlobe, eager hands in your top, squeezing those perky, round, full tits as his cock head drags through wet folds— teases your slit.

Would he slam into you right away? Just as desperate as you are for it. Wanting to feel soft, hot muscles clamp around him. Or, would he sink in? Slow and steady, making you take him inch by inch. Squeaking and groaning all the while, fingernails dug into his thighs, clipped, broken, breathy words falling from wet lips and floating away with the breeze.

He’d grab a fistful of your wild hair, real tight. Yank your head back when you’ve taken every bit of his cock, ass flat against his stomach. Call you his favorite little dumb baby. Tell you how greedy your cunt is, how only he can satisfy that slutty hole. Kiss you hard and sloppy as you nod quick, murmuring and burbling— totally agreeable to each and every whim of his.

Yeah. That’s how he’d do it. Push in real slow, make you whine for it and tell him how much you need him. Then he’d slam into you. Not waiting for you to catch your breath. Not allowing you to adjust. He’d keep his grip tight on your hair, craning your neck back until he can almost see your eyes rolled up in the back of your head.

Steve’s chest is tight, his heartbeat in his throat, the rush of blood in his ears as he pumps his cock faster. The curl of his palm constricts to mimic the feel of you— wet, tense muscles enveloping him. He breathes in deep and the rose and strawberry is back in his nostrils. The faint hint of vanilla, a tinge of sweat. The sound of your skin slapping against his. The feel of your hips, your soft sides, thick nipples in his hands.

He wants them between his teeth, those pretty brown nipples. Wants to tease them with the tip of his tongue, while a lazy, long leg of yours is thrown over his hip— in the kitchen, up against the fridge.

Fuck. Maybe you’re a sensitive little thing. Maybe just him sucking your tits can make you come. His big hand shoved down the front of your open jean shorts, the pads of his fingers just barely brushing over your clit. Your hips rocking hard, trying to catch a feel against his hard thigh between your legs. Head thrown back, fingers in his hair. His name falling off your pretty lips, all flustered and stupid drunk off lust.

His hips flex once more and he’s tipped over the edge, long, hot strings of thick silk spurting. Teeth dig into his bottom lip, trying to stifle his groans as he comes, wave after wave rolling through. It splatters on his stomach, rolls down the side of his cock and over his fingers as they continue their strokes, up and down, up and down, up and down. Squeezing, pads teasing a sensitive tip.

He pulls on his balls, hips rolling up into his hand as he groans a little louder, each one punctuated with another spurt. Quick flashes of broken images— your sweet mouth, naked tits, full, meaty hips, ass bouncing— dance before his eyes as he drains himself. He tips his head back, pushes the top of his head into the pillow as his mouth hangs. Cock now overly sensitive, each sweep making him shiver but he doesn’t want to stop. It’s too good— you’re too good and sweet.

The body is always weaker than the mind and Steve knows a thing or two about a weak body. It gives out before his visions of you, slamming him back down to the mattress, hips and hands slowing until they both stop. Breath heavy and labored, head rolled to the side, a hand slapping into the middle of his chest. He’s a mess, sticky and wet, but the relaxation that washes through him is unmatched.

A knock on the wall sounds seconds later, “Hey pervert, you finished?”

“Fuck you.”

“No dummy, I’m trying to fuck me. Gimme the lube.”

~~~

It’s hot, and in more ways than one, but that’s not the only reason you’re having trouble concentrating on getting these hydrangeas in the dirt. It’s been two days of watching two men basically build you a new home. T shirts have come off, pants have sagged embarrassingly (for you) low. All the hammering and screwing, the light little curses that fall their lips making your brain go all… well, dumb.

And they’re both impossibly nice. Bucky with his sure thing, sugar. I got it honey, no problem. Steve and his yes ma’am. Here, let me get this outta the way. Need anything else? Sure, it may seem like just having simple manners to some, but to you, who’s been a welcome mat for any and every asshole that’s looked in your direction, it’s all about to make you combust.

You’ve purposefully kept your distance. Try to keep your eyes to yourself, put at least six feet between your body and their bodies when moving around them, but it’s really no use. Just having them here, in your space— the natural smell of man lingering in the air even after they’ve left, and God has it been a long time since you’ve been immersed in that smell—  has cast a spell. A spell that forces your hand down your pants more often than not. Prunes. Your fingers are prunes.

Against your better judgement, you blink up from the flower bed, searching for a certain blonde eye candy. Steve is on the opposite end of the front porch, ripping up a rotted, but still two inch or more thick board with nothing else but his hands. Snaps it in half like a twig, like it’s nothing, and tosses the pieces into a pile behind him. He takes a second before grabbing one of the new boards and throws his head back, runs his fingers through his hair, shaking it gently back and forth.

A bead of sweat rolls down his chest, right between those two beautiful, sculpted tits of his and travels down his abs, absorbing into the tuft of dark blonde hair just below his belly button. There’s more veins. So, so many veins, pumping hot blood throughout his six foot something, two hundred plus pounds.

Steve then pushes a hand around the back of his neck, rubbing gently as he tilts his head towards the sky. Lips parted, long, dark eyelashes spread out over rosy cheeks. Then you’re thinking about teeth, your teeth, sinking into that thick neck. Sucking that hot blood to the surface, marking him up. Hips rolling into his, cunt stuffed with cock, his fingers prodding at your asshole. Your hands look small holding onto his broad shoulders, squeezing as hard as you can but he barely feels it, if at all— the cut of your nails in his skin.

One of those hands, wide and warm, holds your neck, squeezes, and you for damn sure feel it. Wet lips find the shell of your ear, teeth grab the lobe. Soft words, so soft that you almost miss them, all tied up and slurred and stupid with lust. You’re such a pretty girl. Hmm? Ain’tcha? There you go, honey. Just like that. Oh, that’s perfect.

His mouth finds your neck as you roll your head back, hips still rolling. Lips swollen and red snagging on your skin as he drags them lazily, down, down, down to your collarbone. Teeth nibble at the bone before he slides his tongue across it, all while one hand slithers up your back, grabs and holds onto your shoulder.

You squeak when he fucks up into you real hard, just once, so he knows you feel him. You like that, honey? You want it like that? Okay, sweet girl, lemme give you what you want...

Lunch.

It’s time for some goddamn lunch.

You’re on your feet in a flash, head down as Steve twists left and right, because of course now that your panties are stuck to your skin, it’s the perfect time for him to work out a kink in his back.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes trailing you as you practically run towards the front door.

“Yep,” you don’t even look at him— you can’t. Heat prickling across your skin as embarrassment follows quickly behind, “Just getting kinda hungry… chicken salad sandwiches okay?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Buck and I can head home—”

“My treat,” you cut him off, twisting the doorknob.

All thanks to Bucky, a blast of cool air hits you in the face as soon as you push through the front door with ease (Steve is to thank for the door). You wipe at your forehead and move into the kitchen, washing your hands before plucking random ingredients from the fridge, freezer and pantry. Eyeing the small mountain of lemons in the crisper drawer, a pitcher of lemonade would round out your impromptu lunch (and help cool down your libido).

After the chicken is boiling on the stove, you busy yourself slicing up the tart, yellow fruit, popping the halves into your new lemon press. You’ve liquified three or four halves before movement catches your eye, drawing them towards the square window right over the sink.

Bucky tosses a hammer into the grass, hands on his hips while he rolls his shoulders. Cranes his neck back and forth. Soon he’s pulling at his shirt, one hand bunching it between his shoulder blades before pulling it clean over his head. Tosses it into the grass too as he starts to move towards the stream, fumbling with the button and zipper of his loose jeans.

Your heartbeat grows heavy, breath kinda shallow as he shrugs out of the denim just at the stream's edge. Then his fingers are in the waistband of his boxer briefs. Pulling. You blink away, sending your eyes towards the floor as heat, from both excitement and embarrassment creeps up into your face. What a creep— you’re a creep!

But you’re blinking again. Blinking right back out the window as the muffled sounds of water sloshing about fills the space. Naked thighs, burly and tanned and hairy. Swinging between his legs as he moves deeper into the water.

Just like that, your mind is off into it’s little tangents and tributaries. On your knees, in front of him. A hand cupping your chin, a smile on his face as he pushes hair away from your forehead. He’s leaning down, pressing hot, chapped lips to yours real soft. Your hands, so small when gripping his hips, nails raking down hairy thighs. Wet against your eager lips, warm, wet cock head rubbing soft, back and forth, back and forth to coax your mouth open.

A hum, one of content and sheer happiness sounds in your throat when you’re full of him. Velvet tongue tracing the thick vein that runs the length of his cock, then flattening— molding itself around him. He’s heavy and hot in your mouth, pinning your tongue down, gently stroking the soft at the back of your throat.

Bucky sounds heavenly. Soft groans. Sweet and sugary— and he doesn’t care. He’s a man, comfortable and secure. Oh honey, he’d purr, you’re so good to me. So, s’good. So warm.

Little hands around his cock, stroking, twisting, wet and sloppy from where your mouth just was. There’s a salt sweet in the back on the tip of your tongue, and you hum again. Silky. A bloom of warmth as you press the tip of your tongue against the tip of his cock. Pumping, pumping, pumping with your hands.

Breath against your ear suddenly, more sweet words tripping off a tongue as a chest is pushed into your back. A mammoth hand slipping down your stomach and between your legs, fingers teasing a throbbing clit and swollen, sticky folds. You take him so good, baby, Steve praises, pushing one, two, three fingers into your achy cunt, filling you up as you suck Bucky right back into your mouth. Such a good girl.

A loud thunk sounds from outside, jolting you right out of your little fantasy. You gasp and jump, slam your eyes closed as you grab onto the sink— Steve’s muffled but sweet sorry permeating through the walls. You cover your face with your hands, laughing gently into them before groaning loudly and pushing out a huff.

You grab another halved lemon, shove it into the press, and squeeze the fuck out of that bitch.

Within the hour, you’re stepping out onto your seemingly finished back porch. It doesn’t creak when you walk across it. There aren’t any rusted, jagged nails sticking out, no more missing or uneven boards. Your heart— and pussy— flutter with joy.

Ice cubes clink against the glass of the cups in your hands, traipsing towards the stream as Bucky floats lazily, arms pushing through the water slow as he stares up into the sky. You thank God for the heavy breeze today, whipping the water a bit, ripples and burbles stirring it up so you can’t see all of Bucky as he floats. Just the droplets of water glimmering on his chest, neck, and face. His hair spreading out and swaying with the steady current.

Two blue eyes soon find you, head turning slow, a lopsided smile on his handsome face as you stop just at the edge. You clear your throat nervously, a smile of your own spreading as you glance away.

“No heels today?”

You laugh, closing your eyes as embarrassment washed through you, “Nope, not today. I uh, I made some lemonade, if you… want some.”

The water sloshes again, falls off of his shoulders and arms and slaps back into the main source. Bucky runs his hands over his head, pushing more water off before taking a few steps towards your outstretched hand. His fingers linger over yours when he takes the round glass, for a second too long before he pulls back, eyes on you as he takes a slow sip.

You sit in the grass, sending your gaze up the stream as you lift your glass.

“Damn girl,” he says after a slow moment, “This is good, not too sweet. Just how I like it.”

Pride swells in your chest, “Thanks, I don’t like mine super sweet either,” you take a breath, settle your eyes on your feet as you wiggle your toes, “It’s the least I could do for you guys. I also made some chicken salad in the house, I can make you a sandwich whenever you’re hungry.”

“That’s real sweet, doll,” he purrs, smiling again, “Thank you, but really, you don’t have to worry about it. We were going stir crazy out here with nothing to do.”

You nod slow, blinking back at him before averting your eyes again, back down the stream, thinking for a tick or two, “Have you guys… been out here the whole time?”

Bucky has a way of looking at you. Like he’s trying to pry into you, see the innermost working parts of your brain and heart. It makes you nervous, but the good kind of nervous where you don’t ever want to not have those eyes on you.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on,” you smile, tucking your knees into your chest.

A slow smile creeps onto his face, eyes dancing all over you, “Come on what?”

“I,” you hesitate, pushing out a hard breath as embarrassment flushes through you, “I know who you are,” your voice is hushed and you don’t know why… there’s no one out here but you and him. Oh yeah, cuz you’re dumb.

“Yeah?” Bucky teases, smile growing larger, “Who are we?”

You squeeze your legs together, brain going fuzzy and warm as he teases you. God. “Your faces have been all over the news for months. You haven’t even cut your hair for god sake.”

“You know,” Bucky starts, pointing a finger at you as he closes his left eye, “I’ve been meaning to get around to that,” laughter bubbles up and spills out of your mouth for the first genuine time in a long time. The sound makes Bucky smile harder, “I’m pretty sure most of the town knows it’s us too.”

“Maybe not,” you shrug, “From the looks of it, the average age around here is a cool seventy five. I don’t think they care.”

“That’s true,” he laughs, “Even though they’re all old enough to remember us first hand,” silence falls over the two of you, nothing but the wind in the trees and the soft rush of the water, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You look away from him, unable to take the constant stare from him any longer. You take a slow breath and shrug, “Everybody should have the chance to start over if they want, whenever and however they choose, so,” you swallow hard, dropping your head, “Plus, I think you two have been through enough, you don’t need me muckin’ it up.”

He blinks at you, eyes dropping just a bit, a seriousness settling in and on his features, “Thanks,” he answers simply.

A nod and half smile is all you can offer without that sadness you’ve been feeling lately creeping up in your throat, “Isn’t it lonely out here?” you ask, blinking at him over the rim of your glass.

He nods, shutting one eye as he tilts his head towards the sky, thinking over his answer, “Not really lonely, just kinda isolating, you know? If you can’t tell, I’m the social butterfly of the two of us.”

You laugh, nodding with him as you pick up on the sarcasm but appreciating his quiet way of picking up on your shifts and changing the subject, “Oh yeah, it totally oozes off of you.”

“I know it does, thank you for noticing,” he winks, “We don’t get into town much and usually Steve is the one that goes cuz, ya know,” he taps his temple, “Can’t really trust this thing yet, but it beats being rotting away in federal prison.”

A few beats pass as you play with a strand of grass, “I went to the Smithsonian a couple of years ago, saw that installation they put up for Steve— all the accolades and medals and shit… and he just walked away from it all, for you, for… what he believes in. That’s incredible— you’re incredible for enduring everything you have and still finding all this shit worth it. You two are just,” you can’t even find the words, “You must really love each other.”

“Well, home is home, you know,” he shrugs matter-of-factly, “He’s my brother— he’s never given up on me after all this time. I’d do it for him if I had too.”

“Boy,” you laugh a little, “They certainly don’t make men like you guys anymore. I can’t get somebody to buy me fuckin’ cup of coffee without expecting something in return. You two are lucky.”

Your words trail off, brown eyes blinking away from him again as the wheels turn in your brain. Bucky picks up on it immediately, tilts his head and smiles a little, “What?”

You shake your head, laughing again before taking a drink, “It’s nothing, just me overthinking.”

“About?” he prods after a second or two.

“I just,” you glance down the stream again, voice dropping low again, “I don’t think Steve likes me.”

He laughs. Like, really laughs. A throws his head back and claps his hands once or twice kinda laugh, “Oh hun,” he says after catching his breath, “Where’d you get an idea like that?”

“He’s just, I dunno, he’s short with me, barely looks at me most of the time,” you shrug, “But I mean, you two are fugitives from the goddamn United States government, I’d be suspicious of everything and everyone too,” Bucky’s laughter only grows, making you smile a little, “My social anxiety amuses you, huh?”

“No, no. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, but, it’s just—” his eyes go wide with some sort of hidden knowledge as his smirk grows, “— he likes you. Believe me.”

“Well excuse me if I don’t because I sure can’t tell. He barely seems to like you most days.”

That tickles Bucky too, his laugh filling the air, “Him liking me isn’t certain from day to day, that’s for sure, but listen, he still thinks of himself as a hundred pound, socially awkward nerd. He hasn’t learned a damn thing in a hundred years — pretty girls made him nervous in 1940 and they make him nervous now,” you drop your head, trying to hide the smile growing on your face, “What do they say nowadays? It’s not you, it’s him.”

A laugh trickles out from behind your lips.

“Feel better?” Bucky asks.

You shrug, but nod, letting out a breath, “I suppose, yeah.”

He winks at you, smiling again, “Good.”

Then you two just kinda look at each other. Not saying anything, just looking— all over. Minds wandering and racing, then just stilling as the wind whips around you. Bucky tilts his head, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he looks you over slowly, another quirk of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey,” he says after a beat, taking another gulp or two of your lemonade, “You know what really gives me away?” He lifts his metal hand and wiggles his fingers, making you laugh.

“You certainly don’t try very hard to hide it.”

“Not around you anyway.”

You snap your eyes towards him as the words leave his mouth. Bucky’s head is tilted, wet hair pushed back, fat drops of water still dripping from the ends. He starts moving inward, towards you, each step exposing more and more of his chest and stomach— the dark, wet hair plastered underneath his belly button.

Bucky Barnes is not a shy man, and if you had any shame at all, you’d look away. But you don’t, have any shame that is, so you don’t. You let your eyes wander his lean, but incredibly toned body. There’s muscles on top of muscles, but there’s also scars. Littered across his torso and stomach, down his thighs and calves. Some silvery and old, others still dark and jagged— raised on his skin. Others are just ghosts of scars, barely there anymore and only visible when the sun and the water hit him just right.

He sits his empty glass in the grass beside you, the ice cubes clinking again. Grabs your glass from your hands and takes a sip. He pushes your knees open with his flesh hand, the bottom of the glass skimming over the right bend. Then he sits, his knees pressing into that little nook where your ass meets your thighs. Bucky places the rim of the glass to your lips and waits.

“Go on.”

You blink up at him but let your head tilt back with instinct. Part your lips as Bucky tips the glass back and allows the lemonade to spill slow into your awaiting mouth.

“Finished? Or more?”

His voice is soft, eyes on slits as he peers down at you through full lashes. You lick your lips and place both hands in the grass, palms flat, “More please.”

It’s needy the way you said it, light and full all at the same time. Another sound that pleases him. He tips the glass again, and again you accept the tart liquid, licking your lips when he pulls away.

“Let me ask you something, doll.”

Metal digits creep around your neck, the tips of his fingers pushing into your hair. He cradles your face and you can’t help but roll into his warm palm as his thumb sweeps just underneath your bottom lip. The other hand is around your neck now too, just kind of holding it, fingers scratching at the nape of your neck.

He tilts your head back, pushing the tips of his thumbs underneath your chin and your eyes flutter. A whir trembling in your throat.

“Who in their right mind let a sweet little needy thing like you wander around all alone out here?”

Warm lips are on yours before you can answer— if you were even supposed to. Bucky grabs your top lip between both of his, that pink tongue sneaking out, massaging the roof of your mouth before disconnecting with a smack. The tip of his nose sweeps over yours as he adjusts, kissing you again, harder this time. Pulls you into him with his hands, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks.

You’re staring at him— both surprised and unsure— when he finally pulls away, the smack of your lips like thunder in a confused brain. Bucky’s hands are still on your face, cradling your cheeks and chin, lopsided grin painted on his face as he blinks down at you.

“What is it,” he asks soft, “Cat got your tongue?”

All you can do is blink. Mind empty as your breath shallows. He leans in again, sweeps the tip of his nose over yours as he nuzzles in— kisses your top lip quick and soft, “You just don’t know, do you?”

A hum vibrates in the back of your throat as you push out a labored breath. Lips suddenly eager, heartbeat ticking up as his metal hand collars around your throat, “Mmph— know what?”

The words are thin. Nervous and trembling but his mouth eats them right up. Hot and confident as he kisses you, tongue running along the roof of your mouth as his thumb slowly passes back and forth over your throat.

“Just how sweet you are.”

Your reach for him after seconds pass, hands and nails finding wet hips as you moan into his mouth. He sits up on his knees but never breaks the kiss, now deep and a little desperate. Bucky sounds as he starts to prod at the button of your jean shorts, popping it quick before pulling on the zipper, “We can smell how bad you need it, girl— how bad you want it.”

Instinctively you lift your hips, allowing Bucky to pull your shorts down your legs. You curl them around his thighs, place your feet on the insides of his calves, fingers finding his skin again, raking up and down his thighs.

“Thought you were gonna Steve a goddamn heart attack,” he chuckles, grabbing at the hem of your shirt, rucking it up over your chest, “‘m surprised he can form a sentence when you’re around.”

Your tits soon fall free, soft skin bouncing and jiggling as he jostles you around a bit— gets you just right and close so he can peer down at you through those long, dark lashes. Fingers curled underneath your chin, thumb dragging over your lips.

“You just looked so lonely, sitting all by yourself that day. So sweet and sad, like you were—” a breath chokes in his throat as you push your fingers through the thick hair underneath his belly button, “— waitin’ for us. Fuck, baby,” he inhales sharp, a hiss like a snake slithering out of him, “I thought, there’s no way anyone is that innocent, but you are, aren’t you sweet girl? We’ve found the prettiest, sweetest, loneliest little thing in the world— ah,”

One long stroke of your tongue along his cock brings his words to a halt. You send your eyes up to his and take him slow, stretching your mouth wide as your tongue glides along the length. Bucky rolls his shoulders and lets out a focused breath, real calm and slow through his teeth and parted lips. The tips of his fingers prod at your nipples, tweaking them gently before palming your tits.

You wrap a hand around his hip, skip the other up his stomach to flatten your palm against his chest— give his nipple a little turn and pinch. His heavy cock jumps in your mouth and your eyes light up in pure joy.

“Oh,” he purrs, pumping his hips slow, holding steady when he feels the back of your throat, “You like that, sugar? You like makin’ a mess of me? Got me stumblin’ all over my words— shit, oh honey, this mouth is something special, ain’t it? Fuck,”

His words are clipped again by a groan, throaty and gritty as you pull back, your lips wrapped around his cock head. Your tongue swirls around, tickles that little spot on the underside. The same spot that makes all men tremble. His thighs tense as he inhales sharp.

Without a word, he slips out of your mouth. Pushes you back flat against the grass and falls over you, metal hand by your head, holding his weight, flesh hand around his cock, pushing the tip through your folds.

He teases you like that for a beat too long— pushing at your slit, barely poking inside before pulling out to rub against your clit. You whine, leaning up, wrapping your hand around the back of his neck and pressing your forehead to his all while wiggling your hips. Trying to coax him in.

“What’s the magic word?” he taunts, tutting at you before pressing his lips to yours quick, pulling back with a smack, “Use your manners.”

“Please,” it’s huffy. Impatient and greedy, “Please, Bucky.”

“What do you want? Huh? Tell me what you want?”

“I wan’ you to—“

One quick stroke. Before you can even finish the sentence. He’s pushed in, all the way in— every last inch shoved inside. The sound you make is ungodly. Your fingers clamp around the back of his neck, grip tight as your mouth falls open. You have trouble catching your breath, panting like some animal left out in the heat too long. The fullness is just—

“Look at you,” Bucky purrs, pulling back before pushing in slow, “Oh honey,” quick kisses wash over your face— forehead, eyes, nose, chin, “You fit me just perfect, don’t you?”

You feel yourself nodding, dazed, so wholly consumed by the feel of him over you— inside you— that whatever words were jumbling around in your brain just a few seconds ago fizzle out into static.

Bucky is... he's— big. All over. Broad shoulders and thick thighs, muscle upon muscle stacked in a stocky frame that shouldn't lend itself to the agility you've seen him conduct himself with, but it does and it works. He's lethal, from the stories you've heard, yes— but he's also devastatingly gentle in the way he makes you fall apart with his touch, nestled safely between the grass beneath your back and the cradle of his lap.

"You're—" your words fall short, nothing more than a squeak and a sharp intake of breath spilling from your lips when he hits the spot that makes your tongue turn to lead, "— big.”

Bucky leans further into you, as if it's even possible, biting kisses stealing whatever breath is left in your lungs. He laughs into the kiss, soothes over the hurt on your bottom lip with his tongue. "I know, baby. Feel me in there?"

He punctuates the question with a hand to your abdomen and a sharp thrust that borders on the thin edge between pain and pleasure. Bucky shushes your answering moan, whispers into your mouth to— look at what I do to you, honey.

It's to your own demise that you follow through with the command, eyes rolling to the back of your head after only a quick look. It’s obscene how much fits inside of you. The thickness of him presses against your walls, thrusts deep and unrelenting, every movement outlined beneath the thick skin of your abdomen.

“That’s right, sweet girl,” he continues, palming your tits as they move with his thrusts, “Feels good, huh?”

You can only nod, the words strangled in your throat, nothing but squeaks and garbled moans pushing through. He fucks you slow, metal digits slipping down to your clit— light, teasing little strokes sending fire through your veins.

That metal hand comes back up, fingers and palm flat to your skin, sliding up your belly, through your tits only to wrap around your throat, applying a gentle pressure if only for a second. Then his hand is moving again. Up over your chin, thumb outlining your lips and flattening against your mouth before pushing the tip inside.

You welcome it, his thumb; the metal hot from absorbing the sun. You grab his wrist and open wider, inviting the entire length of his thumb inside. Moan deep as your tongue and lips wrap around it. Start to suck.

“You’re just the best girl,” he purrs, eyes fluttering, pecs flexing as he fucks into you with patience, “Just a precious little needy girl.”

~~~

I don’t think Steve likes me.

Steve stops mid-hammering. Eyes squinting as he adjusts the nails between his teeth, just hanging off his lip.

Oh hun, where’d you get an idea like that?

He’s just, I dunno, he’s short with me, barely looks at me most of the time.

He cringes thinking about what could possibly come out of Bucky’s mouth next, but when the crude words he just knew were about to fly don’t come, Steve lets out a breath. The last thing he needs you to know is how he’s jerked off to thoughts of you wrapped around his cock in a variety of ways every night since he’s met you.

He hasn’t meant for it to be obvious. Embarrassment and a little shame floods through him as he stands on the ladder, head hung low as he listens to your conversation. But the truth is, you make him dizzy. Everything about you is just so strong— it’s taken everything in him to focus on this porch and not your ass or down your low hanging collar as you’ve hovered over the flower beds all day.

Your heartbeat in his ears, the mix of your shampoo and lotion— your cunt— all mixed up in his nose. Filling his lungs and choking his brain. It’s too much and not enough for him all in the same breath. So he’s tried to keep his distance, work out his frustrations by pounding nails into wood when in reality, the only thing he’s been wanting to pound is you.

Sarah Rogers would be rolling over in her grave, and he knows it. She did not raise a rude son. Steve sighs heavily, blinking at the grass as he starts to work out his apology in his head.Plucking a nail from his mouth, he huffs out a breath and rests the sharp tip against the board, snapping his head quick to throw his long hair out of his face. Just as he’s about to bring the hammer down against the flat head, a familiar scent fills his nose.

It’s you, but heavier. Thicker. So consuming it could knock him over— makes the hair on the back of his neck stand right on end. With every breath he takes there’s just more and more… until his feet are carrying him around the side of the house. The hammer falling with a thump into the grass. Nails tumbling from his lips.

You like that, sugar? You like makin’ a mess of me? Got me stumblin’ all over my words— shit, oh honey, this mouth is something special, ain’t it? Fuck

Steve stops dead in his tracks as the words stuff his ears, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat as he blinks slow. Your naked back, slender and curved. Two long legs cocooning Bucky’s hips— head bobbing. Bucky groans deep, head lolling back, mouth falling open slightly as you suck him off.

Steve’s stomach tightens as heat creeps across his flesh. Stuck to the ground right where he stands, he watches Bucky push you back into the grass. Watches your full tits, nipples thick and piqued, jiggle as you writhe and whine like a petulant child before pulling yourself up by his neck.

Please, he hears you beg, please, Bucky.

His mouth goes dry. The heavy thumps of his own heartbeat in his ears, your carnal scent swirling, as his cock pushes against the denim of his jeans. He has to grab himself, give his cock and balls a little squeeze as your breath shudders while you adjust to the sheer size of Bucky— and a shiver ripples down his spine.

You’re— big.

I know, baby. Feel me in there?

Steve’s knees buckle when you squeak at Bucky’s first thrust— has to reach out and catch himself with the help of a tree trunk. A fog clouds his brain as the smell of you and Bucky’s sex fills the air, the soft little sputters and whines that fall from your lips suffocating him as Bucky fucks you slow. This is the closest he’s felt to being sick in eighty years. Stomach churning, his head light as air chokes in his throat.

“Don’t be shy, buddy,” the words aren’t clear at first, kinda murky and distant before Bucky’s voice centers. Steve blinks, swallowing hard as he stares back at two blue eyes, “Look baby,” he purrs down at you, leaning down to lick your mouth before cutting his eyes back towards Steve, “And you thought he didn’t like you— the fucker can’t even breathe seeing you all stuffed full like this,”

Bucky kisses you hard but slow, humming real low as he sucks your tongue, “What are you waiting for, Cap?” he asks after breaking away from you, “Get your ass over here.”

Steve’s never been one to not follow an order.

~~~

You’re a trembling mess. Chest heaving, wimpy little sounds rushing from your mouth, fingernails dug into the meat of Bucky’s sides. Your head’s turned to the side, mouth hanging as you strain to watch Steve move towards you. Bucky fucks into you hard— hand pressed against your belly so you can feel it— sending a sharp pang of pain and pleasure. You squeal, eyes slamming shut as your hands fall to the grass, nothing but jelly.

Bucky slips out of you, flips you over onto your stomach before propping you up on your hands and knees all pretty like. His fingers push through your folds, rubbing soft circles, teasing your slit as he grabs your hair and yanks your head up to help keep your eyes on Steve, who falls to his knees in front of you.

“See what you do to him?” Bucky hums, his thumb sneaking up through your ass cheeks, pressing against your tight hole, “He’s been like this all week, all blushy and tense, head in the clouds just to try and focus on anything but you.”

Your eyes flutter again, teeth digging down into your bottom lip as Bucky’s thumb sinks into you, your greedy hole quick to swallow it up. He pumps it slow, the rest of his long fingers and warm palm cupping your swollen, wet cunt. You let out a breath, a gasp cutting it off as his fingers start to move, rubbing slow little circles against your clit again. Your hair still bunched in his hand, keeping your head up.

There’s fingers on your face, palms against your cheeks and thumbs on your lips as Steve tilts your head up a little higher, “Is she sweet, Buck?”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky answers with a quick chuckle, clipping it with a grunt as he stuffs you back full with his cock, “She’s as sweet as honey, Cap. That mouth— whew.”

You swallow hard, mouth falling open as Steve unzips his jeans and pushes his hand inside. He inches closer to you, knees dug into the grass and dirt as you start to lunge forward with Bucky’s soft thrusts, mewling as he continues to finger your asshole. Another deep surge of air fills your lungs as Steve pulls himself from his jeans.

“Je-sus,” you falter, voice shaking with Bucky’s thrusts as his hips pick up pace.

Steve works himself out of his jeans quick, hand pumping his cock all the while— the tip red and wet. Back on his knees in front of you, he continues to fuck himself, hand twisting slow up his shaft, the other pulling on his heavy sac as you bounce off of Bucky’s stomach.

Eyes half closed, long hair falling over his face, pink tongue sneaking out over his bottom lip as he watches you. Your eyes fall to his hands, blinking fast so you don’t miss a moment.

You fall to your left elbow, reach out with your right hand, skimming your nails up his thigh before wrapping your fingers around him. Following with your lips and tongue, you suck him in, caress the vein protruding against his tight, thin skin with your tongue. Stretch wide again as you take Steve’s length into your mouth— down your throat. You moan as you release him with a pop, keeping his cockhead pressed against your lips as you stroke him with your hand.

You take just the tip, swirling your tongue, tickling his little slit as he leans back, fucks up into your mouth with a sharp thrust, “Shit, girl,” he mumbles, “‘m sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize to her,” Bucky sounds, “She can take it, can’t you sugar? It’s been a long time for ol’ Stevie boy,” he runs his metal hand up your spine, grabs the back of your neck as he levels a quick slap against your ass, “Be a good girl and let him fuck your throat.”

Almost on queue, Steve fucks up into your mouth again, tears prickling in your eyes as he opens your throat. His hand finds your head, sweeps over the crown before he squeezes gently, hips pumping upward. The squelch of your throat, the slap of Bucky’s skin on yours drowns out everything else— makes it all go fuzzy and hazy.

You’re just a toy. A thing for them to use until they’ve had their fill and hopefully, that won’t come any time soon.

Steve thrusts into your mouth again but this time stills, pushing your head down on to him. You grunt loud, nose in the thick, wiry hair smattered at the base of his stomach, tears rolling down your face. He pulses his hips— real slow— wiggling gently to push deeper and deeper down your throat— his mouth hanging, chest heaving as you take him all.

Bucky slams into you hard, holds his hips there for a beat before snapping his hips again, thrusting you forward— making you whimper even louder. Steve pulls out quick, leaving you panting and grunting, dragging in ragged breaths as strings of spit and cum hang from your bottom lip. He pushes back in before you can think straight, sends his cock down your throat again, holds his hips in place as his thighs flex and strain, just to pull out roughly again seconds later.

Steve wraps a hand around your throat, pushes your chin up as he squeezes your cheeks to pucker your mouth, “You like that, huh?” he kisses you hard, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, “You’re a good little girl— you like feeling me in there?”

When you don’t answer fast enough, he slaps your cheek, mostly all fingers but hard enough to make you gasp. He grabs your face again, kisses you again— quick and hard before craning your neck to make you face him, “Good girls answer when the Captain speaks.”

Bucky pinches the inside of your thigh, a loud yelp bursting from your lips before you grunt, overwhelmed and consumed by the pain and the pleasure. You nod frantically, swallowing hard, strangled groans vibrating in your throat, “I’m— I lik-like,” you stutter, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Aww baby,” Steve chuckles, caressing your face and wiping at your wet cheeks. He kisses you, once, twice, three times as Bucky pulls out of your cunt, thumb leaving your asshole,”Goodness, she can’t even talk, Buck.”

Steve picks you up, right up off the ground like you're waistless and settles you in his lap, cocooning you in his arms and warmth. Kisses your forehead and rubs your back as you nuzzle into him. Another pair of warm lips are on your shoulder blade, curling up over your shoulder, lips snagging on your skin as they move. Hands, both flesh and metal sweeping up and down your sides.

“You’re such a pretty girl,” Bucky mumbles into your skin, bunching your hair in his hand again to nibble on your neck.

Steve turns you in his arms, rests your back against his chest, your head on his shoulder. Warm palms find your tits, massage them gently as Bucky spreads your legs, bending them at the knees and placing your feet flat on the ground. Running his metal hand through his hair, he sticks his flesh fingers into his mouth, runs the pads over his tongue before he reaches out and touches you. Guides wet fingers through your sticky folds, not to excite or tease, but really just to feel you— soothe your hot, swollen cunt.

He thumbs your clit lazily before he cups your sex, smiling and growling with pride, “They didn’t make pussy like this back in the fourties,” he gives your cunt a quick slap, stroking his cock slow, “Steve wouldn’t know about that though, he wasn’t getting any.”

“Fuck you,” Steve fires back, his low rumble of laughter vibrating through you as he pinches and prods at your nipples.

He releases your tits to grab his cock, guides his cockhead towards your aching slit as Bucky spreads you open for him. His hips drive upward, the tip of his cock teasing your hole once, twice before finally breaking the threshold, popping inside. You both gasp as you sink down on him, pushing and wiggling your hips into his to get him all in.

“God,” you murmur, head falling back oh his shoulder, eyes rolling as he takes up every inch your have to offer, “Fuck, you’re so— big,”

“Deja vu,” Bucky hums, playing with your clit.

“But you can take it, can’t you,” Steve whispers against the shell of your ear, fucking up into you, “You can take all this cock, can’t you girl?”

“Mmhmm,” you huff between gritted teeth, “Mm fuck, yeah I can— fuck,”

Steve doesn’t waste a lot of time. Leans back on his elbows and hooks his hands in the bends of your legs, lifting them up so your feet are bouncing with each shove of his hips. Bucky rubs your clit with one hand, grabs your wrist and pulls you up a little straighter to wrap your hand around his cock with the other. You pump him fast, drops of precum dripping down your thigh.

Lips and teeth press into the meat of your left thigh, making you gasp. Bucky sucks more flesh into his mouth, sucks so hard it hurts as Steve fucks you senseless. You push upward, eyes falling to your stomach and between your legs, watching the bulge of Steve’s cock pushing along your skin. Your eyes then find Bucky’s, piercing and focused as he slithers his wet tongue along your skin, outlines your puffy cunt, then flicks at your clit as Steve fucks away. Pushes his metal hand down on your stomach as he sucks your nub into his mouth.

You’re a shuddering heap. Unable to move, legs and arms, neck and head going limp. You just bounce with the force of Steve’s hips, random shivers ripple through every burning, strained muscle. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes— you can’t even hear yourself crying. Teetering on the edge, swamped between too much and not enough all over again.

Steve snarls in your ear, teeth nibbling quick before he moans real sweet, “Shit, you’re gonna make me come— that cunt squeezing me all tight.”

“Mmm, that’s what this filthy little hole wants, isn’t it?” Bucky mutters, mouth still full of your clit and pussy lips, “Huh baby? This greedy slit just wants some cum.”

“I should fill her up, huh? Give this cockwhore what she wants?”

Bucky laughs when your hips jut forward, body jerking involuntarily, “Oh yeah,” he smirks, leveling three quick, hard slaps to your clit, “Give her what she wants, she’s been good.”

Steve fucks into you harder— faster, his clipped nails digging into your skin. Bucky sucks on your clit, fingers tickling the backs of your thighs. You’re nothing but liquid, melting into Steve’s hard body as heat pools in your belly before it spills over. Toes curl, face splintering as your octave rises but trembles with the impending bloom of release.

It snaps, somewhere deep inside. A piece that’s never broken before. You’re shaking, muscles tensing so hard it’s painful. Desperate, sharp, rough grunts shake through the trees and into the nothingness that surrounds your little cabin. Steve uses your clenching cunt to his advantage— shoves his cock in as deep as he can and holds it there for a beat before snapping his hips again, letting the pressure of your tight, convulsing muscles around the base of his cock start to milk him.

You can feel his spurts, thick and hot, coating messy, sticky walls. Soft hums from Bucky vibrate against your jumping clit as he sucks, pulling away with a loud smack before he slaps it again and again and again, praising you all the while, “That’s right, pretty girl. Look at you taking all that cock— such a good little cockslut you are.”

Steve is loud in your ear, biting on your earlobe as he spills into you. Wraps his colossal hand around your throat as he snaps his hips quick again, pushing deep, deep, deep.

He slips out of you without a moment's notice, not even waiting for your orgasm to quell. Bucky pushes your legs open wider, to watch the burst of white silk bubble from your hole and spill to your taint and asshole. He sweeps it up with his metal fingers, pushes it all— both cum and fingers— into your hot cunt, curling them as he massages your walls.

“Ah! Wait, I—” still trembly, weak and warm all over, fuzzy and oversensitive, “—mmm, Bucky, please.”

There is no rest for the wicked. Steve shoves his cock, wet with your slick, into your ass, Bucky pressing his fat cockhead at your entrance. You’re white hot as they both fuck into you, bodies pushing and pulling. One of Bucky’s hands around the back of your neck, squeezing hard as the other holds your cheek and chin in his palm. Steve wraps a long arm around your stomach, holds you to him tight as Bucky leans forward, throwing your leg over his shoulder. Fucks you fast— his heavy sac slapping against your taint. He stares at you, you him, the connection deep as Steve mutters in your ear, cursing the days and months and years it took them to find you. Their perfect baby girl.

You’re shuddering, howling and shrieking like a banshee as you start to come a second time. Bucky thrusts into you with every ounce of weight he has, fingers thrashing over your clit before he grunts just once. Low and gritty. Then he’s filling you up, cock spitting his warm seed, jumping inside of you with each spurt as he shoves deep.

Your orgasm is sharp, strikes a little deeper, hurts a little more. Limbs simply don’t work— won’t work. Can’t work. Eyes flutter as your body jerks with the involuntary aftershocks. You collapse back onto Steve’s chest as you huff and puff, almost gasping for air. You’re soon cocooned between two heavy, hot bodies, nothing but dense muscles and skin. Hands everywhere. Soothing. Caressing. Massaging. Words of encouragement and admiration washing over you.

Lazy words and wet, hot lips on your skin— you can feel the smiles on their faces pressing into you.

“You know what, doll?” Bucky mumbles, drawing circles over your tits with the tip of his index finger.

“Hmm?”

“Those chicken salad sandwiches sound pretty good right about now.”

You laugh, loud and carefree, covering your face with your hands as someone grabs your tit and gives it a little honk before showering your face in wet kisses. They jostle you around again as they stand, leaving you to stretch out in the grass, skin warming underneath the sun, a soft breeze tickling.

A heavy, content sigh pushes out of your lips, “Okay,” you answer simply— happy, stupid, and fuzzy.

Steve hoists you up into his arms, throws you over his shoulder with a couple of slaps against your ass. Bucky bites the little soft spot where your ass cheek meets your thigh and grabs a handful of skin as you squeal, falling into a fit of giggles again as the three of you start to move back towards the house.

“Well shit, girl. We got some laundry you can do too since you’re being all agreeable.” Bucky quips, taking another handful of your flesh to squeeze.

More giggles bubble in your chest as you bounce against Steve’s shoulder with each of his steps. You reach out lazily, brushing Bucky’s cheek and chin with your fingers. He grabs them quick, presses kisses against them and your palm.

“Looks like we gotta build you a new bed too,” Steve says, plopping you on your feet as soon as you cross the threshold into the kitchen.

You don’t even have to ask why.

You know it’s not sturdy enough to handle four hundred pounds of super soldier every night.

There’s a sharp crack through the dark sky— a flash of blinding light followed quick by a loud clap of thunder. A smile breaks onto your face.

“Hurry!” you shout toward your sisters, “They’re close!”

A clatter of plates and golden silverware fills the air, the glup glup glup glup of red wine filling twelve chalices. The hurried pads of three sets of feet against the marble floor as you rush to put the final touches on the table. There’s another sudden crack of lightning that spiders throughout the sky. Another boom of thunder, this time so loud it shakes the ornate table. You snap towards the head of the table and within a blink, the first of the twelve has arrived.

“Zeus,” you smile, dipping your head and eyes to the ground right along with your sisters, paying respect.

“Father,” he corrects warmly, “Come here, girls.”

The four of you sprint towards him, nearly knocking him over with your embrace. His laugh is loud, rolls through his chest much like the thunder he commands as he hugs you all tight. Within minutes, there’s more flashes in the sky, but now a little less grandiose. One by one they start to appear. Aphrodite, Demeter, Ares, Hera. Hephestus, Apollo, Athena, Artemis. Hermes, Dionysus— until eleven of the Olympians stand before you. Chatter fills the air within minutes. Chairs scuff against the floor as they all take their rightful seats.

Aglaea, Euphrosyne and yourself are off, flirting around the table, making sure that there isn’t a want or need among the group. You’re so busy in fact, you don’t notice the large waves that start to break out in the middle of the ocean. The tide starts to rush in, the dark water slapping against the bottom steps of the large staircase that leads up to the sprawling terrace.

It’s the whistles of the dolphins that make you turn to peer out across the Aegean sea. The waves grow larger, roll faster as the dolphins start to jump from the water, slicing through with ease as they advance towards the feast. Something else cuts through the water beside them— something big— a large, dark shadow casting throughout the sea. There’s a strike of gold in the waves, flashing every now and again as it draws closer to the stairs.

You take a breath. Swallow hard as the butterflies return to your stomach. There’s still one empty chair.

The waves break again, this time loudly, a white, bubbly froth rolling off of the water. There’s a white light cutting through the water now, the shine of gold no longer dulled by distance. Three sharp tips of a trident start to emerge as the water rolls back. The neigh of the four hippocampus’ filling the air as they break through the turbulent sea, their wings flapping so hard the air underneath them pushes you back a step or two.

Zeus rolls his eyes, a slight smirk on his lips as he takes a gulp of his wine, “My dear brother loves an entrance, doesn’t he?”

You barely hear the words— your eyes stuck on the glorious chariot that glides over the top of the water. The gold trident glinting underneath the bright stars as the sea-horses come to a skilled halt just at the bottom of the stairs. A loud click rings through the air, the trident stinging the bottom step, and then the ground starts to shake. So hard in fact that the Olympians spring forward in their seats, grabbing chalices and wine bottles before they topple over.

He strikes each step with the trident as he moves up them, sending tremors throughout the ground with each. Brilliant blue eyes find yours as soon as he clears the top step and there’s a deep tremor within you. Your stomach goes tight, breath shallows as you squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the sudden ache underneath his trained stare. His long, dark, wavy hair sticks to his wet skin, falling over his shoulders and back. A naked, broad chest, tight abs littered with silvery, old scars— reminders of a long life and many, many feuds for the hot blooded God.

Your eyes continue to venture down, down, downward. Down the little path of his happy trail, through the thick tuft of dark, wiry hair… you swallow again. Lips parting slightly as his cock swings with each graceful step, and you're taken back. Right back to that sunny, warm day. The green grass tickling your back, hot lips on your neck and chest, dirty, slurred words stuffing your ears. Teeth nipping, fingernails scratching and snagging your skin. Your soft flesh in his hands as hips push and pull—

There’s an elbow in your ribs, startling a gasp out of you. You snap your head towards Euphrosyne, blinking wild as the memory fades and try to reorient yourself.

“Poseidon. Nice of you to join us, dear brother.” Zeus booms as his older brother falls into his seat at the other end of the table.

Poseidon only smiles in return, grabbing his glass and gulping it down in three quick swigs before he holds it out aimlessly. Before either of your sisters can move, you have a bottle of wine in your hands— the God needs some attending. He cuts his deep eyes towards you quickly before returning them to his brother as you refill the glass in his hand, tilting his head so the gold crown that sits atop it can glint underneath the stars.

Zeus laughs warm and full, drawing a wider smile and an eyebrow wiggle from Poseidon, “Oh, how I’ve missed you, Poseidon.”

“And I’ve missed you— all of you,” Poseidon smiles, a chorus breaking out as the younger Gods all return the gesture, “Let’s enjoy the evening, hmm? Ladies? How about a song and  dance or two.”

The night passes on. Bottle after bottle after bottle of wine is poured and discarded. Bowl and bowls of fruit, tray after tray of meats and cheeses devoured like their nothing. They’re loud and happy, the Gods. A family united for just an evening without interruption, without worry or grief or angst. No problems to solve, no wars to fight. Just laughter, and love. A familiar comfortableness falling over everyone— except you, that is.

Stormy eyes are on you with every move you make, piercing you right to the core. You keep yours averted, on everyone but him as you sing and dance, because if you do so much as glance at him, you’ll dissolve, right then and there. You’re a puddle of nerves, of want, of desire. Warm and fuzzy, brain scattered with static at the dark thoughts of him. Poseidon. On you. In you— stuffing, stifling, consuming every inch of you.

You miss the stretch. The fullness— and he can feel it. He knows it’s been far too long since you’ve been plucked like a fruit. Driven to the very depths of unbridled passion and only to be brought back by him and him alone. He wanted you to have an appetite for him, and he’s succeeded— much to his delight.

“Thalia, darling,” Aphrodite calls, waving you over with a delicate flick of her hand, “We seem to be out of fruit, sweet girl.”

You grab a few empty bowls from the center of the table, “I’m so sorry, I’ll pluck some right away.”

“No hurry, “Ares says cooly, pulling Aphrodite from her chair, “We’re going to dance. She’ll forget all about the fruit.”

Aphrodite winks at you, following it up with a soft smile, “No hurry,” she whispers so only you can hear before placing her finger to her lips.

Their secret is safe with you.

Rushing off all the same, you’re secretly happy to get away for a few minutes to calm down. Once you’re by the stream, under the ripe trees, fingers brushing lightly along the leaves of the full bushes, you start to relax. Close your eyes and take a deep breath, letting the sweet night air fill your lungs. You center yourself for just a moment— mind, spirit, soul— bringing them all together before opening your eyes slowly and pushing a focused breath out between your lips.

The soft rush of the water from the stream before you adds a natural soundtrack as you pick and pluck more fruit. You hum a little, eyeing each peach, every bunch of grapes, each apple, orange, raspberry and blueberry, only the best reaching the basket on your hip. There’s a soft, warm breeze, tickling you and the leaves, a random fish jumping up and plopping back into the cool water of the stream.

A sudden hand around your naked waist startles you, making you jump and gasp, your basket falling to the ground. You’re pulled back, back into a hard chest and stomach, another hand slithering up your bare thigh. Rogue fingertips forging a path from your left hip, across your lower belly, to your right hip. You close your eyes again as your chest heaves, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as a mammoth hand cups both of your breasts and teeth nip at your exposed neck.

“I still make you nervous, young Thalia?”

The words are slow. Whispered and hot, right up against the shell of your ear. He chuckles real low and it vibrates through you, the sound— the feeling— striking that pesky little nub between your legs. Thick fingers skip along your side, up and down, up and down, grabbing and kneading the soft meat of your waist before pushing along your belly again, gripping and groping all the while. His thumb and index fingers find a piqued nipple, rolls it gently. Pull on the taut, brown nub just until it hurts before he rolls it again.

You whimper, real sweet and helpless, just a puddle of feral emotion in his hands. Your legs instinctively part on their own, stance widening, inviting those wandering fingers to go lower. To find that perfect little—

“Ah—” you moan, your chest arching away from his as he immediately heeds the queues your body is sending, “Poseidon,” your voice hushed, teeth digging into your bottom lip to quiet another moan.

“Don’t act so innocent, I heard you,” he teases, working his fingers along your clit before slapping your warm, sticky skin, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

“They’re gonna catch us—”

“Let them,” he growls, “I’ve been thinking about you all day and now that I have you,” he gives your clit a little pinch, chuckling against your ear again when you squeak, “I’m not letting you go.”

If you had any resolve, any at all, you wouldn’t be able to find it if you tried. Warmth pools in your belly and starts to spread slowly, throughout your arms and legs, right to the tips of your fingers, the top of your head, the bottom of your feet.

His feather light touch sends ripples up and down your spine as your hips start to grind, “Poseidon,” you moan, stretching out his name.

“That’s right,” he purrs, his wet tongue sneaking out to lick your neck and just behind your ear, “Have you never been touched like this before?”

He pulls you back into him, cock twitching against your ass as he massages your clit, soft little circles. He stretches his fingers just a bit, starts to prod at your slit, pushing just inside before he hisses in your ear, “Of course you have. You’re so wet for me, sweet girl. Can anybody else do this to you? Hmm?”

Before you can respond, he shoves two fingers in— all the way in until the heel of his palm cups your hot sex. Your knees buckle, but Poseidon just tightens his grip. Drops his arm from around your tits to your waist, squeezing tight as he starts to fuck his fingers into your cunt. The squelch of your wet muscles is pure filth to the ears— but it's so good. So deep, hitting that little spot that doesn’t even seem real until it’s touched.

“Your fingers feel so good,” you pant, “S-s-so guh-good.”

Poseidon smiles wide before kissing your cheek, “What’s that, little one? Hmm? Let me hear you baby, say it again.”

Unwrapping his arm from around your waist, he grabs your chin. Pushes it with the tips of his fingers until your neck is craned, mouth hanging as a moan whirs in the back of your throat. He kisses you hard, his tongue grazing the roof of your mouth as he groans low and deep. You’ve missed his mouth— his taste. It’s ruined you, that mouth. For all mortals and Gods alike. You are his, and his alone; and it gives you great pleasure to own it.

“Say it again, sweet Thalia. I want to hear it,” Poseidon whispers, hot, swollen lips brushing against yours, “Tell me how good I make you feel.”

He curls his fingers, pets your insides with quick little strokes. You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, and reach back for him, your hand finding and digging into his dark hair as you bare down into his pumping, stroking fingers. He traces your bottom lip with this thumb, shoving the tip inside and then adding his index and middle fingers. Instincts kick in again, your lips wrapping around his thick, warm digits, sucking lightly as he hums in delight.

“I can’t hear you, honey.”

“Your fingers feel so good inside me,” you mumble, mouth full.

He slams his fingers into your achy cunt one good time, then cups your wet, swollen sex real soft, thumb petting your clit. Digs his fingernails into the meat of your hip, a quick sting of pain ripping through you, “Do you want me, little one?”

“Yes—”

“What do you want from me?”

“You know what I—” he pinches your hip a second time, hard enough to make you yelp, “I want you to fuck me, Poseidon. Please.”

He chuckles again, the vibrations from his chest rumbling through your tight body, “That’s a good girl. But, first things first.”

Poseidon pulls his fingers from you, leaving you empty and aching. You turn, and find him a few steps back, head cocked, a smirk on his handsome face, “Well?” he purrs, holding out his hand to you, “Attend to me, sweet Grace.”

You take his hand with no hesitation. Close the gap between the two of your bodies and keep your eyes on his as you sink to your knees in front of him. You can’t take your eyes off of his, really. Even as you grab his hips, skip your nails up and down his sides and then over to his flat, hard stomach. Drag your fingers through the dark hair at his navel and then up to his broad chest, blinking wide, innocent brown eyes at him all the while. His large palms find either side of your face, caressing your cheeks sweetly before rubbing his large thumb over your bottom lip.

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. Then, and only then, do you drop your eyes from his, take a deep breath as you curl your hand around his already  weeping cock. You use both hands, stroke him slow, twisting them in opposite directions just as you press your lips to his red, wet cockhead. Poseidon exhales slow, lets his lids slip close over those blue eyes, his dark, long lashes spreading out over his cheeks. A giggle slips past your lips before you dig your teeth into your bottom lip, sending your eyes back up to his face and chest, watching the breath hitch when you slide your hands back down his cock.

The pad of your thumb sweeps over his cockhead, collecting the wet that's dribbled from him to push it back down his length. Your right hand slips away from him, down to his heavy sac to palm his most delicate. Squeezing gently, you lean in again, kiss his head again before pulling your thick, pillowy lips away, starting to jerk him faster as his thighs start to tense. A sweet hum sounds in the back of your throat as you encourage him, rolling his balls between your fingers before you start to rub and palm them gently, your other hand still working his cock.

You release your grasp quick— giggle and bite your lip again as his heavy cock bounces up and down. Twitches with anticipation and lust. Your hands find him again, stroke him harder and faster, fingers pushing all the way up— sweeping over his tip before pushing all the way down to his base. Then, you pull away again. All the way back, hands falling to your thighs as his cock sways back and forth, so hard and hot and heavy. You’re wet and warm, fuzzy all over, a string of your arousal stretching from the lips of your cunt to the very inside of your thigh, a little bubbly and clearly in response to how he responds to your touch.

He’s louder now, breath rushing in and out between his lips and teeth. Stomach and chest tightening as his thigh muscles tense and relax at the constant pressure and warmth of your hands. His head rolls back slow, facing the heavens, his long, dark, wet and wavy hair spilling over his shoulders and back. Rough hands, massive and warm find your head. Push around your hair, down your cheeks, salty fingers over your lips. Then down your neck and chest, catching thick nipples just at the tips of his fingers. He palms what he can of your full, jiggling tits, squeezing hard as he mumbles and moans.

His cock jumps in your hand. Balls tighten up as he exhales harder than before. Grabs your shoulder suddenly as he thrusts his hips forward. He tenses again, all over— stomach, chest, thighs— grunts all sweet like just as he always does before he cums.

You slide your hand down his cock one last time, grip his heavy girth tight as he starts to shoot ribbon after ribbon of thick, white hot cum. Can’t help the moans of your own that bubble up in your throat, feeling his cum surging through him and spilling out onto your chest and into the grass. You start pumping him again, coaxing it all out, draining him of his seed as it dribbles down the backs of your fingers.

Poseidon whimpers through his orgasm. Imagine it. One of the three most powerful Gods to walk this earth, whimpers as sweet as one of your songs. Pride swells in your chest as these tiny, honeyed sounds drip from his perfect mouth. You smile again, real big as you blink up at him, wanting and needing— craving— more praise from him.

“Whew, girl,” he finally musters, his large hand cupping your chin as he pushes out another deep breath, “My precious little Thalia sure knows how to please me, doesn’t she?”

“Oh,” you purr, “It gives me great pleasure being able to please you so, Poseidon.”

“Good girl,” he smiles, soft eyes gazing over your face, “Very good girl. On your hands, my sweet. Face the stream.”

You fall to your hands, turning from him as you take a deep, steadying breath.  Poseidon shifts behind you, dropping slowly to his knees, dragging his lips down your back as he goes. He squeezes your tits before sliding his hands down your sides, placing his lips right in the small of your back as he settles on his knees in the grass. Those big hands move around to your stomach again as he continues to press kisses against you— along your ass and the backs of your thighs. His tongue sneaks out, licks the crease where your cheek meets your thigh before he bites down lovingly, all while squeezing the soft meat of your belly.

And then he’s gone. Lips, hands, tongue— just gone, leaving your body instantly cold. Panicked even. Your eyes pop open. A sharp, light gasp filling your lungs with the night air as his fingers push through your folds, prodding at your opening before rubbing your clit. A hand finds your hip again, slips up to the base of your spine before it pushes up the length, feeling each bump and groove of your bones until he palms the back of your neck. Wraps his fingers right around.

Your breathing hurries, heavies as you feel his thighs against the backs of yours, his hips against your ass, cock pushing at your wet hole. Another gasp fills your lungs when his thick cockhead breaks your threshold, cock sliding into you slow, filling up all the space your body has to offer him. He falls over you, chest to back, one hand on your hip, the other still around the back of your neck, as soon as he’s bottomed out in you. The two of you both breathe heavy, not moving, just getting accustomed to one another again as if it’s been a lifetime since you’ve connected in this way.

Your cunt squeezes around him instinctively, welcoming the tight fit. Then he moves. Straightens back up and rolls his shoulders before pulling out of you— almost all the way out— before plunging in again. You lunge forward with each thrust, the sound of your bodies slapping against each other, the squelch of his muscle in your wet, filling the night air.

Fingers find their way into the side of your mouth and you suck on them happily, greedily, as you bounce off of his hips and thighs, humming and moaning all sweet and loud. Just for him.

“That’s right girl,” he mumbles, grabbing a handful of your ass just to jiggle your flesh before he slaps it once, twice, three times, “That’s right, those are the moans I love to hear. Let me hear you.”

He forces you down, your belly and tits now in the grass as he slaps your ass again before he’s fucking back into you— resting his big hands and punishing weight into the small of your back. Pinned into the soft grass, you take every rough thrust Poseidon has to give, squeaking and shouting with each, grabbing fistfuls of the fragile grass, strands breaking under the force of your pull.

Poseidon slips a hand into your hair, tugs you up onto your elbows and forces you to look back at him as he hovers just inches from your mouth. He leans in, grabs your chin with his other hand and kisses you hard, eating up the sharp shriek and sob that falls from your lips. His hips don’t stop during the kiss, not for a moment, they just slow a bit. Plunging his cock deep and just holding there for a second before he thrusts again.

He pulls out of you as you flatten back onto the earth below and forces your hips up a little with his hands, laying behind you to sweep his tongue between your folds. Both hands on either side of your ass to jiggle your flesh as he’s nose deep in your cunt before he skips those lips over your asscheek. His white teeth grab your skin in another love bite before he plants a loud, wet kiss at the same spot. You gasp loud and deep as he pulls his tongue along your slit again, right up to your hot rim and back down to your clit. He gives that sensitive little nub a long suck and then a flick or two with the tip of his tongue before he’s lifting your hips up with his hands again, forcing you back onto your knees.

A groan passes through his lips as he pushes back in, his hands grabbing your hips as he rocks into you. Only now, you’re meeting each of his thrusts. Forcing your ass back into his hips as you keep your face in the grass. Thick fingers grab your ass, a thumb circling your fluttering rim before it slips in, sending your octave soaring.

You’re flipped over onto your back without a moment's notice. Legs forced open with two strong hands as his lips and mouth find your pussy again, “This is the sweetest fruit in all the land,” he slurs, sucking your clit back into his mouth as he peeks up at you. You roll your hips into his face, your hands digging into his hair to pull as he sinks one, two, three fingers into your sex, curling them as he pumps.

“Aww,” he chuckles as you start to really lose it. Panting, cursing, mewling as you start to get so overwhelmed. Your body tensing, hips jerking now that you’re so close— you could crawl out of your own skin, “What’s the matter? Hmm?” he slides his tongue along the inside of your thigh, stopping to take another bite of you, “Oh, I know what it is,” he laughs again, “I know what it is, you want to come on this cock, don’t you? Huh? You don’t want my fingers?”

“Yesyesyesyes,” you spit, huffy and hot and rushed, “Yes!”

He crawls over you, knocking your legs open wider with his hands and body,  “Okay sweet girl,” he purrs, “I’ll give you what you want.”

Your feet come to rest in the small of his back, your hands around his biceps as he sinks into your cunt again. Mouth to mouth, forehead to forehead, he fucks you good. Hips pounding yours into the soft earth. You feel the pressure building in your belly— the warmth spreading real slow. Rushed, hot words fill your ears but you can’t make them out. A slippery tongue slithers down your neck, teeth nibble at your earlobe as you dig your fingernails into his tough skin, whimpering and screaming to the heavens.

And when it snaps, you’re just… blown. Nothing but sensation and feeling. Your orgasm ripples up and down your spine as you go all fuzzy, brain waves stuck on static. Poseidon forces his way up, resting his weight on his knuckles to watch you come. Tits bouncing, mouth hanging, eyes rolled back as tears leak down your cheeks. He fucks you right through the rush of it all, growing louder and gruffer as your warm cunt spasms around him, gripping him tight as your clit jumps.

As you shout, scream his name for all to hear, grab your tits to tease your nipples while you come, his hips become errant. He grunts hard and loud as he slams into you with everything he has until he can’t hold it any longer. He coats your already hot walls with his white hot silk— pumps you right full. Pulls out of you and strokes his cock, spilling onto your stomach and cunt, all over your pussy lips and thighs to mark you as his as he moans with a deep satisfaction.

He rubs his cockhead against your thigh, smearing his milky seed along your skin. Your breath continues to shudder as you’re hoisted up into two big arms and crushed against a wide chest. Lazy giggles rolling out as a hand slaps your ass again and again and again like a trainer congratulating his prized mare. Forever insatiable, Poseidon lays back in the grass, settles you on your knees again and wiggles down your body, until his face is right underneath your used sex.

You gasp and giggle again as your body jerks with the aftershocks of your orgasm and the warmth of his tongue through your folds again— but you wiggle down into his face anyway. Way too sensitive and squeamish to be able to handle it, but you just want him. Everything he wants to give, you want to take. He sucks your clit back into his mouth, massages it real slow as he sweeps his hands up and down your tensing thighs.

Hot lips find that little space between your leg and ass, planting little sweet kisses before he bites down into sensitive flesh. Then he’s back to your cunt, tongue sliding, pushing in real slow as he moans deep, savoring your taste and the feel of you on his lips. Two mammoth hands moving up your sides to cup your tits, squeezing hard and pinching two thick nipples as your hips roll against his lips and nose.

You hang back, closing the front door as your eyes skip around the grand foyer. Being Captain America sure does pay. There’s muffled voices in the distance, more squealing from Peggy, before there’s footsteps against the dark wood floor. You shove your hands into the back pockets of your black jeans and plaster a smile on your face as the two round the corner and staircase.

“Daddy, this is my roommate,” she smiles nervously, shifting her eyes to you, “Roomie, this is my dad, Captain Steve Rogers.”

Your eyebrows flex so high you’re pretty sure they’re up in your hairline. Blue eyes scan your face, seemingly taking stock of your pierced eyebrows and septum, your Madonna and shark bites, before cataloging the eight piercings in your right ear.

Stubbornness grips you tight— always has— so you roll up the sleeves of your long sleeve Metallica shirt showing off the extensive tattoos slithering up both arms and offer your hand, “What’s up, Captain?”

Steve quirks his eyebrow, a lopsided grin painting his face as he glances down your black attire before taking your hand and shaking it, “Your parents are okay with you going around looking like this?”

“Daddy!” Peggy shrieks, slapping at his shoulder, “Be nice.”

“Actually, my parents are dead, so,” you laugh when both Peggy and Steve’s faces fall, “I’m joking, they’re both fine— and no, they are not okay with me walking around like this but they pretend to love me anyway.”

Steve turns your arm over in his hand, brows furrowing as he gazes at your tattoos, “You realize the type of people you attract looking like this?”

You nod, “Freaks, yeah. That’s kinda the point.”

“My Peggy isn’t a freak.”

“Well,” you shrug, “Maybe not in the way you’re thinking,” Peggy races to your side and grabs your arm, digging her manicured nails into your bicep, “Ow!”

“We’re gonna go upstairs and get settled in, okay daddy? Call us for dinner?”

Steve’s eyes follow the two of you as Peggy drags you up the stairs, “Dinner is five or six hours from now, I wanna talk to you. I haven’t seen you all semester, missy.”

“I know, but I wanna get her settled in her room, take a shower, maybe take a nap. We’ve got all summer, daddy. Love you!”

As soon as the two of you are out of sight, Peggy winds up, punching you in the arm, “I knew you were going to antagonize him!”

“Ow!” you squeal, rubbing the spot, “He started it!”

“Listen,” she hisses, slapping you again before playfully pointing her finger in your face, “It’s going to be a long summer if you keep this up. My dad is just as stubborn as you are, you will not win.”

You wrap your arm around her shoulder, squeezing her tight as she leads you to her bedroom, “I’ve never met an asshole that I can’t out asshole.”

~~~

Several hours later, after a hot shower, a nap, and an extremely awkward dinner— only for Peggy really, thanks to you and Steve trading smart aleck barbs back and forth, you sit on Peggy’s bed, knees tucked to your chest, scrolling through instagram as she changes into yet another outfit.

“How does this look?”

“Fine,” you answer, not even looking up from your phone. A sweater slaps you in the face seconds later before a flip flop flies by your head, “Shit!” you laugh, “You look great, Peg! Damn.”

“I just really wanna show that bitch Liz,” she grabs her long blonde hair, bunching it up in her hand as she twists in the mirror, “Up or down?”

“Down— hey, how’s your mom and Tony?”

Peggy rolls her eyes, “You mean Sharon and that asshole war criminal she married? I honestly don’t care, probably sailing around the world on his mega yacht or whatever the fuck.”

“Yikes,” you hiss, slamming your eyes shut as you grimace, “Still got those pesky mommy issues, huh?”

“I told her I’d never speak to her again if she married Stark. I plan on keeping that promise,” she turns, moving to the bed to plop down beside you and grabs your hand, “Please come with me. I don’t want to leave you alone.”

You shoot a finger gun, “No thanks.”

“Come on! You’ll really like my high school friends— oh, and Peter and MJ are gonna be there! I want you to meet them!”

This is a strange world you’ve stepped in. Being surrounded by superheroes feels like you’ve shifted right into a comic book, “You said it yourself, we have all summer,” Peggy starts to whine again, pulling on your arm, causing you to laugh, “I mean it! I’m fine! I’m still kinda tired, my head is bothering me… I’m just gonna read and watch some Netflix.”

“You’re sure?”

You flash an okay sign with your fingers, “A-ok, blondie.”

“Ok well, Stefon is on call whenever. If you get hungry just go down into the kitchen and dial 0 on the phone by the fridge, he’ll make you whatever you want. Dad will probably be in his office for a while before heading to bed— please don’t kill each other before I get back.”

“I can’t make any promises,” you toss your hands in the air, “But I'll try not to.”

Peggy grabs her purse, checking her reflection once more before she pulls open the door, “Oh yeah, my uncle Bucky is coming over next weekend, so we’ll have to postpone our beach trip, unless we can convince him and daddy to come, which, knowing my uncle Bucky probably won’t be that hard.”

“Ooh, uncle Bucky,” you purr, wiggling your hips playfully, “I’ve told you how much I want that metal arm around my throat, right?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” a fake smile making its way on her face, “Make yourself at home. Love you.”

You smile back, “Love you too, have fun.”

The door clicks softly as she exits and you waste another twenty or thirty minutes on social media before your stomach rumbles. There’s a cheesecake calling your name. Hopping to your feet, you toss your phone to the bed and move out into the hallway, peeking back and forth before skipping towards the staircase.

Like a cat, you move with quick precision, down the wooden stairs and into the marble floored kitchen, not trying to tip off the super soldier hearing of the uptight home owner. You pull open the fridge quietly and hum happily as the glorious sight of the round, strawberry topped cheesecake fills your eyes.

It takes entirely too long to find a plate and a fork, but you eventually succeed, eating the delicacy slow, bent over the island in the center of the kitchen, occasionally glancing out the glass doors that lead to the sprawling pool. Making quick work of the evidence, you place your washed plate back into the cupboard and return the fork to its rightful home and traipse out of the kitchen, tugging on the bottom of your sleep shorts to get them out of your butt.

A song, soft and old, wafts in your direction from somewhere deep in the house, stopping you as you reach the bottom of the stairs. You’re drawn towards it, moving away from the steps and letting it wind you deep into the house. Slipknot and Static-X are nice, but sometimes a girl wants to be romanced a little.

Violins and a piano grow louder as you tiptoe down a long, dark hallway, a soft light spilling out onto the floor. A sultry voice croons, is it a sin, is it a crime, loving you dear, like I do. You creep right up to the slightly ajar door, pressing your face into the crack. The lights are low, with a brighter light coming from what you can only assume is the bathroom. There’s a light shuffling, feet against the floor, bottles being lifted and then set back down on the counter— humming. The righteous Steve Rogers hums.

“Maybe I'm wrong, dreaming of you, dreaming the lonely night through,” the bass in his voice makes you smile as he sings along, a little more shuffling and clanking around continuing.

Suddenly, he’s in your line of sight, stepping out of the bathroom. You stifle a quick gasp and straighten up, ready to turn and dash towards the stairs, but you don’t. You just blink and stand right where you are, eyes flirting with wet, broad shoulders and a sinewy, long back. A fluffy white towel hangs around a small waist, muscles tense and flex as he drags his hands through his hair.

Steve turns, chest and stomach now fully visible. You swallow hard, lips parting as you continue to ogle the mostly naked man. His tits are perfect— sculpted by the Gods kinda perfect. Two cute little pink nipples accenting them. A thick vein runs down his right bicep, droplets of water roll down his washboard abs.

A dark patch of hair just peeks out from under the towel, at the base of his stomach and out of instinct, you lick your lips, blinking again. The towel comes off from around his waist within a second blink, and your mouth falls open as your eyes drop.

You spin on your heel, ready to skip back down the hallway but again, you don’t move. Can’t really. You start to nibble on your bottom lip, turning your head slightly, staring at a random spot on the wall as your mind jumbles. This is Peggy’s dad for godsakes… but you can’t lie to yourself. You’ve peeped those muscles underneath his t-shirt and cardigan all night long. How he towered over you in the kitchen, moving around both you and Peggy with a quiet skill— his military training of moving around without being heard or seen still dominating his day to day movements. The stray blonde hairs that fall over his forehead and the colossal hand that constantly pushed them back into place.

He’s hot, okay? And the fact that he’s given you shit, almost kind of lovingly, every chance he’s gotten only makes him hotter. Nice boys have never gotten anywhere with you. You turn back around, biting down into your lip nand push your face into the crack of the door once more.

Steve rubs the back of his neck with the towel before pushing his fingers up into his blonde hair, his cock swaying and swinging gently with each and every move. He’s big— almost too big— but your mouth waters all the same, mind scattering before a singular thought settles in the dust. I could take him.

Your cunt squeezes instinctually, a current of electricity flashing through you as your stomach tightens at the very thought. Full of Captain Steven Grant Rogers’ cock— it makes you shiver. A light hum vibrates in your throat as you watch him move around his bedroom. You get an eyeful of his chiseled ass (America’s ass indeed) and more of his swinging cock, a pinkish-reddish blush blooming across his skin, probably from the hot shower— but you’d like to think Mr. Rogers might have a stroke session on the books, thoughts already swirling in his brain.

Hell, you might have a stroke sess once you get back into Peggy’s room, your battery operated boyfriend happily tucked away in your bag. Thoughts of stingy old Captain Rogers berating you for all your tattoos and piercings while swatting your naked behind. Steve plops onto the bed, crossing his legs and reaching for his nightstand, pushing a pair of black rimmed glasses onto his nose before he grabs a hardcover book.

Professor Rogers might make an appearance during your stroke session now too.

Having spied enough for one evening, you slide your right foot backward, pushing back gently to move away from the door. You make it three steps, turning on your heel to take a fourth. When the step settles though, your weight fully against the wood floor, it creaks. Loud. You freeze, eyes going wide before you slam them shut, praying he’d chalk it up to the old house settling. But of course, he doesn’t.

The bed creaks and then there’s the soft pads of footsteps. You take off like a shot, trying to land on the balls of your feet to disguise your hurried steps. Honest to God, you think you’re gonna make it. You just have to round one corner and you’re at the steps, home free, until—

“You need something?”

You scrunch your face, eyes slamming shut again as the door opens wider, the shadow of a man dancing across the floor, “Um, yeah,” you start, spinning around to find Steve in a pair of sweatpants, “I uh, came down into the kitchen to get a glass of water and got lost on my way back to the stairs. Sorry, didn’t mean to—”

“Where’s your water?” the words cutting off yours.

Two empty hands instantly flex open as you swallow, “Oh, I uh, drank it. In the kitchen. But the stairs are just right here, so, um, yeah. Goodnight.”

You wiggle your fingers at him, smiling and giggling and shrugging like a fucking moron as Steve squints back at you. His eyes travel your frame, a worn Korn t-shirt covering your braless tits and a pair of plaid sleep shorts, the band rolled down a few times, leaving really nothing to the imagination. Then they skip back up to your face, over your light pink and blue colored locs piled up on your head, back over the silver jewelry in your face.

“You’re snooping.” he says simply.

“Am not,” you answer quick, swallowing again, “This goddamn place is just so big—”

“You’re too bright of a girl to get lost in a two story house,” he’s smirking now, crossing his arms over his large chest as he leans against the doorframe, “It’s a straight shot from the kitchen to the staircase. Try again.”

Fuck. This is going to be a long summer with his suspicious ass. Think. Think! “Okay, you caught me,” you sigh, placing your hands on your hips, nodding slow, “I was snooping.”

“For?” Steve sings, urging you to continue when your words drop away.

“I was looking for the shield. I was trying to see if you have it hanging up somewhere, maybe see if Hitler’s blood was still on it.” Nice!

Steve nods slow and sucks his teeth, dropping his eyes away from you as the gears turn in his head, “Hitler’s blood, huh?”

“Well,” you shrug, “Anybody’s blood would be nice to see, really. I mean, you know, gore is kinda my thing, so.”

He rubs his chin, clearly not buying whatever bullshit is flying out of your mouth right now, but he continues to nod and pushes away from the door, pushing it open wider with his foot, “In here.”

Eyes go wide as you take a breath, then swallow again, but you move back down the hallway and squeeze between his massive body and the door. A Wyoming king size bed sits in the middle of the room, pushed up against the wall, an expensive and by the looks of it, original piece of art hanging just over it. The wall on the right is nothing but glass, two sliding doors sit between two floor to ceiling windows, leading out onto a patio. A huge flat screen sits on the wall opposite the bed, but it’s off, and Steve gives you the impression that he’s never really been a big fan of TV— especially since he was kinda born before they even existed.

He brushes past you, shoulder to shoulder contact warming your skin instantly as he pushes through another door, just off of the left of the TV. You follow, moving into a large (and by large, you mean large— bigger than Peggy’s entire goddamn bedroom) walk-in closet, lights popping on with the motion. Just on the far wall, there it hangs. The symbol of America. Red, and blue glinting under the lights, a silver star adorning the center.

“Sorry it isn’t bloody enough for you,” he smirks, eyes on you as you walk over to it, head tilted to admire the metal, “You can touch it if you want.”

It’s smooth. You half expected deep rivets and scratches, gauges in the metal after all of the faces it’s smashed into over eighty or ninety years, but it looks brand new. As if the Wakandans handed it over to him just yesterday. There’s a manikin next to it, his dark blue stealth suit covering the body. Another large silver star sewn right into the middle of the chest, three thick horizontal lines spreading out from it towards the arms.

The suit isn’t in as good of shape as the shield. There’s frayed edges, multiple stitches and stains in the thick material, a tear still in the left leg, just below the knee. There’s suddenly a heat behind you, the brush of a chest against your back as he reaches over your head, plucking the shield off the wall.

“Wanna hold it?”

“Oh, no, it’s probably heavy. I don’t wanna drop it.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, pulling it up from your side and out towards his body. Slips your hand through the two handles and settles it on your arm before tightening the strap around your wrist. When he’s finished, he steps back, smiling softly as he eyes you peeking over the edge of the shield, a smile spreading on your face as well.

“Looks good on you.”

You look up at him, this time a bright, toothy grin on your face, “It does, doesn’t it? You tell Sam he’s got some competition coming his way.”

Steve laughs, and it’s warm. Genuine. “Next time I see him.”

“It looks a lot heavier than it is.” you murmur, eyes dropping back down to gaze at it.

“Twelve pounds, give or take. Damn near indestructable too, that’s why there isn’t any scarring on it.”

“It’s incredible,” you laugh a little, “Thank you for letting me, ya know, handle it.”

He just nods in response, eyes still dragging around your face, making you nervous for the first time since you’ve been here. You tuck a stray pink loc behind your ear, dropping your eyes to your feet and watch your black painted toes wiggle against the carpet.

“Listen, I’m sorry if I offended you with my comments this afternoon about your piercings and such. I shouldn’t have said what I said— it was rude and incredibly insensitive.”

“Oh no,” you wave him off, watching as his deft hands start to undo the strap around your wrist, “I hear it every time I go home to see my parents. They don’t like ‘em either.”

“They’re just trying to protect you.”

“Yeah, well, they need to can it. It’s my life, my body.”

He pulls the shield from your arm and lifts it up, your eyes landing on his sides, serratus muscles flexing as he moves, “You tell your parents to can it?” he laughs again, glancing back at you.

“All the time.”

“God, times have changed. But I suppose you have a point— you’re an adult, you can do what you want. Just, please be careful. I’ve seen a lot of beautiful young women get into trouble that they can’t get themselves out of.”

You scoff a little, rolling your eyes as you glance around the room, “If only I had the chance to get into trouble. Peggy is up my ass every time I breathe too hard— she grills the shit out of my boyfriends I’ll have you know. Two of them wouldn’t even go out with me after meeting her.”

He belly laughs this time, clapping his hands, tossing his head back and your stomach flips. It’s gorgeous. The sound of it, the sight of him. This is the first time in twelve hours you’ve seen a relaxed Steve Rogers and it’s something you could really get used to.

“That’s my girl. She gets it honestly, me and her mother can be a little much when it comes to vetting people.”

“Pfft, that’s an understatement— holy shit,” you point towards a flag hanging on the opposite wall, riddled with bullet holes, “Is that real?”

Steve turns towards the German flag, protected in a glass display case, “Sure is. Picked it up off of the ground in Germany, 1945.”

That’s when you start to notice all of the trinkets and memorabilia lining the walls and shelves of the room. Mostly stuff he’s collected from his era since being defrosted, but interesting nonetheless. A few museums that had his personal effects— his sketch pad, a few pictures of his mother and father, he and Bucky’s original dog tags and enlistment papers, an old record or two— gave him his stuff back, feeling guilty that they made a profit off of a not so dead man’s life for all those years. There’s a small tray sitting on top of the stand alone dresser in the center of the room, full of bullets and other fragments that his body pushed out.

“Pushed out?” you question as if you don’t understand what he’s trying to say, picking a few up and turning them over in your hand.

“The serum doubles the healing time of any wounds I get. Within a few hours, anything lodged in my body just kinda pushes back out, if in a non vital area, that is,” he plucks the current bullet in your hand out from your fingers, “That right there is from a German Luger, they stopped making these in 1943.”

“So you don’t sit around like the Terminator, digging them out of your tiddies with a pair of pliers?”

He squints, tilting his head a little, “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t seen Terminator 2?” you scoff, “Oh my god, we are watching that at some point this summer. It’s a classic action movie— top five of all time, easy. Genius film.”

There’s hand stitched dolls, handwritten letters from world leaders, paintings and art of the avengers from random people all over the world strewn throughout the room, Steve talking you through each and every piece you show a little interest in. You move to one of the drawers of the dresser, fingers curling underneath the handle to pull it open but Steve pushes his palm against it, keeping it closed.

You smile devilishly, “Oooh, you got a secret in here?”

“No secrets, it’s just not for you.”

“What’s in there?” you smile wider, coaxing a smile onto his face.

He leans in close and whispers, “None of your business,” while bopping your nose with his index finger.

“Come on,” you pout, “Tell me— oh my god, do you have somebody’s fingers in there? Some teeth? Eyeballs?”

Steve’s face scrunches, “What the fuck— you’ve got some issues, kid.”

“I told you, blood, gore and death is my thing! What’s in there?”

“Nothing of the sort, now come on, I have another room full of shit you’d like.”

You don’t budge. You curl your fingers around the handle again, tilting your head as you smile sweetly at him, “Just tell me somebody’s hand is in there and we’ll go.”

His eyes widen as his mouth falls open, “I do not have a severed hand in there! This is my closet for God sakes!”

“Then what’s in here?”

He crosses his arms over his naked chest again, eyes squinted and jaw tight but a soft, stubborn smile on his face all the while, “You really wanna know?”

You toss your hands up and roll your eyes, “Duh.”

“Go on then,” he relents, pointing his chin towards the drawer, “Open it.”

You stare back at him, squinting as your lips start to curl. It’s like a standoff, the two of you silently daring the other. Steve cocks his head arrogantly, raises his eyebrows as he peers at you through slitted eyes and long eyelashes. After a beat, it’s kind of intimidating. His swoll chest bulging out underneath the strain of his arms being crossed over it. The veins in his forearms— the look in his eye. The subtle taunting of them.

Admitting defeat is wise every now and again.

You pull your hand away from the drawer, “You win, Cap. But just so you know, I’m from LA, we usually don’t have manners.”

“So I should consider myself lucky that you’ve decided to bestow them upon me?”

“Exactly,” you move past him and back out into his bedroom, heading towards the door before you turn back to him, “Thanks for the history lesson. Very interesting.”

“You’re welcome,” he nods, “If you wanna snoop some more, there’s an office just down the hall with more stuff you might like.”

You shoot him a wink and a finger gun, “Got it, and I wasn’t snooping.”

“Uh huh, sure. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you sing, wiggling your fingers again before you leave the room.

His door doesn’t shut right away. Not until you turn the corner and skip up the stairs, and you’d swear he was watching you walk away. Felt those eyes on you the entire way down the hall.

Not that you mind.

~~~

A few days have passed. There’s now a little tension between you and Steve— eyes lingering on each other when you don’t think the other is looking. The quips are still flying but there’s something else behind them, more teasing now, not so antagonizing, although a little bit of that still there. Not that Peggy’s picked up on it, no, she’s still in her blonde little head, bopping around, completely oblivious.

Tonight hasn’t been as tranquil as the others. Peggy is on the brink of tears, her voice shaking, her cheeks flushed red as she argues back and forth with Steve.

“Baby,” he sighs, hands on his little hips as she paces in front of the TV. You keep your eyes on your phone, kinda wishing you could die, “You haven’t spoken to your mother in months.”

“I told you why! I hate her!”

“You don’t mean that,” he answers quick, “I know her marrying Tony hurt you—”

“Fuck him!” Peggy shouts, wiping away the tear that finally escaped her blue eyes, “And fuck her. I’m not going.”

Steve sighs heavy again, his jaw clenching as he blinks towards you, “Can you talk some sense into her?”

“I’ve tried,” you throw up your hands, “She won’t listen to me either.”

Peggy huffs loud, rolling red, wet eyes, “You two just don’t fucking get it!”

“Language, Peggy.” Steve warns, and you shift uncomfortably, stomach tightening. It was stern, too damn stern and now's not the time for your pussy to take notice, “Please. Just go and have dinner with her so you two can talk. Your mother is just as upset as you are.”

“Daddy!”

That’s when she breaks down, finally letting the emotion she’s been choking back for eight months bubble over. You reach for her hand, stroking the back with your thumb as Steve pulls her into a hug, rocking her back and forth, smoothing his hand over her hair. He mumbles something to her and you can’t make it out, not that you should or even want to, feeling like an interloper as it is.

“Come talk to me, hmm?” he purrs after a beat, pushing more of her hair out of her face as he bends down slightly to make eye contact, “Do you mind if we go talk for a minute?” he asks, shifting his eyes towards you.

You shoot up to your feet, “No, no. I’ll go upstairs. I should have been up there this whole time anyway.”

“No, you sit. We’ll be back.”

You sit without hesitation. The bass and authority in his voice still striking you right down to your core. He whisks Peggy back into his room, leaving you and Stefon to exchange sad looks and soft smiles before you stare blankly at the TV and Stefon returns to his beef wellington.

An hour passes, maybe more, but Peggy walks back into the sprawling living room, a concerned Steve lagging behind. She’s now more pissed than anything else, arms crossed over her chest, face and ears as red as Satan’s dick.

“Are you gonna be okay if I go out to dinner with Sharon?”

“Peggy.” Steve admonishes, causing her to roll her eyes again.

Your brown eyes shift back and forth between him and her, “I’ll be fine, Pegs. Really.”

“I am not going back to their apartment after dinner, and if that man does so much as show one hair on his head in that restaurant while I’m there,” she hisses, spinning around to face her exasperated father, pointing at him, “I’m leaving. Do you hear me? I will never speak to either of you again!”

Before Steve can even speak, she stomps off, your eyes following her as she yanks her Gucci purse from the coat rack and throws open the front door— not even bothering to close it. Tires screech in the circular driveway, kicking up little stones and dirt as she peels off, her break lights barely illuminating as she turns onto the street.

“Fuck me!” Steve growls as he heads towards the front door, you jumping when it slams shut, “Don’t have kids— ever,” he throws towards you when he plops on the couch, “It’s a lifetime of that shit.”

“Way ahead of ya,” you confirm, “Kids are demon spawn— I know the way I treat my parents, ain’t no way in hell I’m dealing with that shit twenty years from now.”

Stefon steps just into the room, clearing his throat to grab your attention, “Dinner in the living room, sir?”

“Steve,” he corrects, “And yeah, that’s fine.”

You click your tongue, nodding for really no reason as your fingers tap against your bare knees. Nervous eyes land on the remote and it’s in your hand within a beat, “I think Terminator 2 is on Netflix… if you wanna…”

“Sure,” he sighs, “Whatever.”

Okay.

Stefon brings in the dinner plates and trays, setting them up quick as the movie starts and then whisks off again, no doubt whipping up a quick delight for dessert. You and Steve eat in silence, both sets of eyes never leaving the large flat screen in front of you.

He sighs again, sweeping his fingers through his hair roughly before his hand falls heavily to the couch, his right knee swaying back and forth quickly out of irritation. You glance towards him, sucking your lips into your mouth as he stares at the TV. A blush of red paints his face, creeps down his neck and into the dark blue shirt covering his chest. A vein pops in his neck, his jaw tensing as he adjusts into the couch, throwing a long arm over the back and spreading his legs wide once he’s finished his asparagus and red potatoes.

After a while, he starts to relax. That knee calming down to a slow back and forth, all of the red pulling out of his skin. Stefon brings in two slices of blueberry pie, topped with a homemade whipped cream and coarse sugar and dims the lights as he exits, adding to the home theater experience. You’re about four bites in when the small hairs on your body start to stand on end— there’s eyes on you. Quick glances at first, on the side of your face, down your arm but they move quickly, back to the television screen as Sarah Connor fights her way through the halls of a mental institution.

But then… the glances get longer. Eyes linger down your naked, outstretched legs. You flex your toes and clear your throat, wiggling down into the deep couch as you try and fail to focus, much too in tune with the eyes on your legs.

“I like these,” the words startle you, the pad of an index finger against your knee startles you more.

There’s a quote, some random song lyrics from your past just over your knee. A random solid black cross, a string of flowers on the inside of your knee and down your calf. The piece de resistance is the large butterfly at the top of your thigh and then a woman’s face just underneath. Her features haunting— hollow. Half skeleton, half soft and demure as she stares back at Steve.

That pesky finger traces her long strands of hair, his head tilting as he admires it. The soft touch sending a heated signal right to your core, heart beating harder, “Thanks,” is all you can muster at first, eyes never leaving the TV.

He pulls your leg open just a little, his fingers indenting your skin, moving closer to the inside of your thigh so he can see the entire thing. A light hum quivers in your throat as your cunt starts to warm, clit starting to sting at the roughness of Steve’s fingers against one of the soft parts of you. Then, just like that, the touch— his fingers— are gone. Arm thrown over the back of the couch, blue eyes blinking towards the T-1000 liquefying into the elevator.

Your mouth literally falls open as your chest falls hard, a long, frustrated breath pushing out of your nose and agape mouth. You force it closed and swallow deep, your thoughts, although jumbled like a pair of dice being shook in the palm of a hand, turning sinister. Legs draw together quick, knees bumping against one another as you pull them up to your chest— that’s when you feel it. The warm little wet spot in your panties, pressing against your skin. Hips wiggle instinctively and the squish of your slick is ever present.

Steve chuckles suddenly, real deep and low and you can’t help but turn towards him. You catch the remnants of a smile before it completely fades and he’s just watching the movie, shifting beside you.

The sound reverberates through your brain. It was oddly placed. This part of the movie isn’t funny, his phone isn’t in his hand. No laptop to be seen. He just laughed, lightly, to himself as you—

We’re gonna have to be careful with the booze while we’re at my dad’s. He can fuckin’ smell a canary fart a mile away.

The realization washes over you like a title wave. A shiver rolls down your spine. Your throat dries up, stomach constricts, a pulse as hard as your heart beat throbs between your legs. He can smell you— the reaction to his touch— and the weight of his laugh crashes like a ton of bricks.

He finds you pathetic.

Weak and vulnerable— childish even. Just the tips of his fingers on your skin twists you up like a pretzel. Sweet little putty in his hands.

You squeak.

You don’t realize you haven’t been breathing until the sound of Steve’s phone fills the living room. It vibrates against the glass coffee table and you thank every God you recognize for the distance he puts between the two of you when he stands and walks off, putting the sleek device to his ear.

“Peggy, what are you… okay… alright, okay, okay. I’m on my way, just calm down,” he slides the phone into his pocket, “Fuck, this girl is gonna send me to an early grave.”

“Everything okay?”

He grabs his keys from the small table by the front door then his shoes, moving back into the living room to slide them on his feet, “She’s causing a scene at the goddamn restaurant. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Okay,” you answer, watching as he heads back towards the door, but stops, spinning around to face you.

“You’ll be okay by yourself?”

You nod. Please just leave! “Yep.”

Then he’s gone. Out the front door, skipping down the steps and falling into a black Audi. Red tail lights filling the dark night sky. You throw your head onto the back of the couch and cover your face with your hands, shaking it back and forth, “Good God help me.”

An hour goes by easy. The movie ends and you’re still alone. Stefon has long since cleaned the kitchen and retired to his quarters and you're left to your own devices, which means… more snooping. You still haven’t forgotten that drawer in his closet and before you can really think it through, you’re on your feet and traipsing down that long hallway into his room.

You push through the door, a soft swish sounding as it sweeps across the carpet. The lights pop on as you push inside the closet, the shield glinting under them. The dresser nearly glows as you step up to it, your curiosity pegged. You pull open the top drawer slowly, expecting anything from somebody’s head to a stack full of blackmail photos of Sharon and Tony partaking in questionable sex on that mega yacht of his.

What you find is much worse.

Your face falls as you pull the drawer open all the way. Brows furrow, lip snarls as you cast your eyes on ties. Three rows of neatly folded, every color under the sun, silk and satin ties. Quick fingers slam it closed and throw open the drawer underneath to find dress socks. The third drawer, folded dress shirts. You push your fingers underneath the clothing, dragging them along the felt drawer liner, but there’s nothing. Nada. Not a gun. Not a dildo. Not even a fucking pen.

He got you.

That blonde bastard got you. You step back into his bedroom, eyes roaming and landing on his nightstand. Those are always treasure troves. Feet push you closer to it, a hand outstretched as you get in range. You plop down on the side of the bed and are just about to pull it open, when the sound of the garage door lifting snaps you to attention.

Wonderful.

You’ve never moved so fast before in your life. Streaking back towards his door and slamming it closed before sliding against the wooden floor into the living room. Furious eyes and hands search for the remote, slamming your finger against the power button before tossing it back to the couch. You slam your palm against the light switches and dash towards the steps, taking them two by two and jetting down the hallway, ripping off your hoodie and tossing it to the floor when you get into Peggy’s bedroom.

You wrap your locks up with quick precision, pinning the black satin scarf in place and flail yourself out on the bed, grabbing your Stephen King novel and flipping to a random page as Steve and Peggy’s voices rise from the floor below. You drop the book to your chest after a few seconds as you listen in. They’re just getting started.

You didn’t even have to do all that running.

Your highschool gym teacher would be so proud.

~~~

The following day is a busy one. Peggy, spitting nothing but fire at everybody but you, whisked you off to a tennis lesson at the country club (not that Steve would ever be caught dead here, but Sharon has a membership and Peggy’s pissed enough to charge the three hundred dollar an hour lesson to her account). There’s a trip to the mall for bathing suits, shoes, and bags (courtesy of Tony’s black card this time), and then a stop at a hair salon, where she gets a trim and highlights and you get your locs washed and retwisted (Peggy using Steve’s credit card and name this time to get the only black hairdresser employed by this hoity toity place to come in on her day off).

Sometimes it pays to be the friend of a superhero’s kid.

Peggy’s anger won’t keep her at home for shit, so she’s gone again, this time with Spiderman and his girlfriend. She didn’t even bother to ask you to come this time, knowing your social battery is tapped. Steve left too, a meeting with the UN even though he’s retired, but Sam kinda begged, so, he went. It’s just you, Stefon, and the gentle sloshing of water in the pool as you lounge by it.

The sun starts to set and you head in, ready for a shower, some of Stefon’s crème brûlée, and honestly, an orgasm. It’s been a week? A week and a half? And you’ve been so distracted and busy, you haven’t found the time or privacy. You start the shower and head back into the bedroom, digging through your backpack until you find the suction cup dildo, the jelly a slight blue hue and curved for your pleasure. Stripping out of your bikini, you trounce back into the bathroom to place your hand under the stream. Two or three minutes go by, then five, then ten, and it’s still pushing out cold water.

The water in your shower won’t get hot

Quick fingers fire off the text and you wrap up in your towel as the three dots bounce across your screen.

Yeah it does that sometimes. Just use dad’s

No fuckin way. There’s not another shower up here I can use?

When it does that, both bathroom’s upstairs won’t get hot water. You can use the mudroom out by the pool, but I’m pretty sure Stefon can see in there from his apartment at the back of the house…

Great. Just great.

Fine. Text your dad and let him know?

Already done :)

Having obviously pissed something or someone from up above off, you stomp back into the bedroom, hands full of a fake cock, shower gel, loofah, shower cap and phone. You toss your phone to the bed and are about to throw the dildo back into your bag for another day when you hesitate, staring at it. A UN meeting can’t be a quick thing… he’ll probably be gone most of the night— maybe all night if it’s a national emergency. He won’t even know…

Steve’s bathroom is huge. Automatic lights clicking on as you walk inside. You flip on the radio, the station set to oldies this time, Marvin Gaye bouncing off the walls. The water heats within seconds, steaming up the shower walls and the long mirror as you pin your hair and tuck it inside of a shower cap. You grab your jelly boyfriend and step into the hard stream, tipping your head back as you wet your skin.

Intrusive thoughts immediately cloud your brain, that little throb coming back between your legs as you turn and let the water cascade down your back. Rough hands on the inside of your thighs, warm, pink lips pressed to the shell of your ear.

You push your hand between your legs, releasing a steady breath through your teeth as you rub gentle little circles. There’s an instant relief, a flood of endorphins flooding through your body as you widen your stance— push your hips forward. Slick covers your fingers as you press the pads against your clit, wiggling your hips slow as they move back and forth and up and down.

Within minutes, you’ve found a little rhythm, hips rolling, fingers lashing back and forth. A steady, strong heartbeat in your ears, stomach in your throat. Flashes of electricity bounce through you when your limbs start to jerk involuntarily. You bend forward, mouth falling open, eyes closing as you cop a nice little feel, the first audible moans echoing off the glass walls.

A hand finds your tits, palm and fingers rubbing thick, hard nipples before one is between your digits. Pinched and pulled. You think of it, your nipple,  between Steve’s teeth, biting down soft before he sucks it into his mouth, the tip of his tongue teasing the tight little nub of skin. Hot lips against your stomach, kissing a trail down just over your sex before they derail to the inside of your thigh.

The need to feel full breaks the fantasy. You grab the suction cock from the ledge and stick it onto the glass wall, turning quick to guide it towards your slit. You drag the tip through your folds, teasing it along your clit before centering it at your opening, pushing back until the head breaks into you. Teeth dig into your bottom lip as you push back onto it, taking inch by inch slow, feeling the veins along your tight walls.

Once you’ve swallowed it all, ass pressed against the cool glass wall, you start to move, pulling off of it slightly before pushing back. Fucking it slow, fingers dancing along your clit, rubbing and then slapping quick as your pace pick ups. Steve’s back, hot breath against the side of your face, one of those strong hands your throat, teeth nibbling at the earrings placed along the curve of your ear.

I want to feel that tongue ring against my cock, baby girl.

You fuck back onto your dildo faster, harder— ass cheeks slamming up against the wall as your fingers start to thrash. Loud moans, muffled by the rushing water and the four walls of the shower reverberate around you, swirling around as they’re caught in the space. The head reaches deep, hitting that little spot with each hard thrust as you grip your thigh with your free hand, digging your nails in for that wonderful, sharp, pinching pain.

You imagine Steve’s tongue, wet and warm and rough through your folds, lips around your clit, sucking loud as he groans. Fingers pumping into your cunt, thumb pressing against your tight, fluttering asshole. This cunt is so sweet, baby. Made just for me, huh? You want me in your ass, sugar? Huh? Is that where you want to feel me?

A grunt, the loudest yet, falls from your lips as you rock back hard against the glass. It bends with your weight, creaks a little with the pressure. Your heart is thumping hard, toes curling as your thighs start to shake. You pinch the inside of your thigh hard, slap the throbbing bundle of nerves between your legs quick but real soft, the featherlight touch just like Steve’s from the night before.

The coil deep inside snaps and you’re writhing. Moaning and pushing against the glass, muscles clamping down around the thick, veiny cock. Wave after wave rolls through you, stomach tight and warm as heat spreads. Your clit jumps with each contraction of your cunt, even your puckered rim squeezing tight as the orgasm liquifies your bones.

You ride the suction cock until you can’t, each plunge becoming too much, all too soon. It slips out easy, wet from the shower and slippery from your slick. A few shudders rack your spine as you straighten up, cupping your hot flesh as your head rolls back on your neck.

Whew.

Now you can shower in peace.

~~~

Belly full of crème brûlée, skin moisturized to hell, you fall into the soft, clean sheets of your bed, eyes heavy, and mind clear. You roll over onto your side, tuck your knees into your chest and shove your hands underneath the warm pillow, giving into the dark sleep that pulls at you. Within minutes, you’re teetering between slumber and consciousness, just about to slip off into the abyss when your mind suddenly screams at you.

Your dildo is still in Steve’s shower.

Wide eyes pop open as you jolt up, hands gripping the side of the bed. Fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s still stuck to the wall. Flinging the door open, you step out into the hallway and just stand there, listening. There’s no tv, no lights on, only the whistling of the wind through the trees. You didn’t hear the garage, or a car pulling around the back so maybe he isn’t home yet.

Racing down the steps, you turn the corner and hurry down the hallway, just about to push into his room when you freeze just at the cracked door.

Steve is home. Long legs spread open as he leans against his headboard— cock in his hand. His eyes are closed, lips parted, tits flexing with each of his strokes as his free hand rests on his stomach. The palm curved around his hard cock twists as it pumps. The moon light twinkling off of his wet cockhead. Hips fucking up soft into the hollow tunnel of his hand.

All the breath in your body chokes in your throat. You shift your weight, the wooden boards creaking with the move, sending your eyes towards the rickety ass floor. When you blink back towards the door, two blue eyes are on you, a soft smile on his face as his teeth sink into his bottom lip.

“You’re snooping again, sweetheart,” he purrs, rolling his head as he pumps himself slow, “Come on in, baby. Watch me.”

Autopilot and the need to obey him takes over. You push into the room, shut the door with a soft click before pushing your thumb into the button lock. Steve stretches out his free hand, wiggling the tips of his fingers at you and you come, soft steps padding across the carpet. Once in reach, he grabs your hands, threads your fingers together as you sink to your knees at the side of the bed, watching his mammoth hand bounce against his stomach before dragging up the length.

“You left a little something in my shower,” he smiles, eyelids heavy, “Did it feel good?”

You nod, humming lightly as your mouth and throat water at the sight of him. The intimacy. He clutches your hand, grip tightening when a jolt of arousal pings in his stomach, his thighs and legs stiffening, abs flexing, louder grunts pushing out.

“Say it, honey. I wanna hear it.”

“It felt good,” you rasp, reaching out to touch him, “It felt so good.”

You run your hand up his forearm, over his elbow, up this bicep— so thick you can’t even begin to wrap your hand around it. Over his chest, back and forth, a slow rhythm before your nails circle his nipple. Teasing it softly. He fucks up hard into his hand, a spurt of cum dribbling out and down his shaft.

You are wet— the thin fabric of your boxers sticking to your folds, splashing over onto your thigh.

“I have something else you might like,” the words are heavy and slurred, a low, drawn out groan dragging out behind them, “Top drawer.”

It slides open with each and there, sitting on top of a legal pad, is a blue butt plug. A little white star on the side. You pick it up, bite your lip to try and stop the smile from curling onto your face as you turn it over in your hand, eyeing the replica red, white, and blue shield at the base.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” you whisper, “You were keeping secrets.”

“Was waiting for the,” he moans again and your heart leaps, “Right time. Had’a make sure you were, mmph, ready for me.”

Ready you are. You toss the toy on the bed and pull your shirt over your head, exposing two pierced nipples. The boxers around your waist pool around your feet as you stand and push them down, throwing them behind you with your foot before you climb onto the bed, throwing a leg over Steve’s lap.

His hands find your tits immediately. Grope them hard as he leans forward, sucking one right into his mouth. The tip of his tongue circles the jewelry, his teeth pulling softly as his hand splays out on your back. He releases you with a smack and leans back, eyes gleaning down your body, hands pushing up and down your sides.

Then he’s hyper focused on your face. Palms cupping your cheeks, thumbs sweeping over your skin and lips. He undoes your headwrap, unpins your hair to let it fall over your shoulders and against your back. Then he pulls you into a hard kiss, sucking the air right out of your lungs as his tongue sweeps along the roof of your room.

He leans back, back resting against the headboard again as both hands tease your nipples again, “I like these too.” he smiles.

“I figured you would,” you answer fast, kissing him again, “This,” you wiggle your tongue, showing off your tongue piercing, “Feels amazing against your balls, I've heard.”

“Oooh,” he purrs, grabbing your ass with both hands, spreading you open, “Can’t wait.”

You bend for the lube, squeezing a few drops onto the cheeky butt plug before you rub it along the silicone. With Steve’s help, you push at your tight rim, your body spreading and enveloping the bulb as it enters. Soft little squeaks fill the room as your body wraps around the toy, swallowing it up until nothing but the shield glued to the stem is able to be seen.

Steve grabs the base of his cock, squeezing gently to keep steady as you position his cockhead at your hole. Slowly, slowly, slowly, you take him, digging your fingers into his shoulders as he fills your cunt, bigger than anything you’ve ever had before. He waits until you're comfortable, lets you adjust to his size once he’s disappeared in your warmth. His eyelids fall, flutter as a hum whirs in the back of his throat, your wet, hot muscles just daring him to move.

“Ready baby?”

You nod fast, letting your head fall back as you lift up, then sit back down slow. Steve lets you control the pace at first, his hips rolling soft as you ride him. His hand wraps around your throat when you start to move faster— moan louder. Cunt still soft and ripe from your shower antics.

Steve keeps his eyes on you, squeezes your hip before he grabs the meat of your side, starting to fuck a little harder into you. Keeps those blue eyes on your face as his fingers skip up your back, tangle in your locs to give them a pull. Thick fingers slide between your ass cheeks, push on the end of the butt plug to keep it snug and deep.

You’re trembling soon. Thighs tight and hot from straining. There’s a slapping of skin, his hips and thighs against your ass as you meet his thrusts greedily. You anchor your weight against his chest, fingers indenting thick, tanned skin. Desperate moans, loud, probably much too loud for the simple fact you’re fucking your best friends dad, but you don’t care— and neither does he.

“Don’t you come yet— not yet,” he mumbles, his thrusts slowing, “I’ve been thinking about this too long for it to end this quick.” So you slow, let your hips find a softer rhythm, “Good girl.”

He lifts you off his cock, rolls you over onto your side and crushes his chest to your back. Teeth nibble on your earlobe as he grabs your thigh, lifts your leg high as he drags his cock through your folds, slips back inside with ease.

“You take me well, baby. I’m surprised. It usually takes— oh shit, mmm, it usually takes women a while to get used to me,” he rocks into you, the slap of your skin filling the room again as he keeps your leg elevated with his palm, “They’re usually crying by now, wanting me to slow down,” he fucks into you hard, chuckling when you squeal but push back into his thrusts, “But not you, sweet girl. Hmm? You like how I feel inside you? How this cock fills you up, touches you deep?”

A hand snakes over your side, slips between your wet lips, stroking your clit. Each plunge of his hips gets faster, harder, his grip tightening around your leg— nails biting into your skin.

You’re a mess. Tongue piercing clicking against the back of your teeth with the force of his thrusts. Tits bouncing hard, broken, clipped mewls rolling off your tongue.

He feels you shudder. Your muscles— thighs, cunt— shaking and clamping, “Not yet, girl. You hold it, don’t focus on it.”

You try, forcing a breath through your teeth, nodding and humming. Wanting to please him. Your fingers play with your nipples, pulling on the bars through them until it hurts, pulling your attention from the molten lava in the pit of your stomach to the pain. Swollen lips press against your neck, right down to your shoulder as he fucks into you, hot breath washing over your skin.

“That’s it, honey. You come when I tell you too.”

Steve hooks his right arm around your throat, tucking your chin into the crook, and holds onto your shoulder, teeth nipping and biting into the soft flesh at the junction between your neck and shoulder. His fingers continue to play with your clit, thrashing back and forth, then slowing to draw large circles against the hot, sticky skin.

Then you start to feel him shudder. His hips growing haphazard, breath going shallow, “Mmm,” he groans, “You’re gonna come for me, okay? I want you to let it go, sweetheart— I need you too.”

I need you too. The words soak into your brain, your skin, your muscles and bones. He needs you to come so he can come. Buried deep in your cunt. Hot and tight. Needing wet walls to squeeze the cum right out of his cock. His fingers work fast against your clit, hips slamming into yours as he pants in your ear.

“Come on sweet girl,” he pleads, “Come on, let me have it. Give it to me.”

You close your eyes and let the words take you away. Let them course through your veins as you brace for it. Moans get louder and louder, closer and closer together as your heart soars, finally giving in to the pressure in your belly. You grab his hip as you start to come, your hips jerking uncontrolled as muscles tense all over, your body closing tight around the plug in your ass.

You’re a shrieking, trembling mess as Steve pushes in deep one last time. Holds himself there as your spasming cunt constricts around the base of his cock. He uses the pressure, the tight clench of your quaking walls to spill into you, hot and silky, ribbon after ribbon. Wraps you up in a tight hug, holds you against him as he grunts, trying to push deeper with each spurt.

He flattens his hand against your stomach, pushes, so you can feel him jumping and spitting in you, “Oh, baby,” it’s low and scratchy, hushed against your ear, “That’s s’good. So fuckin’ good.”

Breath calms. Bodies loosen up, melt into the sheets and mattress below. Lazy lips push along the curve of your neck, now dry and snagging on your skin a little. You’re drunk— on him and the post sex high that makes you feel like your floating. The AC clicks on, a cool breeze tickling your hot skin. Goosebumps popping up along your arms and legs. A large hand sweeps up and down the curve of your hip, up to your side, back down to your thigh. Honeyed words in your ear.

You’re close to sleep, but your brain jars you awake— knowing you have to go back to your room. Steve’s peering at you, eyes wandering your face as he holds you close, the same realization racing around his head, no matter how much he wants to ignore it, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He’s gentle with you. Pulls the plug out slow. Wets a hand towel with warm water and wipes at your puffy, used cunt, your thighs, your ass. Dresses you, lets you sit on the edge of the bed with your hands above your head as he slips your Linkin Park t-shirt down your torso and helps you step into a fresh pair of his boxers.

Walks you to the stairs, cupping your small hand in his before he raises it to his lips, running them over your knuckles. He draws you into a kiss, a deep, slow kiss before take them slow, not letting his hand go until you absolutely have to.

“We can do this again, right?” you whisper, the tips of your fingers still clinging to his.

The sun crept into the room at an alarming rate after you closed your eyes last night, which, well, now that you think about it might be because you’re more tired than what you realize. The light covered your face, made it hard to keep the dark behind your eyes, so you shifted a little and that’s when you felt it— him— as you surrendered to the day.

Just a mass of man. Muscle and skin draped over you like another blanket. A long arm is slung over your chest, bent at the elbow, fingers gripping your opposite shoulder. An equally long leg is sprawled over both of yours, helping to pin you down to the mattress. Warm breath tickles the side of your neck and shoulder as his face is crammed right up against your arm. His lips slightly parted as they press gently on your bicep.

Blonde, disheveled hair is matted to his forehead— he sweats a lot, Steve Rogers. That thick flesh of his keeps him a good five or ten degrees warmer than the regular human. Nights are the worst for him because you, in fact, run cold. So, the fan stays off, the windows stay shut, and you cocoon yourself under a pile of blankets.

The two of you have argued extensively over this. It’s plenty simple, you argue, just sleep on top of the covers! He scoffs and rolls his eyes, pushes out a deep breath through his nose every single time you bring it up, and then just crawls underneath the enormous duvet, two velvet quilts, and your thousand thread count top sheet and patiently waits for you to join him.

Steve, you always sigh, but a smile paints your lips the whole while. He never says anything, just holds out his hand and wiggles his fingertips until you take them and let him guide you into that big bed of yours. Let him wrap you up into his chest and arms and legs, lips dragging over your forehead as he smooths your hair back and away with those big, wide palms.

I like feeling you when I sleep, he always says.

A soft, sleepy smile covers your face when you realize he’s home. Blink slow at the ceiling as your fingertips graze up and down the arm slung over your chest. You always forget how good just having him here makes you feel. So each and every time, you just lay there for a while. Soak it in. His warmth. His weight. The calm of his breath. You say a little prayer to whoever is out there listening and give thanks that your man is home in one, well, one-semi piece.

He shifts, just barely, but it allows you to see more of that handsome face. It’s bruised, per the usual, but the blacks and blues and purples are fading fast. They’ll be green and yellow within a half hour, and then completely gone by time the clock strikes 8.

It always ends in a fight, babe, he always says while batting your hands away from a fresh cut or bruise, no need to fuss over it.

So, you don’t anymore. Fuss. You just reach out and caress that smooth cheek, brush your thumb real soft over his lip that you suspect was split when he first climbed into the bed. Watch him sleep as his weight crushes you to the mattress.

Yeah, it’s mornings like this that make it all worth it.

It takes a few minutes, but you regretfully untangle yourself from underneath the hunk of man spread out on top of you. You figure you have about exactly forty five minutes to an hour before the sharp scream of your chubby baby boy rings through the house and Steve’s up making a mess when he honestly doesn’t mean to, so you traipse into the bathroom and start the shower. Strip out of the t-shirt that Steve took from Bucky, which probably belonged to Sam in the first place, and pin your hair up before covering it with a shower cap.

The shower part of your routine is always the quickest, in and out within ten minutes which is honestly the truest testament to being an adult if there ever was one. It’s this part, where you get to sit at your vanity, the one Steve built with his bare hands a little more than a year earlier when the world finally decided to give him a little peace, that you enjoy most.

You’re in your robe, the silk loosely wrapped around your naked body, as you rub cocoa butter into your brown skin. There’s slow thoughts, but they don’t mean much as you dip the pads of your fingers into the little brown jar and rub your hands together absentmindedly as you glance towards the window. You just listen really. Steve’s deep, rhythmic breaths. The silence of the house— the dog hasn’t even wandered in yet, musing for his breakfast and the few stray pieces of bacon Steve tosses his way. The muted chirp of birds and wind as it blows up against the brick.

The world is small in this little hour you get to yourself. You can quantify it and that’s nice to do every now and again when you have a job, a dog, a baby, and a husband who punches things for a living. It’s nice to expect nothing after expecting everything and anything all at the same time, most of the time.

A little shift in the corner of your eye draws your gaze from the window to the bed. There he is. Two hundred and something pounds propped up on an elbow, his big head resting in an equally big palm. Just looking at you. Lips quirked up in a soft smile.

There’s a light laugh that bubbles up in your chest, eyes drop to your legs as you continue to moisturize, shy under his constant gaze still after all of this time but that doesn’t last long. You like looking at him too much.

So you just kinda look at each other for a beat or two, eyes dancing around skin and limbs and chests and everything else you both can manage to see.

Steve gets his fill faster than you do this morning, and tosses the mountain of blankets away from his body before he stands and stretches out like a cat. Heavy footsteps sound as he pulls himself into the bathroom— knocking his shoulder into the door jam as he goes.

“No good morning?” you call, keen eyes watching that perfectly sculpted, naked ass as it flexes with his movements, “What would your mama think, Rogers?”

The rush of water sounds. A light ‘fuck’ as the clink and clang of your perfume bottles fall against the marble sink. Those big ass hands of his.

“I’m not sure how you manage to knock those over every day.”

“You keep movin’ em.” he counters.

“I do not.”

“You keep puttin’ em,” the whir of an electric toothbrush, back and shoulder muscles tensing and flexing, “On my side of the sink.”

“There’s more natural light on that side.”

“Then take this side and I’ll use,” spit, “The other side.”

You glance back towards the window, rubbing your hands slowly within one another and shrug, “I like my sink. Drains faster.”

He chuckles and you smile, “Well then I guess you’re gonna have to get used to me knocking your shit over everyday.”

“Already am, dear.”

There’s a few more minutes of water, soft pats of his wet hands against his face as he washes away the sleep. Damp fingers through his disheveled blonde before he’s back in the room with you, pulling you to your feet.

Minty lips are pressed against yours, once, twice, three times before your top lip is sucked between both of his. Your heart flutters a little, seemingly skipping a beat as you just kinda melt into him— still not sure how an innocent little peck on the mouth can turn into this. Consuming. Soft and warm and wet. Kinda wistful? Like he’s wishing his days were filled with this and only this; you, his son, your dog. No secret missions or black eyes or blood staining his knuckles and suit. Just this.

Steve is too good at this. Grabs your hands with his and pushes his thumbs into your palms, grinding soft little circles into them. Thick fingers then slide between yours, curls around them when you’re palm to palm. That imperfect nose nestled right up against yours.

You could definitely just disappear. Curl up into his mouth and body— be no more. Just be a piece of him, and you’d be a-ok with that.

Another giggle sneaks up into your throat as there’s a new pressure pushing into your thigh. A quick glance downward and you’re gasping, eyes going wide as you disconnect from the warmth of his hands to toss two jelly arms around his shoulders and neck.

“Well that took all of five seconds. Good morning to you, sir.”

Steve tilts your head up and away, let’s his fingers linger underneath your chin as teeth and lips push along your neck, “He likes it when you call him sir.”

“I’m sure he does,” you laugh, eyelids trying all their might to stay open, “Steve,” you stress after a beat—or two— ok, three, eager fingers gripping firm shoulders, “Come on, babe. We don’t have time for this.”

“Why,” a hot tongue slips along your jawline, curls up just behind your ear, “Not?”

“Mmm… cuz um, uh… Joseph, he— he’ll be up any m-minute.”

Steve pulls away, glances back at the video baby monitor placed on your nightstand. He listens for a tick, blinking slow as that super soldier hearing zeros in. Only after he’s satisfied with whatever he heard, or didn’t hear, are you lifted from your feet, the silk robe that was barely clinging to your body as it was, slipping off to the floor in a heap.

Hands grasped firm around your ass (coping more of a feel than anything else), Steve falls back against the mattress, pinning your lower half to his.

“Come take a seat.”

“That’s incredible, you know.” you start, splaying your hands out on his chest.

“What’s incredible?”

“How you know when he’s about to wake up.”

Steve shrugs, “His breathing changes. Goes from deep to kinda shallow— get up here.”

You draw little patterns into his skin, trace the old silvery stretch marks that litter the almost golden perma-tanned canvas, “You can hear that? All the way down the hall?”

“Stop stallin’” he grunts, lifting you off his lap and placing you on his chest, “And sit that pretty pussy on my face.”

You tut, rolling your eyes playfully, but scoot closer and closer to his chin, “Say please.”

“Please come sit on my goddamn face, woman. Damn!”

Up on your knees now, Steve’s fingers skipping up your thighs and squeezing the meat of your hips. The mattress dips as your knees are on either side of his head. He threads his fingers with yours again, wants you to rest your weight into his hands as you ease down over that eager mouth.

Something chokes up in your throat. A moan? A gasp? You aren’t really sure— a mixture of the two you suppose, cuz the warmth that blooms across the inside of your thighs takes you by surprise and makes you shiver. You keep your hands in his as you wiggle some, adjusting your hips and inching forward so his lips and tongue can find that perfect little place. That sweet little nook that makes you—

“Ughhh, Steve,” yeah, that spot, “Baby.”

Fingers detangle from fingers and find their way into soft blonde hair but your hips don’t start to move quite yet. You like giving him a little time to familiarize himself with the territory— not necessarily because he needs to, but because he likes to build it up. Starts slow so he can savor it, makes it last until you’re writhing and crying. Clawing at him. Begging.

So you don’t move— not yet.

Steve let’s his hands linger, anchors one around your hip, his thumb pushing into the crease of your leg as the other skips up your stomach and between your full tits. He tongues your clit, slipping it along the length before flattening it over your slit. Slips it inside real quick as he thumbs a thick, hard nipple.

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, fingers grip his hair harder as his tongue works back over your clit, quick little flicks of the tip before sucking the sensitive nub into his mouth. He releases with a smack, then presses wet lips to the inside of your thigh, kissing slow, perfect white teeth sinking into the soft flesh as those pesky fingers still prod at your tits.

It’s only a few seconds more before you give in, let your hips rock into his nose and mouth and chin. Lean forward when he hits that little spot again, sparks starting to bounce faster, harder. Steve locks eyes with you when you groan and jut your hips forward, forcing eager hips down to cop a feel. Then he smirks against your hot, sloppy wet cunt. Pushes out a breath through his nose, the rush of air stinging your clit.

His hands are on the move again, down your sides, around to your ass, flattening over the little pooch of a tummy Joseph has so lovingly left you. He gets a little louder, smacking more, moaning more as you lean back, grabbing his rigid cock to squeeze and pump it once, twice, three times in your warm palm. You find the tip wet, and can only imagine the deep red blush creeping down the length. Pushing a little further, your fingernails scratch through a rough patch of dark blonde hair before gently palming his balls, noting the heft, how drawn up and tight they are now.

Steve’s tongue stills and you’re instantly picking up the hint, pushing your knees up and out, flattening your feet to the mattress. You wrap your hands around his thighs, dig your nails in, and start to rock your hips into a velvet tongue and red, swollen lips. Head and eyes heavy, both lolling back as quick, high pitched little hums vibrate in your throat. Mouth going slack as the filthy, wet, sloppy sound of his tongue against your cunt grows louder with each buck of your hips.

He spreads your folds and slit open with that flat, wide tongue— the rough of it teasing your insides as you fuck his face hard and fast. Big, warm hands find your tits again, pinch and pull your piqued nipples. Then, one of those paws is wrapped around your throat without so much as a warning. Applying a gentle pressure, pulling out a sharp gasp and a deep, hard muscle tense.

“Don’t come yet,” Steve murmurs, “I want you to touch yourself.”

The words are rushed. Sloppy and slurred. He blows a breath against your cunt, hot and heavy airy sticking to balmy skin— sending a shiver right down your spine. You bring your knees together quick, wiggling back and forth as a long, drawn out groan slips through your teeth. When you don’t heed his warning, too busy riding the rushing high as quick flashes of a deep orgasm ripple through your body, synapses firing in rapid succession, brain going hazy, a heavy slap is leveled to your ass. The sting permeates through thick skin with force as you snap your hips forward, gasping sharp and loud.

Then he’s pinching the inside of your thigh, wanting you to feel his displeasure for your disobedience. You force your knees apart, taking deep breaths, eyes slammed closed as shaky whimpers whir in your throat, “I hear you… I’m sorry,” the words weak and pathetic— just how he likes them, “I’m sorry daddy.”

“Better be,” he mumbles into you again, “Touch yourself while you fuck my tongue, baby.”

Manicured fingers slip between your folds, immediately start to tease and massage that little nub. Steve holds onto your hips, drags his hands up and down your thighs, back up to your tits and nipples. Around your throat. Calloused fingers prodding at your lips, forcing your mouth open to push inside.

It’s not long before your panting. Drooling around his thick fingers as your hips snap hard, your own fingers thrashing against a swollen clit. Steve sucks at your cunt, his tongue dipping in and out as the sound of wet skin slapping against lips and tongue bounces off the walls.

“Steve, I can’t—” you mutter around the salty fingers still shoved in your mouth

He moans, shaking his head back and forth as he digs his fingers into your ass cheeks, holding tight. He mumbles something, but you don’t hear it— you can’t. You swirl your tongue around his digits, start to nibble on them as you slap at your clit. A molten heat bubbles in your stomach, leaks out and starts to spread through your veins. Muscles tremble— tighten up and then relax before shaking again.

This is the part Steve likes. When you’re whimpering— crying as you start to unravel. He holds tight, firm, tongue swishing back and forth, up and down, teasing that soaked, slutty slit. Fucking you with his tongue, just waiting for it to all pay off in the most beautiful, succinct, perfect way.

When that coil does snap, it lurches you forward. Your cunt spasms, clit jumping as your inner muscles convulse— and his tongue doesn’t stop. It keeps swirling, lips keep sucking as his fingers pin your tongue down to the bottom of your mouth, really making you a slobbering mess.

You have to lift off of him within seconds, sitting back on his stomach as your limbs involuntarily jerk with the aftershocks of your orgasm. You claw at his tits, digging your fingers in as your greedy cunt wants more— grinding against his abs, leaving a wet trail behind. Steve strokes your arms, from your wrists all the way up to your shoulders to help calm you. Massive hands grab your face as he showers praise as the ripples continue, thumbs pushing back into your mouth for you to suck on.

Steve sits up, pulls at the scrunchy collecting your wild, thick hair, to let it spill around your face before he lays you back onto the duvet, “Needy little thing you are, huh?”

You just moan in response, unable to formulate any real words as he moves you around. Wraps your legs around his waist, places your hands on his shoulders. A strangled grunt rises in your throat as he sinks into your sensitive, wet hole— spreads you open wide. Crushes his chest to yours, smothers you under his weight and warmth.

“Steve, baby.”

A hot breath washes over your face as he starts to move— quick strokes as his skin starts to slap soft against yours. He caresses your face, thumbs pushing over your cheeks and nose and lips as the tips of his fingers push into your hair,

“You’re my sweet girl, aren’t you honey?” he leans back just a bit, just to feel your nipples brush along his chest as your tits bounce with his rhythm, “Hmm? You’re my favorite girl?”

“‘m your favorite— favorite girl. Fuck! Oh, G— od.”

He kisses you, but each is brisk, not giving you enough to latch onto. Your head is then tipped back, off to the side to expose your neck so he can sink his teeth into the taut flesh— sucks on the prominent vein that protrudes. Deft fingers find a nipple again, pinches, licks and sucks on it before he grabs your lips between his teeth, pulling gently.

Your feet bounce against the small of his back with each of his thrusts. The tips of your fingers go white as they dig into thick skin and tenses muscles. Tears, hot and heavy, slip down the sides of your face.

“Oh, baby,” Steve hisses, cradling your face in his hands again, “You’re so good. So, so, pretty when you cry for me.”

And you’re coming again. Much quicker this time, but that’s what he was betting on— what he wanted. He wants you overstimulated, pushed to the brink of what you can handle and wants to push you right off the edge. So he can watch you unfold because he knows, deep down and proudly, that he’s the only man that can dismantle you.

As it should be.

Your ego is insane, you’ve laughed in the past when this very subject has come up before.

It’s why you love me, he’s argued back.

But, it often works against him. Wet muscles clamping down around him. Soft, sweet, almost helpless mewls and whimpers in his ear. The faint, filthy words that trip off your tongue. It all takes him down too. Steve Rogers may be a man’s man, but he knows when to concede victory.

He loves filling you up anyway. Filling you up until his hot, thick cum is spilling right back out of you. Loves how his fat cock takes up every inch of your cunt so his seed has absolutely nowhere to go as he drives deep and hard with each spurt. Loves the sound— the squeak of muscles and cum as he rests his forehead to yours, chokes back his grunts and growls while you eat it all up.

Your mouth hangs as you have to cover your face with your fingers, trying and failing to catch your breath. Steve pulls out, but only temporarily— he loves this part too. Pushing your legs forward to your chest to watch his cum leak out of you. It’s so warm, so silky against the delicate skin of your used sex.

He catches it, the string of his seed that escaped with his fingers and massages your folds, your clit, spreading it around before pushing those fingers right back into you. Strokes your hot muscles, curls his fingers, feels your heat and the squish of his cum and your slick as he fucks you slow. Throws his eyes back to yours when you gasp and twitch, trying to pull away.

“Stop,” you beg, pulling at his wrist, “Please, Steve.”

You’re begging because it feels so good it kinda hurts. You’re there and he knows it. To the point where you’re squirming to get away from those long fingers and the brush of his thumb over your hot, sticky clit. He shushes you as he pumps his fingers, presses his thumb against your nub to add more pressure. All because he knows you really don’t want him to stop.

Steve pulls his fingers from you when you're crying hard, lays back on top of you to wipe the hot tears away, “My pretty girl.” he coos, washing you in kisses because you need them.

Hot lips drag down your neck to your chest, suck on your smooth skin, leaving little dark marks behind to remind you of where he’s been. A thick thumb is back in your mouth as he nibbles a nipple into his mouth, flicks at it with his tongue real slow and soft. You hold onto his hand like a child, wrapping both hands around his wrist, sucking on his digit to ground yourself. Bring yourself back from the brink, back into the room, back to the bed.

“You with me, sweet girl?” there’s no real words from you, just a nod and a hum for an answer, “You gotta say it, baby.”

“Mmhuh,” you manage after a few seconds, swallowing thick before you push out a slow breath, “I’m ‘kay.”

“You sure? Tell me the truth.”

“I’m okay,” you breathe hard and heavy, “Promise.”

Steve sits up on his knees, bends your legs at the knee and pulls them open, spreading your folds and cunt open. Fingers push along your clint, squeeze it gently before he slaps it quick. As you’re gasping, his wet cockhead is pushing at your opening again, sliding easy into your used, hot hole.

“The baby, Steve. We can’t, there’s not enough time.”

“Shh, shh, shhhh,” he coos, wasting not a second before his hips are rolling, “I’ll get him if he wakes up.”

“That’s not—”

“You honestly think you’re getting away from me that easy?” the base in his voice splinters down to your core, “I’ve been gone for two weeks,” he says slow, pulling out again to roll you over onto your hands and knees, propping you up real pretty, “Gotta make up for,” he grunts, sliding his cock all the way in, until your ass is flush to his stomach, “Lost time.”

All of his friends, Sam, Steve, Clint, all see the change in him. The little soft spot for you that blinds him entirely— turns him in a mushy puddle of emotions and puppies and rainbows. Very different from the Bucky they grew up with, but a Bucky that the three of them have come to enjoy. It’s a change of pace from the enforcer they know.

The two of you don’t talk about his work— in fact, it’s the reason why you’re in Greece to begin with. A late birthday present to make up for the fact that his “work” just happened to be the waiter at the restaurant he chose to take you to for your thirty second birthday. Come on babe, he chuckled as you scowled back at him over the rim of your wine glass, watching as he stained his white napkin red with his bloody knuckles, you know what they say, kill two birds with one stone… not funny?

Two weeks, two nonrefundable, open ended tickets, and five grand in bikinis, shorts, and shoes later, you’re getting some much needed Greek sun on your deep brown skin.

He’s even letting you call the shots for a change. Letting you wake him up at the ass crack of dawn to have breakfast— a spread of breads, cheeses and fruits on the balcony of your room as the sun rises. He doesn’t say a word as you drag him through the city, stopping at each little boutique and shoe store. Sits patiently as you try on every dress, every skirt, and every silk top in the entire country it seems.

Bucky even bit his lip as you gazed at engagement rings— hinting that princess cut is your favorite as you held your hand up into the natural sunlight as one adored your finger. Smiling over at him and wiggling your eyebrows all the while as he narrowed his eyes and plastered a fake smile on his face.

Today has been like all the others, a lazy day spent on the beach, a quick nap underneath an umbrella, a concoction of too much sun and too many margaritas going straight to your head. Now, you’re kinda sleepy and kinda drunk, but most importantly hungry— and Mykonos sounds like a great place for dinner. Despite Bucky’s objections (you’re too tired and too drunk to handle a ferry), you’re dressed in a cute little flowery sundress, him in an out-of-character white tank top, open pale blue and green striped button down and khaki chinos— you forbade him from bringing anything black— and you’re flip flops are slapping against the cobblestone street towards the ferry.

“Drop your attitude,” You say, glancing over your shoulder as he pays for your tickets, “You owe me.”

“Yeah, yeah, that excuse is wearing thin, girl.” You stumble a little with the motion of the ferry as you step onto it, having to grab onto the railing to steady yourself before Bucky grabs hold of your wrist, “Water only for the rest of the night.”

His voice is low and borderline threatening as he presses his lips right against your ear, and you know not to press him any further. You like to stick your toes right up against his line and that’s what irritates him most about you (always what he loves most), but you and he both know you’d never dare cross it.

Bucky pulls you behind him, hand around your wrist, that possessive trait rearing its head as male eyes fall on you as the two of you pass by. He finds an empty spot, away from the crowd, and plops down on the bench as you step up on the lower rung of the railing and stare out over the sea.

Within twenty or thirty minutes, the ferry pulls away from the dock and you can’t wipe the smile from your face. The sun sets off in the distance, the bright lights of the city turning into little pinpoints. Small droplets of the cool, salty water splashes up in your face as the wind and the ferry whips it up. You keep glancing down at the phone in your hand as you broadcast your current view to your instagram, laughing softly as hearts and emojis explode on your screen.

You lean forward, tilting your phone and smiling wide, waving into the camera before you shout out how much you love it here. The words are barely out of your mouth before an arm wraps around your middle, a wide, hard chest pressed into your back, “That’s enough,” he reaches with his metal arm, grabbing your phone, ending your live feed, “You’re too drunk to be hanging off the side like that.”

“I am not,” you struggle against him lightly as he sets you on your feet, “What is your problem?”

“I’m annoyed.”

“Well, duh. Why?”

He slips your phone into his pocket and crosses his arms over his chest, sharp blue eyes piercing into yours, “Pay attention to me,” he says low, eyes dropping down your body real slow as he drags his bottom lip between his teeth, “Or I’ll make you.”

So that’s what it’s about. Bucky Barnes feels neglected between all the shopping and beach days and margaritas. Jealousy is cute on him.

The words though, they strike you right to your core— feel them down to your bones. A hard swallow pushes through your throat as your lips part, big brown eyes softening as your breath starts to rush a little harder. You hate to admit— not really— you love this Bucky. This is work Bucky, a man you rarely get to see. Slightly scary, anger brimming just below the surface. Jaw tight, eyes hard, head tilted just a bit. He’s menacing, and it makes your lips twitch into a small smile.

Shrugging defiantly, you cross your arms over your chest, “You didn’t pay much attention to me on my birthday.”

“Not true.”

“Not true?” you nearly shout, eyes going wide, “I ate alone while you beat the hell outta our waiter behind the building! I had to wait two hours for my slice of cake!”

“How is that my fault?”

You scoff, “Oh, I dunno, maybe because our waiter was spitting out his teeth in the alley out back— all thanks to you.”

“I have to work. You know that.”

“Not,” you hiss, “On my fucking birthday.”

He knows he’s wrong for that shit, so he stands there, huffing quick before he cocks his head again and just blinks back at you— unamused. He won’t apologize, it’s just not in his nature, but his usual attempts to make you happy after he’s fucked up aren’t working; so he’s at a loss.

And you’re enjoying that. A little too much if you ask him.

But alas, it’s not fun to fight on vacation, and you have taken far too many liberties when it comes to his tolerance for attitude. It’s been fun— and you’re just drunk enough to push him one last time.

You move slow, walking right up to him, so close that each inhale pushes your tits into his body. The smirk quirked up on your lips grows as you peer up at him, eyes bouncing between his as you place your hands on his forearms still crossed over his chest.

Bucky lifts his eyebrow as you push up on your tiptoes and push your chin forward to bring your lips close to his, “And just how are you gonna make me pay attention to you, James?”

He inhales deep, pushes it out real slow as he tilts his head even further. A smile spreads on his face and you just know that this is the last thing his work sees before he rearranges the bones of their face. This is exactly why his clients pay him as well as they do.

Thick fingers are wrapped around your wrist again, nails digging into your skin as he starts to pull you behind him. He weaves you through bodies, you nearly having to jog to keep up with his strides. Laughter bubbles up in your chest, a little shriek escaping as he pulls you down some stairs to the lower level of the ferry. Once your feet hit the last step, Bucky whips you around his body, sending you spinning and laughing until you bounce into an old, rusty metal barrel.

The smell of salt fills your nose and lungs as you inhale, covering your face with your hands. Your skin is hot, lips slightly numb as you dissolve into laughter again. He’s right, you’re a little too drunk for this.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be down here.” You mumble, brushing your wild hair out of your face.

“I could give a fuck,” he answers, stepping up to you, grabbing your face in his hands, “You’ve been testing me the entire time we’ve been here all over some stupid shit.”

Another giggle pushes through your lips as you bat your eyes, “I wouldn’t dare, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky sucks his teeth as he drops his metal hand around your throat and squeezes gently, the rings on his fingers cool against your skin, “I was stupid, okay? But don’t put on that little innocent act, girl. You’re trying me, and I’ve had enough.”

A smile cracks onto your face, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. You wrap both hands around his one wrist and slip them up his arm, feeling the soft metal as you continue to goad him, “You got some proof, big man?”

The tip of his black and gold thumb prods at your lip, pushes just inside. You wrap your tongue around it and suck gently, keeping your eyes on his all the while.

Bucky laughs, deep and earnestly, “Proof, she says. She needs proof.” He glances around before he spins you quick, facing you away from him as he lifts your dress to reveal your pink satin thong.

You squeal loud, pushing and slapping at his hand as he grabs a handful of your ass, “Bucky! There’s people!” you laugh, “Oh my god!”

“Keep your voice down,” he warns, wrapping his metal fingers around your throat again, “Understand?”

A jolt of electricity flashes through you as you wiggle in his grasp. He tightens his grip around your neck as you wrap your fingers around the edge of the barrel, swallowing hard.

“That requires an answer, honey.”

The chill in his voice, added with the slow circles and soft tickles of fingertips against the back of your naked thigh sends a pang through your belly, “I understand.”

He chuckles soft and with a quick peck on the cheek whispers, “Good girl.”

Bucky curls his left arm around your chest, hooking your chin in the crease of his arm as he grips your right shoulder. You grab on to it with both hands, out of instinct, eyes wide and skirting around for any signs of other human presence down here. Bucky turns, moving you with him to eye the steps quickly again before that flesh hand sweeps around to the front.

The soft material of your dress falls over his hand as he rubs your stomach— his rings catching and snagging your skin. That hand pushes downward, over your thighs, gripping and kneading the soft flesh before he grabs the hem of your dress and pulls it upward, exposing those expensive panties again.

“Bucky,” you hum, his name trembling on your lips with the vibrations of your excitement, “Baby.”

He rucks your dress right up— right up around your waist and pulls the slack behind you, pressing his body into yours to keep it in place. The dark stubble adorning his cheeks and chin cuts into the side of your face as he nuzzles in, humming to himself soft before he kisses the corner of your mouth.

Those fingertips start to trace the hem of your thong— slowly. Back and forth, back and forth. From hip to hip. Your eyes flutter. Fingers grip the soft black metal of his arm a little harder. Legs go to jelly as another hard swallow passes through your throat.

“Ain’t got all that mouth now, do you?” He whispers, fingers slipping just inside the silk of your panties to tease the delicate skin underneath.

When he slips his hand in— all the way in— cupping hot skin, fingers dancing between folds and teasing a wet slit, an influx of air fills your lungs. A gasp, small and clipped sounds in the back of your throat as his fingers start a rhythm. You melt into him, head resting on his shoulder as your hips push forward to meet greedy fingers.

A naughty finger pushes in quick, and then a second— all the way to the black and silver rings dressed on them. His arm tightens around your neck as he presses his lips right against your ear, “You need to apologize.”

He fucks his fingers into you, withdrawing slow, and then pushing back in— each time the edges of his rings stopping him from going deeper. You can’t help but purr as you continue to grip his arm with both of your hands.

“I don’t think—“

“All I want to hear,” his words clip yours, each one slow and drawn and deep, “Is I’m sorry for testing your patience. I won’t do it again.” He curls his fingers, the pads stroking that sweet little spongey spot, making you clamp your legs closed around his hand, “Let me hear you.”

You can’t. You won’t. Too stubborn and too drunk to give in to him, wanting to win just this once.

If there’s one thing James Buchanan Barnes does not like, it’s hesitation. It’s dangerous, he always says. You think too long, you get hurt. Predators don’t hesitate.

Well, you like being his prey.

Only a few seconds pass before Bucky tuts in your ear, seemingly disappointed in your obstinate behavior, but you both know it’s just the opposite. His cock pressing into your ass tells you so.

The fingers disappear. The arm choking you just right pulls away and your dress falls back around the middle of your thighs. You huff, wiping quick at your forehead and pushing your wild, curly hair out of your face again.

Your hands find your hips in irritation but he slaps them away quick as he sucks his teeth, “You must really want this spanking, girl. Keep it up.”

That you do— keep it up. Huffing again. Crossing your arms over your chest like a petulant child. Brown eyes cut back at him over your shoulder to find sharp blues already on you. A smirk on his face.

Metal fingers curl around the back of your neck, pushing you forward gently until your thighs press against the old metal barrel again.

“Lean forward, kitten.”

Voice as smooth as silk while you do so, gripping the rusted edges for balance. Your dress is yanked up again— rough this time— and twisted around his Vibranium hand. Then there’s warm, the warmth of skin against yours. Gentle brushes of fingers and a palm rubbing slow circles, then pinching and grabbing soft— prepping your skin for what’s to come.

He pauses for just a second, no doubt to scan your surroundings and then pulls his hand away. You lung forward with the slap he levels to your behind within a fraction of a second— the sound sharp and heavy.

There’s another, and then a third in quick succession before he’s massaging your skin again. Real soft and sweet. Tears burn at the back of your eyes at the sting that radiates through, all the way to your bones but the molten heat deep in your belly spreads like a fire. Each breath is hard and shaky, heart thumping against your chest but it’s so good.

Bucky switches to the other cheek, skilled fingers sweeping over your canvas of skin before he cracks you— one, two, three.

You squeal with each one. The thud of those heavy rings around his fingers send a quick, new shockwave every time, building on the one before it. The tips of your fingers go red from holding on to the rusty old barrel as tight as you are, but your brain? She’s fuzzy and warm, and drifting up into the clouds with each swift slap.

Bucky is a methodical man. Three for the right cheek, three for the left, three right in the middle. His hand sneaks around your hip, giving it a squeeze before it comes back around and drops to the inside of your thigh. Grabs the meat of it— digs his fingernails in just to hear you yelp. Cups your cunt in his palm, feeling the heat and the wet— makes him groan all low and dirty.

He bunches your hair in his hand, tugs you up by it. Spins you around to face him before hoisting you up and settling you on top of the barrel.

“You want me to fuck you so bad, don’t you?” He growls, ripping at the button and zipper of his jeans.

You just hum in response, wrapping your legs around his waist and throwing your arms over his shoulders.

Bucky grabs your chin, forcing it up before he squeezes your cheeks, “Huh? Answer me.”

Damp eyelashes flutter as hot air escapes from parted, hot lips. He leans in real close, cock pushing right at your slit and kisses you hard as he slips his arm around your waist. He breaks away quick, sloppy and loud before pecking your lips once, twice, three times again.

“You want me to fuck you, girl?”

The weight of his words are felt right down to your core, a shiver passing between the two of you. You let your heavy head fall back and your eyes close as Bucky nuzzles into the side of your face, his pretty white teeth skipping along your neck, nipping and nibbling.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper after mere seconds, finally submitting in this cat and mouse game, “Bucky, please.”

That’s all he needs— all he wants. For you to submit, after letting you have the reins for one day too long. He sinks into you slow, spreading you open with each inch, biting down into the side of your neck as he bottoms out. His teeth dig in a little deeper, a little harder as he starts to move, rocking back and forth almost succinct with the waves of the water.

You’re moving with him too, meeting each of his thrusts with your hips. You keep your legs tight around his waist, feet dangling and bouncing against the back of his thighs. A trail of hot kisses are pressed along your neck and down your shoulder before traipsing back up— teeth grazing along your jaw.

Long fingers skip up your side and between your bouncing tits to only wrap around your neck again. They squeeze, gently, as his pace starts to pick up, hips shoving harder and faster— that old barrel starting to scrape against the wood floor.

The force makes you louder, moaning with abandon as if the two of you are all alone on this little ferry. Bucky makes quick work of you, shoving metal fingers into your mouth— giving you something to suck on to keep you quiet.

“That’s a good girl.” he growls, voice gritty and low.

He’s punishing after that. Each snap of his hips thrusting you backward, the barrel you’re on top of tipping back and then slapping down on the floor. You yelp with each one, your mouth going slack around his digits as your hands fall to the edges of the barrel for some semblance of balance.

It’s obscene, the way you can hear your fuck. The wet of your cunt. The squeak of his cock plunging into tight, slick muscles. The heavy thud of his hips pounding into yours. The slap of your flip flops falling to the wood floor as he’s quite literally fucked them right off of your feet. It’s filthy— crude— and so very Bucky.

You’re back on your feet before you know it— before you realize it. Spun back around, Bucky’s hard chest and stomach pressed into your back. He grabs both of your hands and places them back on the barrel, his metal hand staying on top of yours, fingers gripping fingers.

Eager hips wiggle back into his as you hiss and sink your teeth into your bottom lip, groaning low. Your head drops when you feel his cock push through your ass cheeks— wet cockhead pressing against your hot rim.

He starts to fumble around behind you, each passing second making you more and more impatient. There’s a soft click, and then a light suction sound— something squeezing.

“Bucky,” you hiss, pushing back into him again, “Hur—”

The word breaks off right in the middle as he levels a quick smack against your hip— a warning. Then your ass cheeks are pulled apart, wet, slimy fingers sliding and prodding at your quivering rim. He brushes slow strokes, circling, pressing his fingers gently as he preps your little hole for what’s to come.

“What kind of freak brings lube to dinner?” you smile, gasping as he pinches the inside of your thigh.

You lurch forward when he grabs the back of your neck and yanks you back into him, lips right against your cheek, “The kinda freak that was gonna fuck you in an alley after dinner. Now shut that mouth.”

He’s pressing again, this time harder, his cockhead popping into you with force. You grunt with the initial intrusion, Bucky stopping his assault to allow you time to adjust to him— but that doesn’t last long. Your mouth goes slack again. Eyes slam shut, head falls forward as he slips in, deeper and deeper and deeper until his stomach is flush with your ass.

He wiggles— so you can feel him, feel him tickling the deepest part of you. Slaps at your ass again, quick, fingers glancing off your skin and leaving behind a hell of a sting. Then he’s fucking you again, slower this time, savoring the tight, glove-like hold your body provides.

Metal fingers grab at the hem of your dress again, tugging it up before they push back into your panties, finding a swollen, hot nub. Pinching and rubbing smooth circles against it, flicking and thrashing at the bundle of nerves before he shoves his fingers back into your cunt. They curl, those fingers, and pet your insides with surgical precision— only James Buchanan Barnes knows how to fuck you like this.

The heel of his palm slams against your clit as he fingers you rough and fucks your ass with gusto. Sleazy sounds gurgle up in your throat, the slapping of skin and the waves crashing against the side of the ferry, the rush of the wind filling your ears. Bucky pulls you flush against him and slithers his tongue just beneath your ear before his teeth grab a hold, tugging soft.

Teeth keep nipping— along your jaw, your cheeks, ears, neck. He fucks into you hard as he shoves his flesh hand into the neckline of your dress, gripping your tits. Pinching and kneading hard, thick nipples, mumbling sweet nothings all the while.

Your stomach churns, muscles tensing and flexing as synapses start to fire off in quick succession. Quick goosebumps pop up along your skin as your stomach tightens and you can taste it it’s so close. Bucky knows it, feels it as your walls constrict around his fingers, your asshole tightening around him. Vibranium fingers keep rubbing, keep fucking into your pussy hard, palm slapping against your clit, adding more and more pressure until the coil snaps.

It’s hard, and sudden— your body freezing as your orgasm consumes you. Bucky clamps a wet hand over your mouth as you mewl and bite into his palm, your hips thrusting forward with each wave of your release. He pulls his fingers from you to slap at your jumping clit, pressing the pads into it before he rubs quick little circles and then slaps at it again.

He drops his hand to your chin, yanking it up as you nearly cry, mewling and trembling with your release to kiss you hard and sloppy as you come. He kneads your tits with his mammoth hand as aftershocks flash through you, your used body jerking at random. Within seconds, there's a cloud of warmth in your ass. Rough grunts in your ear, growing louder with each spurt of his cock, your hot muscles milking him.

You let him use you, let him fill you up full of his silk. Grab his hands and lace your fingers with his as he empties long ribbons in you. Pull his arms around your waist and hold them there as he rides it out, his head falling to your shoulder. The two of you stand there, resting against that old barrel, breathing hard, skin sticky and balmy. Salt from the ocean in your nose.

Bucky’s the first to pull away, glancing back at the stairs before he pulls himself gingerly from you, leaving your body empty, a dribble of his come slipping out with him. He catches it with his fingers, drags them up the back of your thigh and between your ass cheeks before he shrugs out of his collared shirt and white tank top.

He cleans you up sweet with the tank top. Keeps his arm around your waist to steady you as he wipes at your thighs and your hot, sticky, puffy cunt, shushing you soft when you jump and whimper at the contact. He flings the messy tank top over the side of the ferry and rubs your hips and stomach real slow, murmuring into your ear all the while.

Diligent fingers then rearrange your thong— and cop a little feel, cupping your sensitive, swollen sex, giving it a little pinch so he can laugh when you shiver and squeak. Bucky pulls your dress, tugging lightly to get it back straight around your waist before smoothing it over your ass and thighs— even pulls at the top, making sure your tits are sitting pretty.

You can’t even open your eyes, overcome by alcohol and sleepiness and a post sex high. He fumbles with your fingers as your head lulls on his shoulder, a soft hum vibrating in your throat in your murky haze. Bucky lifts your arm by the elbow, sliding his hand up your forearm until he’s cupping your hand in his.

“Open your eyes, baby.” You groan in protest, causing a chuckle to rumble through his chest, “Come on.”

So you do. You always do whatever this man wants you to do— and there, right on your finger sits that big princess cut engagement ring you teased him with days before.

“How about we skip dinner and find a church, huh?” he whispers, kissing your cheek soft and sweet.

You glance at him over your shoulder, eyes wet as a smirk tugs at the corners of your mouth, “And if I say no?”

The walk gives you too much time to think about the last seven hundred and twenty seven days. All of the crying. All of the anger— the screaming. Chris trying to calm you down, assure you that they were okay— that he had to do this.

"It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?" You sobbed into the phone, staring up into the stars, knowing that he couldn’t but secretly hoping that he could see you.

"This is not easy for me," he choked back tears, his tongue heavy, "Leaving you is never easy but I have to do this, baby. We have to go back for Mark. We have to."

You didn’t answer his calls for over a week. And when you did, your words were quick and harsh.

"I can’t do this anymore. I’m moving in with my sister."

Chris was silent on the other end of the phone— too silent. He sighed after a while and just said, "Ok. I understand."

That was day four hundred and sixty three.

So you moved in with your sister. Got a job at the local bar, picked up every shift you could, sometimes working sixty, seventy hours a week— just so you didn’t have to think about him. It didn’t work. You’d still stare out the window at night, up into the big black sky and through the twinkling little stars, wondering where he was, what he was doing. If he was thinking about you.

Unbeknownst to you, Chris continued to call your sister. Just to check on you.

Day seven hundred was when two Air Force officers walked into the bar as you were cutting up lemons and oranges. Your stomach, in a perpetual state of tight and sour, dropped to your feet. It’s never good when the military comes knocking on your door.

“He’s dead,” you spit out, eyes watering, chest starting to heave, “He’s dead, isn’t he? They’re all dead.”

When they removed their hats, your hands flew to your face, covering your mouth to muffle the sobs. You just knew they were all dead. Humans can’t stay in space for this long. It’s not natural.

“No ma’am,” the taller, brown skinned man answered, a small smile breaking onto his face, showing off the distinctive gap between his two front teeth, “They’re back in our orbit. They’ll be landing within the next seventy two hours.”

It was a flurry after that. Phone calls, you moving back onto the base, protocol gatherings, interviews with local and national media. None of it mattered. You just wanted to see him— you needed to see him.

Not before his mandatory three week quarantine that is.

Day seven hundred and twenty five is when they called to let you know that he was ready to move onto the second phase of his integration back on earth. Two weeks cohabitating with another person of his choice, just to make sure that his body and cells can still tolerate, you know, earth— and that he doesn’t give off anything that could make earthlings sick.

They called to let you know that Chris chose you— if you wanted to, of course. If not, he could call his sister.

You were packing your bag before the call even ended.

After two days of getting tested for everything known to man, it’s now day seven hundred and twenty seven and here you are, passing through the last set of doors and stepping into a large observatory room. One of the General’s starts talking, but you don’t hear a word. You just blink slow, lips falling open as you stare back at Chris as he stands at the little square window of his living quarters. He smiles soft, running his hand through his short, dark hair before waving and placing his palm on the window.

Tears cloud your vision. Your chin trembles as a sad smile spreads on your face. A sob chokes in your throat and a warm tear streaks down your cheeks. Despite the talking man, you step up to the window and press your much smaller hand on the glass, spreading your fingers to match his. Chris rests his forehead to it and you do the same as you really start to bawl— shoulders shaking, face breaking, breath rushing fast and hard.

"Baby, don’t cry. Come on pretty, don’t— don’t cry."

Chris’ voice is muffled by the thick glass, but just hearing it— so close, so familiar— after so longs it’s just… it’s almost too much. It is too much.

“Ma’am, we can’t let you in there like this. We need you to calm down.”

Dense thuds shake the glass as Chris pounds on it, "Open the door, Sam!"

Sam grabs your bicep, gently, guiding you towards the door— Chris following you both, still talking to you through the glass.

"It’s okay baby, I’m right here. I’m right here."

“We need you to calm down,” Sam starts again, “He hasn’t been around—”

"Sam! Goddamn it, leave her alone! Open the door!"

“Beck! You cool it in there!”

"Don’t be an asshole! Open the door! She’s scared!"

You hear a scoff, “Step back from the window, Dr. Beck.”

"I swear to God—"

“Step back from the window, Dr. Beck.” Sam is stern now, pointing his finger towards Chris. 

Sam pauses for a few long seconds, blinking slow but keeping his hand around your bicep— and thank God, because you honestly need it, “I’m going to badge you into the hallway, okay? You take this keycard,” he presses it into your palm, “And put it up to the keypad at the second door after I close this door behind you. It’s only good for one passthrough— once you’re in, you’re in until the medical staff clears you both. Understand?”

The second half of his speech is softer, his thumb rubbing the back of your arm. You like Chief Master Sergeant Sam Wilson. You nod quick, rubbing at your face with the back of your hand, sniffling hard and focusing a shaky breath out through your teeth as you step in front of the door. There’s a loud click and the metal pops, Sam reaching past you to push it open.

Your body, on autopilot, takes three steps to the second door, eyes staring at the keypad on the wall beside it. Chris is still talking to you through the windows, one hand pressed to the glass, the other on the door handle.

"Just a few more seconds baby. You’re doing so good."

There’s another click— Sam closing the door behind you. Water fills your eyes again, emotion choking up in your throat at the gravity of it all. All of the screaming. All of the crying. All of the hating him and loving him and missing him for seven hundred and twenty seven days all culminating right here, right now, while he’s just three feet away from you. The sky used to be the thing keeping you apart— now it’s just a wall. A door— that you can’t walk through.

"Baby, Chris says gently, "Come on baby. Open the door, honey."

You’re frozen. Eyes locked on the keypad, fingers gripping the keycard so hard they start to burn. Open the door, honey takes you back. Takes you back to the day that he told you he was going up— that he’d be gone for a year.

“Open the door, honey. Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” You sniffle, staring at your reflection in the mirror in your small bathroom.

“You knew this was coming. I don’t know why you’re so mad.”

“A year? A year, Chris? I’m just supposed to put my life on hold for you for an entire year?”

He sighs through the door, “I’ve worked my ass off for this, you know that.” You do know that, you’re just being selfish. Needy and selfish, “I know we’ve got plans baby, but it’s just a year. One year and then I’m all yours—”

“Yeah, until the next time you decide to go up there. This is what Melissa warned me about. You get addicted to it.”

“I won’t.”

“You will,” you retort, “I know you.”

That makes him laugh, and then you’re laughing because he’s laughing, “Open the door, please.” Chris sighs again.

As soon as you turn the knob, he’s pushing through it, lifting you up off your feet and twirling you around— to make you laugh again.

You were standing on a precipice that night and neither one of you knew it. Your lives, both individual and combined, would change forever and that was the night that set it all in motion.

The keycard digs into your fingers and palm, bringing you back into the present. Back into the hallway, back in front of Chris. You blink, linking eyes with him again, finding them soft and down turned, his head tilted as he presses his fingers to the glass.

"Let me hold you," he says soft. So soft that the glass between you gobbles it up. But you just know that’s what he said. You just know.

The door clicks in your ear, a breeze is in your face as Chris throws it open, and then you’re consumed. Arms wrapped around you, hard chest against yours as you’re lifted right off of your feet. He’s so warm— he’s always been so damn warm.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, leaning back a little as you push your face into his neck, “This moment was the only thing keeping me going.”

“I’m sorry,” you sob, pushing your face into his shoulder, your tears wetting his NASA sweatshirt, “I’m so sorry, I was so selfish,” the words are clipped and broken, heavy on your tongue, “Chris, I—”

“Don’t. Don’t do that, it doesn’t matter.” He sits you back on your feet, rubbing your back with both of his large hands, “I’m the one that should be sorry.”

You cry openly into his chest, wrapping your arms around him and pushing your hands up into his sweatshirt, under the thin t-shirt underneath— just to feel his skin, “I missed you so much.”

One, two, three, four pecks of his warm lips on the top of your head before he rests his cheek there, holding you tight as he takes a deep breath, “All that’s over now, hmm?” you can feel the smile on his face, “We don’t have to miss each other anymore.”

-

A yawn pushes out of your mouth as you stretch out tight, sore muscles screaming. Eyes flutter as you shift, another deep breath pushing out your nose as you nuzzle your face into the pillows, body cocooned in warmth. You’re drifting again, quick, when an abrupt panic races through your veins without warning. Your stomach drops, skin instantly flushing with heat as you spring up, eyes as wide as saucers as your breath rushes.

That’s when you hear it, an all too familiar sound. A pencil, tapping slowly, methodically, against something. It calms you instantly. It’s real, you’re real, Chris is real, and you’re here. He’s here.

You swing your legs over the edge of the small bed, tucked in the corner behind a small partition. There’s a soft light glowing underneath it and a single red blinking dot emanating from the corner of the room— a camera. You push your hair out of your face but keep your fingers on your cheeks, closing your eyes as you focus on your breathing. In, out, in, out, in, out. There’s a murmur, Chris mumbling to himself and you can’t help but smile.

You stand and start moving towards the noises, padding soft and slow as his mess of brown hair and hunched back comes into view. He stands, switching out an X-Ray on the viewer before he plops back down into the swivel chair, staring at it for a second before he starts flipping through the large, open text book just to his left. There’s a little white board off to the right, leaning against the wall, the days he’s been “gone”, seven hundred and twenty seven, scribbled in his messiest of messy handwriting.

The little slice of time watching him sends you right back to your college years, waking up in his dorm room, finding the bed empty and him huddled over a too small desk, furiously flipping through a thousand page text book. You’d sneak up on him, just as you are now, barely dressed and sleepy eyed. Dig your fingers into his hair, scratch his scalp slow. Giggle as his shoulders slump and his head falls back a little, him moaning all the while.

“God, that feels good.”

“You let me fall asleep.”

“You cried yourself to sleep. Didn’t have the heart to wake you… you look like you haven’t slept in a year.”

“Hmm, more like two. What are you doing?” you ask, pushing around his side and crawling into his lap, nuzzling into his shoulder.

“Looking at our X-Rays from earlier today. I’m working on another paper for the Institute.”

“Trying to see if you guys are still earthlings?”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through you, making you smile, “Kinda, yeah. Our body masses have changed dramatically— our bones are longer, I’m not shitting you.” You giggle again at the enthusiasm in his voice, “It’s just a few centimeters, but still. Our brain waves are a little different, metabolism has sped up… it’s incredible.”

You keep the small smile on your face as your fingertips drift over his chest, rubbing slow as you feel his eyes fall to you, “You should get back in bed,” he says, squeezing your knee gently, “You look so tired, baby.”

“Not without you.”

He laughs again, “My circadian rhythm’s all fucked up, I can’t sleep.”

“Then it looks like you're stuck with me,” you kiss his chin and then cuddle back into him, “Don’t mind me.”

Mind you, he doesn't. He just goes about flipping pages and scribbling down random thoughts, marking up his pile of x-rays and fumbling through his and the rest of the crew's medical charts. You push your hand up into the arm of his navy blue NASA sweatshirt, raking your nails up and down his forearm absentmindedly as you breathe him in. Your other hand wanders too, tracing the band of his dark sweatpants before skipping up into his sweatshirt, brushing over his stomach and up to his chest.

The pads of your fingers outline the muscles that are still there, his pecs, down and across his soft abs, before back up and over a cheeky nipple. He jumps slightly, crinkling his nose as he smiles big and hard, “Babe, I’m never gonna finish this work if you keep doing that.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“Oh, is that so?”

You bat two big eyes up at him, the weight of going almost two years without catching up with you right at this moment. A hum vibrates in your throat as you stand, taking a few steps away from him before you toss your eyes over your shoulder, licking your bottom lip before sinking your teeth into it. You hold out your hand, wiggling your fingers after a few moments, watching him drag his big eyes down your bare legs and then back up over your powder pink satin shorts and matching camisole.

“Come to bed, Dr. Beck.”

He’s up and on his feet before the words are out of your mouth. Warm fingers interlace with yours as the two of you move back towards the bed, falling onto the soft twin size mattress. His weight dips into the bed as he sinks his knees into it, pulling his sweatshirt over his head as you crawl towards the headboard. You draw your legs up, swaying them gently back and forth, palms flat on your thighs as you inhale deep, watching as he tosses his shirt to the floor.

The smile on your face grows larger as he crawls over you, pushing your legs open with his soft hands before he settles right between them. Chris takes his time looking at you, smiling soft as his eyes drift over your face, his index finger dragging down the bridge of your nose, over two full lips, and down your chin and neck. You let out a quick breath when the pad of that sneaky finger dips just inside your tank top— right into your cleavage.

He cups your face, his thumb resting on your lips, brushing gently, “I’m never leaving you again,” he whispers, blue eyes filling with earnest as they bounce between yours, “I mean it.”

You turn your head into his palm, pressing your lips into the soft, warm skin, planting kisses, “You promise?”

The delivery is breathless. Quiet. Small. Almost begging him to mean it. He takes a deep breath, pushes it out slow before leaning in, closing his eyes as he rubs the tip of his nose against yours. That’s when he kisses you— slow. Deep. Tongue pushing through your lips and into your mouth.  Massaging the roof of your mouth before sliding along your tongue. He even moans a little, lets his body— muscles, bones, brain— relax. Lets himself melt into you because it’s just been so damn long.

It ends slow, the kiss. Chris grabbing your lip with his teeth and pulling gently before he rests his forehead to yours. Eyes closed, his big, skilled hands and fingers flirting with your calves—pushing over your knees and then down your thighs to come to rest on your sides and hips.

“I promise.” You slide your hands up and down his sides, letting your eyelids flutter as he continues, punctuating his words with more gentle kisses, “We can start that life you’re so crazy about,” he laughs when you laugh and wrap your arms around his neck, “Buy you a house.”

“On the base?”

“I thought you didn’t like the base?”

“I don’t… but I kinda... do.”

“Then yeah, on the base if that’s what you want.”

Your eyes are still closed as hot lips press against your face— the crook of your nose, underneath one eye, cheeks, and then chin. You push your fingers up into his hair as he forges a path with his lips and tongue— down your neck, over two collarbones, down your arm— all the while his hands move upward. Up into your silk top, nimble fingers playing with two tight nipples before he rucks the silk top up to your chin.

“Wait,”

“What?”

“What about them?”

“Them, who?”

Pointing with your foot towards the blinking red light in the corner, “Them.”

He laughs and you laugh, covering your face with your hands until Chris pries them away, “They’re nerds, babe. We’ve already made them so nervous they’ve left the control room.”

You honestly can’t remember the last time you laughed this hard. Not since he left you suppose. It’s a nice sound, for both you and him, filling up the small space, making it alive and lived in instead of clinical and dry, “That’s not nice, Chris!”

He shimmies the thin material up over your head, casting it to the floor, “It’s the truth! I should know. Remember the first time I saw you naked? I couldn’t look anybody in the eye for a week.”

The memory makes you laugh, soft and dreamy-like, “That was so long ago.”

Chris catches the tone. It makes him halt, for just a second, his eyes shifting away from you. Guilt. For holding you at an arm’s length for so long. For making you number two. For making you wait for him for so damn long.

You tilt your head, eyes searching his. Gentle hands claim his face, pulling him back into your strong gaze, “Stay with me,” you whisper, eyes bouncing between his, “You’re buying me a house.”

“Ah, yes,” with one fell swoop, your shorts are pulled down your legs, right over the tips of your manicured toes and thrown to the floor, “One story? Two?” He asks, back up on his knees.

“Umm, maybe just one,” You answer, sitting up, slipping your hands into the dark sweats still covering his bottom half, “A two story house is too much to keep clean.”

You pull, but not all the way. Just enough to see his hips and that little tuft of dark hair underneath his belly button. You can’t help yourself and lean forward, kissing his stomach, giggling when he jumps a little. When you do it again, kiss him, and then a third time, and a forth, he gives in. Sweeps your locs over your shoulders and pulls them into a ponytail in his hand. That’s when you hook your thumbs back underneath the thick band of his sweats and pull a little harder, pushing the material right over his hard cock, making it bounce.

Chris kicks out of the sweats, grabs your face in his hands and tilts it upward. Leans down and kisses you again— soft. Sweet. All while rubbing small circles into your cheeks with his thumbs. He stays there, forehead to forehead, eyelashes spread over his buttery, quickly blushing red cheeks as you palm him, dragging your hand from the base right to the tip.

It doesn’t take much— never has. After a few strokes, he’s wet and red all over. Chest, neck, cheeks. Mouth agape, pulling in ragged breaths as his eyelids flutter. He swallows hard, and then hums quick, deep and throaty before inhaling through his open mouth. You push upward, kissing him as you continue slow strokes, sweeping a thumb over his wet tip.

Fingertips brush along the inside of your thigh, down low, first by your knee. Then, slowly, they skirt upward, not groping or kneading, just brushing— flirting with your skin until they reach their destination. You gasp, mouth falling open as adept fingers— not only just in general, but with your body specifically— push through wet folds.

“One story it is then,” he breathes, hot, unhurried, “A dog and a,” he slams his eyes shut, hissing and grunting when you squeeze him, “Fuck baby,” he swallows again, lips trembling as he nuzzles in, rubbing the tips of your noses together, “A dog and a cat.”

Your free hand wraps around his neck, fingertips pushing into his hair as your head tips back, hips start to shove forward, eager for his touch— wanting those fingers inside. When Chris obliges, sinks his index and middle finger into your cunt—  touch starved and needy— you mewl. Making a real sound for the first time in seven hundred and twenty seven days. It enlivens you both.

Chris pushes you back, lays you back onto the small mattress, spreads you out. Keeps his fingers inside, pumping slow, curling, massaging. Thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing. He lays between your legs, coming face to face with your most intimate and blows gently. Warm air sticking to balmy flesh. Big blue eyes flick up to yours, then back to your sweet, licking his lips as a squelch fills the room.

His tongue darts out, slips along the inside of your thigh. Your hips react instantly, jutting upward as a sharp breath fills your chest. A long arm pushes up your body, fingers prodding your breast, tweaking a nipple before he palms the skin, but not for long. Within seconds, his fingertips are pushing into a willing mouth. Your tongue, swirling around thick digits as you grab onto his hand, holding it there.

Warm air tickles damp skin again as he blows on you, “Have some babies,” he offers quick, the words muffled by your flesh as he finally laps at you, tongue slipping through sticky folds, flattening against your slit as he massages the delicate, “How many you want, baby?”

Nothing but a bitten-off groan answers him. It comes for many reasons. His fingers somehow delving deeper, lips brushing over your cunt— the thought of babies. Little brown skinned, curly headed babies running in the backyard with that dog and cat. Wide smiles, complete with missing teeth, loud laughter, declarations of love as they jump into mommy and daddy’s arms.

“Oh yeah,” heavy words breathed into your ear, a hunk of man now laying on top of you, cock pressing at your opening, “My pretty girl wants babies,” the wetness makes it easy for him to slide in— all the way in— bury deep, “I’m gonna give them to you. You’ve been so good.”

He’s moving, hips pushing and pulling as he cups your face in his hands, presses his forehead to yours, “I’m gonna fill you up,” he mutters, swollen lips brushing against yours, “Stuff you— full of— my, fuck,” a deep moan, another quick hiss as he bites his bottom lip, overcome by the warmth, the wet— the tight, “Fuck, you feel good.”

Feverish lips are on yours again, teeth nibbling as his hips shove into you. Soft and swift. A palm covering your breast, fingers pressing, kneading and working sensitive, responsive skin. Nipples hardening, heat blooming across an ardent canvas of skin, pulsing hips eager to meet his.

Chris cups your chin, pushes upward so you're forced to keep slitted eyes on him and him only, “You want my babies? Hmm? Tell me baby,” you can only whimper in response, digging your nails into his sides, drawing your legs up and around him as he plunges deep, “Come on honey, use those words. Tell me how much you want my babies.”

He fucks into you hard, jamming his hips just once— the sound of skin on skin slapping out loud and off the walls. It arches your back, the sudden, quick thrust. Sends you right up into his chest. Chris pulls you into his lap as he falls back on his ass, extending his legs, heels digging into the mattress as he wraps his arms around you, holding you close and tight, fingers spreading out on your back.

Hips roll into one another. Fingers grip his calf as you lean back, hot, sloppy lips on your chest, over and between bouncing tits. A taut nipple pulled right into his wet mouth. Slippery tongue swirling and flicking, teeth nibbling before he sucks on the tight nub, teasing it further.

Then he’s holding your hips, forcing you down onto his cock. More rushed, sticky words falling from swollen, red lips, “You want me to fill you up? Hmm? Tell me.”

Tears slip down your cheeks, overcome by it all. The emotion of it, the physicality of you and him tangled together— the words, how many years you’ve waited to hear those words.

“That’s right, sweet girl,” he purrs, thrusting harder, faster, “You want me to come in you, don’t you? You’d love it if I came in you, huh? Knocked you up? Gave you a baby?”

You kiss him hard. Cupping his face, moaning sweet into his wet mouth, “I want it,” it’s breathy— desperate, “I want it, Chris. I want it.”

“Then I’ll give it to you. I’ll give it all to you.”

It’s feverish after that. Pushing and pulling. Grunting, smacking— lips on lips, skin on skin. Large hands gripping, fingers pressing into the meat of thighs and calves and ass and tits. His fingers grip the meat of your thighs, your ass, slide up your back— around your neck as your head falls back. Those fingers find your mouth, push just inside as he wraps his other arm around your waist, pulling your hips closer, helping them rock.

His fingers are out of your mouth, cupping your cheek now. Smoothing hair out of your face as it strains. You try not to get loud, slam your eyes closed, purse your lips as your toes curl and stomach tightens… heart flutters.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your closed eyes before prodding at your lips, “Don’t do that, honey. I know for a fact that you can be a hell of a lot louder than that. Come on, let me hear you.”

“No, I—“

“Don’t be modest,” his tone shifts, going stern and deep, and that’s all it really takes for the noise to flow, “I wanna hear you.”

But he knew that.

It’s a sweet little hum, and then a gasp before it’s clipped by an obscenity— a shaky, desperate, filthy word that dissolves away into a loud groan and then… it’s all downhill from there.

You couldn’t hold it in if you tried. It’s been too long. A pent up aggression, a nervous need all finally working its way out of you. You pull him close— crush your chest against his, wrap two liquid arms around his neck, press your face right against his. Chris loops an arm around your waist, squeezing your opposite hip, pressing his fingers right into the soft skin until it hurts.

But it’s good, the pain of the squeeze. It helps you right over the edge, makes you finally cum after seven hundred and twenty seven days. Slow at first. A warmth just taking its time as it spreads. The feeling sort of foreign because it’s been so long— your brain hasn’t caught up just yet.

When it does catch up, brain and body finding each other, dormant synapses kicking on with a jolt, it’s not just a warmth. It’s molten now, searing and stirring, passing through veins and muscles and skin and bone— it’s that deep. Toes curling so hard they go numb, fingertips digging into his shoulders as you throw your head back.

You’re sure the scientists and military guards can hear you three floors down.

Chris leans in, hot, wet, shiny lips pressing against your chest, over your tits with sloppy kisses, hips still churning into yours until they just can’t. Wet walls closing in, clamping down as they spasm, that molten enveloping him. His hips freeze quick with the first spurt, but find a haphazard rhythm as he comes. Fills you up just like he promised.

He pushes those warm blooms of silk deep with now pointed, long strokes. Not a drop escaping— it’s all for you, after all. Supply and demand and all that.

The mattress is a dream beneath you. Inviting and soft as he lays you into it, still rooted deep as he rolls you onto your side. An arm snakes around your hip, a palm and long fingers anchoring in the center of your chest. A hot, flushed cheek presses against yours as lazy wet lips drag along the back of your neck. Languid thrusts at random intervals keeps you gasping as he tucks his knees and thighs into the backs of yours.

“Say it again,” you whisper after a few quiet minutes, breath still heavy, chest still heaving.

Chris plunges into you again, soft and sweet and deep, “Say what, honey?”

“That you won’t,” the words break off, a moan replacing them as he kisses a trail down your arm, fucks into you once, twice, three times, “That you won’t leave me again.”

“I’m not leaving you again.”

-

When you wake up the next morning, that little whiteboard with the days scribbled on it is erased. All it says now?