Yvieliny

Another soul-crushing afternoon in the shoebox you share with Natasha. You’re wedged between a leaning tower of bio textbooks and a graveyard of empty cold-brew cans, highlighter caps chewed to nubs, neon streaks smeared across your knuckles like war paint.

Your laptop teeters on a pillow fortress atop your thighs; the cursor blinks accusingly in a half-finished lab report on mitochondrial apoptosis. One more distraction and you’ll miss the deadline, again.

Ping.

An email. [email protected]. The subject line glows red: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring.

You snort. Athletics? You once got lost in the gym trying to find the vending machine. Still, curiosity wins. You click.

Subject: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring Good evening, We have an offer for a qualified peer tutor. Two students in critical need: • Rogers, Steven G. – Calculus II (F) / Chemistry I (D-) • Barnes, James B. – Calculus II (F) / Chemistry I (F) Requirements: 2 sessions/week minimum. $22/hr. Full scholarship bonus if both pass midterms. Reply ASAP. Thank you.

Your stomach does a triple axel. Steve Rogers. James Barnes.

You’ve seen them on the Jumbotron: Steve, the golden-boy quarterback, launching a 60-yard spiral like it’s a Nerf dart; James or Bucky, as they call him, the cocky wide receiver, diving horizontal for a one-handed grab that defies physics. Both shirtless and dripping with sweat that the entire campus has memorized.

They’re not students. They’re campus gods in shoulder pads.

The door slams open. Natasha, red hair twisted into a messy knot, black sports bra and leggings like she just stepped out of hot yoga, struts in with an iced matcha in hand. She catches your expression and smirks.

“Someone died, or did you just fail a pop quiz in your head again?”

You shove the laptop toward her. “Read.”

She scans, eyes widening with theatrical glee. “Holy shit. You’re going to be tutoring Rogers and Barnes? The same duo who bench-press freshmen for fun?”

“They’re failing calc,” you hiss. “And chem. Both Fs.”

Natasha whistles low. “That’s not failing. That’s killing your grades on purpose.”

She flops onto your bed, propping her feet on your open textbook. “Pay?”

“Twenty-two an hour. Scholarship bonus if they pass midterms.”

“Dayum.” She sips her matcha, eyeing you like prey. “That’s rent, textbooks, and the fancy microscope you’ve been drooling over in the bio catalog. Do it.”

You chew your thumbnail.

“They’re… them. I’m-” You gesture at your soft cardigan, your frizzy ponytail, the highlighter stains. “I’m a walking library fine.”

Natasha snorts. “Please. You’re a 4.0 nerdy goddess who color-codes her panic attacks. They need you.”

She leans in, voice dropping to a sneaky purr. “Also? Those boys eat nerds for breakfast. And you, my sweet, innocent lab rat, are about to be served.”

Your face combusts. “Nat!”

“What? I’m just saying, Steve Rogers has forearms that could crush walnuts. And Bucky? That man’s smirk could impregnate half the sorority row.”

She wiggles her brows. “Picture it, two full hours a week, pressed up close and personal. Finally gonna get your hands on some real, thick, sweaty biceps… instead of that limp-noodle disappointment your shitty ex called arms.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “What if they’re mean? What if they laugh at my flashcards? What if they see me and go, ‘Who let the librarian in?’ What if they don’t show up? What if they do show up and I forget how to speak? What if-”

Natasha yanks your hands down. “Breathe, nerd. You’re spiraling harder than a bad PCR cycle.” She spins your laptop, already typing.

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: URGENT – Academic Probation Tutoring Available Tuesdays/Thursdays, 4 to 6 pm, Library Study Room 3B.

Her finger hovers over send. “Last chance to chicken out and live in poverty forever.”

Your heart jackhammers.

What if they’re everything the rumors say, cocky, cruel, unattainable?

What if youre just the punchline?

Natasha smirks. “Or… what if you walk in there, own the room, and make them nervous for once?”

You swallow. “Do it.”

Send.

The confirmation email pings instantly. Natasha whoops, tossing you a victory fist-bump. “Operation: Tutor the Campus Gods is live. I’m claiming all the tea. You owe me play-by-play.”

You collapse back into your pillow fortress, pulse racing, Steve’s future letterman jacket already haunting your imagination.

Tuesday. 4 pm Study Room 3B. God help you.

You’re fifteen minutes early, because punctuality is your love language, anxiety is your native tongue. Study Room 3B smells like stale coffee, dry-erase markers, and the ghost of someone’s tuna sandwich.

You’ve turned the table into a war zone: color-coded notes fanned like Pokémon cards, three highlighters lined up by wavelength, yellow for definitions, pink for examples, green for warnings, a laminated derivative cheat-sheet taped to the wall like a hostage photo.

Your cardigan is buttoned all the way up, the top button practically begging for mercy. Every time you lean forward over the laptop to triple-check the chain rule, your glasses slip a little farther down your nose.

The pleated skirt sits warm against your skin, but it’s the soft cotton thigh-highs that keep catching your attention; those long, cozy socks that stop a couple inches below the hem. Every few minutes you reach down, fingers hooking under the ribbed bands, and tug them a little higher up your thighs, smoothing the fabric so it hugs you just right, the gentle pressure snug and comforting.

You rehearse your opener for the ninth time, whispering to the empty room: “Hi, I’m your tutor. We’ll start with the power rule, then move to-”

The door slams open like it owes someone money.

Steve Rogers ducks under the frame, 6’2” of golden-boy quarterback crammed into a faded NYU hoodie that’s losing the battle across his chest.

Hair damp from practice, smelling like grass and Irish Spring and nerves. His backpack thuds, spiral notebook, two Gatorades, half-eaten protein bar.

“Hi. You’re… the tutor?” His voice is softer than the Jumbotron makes it seem, like he’s afraid of scaring the flashcards.

You nod so hard your glasses slide again. “T-that’s me! Study Room 3B, Tuesdays and Thursdays, 4 to 6 pm sharp.” Your voice cracks on sharp.

He smiles, small, sheepish, devastating. “Thanks for doing this. Coach’ll bench us if we don’t pull Cs by midterms. I, uh… really don’t wanna ride the pine.”

Before you can reply, the door bangs again.

Bucky Barnes saunters in thirteen minutes late, chewing wintergreen gum loud enough to wake the dead. Dark hair a calculated mess, jersey half-tucked into gray sweatpants that leave zero to the imagination.

Blue eyes lock on you like a heat-seeking missile. He drops into the chair opposite, knee brushing yours under the table, deliberately and stays there.

“Rogers, you started without me? Rude.” He flashes a grin that should come with a warning label. “So you’re the genius saving our asses from academic exile?”

You clear your throat, shoving a worksheet forward like a peace offering. “C-calculus first. Derivatives?”

Bucky leans forward, elbows on your open textbook, chin in his hands. His gaze dips to the V of your cardigan where the top button is clearly losing the war.

“Derivative of those tits?” He taps the page, smirking. “I’m talkin’ the exact slope of that left one when you breathe in. Bet it’s a fuckin’ parabola.”

Heat floods your face so fast your glasses actually fog.

Steve’s head snaps up. “Bucky.”

“What? I’m engaging with the material.” Bucky’s grin widens, all teeth. “Or do we need to integrate to find the volume of them? ‘Cause I’d volunteer for the hands-on portion.”

You’re dying. Your hands fly to your cardigan, clutching it closed like it’s body armor. Your voice comes out a strangled mouse-whisper. “The power rule. If f(x) = xⁿ, then f'(x) = n x⁽ⁿ⁻¹⁾. For example: f(x) = x³, then f'(x) = 3x².”

Steve scribbles dutifully, but you catch him stealing a glance at your chest, quick as lightning before snapping back to his paper. His ears are crimson.

Bucky traces a lazy circle on the edge of your notebook. “Or we could talk related rates. Like, how fast those buttons are losin’ the fight when you lean over. That’s a real-world application right there.”

Steve mutters, “Jesus, Buck,” but his gaze flicks up again, just for a second before he forces it back to the page. He’s biting the inside of his cheek so hard you’re worried he’ll draw blood.

You power through the product rule, the quotient rule, the chain rule, voice cracking four times.

Every time you glance up, Bucky’s staring, lazy and hungry, like he’s already picturing the cardigan on the floor.

Steve tries to focus, but you catch him sneaking looks too: the way your highlighter leaves neon streaks on your fingers, the way you bite your lower lip when you’re thinking, the way your chest rises when you inhale to explain the chain rule. His pen slows every time.

Halfway through, you pass out practice problems. Steve attacks his like it’s fourth-and-goal. Bucky spins his pen, then “accidentally” flicks it across the table so it rolls into your lap, clattering against your thigh.

“Oops,” he says, not sorry at all. “Clumsy me. Bet you’re real good at pickin’ things up, though. Especially if they’re lower.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “Bucky.” But his eyes dart to your lap, then back up fast, guilty.

You snatch the pen, cheeks on fire.

Bucky leans back slow, arms up, hoodie creeping just enough to flash that carved, tanned V dipping under his waistband.

“Just sayin’, Teach,” he drawls, voice low and rough. “You keep bendin’ over like that, I’m gonna need a priest, a prayer, and about thirty seconds alone with my hand.”

Steve clears his throat, voice strained. “Can we focus on the actual math?”

Bucky smirks. “I am. I’m calculatin’ how many seconds till that top button pops. My money’s on twenty.”

You yelp, and shove another worksheet at him. “Chain rule. Now.”

By the end of the session, you’ve covered half a chapter. Steve has four pages of neat notes, color-coded in your spare blue pen, but his handwriting gets shakier toward the bottom.

Bucky has one page of doodles: a football with boobs labeled Teach’s Study Aids – Handle with Care and a stick figure of you with a speech bubble: f (tits) = tits².

You start packing up, cheeks still flaming. Steve stands first, slinging his backpack. “Same time Thursday? I’ll bring snacks. And, uh… sorry about him.”

Bucky stretches again, arms overhead, hoodie riding higher. “What can I say? I’m a visual learner.” He winks, popping his gum. “Nice cardigan, Teach. Bet those tits look even better without it.”

Steve elbows him hard so hard Bucky grunts. “Ignore him. He’s allergic to filters.”

But Bucky’s already sauntering out, hands in his pockets, whistling the fight song. Steve lingers, rubbing the back of his neck, ears still pink.

“He’s… a lot,” he says, voice low. “But he’ll show. He always does. And he needs this. We both do.”

You nod, clutching your notes like a life raft. “See you on Thursday.”

The door clicks shut. You collapse into the chair, heart hammering so loud you’re sure the next room heard it.

Derivative of those tits?

Visual learner?

Holy fuck.

You glance at Bucky’s doodle one last time, then crumple it but not before snapping a mental picture.

Thursday can’t come soon enough.

You stumble into the dorm like you’ve run a marathon, backpack straps cutting into your shoulders, glasses fogged from the steam of your own panic. The door hasn’t even clicked shut before Natasha pounces.

“Spill. Every. Detail.” She’s perched on her bed legs crossed, tea in one hand, phone in the other. “You’re twenty-eight minutes late. That’s either a miracle or a crime scene.”

You drop your bag, collapse face-first onto your pillow fortress. “I need a lobotomy.”

Natasha vaults off her bed, lands beside you like a cat.

“Nope. No lobotomy till I get every detail.” She yanks your cardigan sleeve.

“So did the boys actually try to pay attention to a single word you said, or was the whole tutoring thing just an excuse to stare and smirk? Were they teasing you nonstop?”

You bite your lip so hard it might bruise, cheeks on fire.

She leans in, voice low and giddy. “Come on… was it Steve pretending to be the perfect student, or was it Bucky being a total menace?”

Your gaze flicks to Bucky’s name for half a heartbeat and you give the tiniest, guilty nod.

Nat’s grin goes full shark. “I fucking knew it was Barnes. That cocky bastard. Spill it, nerd.

You groan into the pillow. “He said, direct quote ‘Derivative of those tits? I’m talkin’ the exact slope of that left one when you breathe in. Bet it’s a fuckin’ parabola.’”

Natasha cackles, loud enough to rattle the mini-fridge. “Oh my God. He’s filthy! I love him.”

“Nat!”

“What? It’s art.” She pokes your side. “And Steve? Golden boy? Did he clutch his pearls?”

You roll over, face flaming. “He kept looking. Like quick glances, then back to his notes. His ears were pink. He wrote four pages but his handwriting got shakier every time I leaned over.”

Natasha’s eyes gleam. “He’s folding. Slowly, but folding.”

She grabs your wrist, inspects the highlighter stains. “Did Bucky touch you?”

“His knee. Under the table. The whole time.”

“Knee porn. Classic.” She flops beside you, propping her chin on her hand. “Rate the tension. One to I need a cold shower.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I need a rosary and a damn exorcism.”

“Wrong answer. Try again.”

You peek through your fingers. “Fine. I need a cold shower and a new cardigan.”

Natasha whoops, rolling off the bed.

“That’s my girl!” She yanks open your closet, rummages, and emerges with a sheer white blouse, silky, slightly oversized, the kind that turns translucent when wet. “Thursday, you wear this.”

You blink. “That’s… see-through.”

“Exactly.” She tosses it at you. “Ditch the cardigan. Keep the top three buttons open. Let the parabola breathe.”

You hurl a pillow at her head. It thwacks off her shoulder.

“I’m tutoring, not auditioning for a bad porno.”

She catches the pillow, smirks. “Same difference with those two.”

You groan, but you’re smiling. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, nerd.” She tosses the blouse onto your bed. “Now shower. You smell like library and sexual tension.”

You drag yourself up, clutching the blouse like contraband.

Thursday sneaks up like a linebacker in the blind spot.

Your nerves are live wires, sparks every time you think about Bucky’s doodle, Steve’s shaky handwriting, the way your own voice cracked last time.

Natasha corners you at the mirror, arms crossed, red hair still damp from her shower.

“Blouse. Now.” She shoves it into your hands.

“It’s too much,” you protest, clutching your cardigan like body armor.

“Hey, it’s sexy. Enjoy ‘em while you can.” She winks, smacking your butt. “Go get ‘em, parabola.”

You lose the argument.

The blouse is softer than expected, silky, breathable. But the fabric clings to your chest like it's been paid to stay there. Every breath lifts the hem a fraction, the collar a fraction; every nervous tug only draws more eyes. You pair it with jeans anyway.

You push through the heavy glass doors of the library and the air-conditioning hits like a slap: icy, sharp, goosebumps exploding across your arms.

Your backpack thuds against your hip with every step, the white blouse already sticking from the humidity outside: cotton clinging to the small of your back, underboob, nipples faintly visible through the weave.

You scan the carrels: empty, empty, occupied.

Bucky’s early a miracle.

He’s claimed the seat directly across from yours like a throne, long legs stretched, sneakers planted on the scarred oak table.

One thumb scrolls TikTok in lazy loops; the other hand crinkles a half-eaten protein-bar wrapper, silver foil flashing. His fingers drum a silent beat against the armrest. He doesn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he felt you walk in.

“Sup, nerd.”

The bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos arcs through the air without warning, red comet. Thwap, dead-center on your closed laptop, dust puffing like a tiny explosion.

“Brought snacks. Steve swore he would, but he’s late.” The last word drips with fond exasperation, eyes still glued to his screen: some clip of a dog failing parkour, volume low enough to tease.

You open your mouth, to say something, anything, when the door behind you bangs open hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Steve barrels in, a whirlwind of damp hair and turf-scented wind. Practice bag slung high over one broad shoulder, cleats dangling by their laces.

His letterman jacket tied around his waist, T-shirt clinging to every ridge of his abs, nipples hard from the cold, sweat making the fabric translucent in patches.

“Coach ran film. Lost track of time, sorry.” He drops into the seat beside Bucky with a huff, notebook already flipped open, pen uncapped between his teeth.

He pulls it free, offers you a sheepish half-smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Ready when you are.”

You sit across from them, slide your laptop forward, and open to page 187. “Related rates. Balloon problem. Air pumped in at 10 cm³ per second, find dr/dt when r = 5 cm.”

Steve leans forward, elbows on the table, pen poised. Bucky leans back, arms folded behind his head, eyes already locked on your chest like it’s the only equation that matters.

You start writing the equation on the textbook with a black pen. Ink glides smooth. “Volume of a sphere, V = (4/3)πr³, differentiate with respect to t-”

Bucky’s elbow slips.

The move is subtle, almost lazy: a casual lean forward, a brush of knuckles against your stainless-steel bottle. The cap’s loose, you loosened it two minutes ago for a sip you never took.

Physics takes over.

The bottle topples with a hollow clunk, then a liquid whoosh. Ice water detonates across the narrow table in a glittering arc, a cold slap that punches the air from your lungs.

It soaks the open textbook first, pages warping, ink bleeding, then bridges the gap to your chest like it was magnetized.

White silk drinks it in, turns sheer in half a heartbeat.

Your lace bra, delicate, floral, the one you wore because it made you feel secretly powerful, maps itself in cruel high-def against your skin. Every swirl of embroidery, every scalloped edge, every shiver of gooseflesh.

The cold bites; your nipples tighten instantly, hard, aching. Fabric clings like it’s been paid overtime, suctioned to every curve, every breath a betrayal that lifts the soaked hem a fraction higher, revealing the soft curve of your breasts.

Time stalls. The fluorescent lights turn the wet patch into a spotlight. You hear your own inhale, sharp, mortified, echo off the cinderblock walls.

“Sorry Teach,” Bucky drawls from across the table, voice low and syrupy, zero remorse in those storm-cloud eyes.

His gaze is a brand, slow, deliberate, tracing the waterline where silk meets skin, lingering on the lace like he’s memorizing the pattern for later. A smirk tugs the corner of his mouth, fingers flexing once against the table as if savoring the chaos he engineered.

“Fuck, look at those beauties on full display. Lace looks expensive. Bet it feels even better wet.”

Your arms fly up, crossing tight over your soaked blouse like that’ll hide anything. Heat explodes across your face, scorching your ears, tingling in your fingertips. You’re stuck, half-wanting to bolt, half-wanting the floor to swallow you, heart slamming so hard you’re sure the whole room can hear the frantic thud-thud-thud.

Steve moves like a reflex.

He’s out of his chair in a flash, metal legs screeching across the floor. Two long strides and he’s right there, crowding into your space before the little shocked squeak even finishes escaping your lips.

Letterman jacket rips off his waist in one fluid motion, still warm from his body, heavy with cologne, fresh turf, and something unmistakably him. He drapes it over you like a shield. The sleeves swallow your hands whole; the hem brushes mid-thigh.

The weight of it grounds you, a sudden cocoon of safety in the middle of the storm. “Thanks,” you manage, voice a croak, fingers clutching the lapels like a lifeline.

Steve lingers half a second longer than necessary, one hand brushing your shoulder as he steps back. Then he’s retreating to his seat beside Bucky, ears scarlet, jaw tight.

But his sweatpants, gray, thin, do nothing to hide the thick bulge straining against the fabric.

Hard, obvious, twitching with every breath. He sits fast, thighs spreading to try and hide it, but the angle only makes it worse, the outline of his cock clear, veins, head, everything.

“No problem,” he mutters, the words clipped, almost angry at Bucky, at himself, at the universe. His pen hovers, trembling slightly, above the margin where he’d been scribbling.

A bead of water rolls off the table’s edge and lands on his sneaker with a soft plink.

Bucky leans back, smirk lethal. “Jesus, Rogers, your dick’s about to rip those sweats. Can’t even hide it, huh? Poor guy’s aching for those wet tits.”

Steve’s knuckles whiten around the pen. “Shut up, Buck.”

But his cock jumps at the words, visible, throbbing, a wet spot forming at the tip where precum is already leaking.

You teach the rest of the session in Steve’s jacket, sleeves bunched at your wrists, wool heavy and warm against your damp skin. The cedar-turf scent clings to every inhale, a quiet reminder that he’s watching even when he pretends not to.

Every breath is a negotiation with gravity. The zipper, thick brass teeth, creeps upward a millimeter with each expansion of your ribs, then settles again.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Bucky notices first, of course. His smirk starts lazy, a slow curl at the left corner of his mouth, and widens into something predatory every time the metal teeth flash.

“So, Teach,” he muses, voice pitched low enough to vibrate under the table. He taps his pen against his lower lip, tap, tap, tap, like he’s keeping time with your pulse.

“Water level rises… does the volume go exponential?” His gaze dips deliberately to the narrow V where the jacket refuses to close.

“Askin’ for science, obviously. Or maybe I just wanna know how hard those nipples are right now. Bet they’re begging for a mouth.”

Steve’s trying, God, he’s trying.

His pen scratches across the margin in tight, furious loops. Jaw locked so hard you can see the muscle jump beneath the skin. Shoulders rigid, like he’s bench-pressing the weight of his own restraint.

But every time you lean forward to underline a formula- “V equals one-third pi r squared h, so dV/dt equals…”

His eyes betray him. A flicker. Zipper. The shadowed hollow between collarbones. The place where wet fabric meets dry wool. Back to paper. Repeat.

You count the slips like heartbeats.

One: a half-second too long, lashes sweeping down before snapping up.

Two: a swallow that bobs his throat, pen pausing mid-stroke.

Three: the faintest exhale through his nose, almost a sigh.

Four: the pen snaps. Cheap plastic cracks; ink bleeds a blue comet across his notes.

“Sorry,” he mutters, so low the word barely disturbs the air between you. He doesn’t look up. Just flips the broken pen over, grips the barrel like it owes him money, and starts writing again with the jagged stub.

His ears are the color of brake lights. His cock is throbbing, leaking, the wet spot now the size of a quarter.

Bucky chuckles, soft, dark, delighted. “Easy, Rogers. You’ll flood the page next. Or your pants. Look at that stain man, leaking like a fucking faucet for her.”

Steve’s knuckles whiten. He doesn’t answer. Just shifts, thighs clenching, trying to hide the obvious.

You keep teaching, voice steady by sheer spite. But every breath still lifts the zipper. Every lift still earns that smirk. And every stolen glance from Steve still burns hotter than the last.

You snap the notebook shut with a crisp thud that echoes off the cinderblock walls. “Quiz yourselves on problems 12 through 18. We’ll go over them Tuesday.”

Steve is already on his feet, duffel slung over one shoulder, the strap cutting a line across his broad chest. He pauses, fingers tightening on the nylon.

“Thanks. Seriously.” His gaze flicks to the jacket, still draped around you like borrowed armor, then skitters away to the ruined textbook, the puddle on the table, anywhere but the place where wool meets wet silk. “This is… helping.”

Bucky rises slower, a deliberate stretch that lifts his hoodie just enough to flash a strip of toned stomach. He yawns, arms overhead.

“Yeah, Teach. Real educational.” The wink is pure sin, slow and pointed. “Jacket looks better on the floor, Rogers. Or around her ankles while we-”

Steve’s elbow finds Bucky’s ribs, hard. The impact lands with a muffled thump; Bucky exhales a laugh that doesn’t quite hide the wince. “Bucky.”

You clutch the lapels tighter, knuckles whitening against the wool. “Tuesday. Same time.”

Bucky drops his arms, salutes with two fingers to his brow. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.” He saunters out, sneakers scuffing the linoleum, the door swinging shut behind him with a lazy whoosh.

Steve lingers. The room feels suddenly smaller, the air thick with cedar and leftover tension. He shifts his weight, cleats dangling from the duffel strap clacking softly.

“Keep it,” he says, voice softer now, almost shy. “Till your blouse dries. Or…” He swallows, the word longer hanging unspoken between you. “See you.”

The door clicks a final time.

You sink into the chair, knees weak.

Steve’s warmth seeps through the wool, wrapping you like a promise.

Bucky’s stare still burns phantom trails across your skin, lazy, deliberate, impossible to scrub off.

Bucky kicks a pebble; it skitters across the cracked sidewalk and pings off a bike rack with a metallic clink.

Steve’s half a step behind, duffel bouncing against his hip, jaw still clenched so tight the muscle jumps under the stubble.

“Subtle,” Steve mutters, voice gravel-rough. “Real fucking subtle, Barnes.”

Bucky snorts, hand shoved deep in his pocket, the other lazily spinning his keyring around one finger. “What? Gravity did ninety percent of the work. I just gave the bottle a little love tap.”

He glances sideways, grin sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re welcome, by the way. Did you see that lace, Steve? White floral. Little satin bow right between her tits like a goddamn present.”

Steve’s ears flare crimson again, the flush crawling down his neck. “I caught you staring like a creep.”

“Please.” Bucky mimics the pen snap with his flesh fingers: crack. “You murdered your Bic in cold blood. One second you’re solving for r, next second you’re eye-fucking the bow on her bra like it’s the Super Bowl halftime show.”

Steve exhales hard through his nose, breath fogging in the cooling night air. “She’s our tutor.”

“She’s also twenty-one, single, and just spent the lesson marinating in your jacket while her nipples tried to drill through layers of wet fabric.”

Bucky bumps Steve’s shoulder, deliberate. “Tell me you didn’t picture peeling that wool off her slow, inch by inch, till she’s standing there in nothing but those thigh-highs she wore last Tuesday.”

Silence. A cicada screams overhead, then dies.

Steve finally speaks, voice low, almost pained. “She’s… careful. Like she’s waiting for something.”

Bucky arches a brow, keyring still spinning. “Waiting, huh? You think she’s still-”

“Don’t.” Steve cuts him off, but the word hangs in the air anyway, thick and electric.

Bucky shrugs, softer now, but the smirk never leaves. “Wouldn’t matter if she was. Just means we’d take our time. You’d be all gentle and golden-boy, kissing her like she’s made of glass. I’d be…”

He licks his bottom lip, slow. “Educational. Spread her out on that table, show her exactly what related rates feel like when it’s my tongue doing the differentiating.”

Steve stops dead under a streetlamp. The orange light carves harsh shadows across his cheekbones, turns his eyes storm-blue. “We’re not betting on her virginity, Buck.”

“Wasn’t a bet.” Bucky steps closer, voice dropping to that filthy purr he saves for locker-room talk and dark corners. “Just curiosity. Girl blushes like that: ears, neck, chest, all the way down to her pretty little-”

Steve shoulders past him hard enough to rattle the duffel strap. Boots crunch gravel. “Tuesday. Hands to ourselves.”

Bucky falls in step, smirk audible in every word. “Sure, Rogers. Hands off. Eyes, though…” He whistles low, two notes, filthy promise. “Eyes are fair game. And my mouth’s got a mind of its own.”

Steve shoots him a look that could freeze fire.

Bucky just grins wider, spinning the keyring faster. “Come on, admit it. You’re hard again just thinking about it. I saw that wet spot in the library, size of a quarter and growing. Bet you’re still leaking thinking about that bow. Bet you’re imagining tying her wrists with it while I-”

“Jesus, Buck.”

“-slide my tongue under that lace, suck those nipples till she forgets the chain rule. Bet she’d sound so pretty begging: ‘Please, Bucky, please, Steve, I’ll do the homework, just-’”

Steve grabs the front of Bucky’s hoodie and shoves him against the nearest tree trunk, forearm across his chest. The bark scrapes. Bucky’s breath whooshes out, but the grin never wavers.

“Finish that sentence,” Steve growls, “and I’ll break your jaw.”

Bucky licks his lips, slow, deliberate. “You’d have to catch me first, Rogers. And we both know you’re too busy picturing her on her knees between us: mouth full of you, my cock in her-”

Steve’s forearm presses harder. Bucky’s laugh is low, filthy, delighted.

“Relax, Stevie. I’m just saying what we’re both thinking. She’s dripping for it. You saw how she kept tugging that jacket closed like it could hide how hard her nipples were. Bet if we’d slipped a hand under that table she’d have come just from a thumb on her clit.”

Steve’s breathing is ragged. The streetlamp flickers overhead. Somewhere a car door slams.

Bucky softens, just a fraction. “She wants it. You saw her eyes. Scared, yeah. But wet. Curious. Tuesday we play nice. After calc midterms…”

He shrugs, smirk curling again. “After calc midterms we find out how far down that blush really goes.”

Steve lets go, steps back, runs a hand through his hair. The duffel thuds against his thigh.

“Tuesday,” he repeats, like a vow and a threat at once.

Bucky pushes off the tree, brushes bark from his hoodie. “Tuesday we’re perfect gentlemen. Eyes only.”

He leans in, voice a dark whisper against Steve’s ear. “But after midterms I’m gonna have her screaming my name so loud the librarian files a noise complaint. And you’re gonna thank me for it.”

Steve doesn’t answer. Just starts walking again, faster now.

Bucky follows, hands in his pockets, whistling that same filthy two-note tune.

Behind them, the library windows glow gold against the dark, warm light spilling onto the empty sidewalk like a promise neither of them intends to keep.

You’re early again, cardigan buttoned to the throat like a chastity belt, sleeves tugged over your knuckles so far only your fingertips peek out.

The table is a fortress: flash cards stacked in perfect towers, two freshly sharpened pencils aligned like soldiers, and a single laminated midterm formula sheet taped to the whiteboard like a hostage note.

No water bottle in sight. Lesson learned.

The door bangs open at 3:59. Steve ducks in first, hoodie swapped for a tight black thermal that clings to every ridge of muscle. He drops a paper bag on the table: two iced coffees, one labeled oat milk, two pumps vanilla, condensation already beading on the plastic. His fingers drum the bag nervously.

Bucky follows, slower, but his usual swagger is cracked, gray sweatpants ride low on his hips, hoodie half-zipped to reveal a sliver of collarbone and the dark trail that disappears beneath the waistband. He carries nothing but a smirk and a single red pen he twirls between his fingers like a baton: except the twirl is a little too fast, betraying jitters.

“Final boss level, Teach,” Bucky drawls, sliding into the chair opposite you. His knee finds yours under the table immediately. “Quiz us. Break us. Then we break you.”

Steve elbows him hard, but his ears are already pink. “Ignore him. We’re ready.” His voice wavers just a hair. “Mostly.”

You clear your throat, shoving the first flash card forward. “Related rates. Conical tank, water draining at 4 ft³/min. Radius 6 ft, height 12 ft. Find dh/dt when h = 8 ft.”

Steve’s pen scratches instantly, the sound loud in the quiet room but his hand trembles slightly.

Bucky leans back, arms folded, eyes locked on the V of your cardigan where the top button strains against the swell of your chest.

He forces a grin. “Volume of a cone is (1/3)πr²h. Similar triangles, r/h = 6/12 = 1/2. So r = h/2. V = (1/3)π(h/2)²h = (1/12)πh³. dV/dt = πh² dh/dt. Plug in-”

“-h = 8, dV/dt = –4,” Steve finishes, voice low, focused: but he exhales shakily. “dh/dt = –4 / (π*64) = –1/(16π) ft/min. Right?”

You nod, impressed. “Good. Next.”

Bucky’s turn.

You flip the card. “Optimization. Rectangular garden, 100 ft of fencing. One side against a barn. Maximize area.”

He doesn’t blink, but his knee bounces under the table. “Let x be parallel sides, y the side against the barn. 2x + y = 100, y = 100 – 2x. Area A = x*y = x(100 – 2x) = 100x – 2x². Derivative A’ = 100 – 4x = 0. x = 25. y = 50. Max area 1250 ft².” He pauses, then adds with a nervous smirk, “Unless I just maximized the wrong variable and tanked the whole thing.”

Steve whistles low. “Show-off.” But his laugh is tight.

Bucky’s grin is sharp, but his eyes flick to you for reassurance. “Just warming up, Rogers. Gotta impress her before she realizes we’re one wrong derivative away from flunking.”

He leans forward, voice dropping to a filthy murmur: but there’s a tremor in it. “What do I win, Teach? A gold star? Or…”

His gaze flicks to your cardigan button, then lower. “One less layer? Bet if I pop that top button we’ll see that little bow again. The one that made Stevie leak in his sweats last week, might distract us from the fact we’re about to bomb L’Hôpital’s.”

Heat floods your face so fast your ears ring. You shove another card at him. “Integration by parts. ∫ x² ln(x) dx.”

Steve takes this one, eyes never leaving the page: but his free hand rubs the back of his neck. “u = ln(x), dv = x² dx. du = 1/x dx, v = x³/3. ∫ u dv = uv – ∫ v du = (ln(x)*x³/3) – ∫ (x³/3)(1/x) dx = (x³ ln(x)/3) – (1/3)∫ x² dx = (x³ ln(x)/3) – (x³/9) + C.” He looks up, hopeful. “Nailed it?”

You blink. “Perfect.”

Bucky’s fingers drum the table: fast, anxious. “My turn again. Make it hard but not too hard, or I’ll forget my own name tomorrow.”

You flip the toughest one. “L’Hôpital’s Rule. lim (x→0) (sin(x) – x)/x³.”

He doesn’t hesitate but his voice cracks on the first derivative. “Indeterminate 0/0. Derivative: (cos(x) – 1)/(3x²). Still 0/0. Again: (–sin(x))/(6x). Still. Again: (–cos(x))/6 = –1/6.” He exhales hard. “Please tell me that’s right, or I’m switching majors to art history.”

Steve’s jaw drops. “You memorized that?”

Bucky shrugs, eyes on you: pleading under the bravado. “Had motivation. Your flashcards are hotter than my GPA.”

You swallow. “Last one. Partial fractions. Decompose 1/(x²(x+1)).”

They tag-team it like they’ve rehearsed but Steve’s hand shakes as he writes.

Steve sets up: “A/x + B/x² + C/(x+1).”

Bucky solves: “1 = A x (x+1) + B (x+1) + C x².”

They plug in x = 0, x = –1, x = 1. Coefficients fly, Bucky mutters “If this is wrong, I’m blaming the coffee.”

Final answer: –1/x + 1/x² + 1/(x+1).

You stare at the page, then at them. “You… you just aced the practice final.”

Steve’s smile is soft, proud, but his eyes are wide. “Told you we’d make you proud but holy shit, we might actually pass.”

Bucky leans in, voice velvet and venom but there’s a nervous edge. “Now the real quiz, doll.” He taps the red pen against his lower lip slow, deliberate, but his hand trembles slightly.

“How many buttons till we see that lace again? I’m betting on three. Pop, pop, pop.” He mimics the motion with his fingers, eyes locked on your chest. “Then we find out if your nipples are still pink when they’re hard. Bet they taste like vanilla, might be the only thing sweeter than a passing grade.”

Steve’s hand finds your knee under the table, warm, steady, but his thumb strokes the inside seam of your skirt like he’s grounding himself.

“We’re done studying,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But we’re not done with you, unless we flunk tomorrow and have to beg for extra credit.”

You clutch the flash cards like a shield. “Calc midterms are tomorrow. Results come out next week. Go back to your dorms and review everything. No distractions.”

Bucky’s grin turns feral, his laugh is shaky. “Fine, Teach. Dorm. Study. Sleep.” His eyes rake you from cardigan to knees and back up.

“Next week, when we ace them… we ace you. Gonna spread you out on this table, hike that little skirt up, and take turns eating you till you forget the fundamental theorem. Then we’ll flip you over, bend you over the whiteboard, and fuck you so hard the dry-erase markers rattle, assuming we don’t bomb and end up retaking Calc 101.”

Steve squeezes your knee once, gentle, promising, before letting go. “You heard her. Dorm.”

They stand in sync, chairs scraping.

Bucky flicks the red pen across the table; it spins, stops pointing at your chest like a compass needle. “Next week, doll,” he says, voice low. “Cardigan optional. Panties definitely optional, unless we fail and have to wear them as a badge of shame.”

Steve lingers at the door, eyes dark, thermal stretched tight across his chest. “Lock up after us, Teach. Don’t wait up and pray we don’t forget L’Hôpital’s at 9 am.”

The door swings shut.

The room is suddenly too quiet, too warm. The air smells like iced coffee, cedar, and the faint metallic tang of Bucky’s nervous smirk.

You’re alone.

Your thighs press together under the table, slick and aching. The cardigan feels heavier now, every button a countdown. You exhale shakily, fingers brushing the top button, then stopping.

One week later, sunlight slants through the high library windows, turning dust motes into slow-motion glitter. The room hums with tension: whispers, page flips, the occasional groan of despair.

You’re camped at your usual table, cardigan sleeves pushed to the elbows, revising integrals. Color-coded sticky tabs bristle from your textbook like neon porcupine quills.

Then, thud-thud-thud. Sneakers pounding down the hall.

“We fucking passed!”

Steve bursts through the doors first, golden in the afternoon light. Hair windblown from sprinting across the quad, letterman jacket flapping open, exam clutched triumphantly in one fist. He skids to a stop beside your chair, chest heaving, grin wide enough to eclipse the sun.

Bucky strolls in right behind, lazy swagger intact. He hops up onto the table’s edge in front of you, boots dangling, hand braced on the wood. His paper is folded into a paper airplane; he flicks it open mid-air and lets it glide onto your open notebook.

“Look, doll. Ninety-fuckin’-two.” Wink sharp enough to cut glass. “Prof drew a smiley face. Bet he’s crushin’ hard.”

You snatch both sheets. Steve’s 94 is circled in triumphant red. Bucky’s 92 sits beside scrawled professor handwriting: “Outstanding improvement!”

The numbers hit you like tequila shots.

You did this.

Two weeks of whiteboard marathons, spilled water, snapped pens, Bucky’s tit doodles, Steve’s stolen glances: it paid off.

“Woah, boys…” Your voice cracks. You look up. They’re both staring like you’re the only equation in the room. Steve’s smile soft, shy. Bucky’s pure filth.

Bucky leans forward, elbows on knees, voice a low rumble. “So what do you say, pretty girl? Sigma Chi basement. Tonight. You. Us.”

He punctuates each word with a finger drum next to your highlighter. “We earned it. You earned it.”

Steve steps closer, shoulder brushing Bucky’s. “We’ll be good,” he promises, but his eyes lock on your mouth, linger.

“Scout’s honor.” His thumb grazes the frayed cuff of your cardigan, calloused skin on soft wool. “Low-key. Teammates, music, cheap beer. We’ll stay with you.”

You swallow. “I’ve never really been to-”

“Never?” Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, mock scandal.

He slides off the table, boots hitting the floor with a thud. Suddenly he’s close, heat radiating, cutting through the library chill. “That’s a goddamn crime. A girl who makes related rates sexy deserves one night of bad decisions.”

Steve’s hand finds the back of your chair, fingers brushing your neck, not accidental, warm, possessive.

“It’s casual,” he coaxes, voice warm. “If it’s lame, we bail for milkshakes. Deal?”

Bucky’s grin turns lethal. “Besides, you’ve seen us at our worst: flunking calc, drowning your tits in water-” He gestures at your chest, eyes raking slow.

“Let us show you our best. Dancing. Shots. Beer pong where the stakes are…” He leans in, breath hot on your ear, stubble grazing your skin. “Your cardigan. My hoodie. Steve’s boxers. Kidding.”

A pause. “Unless you’re into it?”

Steve elbows him, but he’s laughing, cheeks pink. “Ignore him. One hour. You, me, Buck, shittiest playlist on campus. Let us ruin you, just a little.”

Your pulse is louder than the stacks. You hook your pinky around Bucky’s. “One hour. But I’m wearing this cardigan.”

Bucky’s grin could power the campus. “Fuck yes. Cardigan’s stayin’. For now.”

Steve squeezes your shoulder, firm, reassuring before letting go. “Ten sharp. We’ll bring liquid courage… and condoms.”

Bucky blows a kiss. Steve just smiles, slow, devastating.

The doors swing shut. Sunlight pools where they stood. You stare at the perfect grades, heart racing like it’s already midnight.

You knock once, cardigan sleeves tugged over your knuckles like armor.

Natasha yanks the door open before the second rap, red hair twisted in a towel turban, silk robe slipping off one shoulder, cigarette dangling from her lips.

“Perfect timing. Strip.”

You clutch your cardigan tighter, knuckles whitening. “I’m wearing this. It’s… comfortable.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow to sniper slits, smoke curling from her nostrils. “Comfortable is for study hall nerd. Tonight you’re walking into Sigma Chi with two campus gods who’ve been eye-fucking you ever since they first saw you in that wet blouse. Cardigan says tutor. We’re saying trouble.”

She grabs your wrist, tugs you inside, kicks the door shut with her heel.

The room smells like vanilla, cigarettes, and chaos. Clothes explode across her bed: leather, lace, satin, denim. She rifles through like a general choosing weapons.

“Skirt,” she declares, holding up a black pleated mini, two inches shy of legal. “This one. The second you bend over in it, Steve’s gonna forget he was ever a gentleman and Bucky’s gonna start speaking in tongues.”

Your voice shoots an octave. “Nat, that’s… a belt.”

“It’s fashion, baby.” She shoves it into your hands, already unzipping your jeans. “Try. Or I’ll do it for you.”

You peek at the mirror, then back at the skirt. “I’ll freeze. And bend over wrong and-”

“You’ll bend over right.” She yanks the cardigan over your head before you can protest; cool air hits your arms, goosebumps racing.

“Top, here.” A silky camisole, thin straps, neckline plunging just enough to make your heart stutter. “Tucks in, shows the waist you’ve been hiding under fleece like it’s a federal offense.”

You hold the cami like it might bite. “This is revealing.”

Natasha snorts, already behind you zipping the skirt. “It’s strategic. Shows legs, hints at cleavage, leaves them guessing about the panties. You want Bucky short-circuiting or Steve praying? This is the uniform.”

She spins you to the mirror, hands on your shoulders. “Look. Dangerous. Like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing with two football players who’ve been jerking off to your flashcards.”

Your reflection stares back: skirt skimming mid-thigh, pleats swishing when you move. The cami drapes like liquid. You tug the hem lower, cheeks burning. “I look like I’m about to get arrested for public indecency-”

Natasha slaps your hands away and grips your shoulders, forcing them back so the cami pulls tight across your chest.

“Exactly. That’s the point.” She smirks, eyes gleaming. “You tutored the hottest jocks on campus through calculus. Tonight they’re your project. Own it.”

She produces a tiny leather jacket, cropped, studded. “Layer for the walk, ditch it inside. Mystery. Tease.”

Natasha circles you one last time, cigarette pinched between two fingers, eyes narrowed like she’s inspecting a weapon that still needs one final tweak.

“Hair: perfect. Lips: lethal. Legs: illegal.” She stops in front of you, reaches for the glasses perched on your nose. “These, however, have to go.”

You slap her hand away so fast the frames skid down the bridge of your nose. “No. These stay on. I don’t wanna be practically blind at a party.”

Natasha arches one perfect brow. “You’ll be able to feel where Steve and Bucky are just fine, trust me.”

“Nat. I won’t even be able to tell which one is groping me.”

She snorts, smoke curling. “That’s half the fun.”

You fold your arms, stubborn. “I’ll trip over a cup and face-plant into a keg. Or worse, walk into the wrong dorm room and accidentally give some random lacrosse guy the night of his life.”

Natasha’s grin turns evil. “Imagine the headlines: Calc Tutor Mistakes Sigma Chi for Phi Delt, Accidentally Invents New Position.”

You glare over the rims. “Not happening.”

She taps ash into a coffee mug, considering. “Fine. Glasses stay.” She adjusts the frames with two fingers so they sit just right, low enough to look effortlessly sexy, high enough that you can actually see. “We’re making them part of the look. Sexy librarian who’s about to grade two very eager students.”

A beat. “And these.” She tosses a pair of sheer thigh-highs onto the bed: delicate, lacy tops with tiny satin bows. “Trust me. They’ll be on their knees before the first beer pong ball drops.”

You sit on the bed, rolling one stocking up slowly, cheeks on fire. The lace band hugs your thigh like a promise, the little bow sitting perfectly at the top.

Natasha kneels in front of you, smoothing the lace with military precision, fingers lingering on the soft skin just above. “Mmm. Look at that. Bucky’s gonna lose his entire mind when he sees these bows. Steve’s gonna recite the pledge of allegiance backwards.”

You squeak. “Nat!”

She grins, feral. “What? You think golden boy isn’t gonna drop to his knees the second he spots this lace? These are weapons, babe.”

She stands, offers both hands. “Up. Final check.”

You rise. The skirt flutters. The cami clings. The cropped leather jacket hangs open just enough. The lacy thigh-highs grip your legs like a secret. Your glasses sit perfectly on your nose like you were born to wear them while getting ruined.

Natasha rests her chin on your shoulder, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Repeat after me: ‘I’m not the tutor tonight. I’m the final exam, and they’re about to fail spectacularly.’”

Your cheeks burn. “Nat-”

“Say it.”

You swallow. “…I’m the final exam, and they’re about to fail spectacularly.”

“Louder. With conviction.”

“I’m the final exam and they’re about to fail spectacularly!”

Natasha smirks, satisfied. “Good girl.”

She shoves the tiny purse into your hand: lip gloss, ID, emergency twenty, two condoms, and a spare glasses wipe “just in case things get steamy.”

She walks you to the door, slaps your ass hard enough to make the pleats bounce and the lace tops shift deliciously. “Go make Steve Rogers forget the rules of football and Bucky Barnes forget his own name. And if anyone tries to take those glasses off, tell them you need to see exactly how hard they’re failing.”

You pause on the threshold, heart hammering. “Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

She winks, blowing smoke. “Go win the war, soldier.”

You step off the porch into pulsing bass and red Solo cup confetti. The pleated mini swishes with every nervous step; thigh-highs grip your legs like a secret. The leather jacket hangs open, cami plunging, heart hammering louder than the music. You’ve never been to a frat party. You’ve never worn anything this short.

Steve 10:08pm

you already here pretty girl? can't wait to see you

You barely hit send on here before the front door flies open.

Steve is there, flannel unbuttoned, tight white tee clinging to his chest, jeans slung low. His eyes rake you from thigh-highs to cami, linger on the cleavage, then snap to your face.

His ears go pink. “Jesus, angel.” The words slip out before he can stop them. He swallows hard, offers his arm like a lifeline. “You came.”

You clutch it, fingers trembling. “Promised one hour.”

Bucky materializes behind him, three shots in hand, hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess. His gaze locks on your legs, slides up slow, stops at the cami neckline.

He licks his lips.

“Fuck me,” Bucky breathes, voice rough as gravel. He slides the shot into your hand, fingers brushing yours, then clinks his glass against it with a wicked little grin. “To 92%… and whatever filthy little thing this is turning into.”

You knock it back. Tequila slams down your throat like liquid fire. You cough hard, eyes stinging.

Steve chuckles low beside you while Bucky just smirks, both of them steering you inside with big, warm hands on your back like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they let go.

The party is chaos: strobe lights flash blue-red-blue, sweaty bodies grind to Future, beer pong screams echo off cinderblock walls.

You’re wedged between them on a sagging couch, Steve’s thigh warm against your bare one, Bucky’s arm draped along the backrest, fingers brushing your shoulder. You’ve never sat this close to anyone.

Bucky dips close, breath hot against your ear, voice a low, velvet growl. “Ever let someone feel you up, Teach?”

You shake your head, tiny and frantic little jerks, cheeks blazing hotter than the string lights overhead.

Steve’s voice is husky. “We’ll take care of you.”

His hand rests on your knee, innocent, then slides an inch higher. Bucky’s fingers toy with your cami strap, tugging it down a fraction. “Cold?” Bucky murmurs. “Or just happy to see us?”

You shiver. The AC is arctic; the cami is thin. Your nipples peak under the silk, traitors.

Steve notices. His thumb traces a slow circle on your thigh. “You okay?”

You nod, voice small. “One hour.”

Bucky grins. “Whatever you say, doll.”

They drag you to the dance floor. The bass drops low and filthy, bodies pressing in from all sides. Steve’s hands find your hips, guiding you back against him, slow and deliberate. Bucky crowds in front, sandwiching you between them.

“Move with us, sweetheart,” Steve whispers against your hair, breath hot. His hips roll, guiding yours in a lazy grind. The skirt flips up with every sway, brushing the lace tops of your thigh-highs.

Bucky’s hands slide down your arms, lacing his fingers with yours, lifting them above your head so your body arches.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, eyes dark. He drops your hands, spins you so your back is to his chest, Steve still in front. Bucky’s thigh nudges between yours, parting them just enough for the skirt to ride higher.

Steve’s hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin above your skirt. His fingers brush the edge of your glasses. “These stayin’ on, Teach?” he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. “Gonna watch us ruin you in perfect focus?”

Bucky leans in, lips at your ear. “Bet they fog up real pretty when you come.”

You’ve never danced like this. Never felt two bodies moving against you, hard and insistent. The music is a heartbeat, thumping through your ribs, your thighs, your core.

Steve’s hips press forward, the ridge of his cock unmistakable against your stomach. Bucky’s hands slide lower, cupping your ass, pulling you back so you feel him too, thick, throbbing, grinding slow.

“Feel that?” Bucky’s voice is gravel in your ear. “That’s what you do to us.”

Steve’s mouth finds your neck, open-mouthed kisses, teeth grazing. “So fucking sweet.” His hands slide up, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the cami. Your nipples ache, straining against the lace bra.

He spins you again, facing Bucky.

Bucky presses in close, chest to chest, one hand on your lower back, the other reaching up to tap the bridge of your glasses. “Gonna need these to see exactly how hard you make us, doll.”

The strobe lights paint everything in flashes, sweat-slick skin, Bucky’s tongue tracing the shell of your ear, Steve’s teeth nipping your shoulder. The music is so loud you feel it in your bones, in the pulse between your legs.

Bucky’s hand slides down, fingers slipping under the hem of your skirt, grazing the bare skin above your thigh-highs. “So soft,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Bet you’re soaked already, Teach.”

Steve’s hands slide up, cupping your breasts over the cami, thumbs circling your nipples through the fabric. “Fuck, angel. These are perfect.” He leans in, breath fogging the lenses of your glasses. “Look at that, already steaming up.”

You’re breathless, dizzy, the tequila and the heat and the hands and the mouths all blurring together.

“One hour’s up,” you manage, voice shaking.

Bucky grins against your neck. “Clock’s broken.”

Steve kisses your temple, lingering. “Stay.”

The bass thumps like a second heartbeat. Bucky growls, “Need you now.”

He grabs your wrist, yanks you off the dance floor. Steve follows, hand on your lower back, guiding you through the sweaty crowd like bodyguards.

They herd you into a dim hallway, music muffled to a low throb.

Bucky pins you to the wall, hands on your hips, mouth hovering an inch from yours. “Tell me, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “You ever had a boy actually care about this pretty pussy?”

You bite your lip, heat flooding your cheeks. “Twice,” you whisper. “But… he didn’t… I didn’t…”

Steve’s fingers trace the edge of your skirt, gentle. “Didn’t what, sweetheart?”

You swallow. “Didn’t come. Either time. He just… finished. Didn’t touch me after. Didn’t even try.”

Bucky’s eyes darken, jaw tight. “Motherfucker.” He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “That ends tonight.”

Steve’s hand slides higher, fingers ghosting over the damp lace between your legs. “Ever had a tongue on your clit till you’re shaking?”

You shake your head. “No. Never.”

Bucky’s mouth brushes your ear. “Ever had fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot till you see stars?”

“No,” you breathe. “He just… put it in. That was it.”

Steve groans, forehead dropping to yours. His breath fogs your glasses instantly, lenses clouding white. “Jesus. Never had your nipples sucked slow? Never had someone worship you?”

You shake your head again, trembling. “No. Never.”

Bucky’s hand slips under your cami, palming your breast, thumb flicking your nipple through the lace. “Ever had two mouths on you, taking their time?”

“No,” you whisper. “Never.”

Steve’s fingers press gently against your clit through the lace, slow circles that make your knees buckle. “Soaked already, angel. You’re dripping for us.”

He smirks, watching the fog spread across your glasses. “Look at that, can’t even see us through these anymore. Guess we’ll have to make you feel it instead.”

Bucky’s mouth slams into yours, raw tequila and sharp mint and pure, frantic hunger. His tongue slides in deep, filthy, claiming, like he’s been starving for this exact taste. A broken little whimper slips out of you; your knees actually give.

Steve watches, jaw clenched, fisting his flannel so hard the seams creak. He reaches up, gently slides your glasses down your nose just enough to clear the lenses, then pushes them back up with a filthy grin. “Better keep these on, sweetheart. You’re gonna wanna watch what we do to you.”

Bucky pulls back, lips swollen, eyes black. “Your turn, Rogers.”

Steve steps in, gentle at first, one hand cradling your skull, thumb stroking your cheek. His kiss is slow, worshipful then he groans and devours you, tongue sliding against yours, hips rolling slow.

Bucky’s hands slide under your cami, palming your tits over the lace bra. “Fuck, so soft.” He pinches your nipples, rolls them until you squeal into Steve’s mouth.

Steve breaks the kiss, breath ragged. “Tell us to stop and we will.”

You don’t. Can’t. You’re shaking, soaked, terrified, aching, glasses completely steamed.

Bucky spins you, back to his chest, yanks the cami up to your ribs. He bites your neck, sucks a bruise under your ear. “Gonna mark you up, doll. So everyone knows who you belong to.”

Steve drops to his knees, hands on your thighs, pushing the pleated mini up to your hips. “Spread for me, sweetheart.”

You obey, legs trembling so hard your thigh-highs slip an inch.

He nuzzles the lace panties, inhales deep. “Smell so fucking good.” His tongue licks a stripe over the fabric, groaning at the wetness.

Bucky rolls his hips slow and deliberate, thick cock dragging against your ass with every grind. “Hear that, doll?” he rasps, lips at your ear. “That’s Stevie down there praying.”

His hand glides down, cups you possessively right over Steve’s buried face, fingers pressing the soaked fabric against your clit. “Fuck, you’re drenched. Good girl.”

Steve drags the soaked lace aside with two fingers and buries his tongue deep, licking straight into your dripping folds. Your cry cracks in half; your legs turn to jelly.

Bucky’s strong arms band around your waist from behind, hauling you up so you don’t collapse. His fingers find your nipples again, pinching and tugging hard enough to make you sob.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasps against your neck, voice pure gravel. “Let Stevie devour that pretty pussy like it’s the only dessert he’ll ever need.”

You come hard, screaming into Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, glasses completely useless now, lenses white with steam.

They don’t stop.

Steve stands, kissing you with your taste on his tongue, salty, sweet, filthy, his breath fogging your glasses one last time.

Bucky spins you fast enough to make the room tilt, drops to his knees right there like a man possessed, and rips your soaked panties down to your ankles in one rough yank.

“My turn, doll.”

Your legs feel weightless and unsteady. Your thoughts are a blur of white noise.

And they’re just getting started.

You’re still trembling from the hallway, thighs slick with your own release, the cool air licking at the wet heat between your legs like a second tongue.

Panties gone: Bucky’s fist had closed around the damp silk and stuffed it in his pocket with a low, possessive growl.

Your pleated mini is twisted high on your hips, the hem catching on the lace tops of your thigh-highs, which bite into the soft flesh with every wobbling step.

The cami clings to your skin, damp with sweat and the faint salt of Steve’s kisses; your nipples are so hard they ache, rubbing raw against the lace with every ragged breath.

Steve’s hand engulfs yours, calloused, hot, slick with sweat, fingers laced so tight your knuckles blanch.

Bucky’s palm spreads across the small of your back, guiding you forward. He’d stripped off his hoodie the second you stepped out of the dim hallway, the fabric still warm from his body, heavy with cedar, smoke, and the musk rolling off his skin.

He zipped it around you in one motion, metal teeth scraping your nipples as he pulled it tight. “No one sees what’s ours,” he’d murmured, teeth grazing your ear. “This pussy, these tits, that mouth... all ours tonight.”

The party’s dying pulse thumps behind you as they hustle you out the side door. The metal handle is ice under your palm; the night air slaps your bare pussy like a shock, making you gasp.

Your arousal has cooled into sticky trails down your inner thighs, and every gust of wind kisses the swollen lips, sending sparks up your spine.

Bucky tugs the hoodie tighter, zipper teeth dragging over your sensitive skin until you whimper.

The hem falls mid-thigh, swallowing the twisted mini, hiding the way your cami is twisted sideways, one breast half-spilling out, nipple dark and peaked beneath the wool.

The quad is dark, wet grass squelching under your heels. Every step makes the slick between your legs shift, cool then warm again as your thighs brush.

Steve’s hand slides under the hoodie, cupping your bare ass, fingers spreading you open just enough that the night air hits your hole. You stumble; he steadies you, two fingers gliding through your folds, collecting the mess there and spreading it up to your clit in a slow, filthy circle.

“Still dripping for us,” he rasps. “Fuck, listen to that, so wet I can hear it. You’re gonna soak our sheets, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Bucky’s thumb finds your nipple through the hoodie, rolling it until it’s a hard, throbbing point. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough. “Say it out loud, doll. Tell us how bad you need these cocks.”

“Yes,” you breathe, the word cracking. “I need it. Need you both. Please.”

The dorm hallway smells like industrial cleaner and stale pizza. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh on your flushed skin.

Bucky’s keycard scrapes, plastic on plastic, until the door unlocks.

Steve pins you to the wall the second it clicks shut, mouth crashing into yours, tongue thick and wet, hips grinding so you feel every inch of his cock straining against his jeans. “Feel that?” he growls against your lips. “That’s all for you. Gonna split this tight little pussy open.”

Bucky grinds against your ass from behind, the thick line of him hot through his sweats, sliding between your cheeks with a low groan. “Gonna wreck you so good, doll. Gonna make you forget every shitty fuck you ever had.”

The room is a haze of male heat. The beds are shoved together, sheets rumpled and smelling of detergent, sweat, and sex. Cleats caked with dried mud sit by the door; a half-empty tub of vanilla protein powder sweats on the desk. Condoms glint on the nightstand like foil-wrapped promises.

Steve fists the hem of Bucky’s hoodie and tears it upward in one savage pull; the soft cotton scrapes over your skin and drops in a hushed heap to the floor. Your cami follows right after, he drags it over your head without a word, leaving you in the thin lace of your bra, nipples already straining against the cups.

Bucky’s hand slides to your back, fingers finding the clasp; one sharp flick and the elastic snaps open with a sting. The lace loosens, slips from your shoulders, and only then do your breasts spill free, heavy, flushed, aching, straight into his waiting palms.

He cups them, heavy and warm, tongue dragging over your nipples until they’re slick with his spit. “Fuck, these tits,” he groans, bending to lick a hot, wet stripe up the valley between them. “Been dreaming about sucking these while I jerk off. Gonna leave marks all over ‘em.”

Steve drops to his knees. His hands grip your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. The pleated mini unzips with a slow, metallic rasp, pooling at your ankles in a soft rustle.

You step out of it, naked except for the lacy thigh-highs and your glasses, frames slightly fogged from the hallway, lenses catching the golden dorm light.

Steve spreads your legs wider. His nose drags up your inner thigh, stubble scraping raw skin, breath scalding. He inhales deep, a guttural sound that vibrates through your clit.

“Smell like fucking sin,” he mutters, then licks, one long, flat stripe from your entrance to your clit, tongue curling to suck the swollen bud into his mouth. You cry out, knees buckling. “Taste even better. So sweet, baby.”

Bucky’s behind you now, cock out, thick and flushed, veins pulsing. He guides your trembling hand to wrap around the base, hot, velvet over steel, slick with precum. “Stroke me, doll,” he says, voice strained. “Slow, yeah, just like that. Fuck, your little hand feels so good.”

Your glasses slip down your nose as you sink to your knees, the carpet rough against your skin. You lean in, lips brushing the flushed head. The taste explodes, salt, musk, a hint of copper. Your tongue swirls, tentative, heart hammering so loud you’re sure they can hear it.

Bucky’s breath catches in a low hiss, both warm hands cradling your head as his fingers slide gently, reverently, through your hair.

“Open up, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe and raw hunger. “First time ever wrapping these pretty lips around a cock, and you’re already down on your knees for us… fuck, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You do.

The stretch is immediate and overwhelming, his thick, blunt head forcing your jaw wide as it glides heavy over your tongue and nudges the back of your throat. A sharp gag rips out of you, eyes flooding behind your glasses, tears already clinging to your lashes.

Bucky eases back just an inch, thumb sweeping tenderly over your wet cheek. “Easy, baby,” he soothes, voice low and wrecked. “Breathe through your nose for me. That’s it… now look up, fuck, let me see those big, teary eyes while you choke on my cock. Perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

Steve’s tongue is merciless, lashing your clit in fast, tight circles that make your hips jerk against his mouth. Two thick fingers sink deep into your pussy with a lewd, wet schlick, curling hard and dragging over that spot inside you until your thighs tremble uncontrollably.

Every muffled moan you try to swallow spills out as raw vibration around Bucky’s cock, the sound humming straight through his shaft and pulling a ragged groan from his chest.

Bucky’s hips roll forward in a slow, deliberate push, feeding you another thick inch until the swollen head nudges deep at the back of your throat. Another helpless gag tears through you, your whole body shuddering with it.

Saliva spills past your stretched lips in a slick rush, sliding down your chin and splattering onto your chest. The lenses of your glasses fog completely, turning the world into a hazy blur of heat and motion and him.

Bucky groans, the sound ragged and broken, hips stuttering as your desperate vibrations ripple through him.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps, thumb smearing the spit on your chin, “drooling down my cock, glasses completely steamed up like we’re shooting a goddamn porno. You love this, don’t you? First time on your knees and you’re already our perfect little slut, choking and shaking for it.”

You pull off with a wet pop, gasping, tears and spit stringing from your swollen lips to his cock, glasses opaque.

Bucky’s hands cup your face, gentle now. He slides your glasses off slowly, folding them with reverence, setting them on the nightstand. For the first time tonight they see you completely bare-faced.

Steve lifts his head from between your thighs, mouth glistening, lips swollen and red, eyes pitch-black with lust.

“Jesus, doll,” Bucky whispers, voice shredded. “You’re even sexier like this, no glasses, just… fuck, those eyes.” He tilts your chin higher, forcing you to meet Steve’s hungry stare. “Look at her, Stevie. Look how fucking gorgeous she is when she’s wrecked for us.”

Steve rises slowly, hands still dripping with you, and cups your face like you’re something fragile and priceless. His thumbs smear the wetness across your cheekbones, reverent.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes, voice hushed with awe. “So fucking beautiful without them.” His forehead rests against yours for a heartbeat, eyes locked on you like he’s memorizing this version of you, wrecked and bare. “Should’ve taken ‘em off hours ago, baby. Needed to see you like this the whole damn time.”

You blink up at them, suddenly shy without the shield of your frames, cheeks burning hotter than ever.

Bucky kisses your forehead, tender. “Glasses stay on next time so we can watch you fall apart behind them. But right now? We wanna see every inch of you when you come undone.”

Steve lifts you onto the bed, sheets cool and crisp against your back. He climbs over you, missionary, knees forcing your thighs wider until the lace tops of your stockings dig in.

The head of his cock drags through your folds, slicking itself in your wetness, nudging your clit until you whimper. “Feel how hard you make me?” he rasps. “This cock’s been aching for your pussy since that water spill.”

He lines up, eyes locked on yours, no glasses, nothing between you now. “Tell me you want it, sweetheart. First time with someone who actually gives a shit about making you feel good.”

You nod, breathless. “Want you both. Please.”

“Ready?” he asks, voice raw.

“Please,” you beg, hips lifting. “Fuck me.”

He pushes in slow, inch by inch, the stretch burning, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. You gasp, nails raking his shoulders. He bottoms out with a groan, balls pressed tight to your ass, the fullness overwhelming.

“So fucking tight,” he rasps, pulling back until just the head remains, then sliding in again, slow, deliberate, letting you feel every vein. “This pussy was made for me. Look at you taking every inch like a good girl.”

Bucky drops to his knees beside you, foil ripped open, latex already rolled down his thick length. He fists himself once, slow and lazy, eyes locked on you while his free hand guides your trembling body back against the mattress.

He leans in, mouth closing hot and wet around one aching nipple, sucking hard, tongue flicking, teeth scraping just enough to make you arch off the bed with a broken gasp.

“Watch him fuck you,” he murmurs, lips brushing the stiff, wet peak. “Keep those pretty eyes open and watch Steve’s fat cock disappear inside your cunt inch by inch.” His voice drops to a filthy growl against your skin. “Gonna be so fucking pretty stretched around him.”

Steve’s rhythm turns relentless, hips snapping forward with deep, measured strokes that rock the bedframe in a steady, creaking groan. Sweat beads on his brow, one hot drop breaking free to splatter against your chest, sliding down between your breasts.

His hand wedges between your bodies, thumb finding your swollen clit without hesitation. He circles it hard and sure, matching every thrust, the pressure perfect and unforgiving until your back bows and your breath fractures into sharp, desperate cries.

“Come for me, baby,” he growls. “Let me feel this pussy squeeze me. Wanna feel you milk my dick.”

Bucky switches nipples, biting gently, then soothing with his tongue. “You’re gonna come so hard for us,” he says. “Gonna ruin these sheets with how wet you are.”

The dual sensations, cock dragging inside you, thumb on your clit, mouth on your tits, send you over. You come hard, walls clamping down, a gush of wetness soaking Steve’s cock and the sheets beneath you.

Your scream rips out raw and desperate, half-buried in the pillow as your whole body seizes, pussy clamping down hard around him in waves.

“That’s it,” Steve growls, voice shredded, hips never slowing as he fucks you straight through the climax. “Fuck, yes, soak me, baby, drench my cock.” He slams deep one last time, grinding against you, riding every pulse. “Good fucking girl, coming so hard for us.”

He pulls out, flipping you onto your hands and knees. Bucky lines up behind you, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, slick, hot, teasing your entrance. “Gonna fuck you like this,” he says, voice rough. “Gonna make this pussy remember me.”

He pushes in slow, the angle different, deeper. You cry out, fingers clawing the sheets. He bottoms out, balls pressed to your clit, and stills. “Too much, doll?”

“No,” you gasp. “Move- please.”

He does, long, slow strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you. His hands grip your hips, fingers bruising, pulling you back onto him with every thrust.

The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, mingling with your broken moans. “Listen to that,” he groans. “Hear how wet you are? This cunt’s fucking dripping for me. You love getting fucked like a slut, don’t you?”

Steve kneels in front, feeding you his cock again, tasting of latex and your own release. You take him deep, gagging, saliva dripping down your chin. He groans, guiding your head. “Suck it, baby. Suck my cock while he reams your pussy. Fuck, your mouth’s so hot.”

They find a rhythm, Bucky thrusting into your pussy, Steve fucking your mouth. The fullness is overwhelming, every nerve alight.

Bucky’s balls slap your clit with every stroke, sending jolts up your spine. “Gonna come again?” he says. “Gonna squirt all over my dick? Do it, doll, let go.”

You do, harder this time, squirting around him, soaking his thighs and the sheets. He growls, thrusting faster. “Fuck, yes, that’s my girl.” He slams in deep, hips stuttering, filling the condom with a guttural groan. “Take it, take every drop.”

He pulls out carefully, tying off the condom and tossing it aside. Steve lifts you, turning you to face away from Bucky.

“Your turn to ride,” Bucky says, lying back on the mattress, cock still hard in its fresh condom. “Reverse cowgirl, doll. Sit on this dick and show us what you’ve got.”

Your legs are jelly, but Steve helps you straddle Bucky backwards, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. The thigh-highs have slipped halfway down your thighs, lace bunched and damp.

Bucky’s hands grip your ass, spreading you open, the cool air hitting your soaked entrance. “Look at this pretty pussy,” he groans. “All swollen and dripping. Lower yourself slow, fuck yes.”

You reach between your legs, guiding the thick head to your entrance. The stretch is immediate, burning as you sink down inch by inch, the angle letting him hit deeper than before.

Your walls flutter around him, still sensitive from the last orgasm. “So fucking full,” you whimper, voice cracking.

Bucky’s hands slide to your hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “That’s it, take every inch. Feel me splitting you open? This cock’s gonna ruin you for anyone else.” He thrusts up gently, making you gasp. “Bounce for me, doll. Ride me like you mean it.”

You start moving, tentative at first, lifting and dropping, the wet schlick of your pussy swallowing him filling the room. Your tits jiggle with every motion, nipples hard and aching.

Steve stands on the bed in front of you, feeding you his cock again, hot, salty, slick with your earlier release. “Suck me while you fuck him,” he growls. “Show us how greedy this mouth is.”

You take him deep, gagging as Bucky’s cock hits that spot inside you with every bounce. The dual fullness, Bucky stretching your pussy, Steve filling your throat, makes your head spin.

Bucky’s hands guide your hips faster, the slap of your ass against his thighs loud and obscene. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans. “Riding my dick like a goddamn porn star. This pussy’s gripping me so tight, gonna make you squirt again.”

Steve’s fingers tangle in your hair, guiding your mouth. “That’s it, baby. Choke on my cock while he fucks you senseless. You’re ours now, every hole, every drop.”

Bucky’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in tight, filthy circles. “Come on, doll,” he pants. “Squirt all over me. Soak this cock, let me feel it.” The pressure builds fast, too fast, your walls clenching, thighs trembling.

You pull off Steve’s cock with a gasp, screaming as you come, a hot gush of wetness spraying out around Bucky’s cock, soaking his abs, the sheets, your thighs. The sensation is overwhelming, your vision blurring with tears.

“Fuck, yes!” Bucky roars, thrusting up hard, chasing his release. “That’s my girl, squirt for me, drown my dick.” He slams in deep, hips stuttering, filling the condom with a broken groan. “Holy shit, doll. Perfect.”

Steve pulls you off Bucky gently, your legs shaking too hard to hold you. He lays you on your back, spreading your thighs wide, your pussy swollen, glistening, dripping with your own release. “One more,” he says, voice soft but wrecked. “Gonna fuck you till you can’t walk.”

He slides in slow, the glide easy from how soaked you are, condom slick with you. He fucks you slow at first, then harder, the headboard knocking against the wall.

Bucky kneels beside you, kissing you deep, tongue lazy, tasting you. His fingers pinch your nipples, rolling them until you’re sobbing from overstimulation. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “Taking us both like a champ. This pussy’s ours now.”

Steve’s thumb finds your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. “Come with me, sweetheart,” he rasps. “One more time. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You do, shattering, walls pulsing, another gush of wetness soaking him. He follows with a broken groan, hips stuttering, collapsing over you, hot, heavy, panting.

Steve ties off the condom with a practiced flick, the latex snapping sharp before he knots it and tosses it into the trash under the desk, thunk. He’s already reaching for another foil packet, the crinkle loud in the quiet room, and drops it on the nightstand like a loaded promise.

His chest rises and falls hard, sweat gleaming on the cut lines of muscle, blond hair plastered to his forehead in damp strands. He looks wrecked and reverent all at once.

He leans over you, lips brushing your temple, breath scorching. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice raw with wonder. “You took us both like you were made for it. So fucking proud of you.”

Bucky slips from the bed, bare ass flexing as he pads to the mini-fridge. The carpet is soft under his feet; the door creaks, cold air spilling out and raising goosebumps across your thighs.

He grabs a water bottle, twists the cap and takes a long swallow, throat working, then offers it to you. Condensation drips onto your chest, icy against fevered skin; your nipples tighten instantly.

“Drink, doll,” he murmurs, rough but gentle.

You sip, throat scraped raw, a little water slipping down your chin. Steve takes the bottle next, drinks deep, passes it back. They move like they’ve done this a hundred times, wordless, whipped, eyes never leaving you.

Bucky disappears into the bathroom, comes back with a warm washcloth steaming faintly of eucalyptus. He kneels between your shaky thighs, spreads them with careful hands, and wipes you clean in slow, worshipful strokes. The cloth glides over your swollen folds, your tender clit, the sticky mess on your inner thighs. Every pass is soft, soothing, filthy in its intimacy.

Then he pauses, smirks, and picks up your glasses from the nightstand. One lens is streaked with a cloudy smear, your squirt, dried in a perfect arc.

“Well, shit,” Bucky drawls, holding them to the light. “Look what our little genius did to her own glasses.”

Steve leans in, grin slow and wicked. “Fuck. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You squeak, an actual, mortified squeak and try to disappear into the pillow. Your face is on fire, ears ringing, voice barely a breath. “S-stop…”

Bucky drags his tongue across the lens in one deliberate swipe, eyes locked on yours. “Tastes like you baby,” he says, low and dirty. “Sweet, salty perfection.”

Steve groans. “Jesus Buck, you're going to kill her”

You whimper, thighs trembling, arousal and embarrassment twisting tight in your belly.

Bucky crawls up the bed, kisses your burning cheek. “Don’t hide it, baby. Own that pretty mess you made.”

Steve tugs one of his soft gray NYU tees over your head; it falls to mid-thigh, swallowing you in his scent, clean sweat and warm cotton. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder through the fabric. “You okay? That was… intense.”

You nod, dazed, voice small and hoarse. “Never felt anything like that. Perfect.”

They tuck you between them like something precious. Steve spoons you from behind, heavy arm draped over your waist, calloused thumb tracing lazy circles on your hipbone. Bucky faces you, nose brushing yours, metal fingers combing gently through your tangled hair.

“You sure we didn’t go too hard?” Bucky asks, voice velvet-rough, all earlier fire banked into something soft and worried.

You shake your head, sleepy, blissed-out. “Perfect,” you whisper again.

Steve’s mouth finds the bruise blooming on your neck, kisses it like it’s sacred. “Best tutor in the world,” he murmurs against your skin, lips dragging slow, wet. “So proud of you, baby.”

Bucky feeds you half a protein bar, chocolate peanut butter, sweet and salty. Crumbs tumble onto the sheets; Steve brushes them from your lip and licks the chocolate off his thumb, then kisses you soft and slow.

“Messy girl,” he teases, fond.

Bucky tucks the fleece blanket around your feet, fingers lingering on the lace tops of your thigh-highs. “Leaving these on?” He snaps the band lightly, grins. “Looks like you’re still ready for round two.”

You hum, too floaty to form words.

Steve’s lips brush the shell of your ear, breath hot. “Next time… we’re playing with this perfect little ass.”

Your eyes snap open.

Steve’s lips graze your ear, breath scalding. “We’ll start slow. Warm lube dripping down your thighs while you’re on your knees. I’ll spread you open, watch that pretty virgin hole flutter when the cold tip kisses it. Just the tip at first, slow circles till you’re pushing back, begging for more.”

Bucky’s fingers drift lower, tracing the curve of your ass, feather-light. “Then one finger. Just the pad, teasing, till you’re soaked and whining. Second finger scissoring slow, stretching you open while Stevie licks your clit till you see stars. By the time the plug slides home you’ll be coming so hard you fog these glasses again.”

Steve’s hand joins Bucky’s, both of them circling that tight, untouched ring with slick fingers, barely pressing, just enough to make you clench and whimper.

“Feel how greedy you already are?” Steve rasps. “Gonna train this perfect ass till it takes the plug like it was made for it. You’ll wear it to class, to the library, to every fucking tutoring session. Every time you sit down you’ll feel us owning you.”

You make a strangled sound, half panic, half desperate heat, and hide your face in Bucky’s neck. He smells like smoke and sex and safety.

Bucky chuckles, low and fond. “Shy little thing. But your pussy’s dripping again, doll. You love the idea.”

Steve presses one fingertip just inside, barely breaching, enough to make you gasp and arch. “No pain,” he promises against your nape, voice soft. “Just fullness. Pleasure. Gonna make you squirt from both holes at once, baby. Want you so stuffed you can’t think straight.”

Bucky kisses your burning cheek. “And when you’re ready for the real thing? We’ll lay you just like this, one cock in your pussy, slow and deep, the other easing into your ass inch by inch till you’re sobbing from how good it feels. You’ll come so hard we’ll need new sheets. And then we’ll slide that pretty pink plug in to keep you full of us all night.”

Your whole body is trembling now, thighs slick, breath coming in tiny, overwhelmed pants. “That’s… so dirty,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Steve nips your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. “Dirty and perfect. Gonna ruin you so gently you’ll thank us for every stretch.”

You’re trembling, blushing so hard you’re dizzy, but the word slips out tiny and shaky. “M-maybe… if it’s pink… and you’re gentle…”

They both groan, wrecked.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, kissing you deep and slow. “Gonna ruin us both.”

Steve presses closer, lips on your neck, voice a vow. “Worth it.”

You drift, floating in the cage of their arms, heartbeat steady against Steve’s chest, Bucky’s fingers laced with yours. The room smells like sex and eucalyptus and them.

Steve murmurs into your hair, so quiet you almost miss it. “Never letting her go.”

Bucky’s lips brush your temple. “Ours now. Gonna ruin her slow and sweet. Next time those glasses are getting another coat, pink plug in her ass while she comes so hard she cries.”

You sigh in your sleep, smiling, flushed, wrecked, utterly theirs.

© 𝓼𝓵𝓾𝓽𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓻 2025 (do not copy, translate or repost)

To pretend you’re normal. To heat up soup. To watch something brainless. To go to bed early and not think about him.

You last about twelve minutes.

Then you’re standing in the kitchen barefoot and guilty, biting your lip and staring up at the little black, circular plastic eye in the corner near the ceiling.

The smoke detector.

Your smoke detector.

Your stupid little red button that brings you James Buchanan Barnes.

You tell yourself you’re not going to. You tell yourself, no, you absolutely cannot, because last time Sam Wilson (loud, funny, deeply nosy) had narrowed his eyes in the hallway and gone, “Huh, princess, this is what, the third ‘emergency call’ this month? You runnin’ a grill in your living room or something?”

And Bucky had cut him a look, one brow ticking, and said, “Wilson,” in that low warning way.

Wilson had smirked at you. “Mmmhmm. Just makin’ conversation.”

You’d laughed it off. You’d said something about cheap wiring in old buildings. You’d shrugged and hugged yourself in your doorway and tried very, very hard not to look at Bucky’s soaked turnout jacket clinging to his shoulders, or the way he stripped his gloves off with his teeth.

But you’d seen it. You’re pretty sure he’d seen you seeing it. And you’re not dumb.

You know you’re playing with matches.

You also know you want to get burned.

You close your eyes, breathe in, breathe out, and whisper to your empty apartment, “Okay. Okay. Last time. Last time and then I’ll stop.”

You’re a liar.

You drag the chair from the table over to the stove. The chair legs squeal against linoleum, too loud in the quiet kitchen. Your heartbeat hitches. You climb up, stretching on your toes, and reach for the battery housing inside the little circular alarm.

But you don’t take the battery out.

You nudge the test toggle just wrong. Just enough to loosen the casing.

You know exactly how to make it scream now. Practice makes perfect.

Then you step off the chair, pad back to the stove, and turn the front-left burner on high.

There’s a pan on it. Dry.

You leave it there.

You don’t even put oil this time—that had been messy, last time; you’d had to open both windows and wave a dish towel around like you were landing a plane.

Instead you just leave metal on heat, let it sit, let it cook and cook and cook until the scent starts to change. It goes from clean to warm to oh, that’s probably not good in less than a minute. By two and a half minutes, you see the first thin ripples rise from the pan like heat mirage. Little curls of smoke.

You swallow.

Your heart is already beating stupid fast, and they’re not even here yet.

“God, you’re pathetic,” you mutter to yourself, pacing in a small nervous circle. “You’re actually deranged. You’re out of control. You are—”

The alarm goes off.

It doesn’t chirp; it screams.

That high, piercing, shattering shriek fills your apartment in a single breath. You jump and wince, lunging for the front door because you’ve done this before and you know what’s coming next. Your building’s alarm system is tied into the local station for “fast response to potential structure fires,” which is good for the neighborhood and terrible for your self-control.

You swing the deadbolt back and leave the door unlocked.

Your hands are shaking.

Oh my god. Oh my god he’s going to—

The hall alarm starts up a second later. Someone from down the hall yells “What the fuck!” over the wail of it. You flinch and duck back into your kitchen, twist the stove off, yank the pan onto a cold burner.

Okay. Okay, okay.

Breathless, you grab the nearest dish towel and start waving beneath the alarm to “try to clear the smoke.” You know it won’t silence it—only maintenance has the code for that. You’re not even really doing anything useful.

You’re just trying to look innocent.

Heavy boots on stairs.

You hear them even over the alarm. The stomp, stomp, stomp of trained hurry. The low voices. The clipped “Watch your corners, it’s this floor,” you’ve grown embarrassingly familiar with.

Then:

A knock, hard and authoritative.

“Fire department!”

You can feel the grind of that voice in your spine.

You toss the towel, spin around, and try to pull your sleep shirt down a little lower on your thighs before you open the door.

And there he is.

Jesus Christ.

Even if you hadn’t seen him before, even if you hadn’t engineered this, you would know him on sight. He’s not the tallest on his crew, but he looks like the center of gravity. He’s built wide—shoulders that block half the hallway, thick arms roped with muscle, turnout coat open at the collar and hanging heavy off his frame, still damp from either the rain or whatever call they were on before you. Maybe both. His dark hair is pushed back, a little mussed, rain-wet at the edges. His jaw is set. His mouth is a hard line. There’s a streak of black on his cheekbone where soot had mixed with sweat. His eyes, glacial blue, cut straight to you, then sweep past you into your apartment in one practiced scan.

You meet his eyes on instinct.

Something tightens, electric.

“Hi,” you say, too fast, too breathy.

One of his crew, the same loud one from last time, leans around him to peer in. “Ma’am, you got an active—...” Sam stops. Looks at the cold pan on the stove. Looks at the faint haze in the air. Looks back to you, then to Bucky. His mouth curls. “Oh, come on. Again?”

You suck in a breath, trying to look offended, or at least confused. “The stove just— I was making— it started smoking and the alarm just—”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, unimpressed. He’s grinning, though. “Barnes, you wanna walk her through Fire Safety 101 again, or should I? I got charts in the truck.”

“Wilson,” Bucky says without even looking back.

Just his voice can make “Wilson” sound like shut up.

Sam’s grin widens. “Copy that, Sarge.”

Bucky steps forward. Automatically, you step back. He fills your doorway on instinct, one gloved hand braced high against the jamb as he leans in.

He smells like rain and smoke and clean laundry. You could drown in it.

“You okay?” he asks you, quiet, like there’s nothing else in the hallway. His tone shifts when he looks at you, always. You’ve noticed that. With Sam and the others he’s all clipped command; with you he’s lower, softer, threaded with warmth he pretends he doesn’t have.

Your stomach flips.

“Yes,” you manage. “I’m— I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

He nods once, eyes flicking over you, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of what you’re wearing: an oversized sleep shirt with your college logo and absolutely nothing else. No bra. No shorts. Nothing covering the way the fabric skims down over your hips and barely catches the lowest curve of your ass.

A flush crawls up your chest.

You cross your arms over your chest in what you hope is a casual move, but his eyes catch it. They flick down, then up again. His jaw tightens the smallest bit.

Oh.

Oh.

Your pulse stutters.

Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Wilson, clear the hall, tell ‘em they’re good. I’ll reset her unit.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam says cheerfully, and then he’s clapping another firefighter on the shoulder and disappearing down the hall, calling, “False alarm, folks, everybody relax, nobody’s burning alive—yet.”

The alarm keeps screaming, echoing against the narrow walls. Your neighbors are muttering. Doors crack open, then shut again.

And then it’s just you and Bucky in your doorway in the pounding, relentless sound.

“Back up for me, sweetheart,” he says.

Sweetheart.

You feel it like a hand at the back of your neck.

You back up.

He steps inside with you, shuts the door with his boot, and just like that, you and Bucky Barnes are alone in your apartment for the first time.

The second the door shuts, the noise dulls—less piercing, more like being underwater. You can still hear the alarm from the hall, but in here it’s only your unit wailing.

Bucky peels off one glove with his teeth, then the other with his bare hand. You watch that hand. He’s got big hands. Veins, calluses, blunt square fingers. His left hand, the one with the dark leather glove, comes off slower—it’s a metal prosthetic, gleaming dull matte under the fluorescents. You’ve seen that, too. You’ve thought about it too many times. You’ve thought about what that would feel like between your—

“Show me,” he says.

You blink up at him. “Show you…?”

“The stove,” he prompts patiently. His jaw is tight. “The fire hazard. Doll.”

Heat pools low in you at that last word. Doll.

You swallow and turn, padding quickly to the kitchen, acutely aware of him following, of the soft jingle of gear at his belt, the weight of his presence at your back like heat off a furnace.

“It’s off now,” you babble, nerves spilling out of you in words. “I just—I honestly don’t know what happened, I just turned around and it started smoking and then the whole thing went off and—”

“Mmhmm,” he says, which does not sound like he believes you. “Step back.”

You step aside.

He leans over your stove, inspecting. Rainwater drips from the hem of his coat onto your floor. His shirt under the open jacket, dark navy department issue, stretches obscenely over his back and shoulders when he bends forward.

You bite your lip.

He reaches out, puts two fingers to the still-warm pan, then tuts under his breath.

You freeze.

You know what that sound is. You’ve heard it twice now. That’s not oh god this is dangerous. That’s that little disappointed noise he makes right before he lectures you.

Your stomach swoops. You love that noise.

He straightens slowly. Turns to you. Crosses his arms over his chest.

“D’you think I’m stupid?” he asks mildly.

Your mouth opens. “I—”

“You think I can’t tell the difference between a kitchen fire and you cooking fuckin’ nothing in a dry pan until it smokes?”

Your face goes nuclear.

Your lips move silently for a second. “I— I wasn’t— I didn’t—”

His brow lifts, and it’s obscene, the way just that can make your knees want to wobble. “You wanna try that again with an answer that isn’t a lie, menace?”

Menace.

Your breath catches.

You should feel embarrassed. You should feel caught. You should feel anything except the hot, dragging ache low in your belly, the one that pulses every time he uses that tone on you.

You whisper, “I like when you come.”

Silence.

The alarm is still shrieking overhead. Rain still hammers the windows. Your heart is in your throat.

Bucky just looks at you.

For one long, dizzying second, his face doesn’t change. Then, slowly, his mouth curves.

Not a smile.

Something darker.

Something that sees you.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I figured that out.”

Your lungs forget how to work.

He takes a step toward you.

You don’t move.

“You know what happens,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “out there, when we get a call like this?”

You swallow. Your throat is dry. “You… show up?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “We gear up,” he says, like he’s telling you a story. “We roll out emergency. Lights. Siren. My guys put on forty pounds of equipment in under sixty seconds, sweetheart. We run. In the rain, in the dark, in traffic. Because that alarm says somebody might be burning alive.”

Your stomach twists. Guilt flares for a split second, sharp and bright.

Then he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him on your bare thighs and you lose the ability to think.

“And then,” he continues, eyes on yours, voice low and unhurried even while your alarm screams, “we get here and it’s you again, wearing nothin’ but a fuckin’ t-shirt and big eyes, and you tell me—” he tilts his head— “oh no, Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what happened, I’m just so scared.”

Your face is so hot you’re surprised you’re not setting off sparks.

“I— I never said ‘Sergeant,’” you whisper, too honest.

He laughs. Low. That same not-smile pulls at his mouth again. “No,” he says. “You never did. You just looked at me like you wanted to climb me like a ladder and said ‘thank you for coming, sir.’”

Your knees almost go out.

You remember that night. You remember saying it. You remember how his jaw had clenched when you did.

“You know we could fine you?” he asks conversationally, like he’s talking about the weather and not about your impending moral collapse. “False call like this? You can get cited.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“You know what a citation looks like?”

You shake your head.

He leans in.

“It looks like me,” he murmurs, “in your apartment at nine p.m. explaining fire code to you line by line. Real slow.”

Your breath catches on a quiet, involuntary sound.

His eyes spark.

“Yeah,” he says, voice roughening. “That’s what I thought.”

Your thighs press together. You can’t help it.

Bucky’s gaze flicks down. Follows the movement. Stays there. When he looks back up, something in his face is different. Less restraint. More hunger.

The alarm screams and screams.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says quietly. “I’m gonna reset your alarm. I’m gonna radio dispatch and tell ‘em false alarm, no emergency, situation contained. And then,” he continues, so soft you almost miss it under the noise, “you’re gonna tell me the truth.”

Your mouth is dry. “The truth?”

“That you did this on purpose.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “That you wanted me here.”

Like he doesn’t already know.

You nod.

“And,” he adds, voice dropping into something that makes your stomach flip, “you’re gonna tell me what you want now that you’ve got me.”

You cannot breathe.

A tremor runs through you from scalp to toes. “Bucky—”

“Mm.” He tuts again, but his eyes are heat. “That’s not how you’ve been talkin’ to me, is it?”

You feel it all the way down. “Sergeant,” you whisper, breathless.

God, the way his pupils blow at that.

“Good girl,” he says, like praise, like reward.

You almost come on the spot.

He steps away from you before your legs give out and moves with efficient calm you can’t begin to fake. He reaches up, twists something in the housing of your alarm with one sure hand, and the wail cuts off mid-scream.

The sudden quiet rings.

Your ears buzz in the absence. You sag against the counter and try to get your lungs back.

He unclips the radio mic at his shoulder, presses the button, and speaks in that calm, professional tone that makes you weak. “Dispatch, this is Engine 41, Barnes. False alarm, Unit 3B. No visible fire, no active smoke. Resident attempted to cook, pan overheated, alarm tripped. We’ve reset the unit. You can clear us.”

There’s static, then a crackle of confirmation. You barely hear it. You’re watching his throat as he talks. The way his Adam’s apple moves. The faint stubble along his jaw. The way his mouth shapes “Barnes.”

He re-clips his mic. Looks back at you.

You’re still braced against your counter, thighs pressed together, heart going way too fast.

He takes his time peeling his turnout coat off. He doesn’t break eye contact. The heavy, reflective-striped jacket slides off his broad shoulders slow and deliberate, revealing all of him in that dark navy tee. It’s soaked at the collar, rain-dark over his chest and sleeves, clinging to muscle. His biceps flex with the movement. A heavy black strap crosses his chest, part of his harness. His utility belt sits low on his hips.

He hangs the coat over the back of one of your kitchen chairs with military neatness.

Then he steps back into your space.

“Now,” he says softly. “Truth.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Your heartbeat is hammering so hard you feel a little lightheaded.

“I—” you start.

His brows twitch. “Not a great start, menace,” he murmurs.

You exhale in a little rush. “I wanted you.”

He hums. “Yeah?”

“I wanted you to come,” you say, cheeks blazing but there’s no way out now, “and I wanted you to yell at me and I wanted you to— I just— I wanted you.”

His eyes go dark, hungry.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

His right hand—big, warm, human—comes up, cups your jaw. Not hard. Just holding. His thumb drags slow along your lower lip, presses there until your mouth parts.

“There’s somethin’ else,” he says quietly. “Somethin’ else you’re not sayin’ yet.”

You shiver. “Bucky—”

“Sergeant.”

“Sergeant,” you whisper, dizzy. “Please.”

His jaw flexes.

“Please what?” he asks, his voice so soft it almost hurts.

“Please touch me,” you whisper.

Something breaks in his eyes.

And then he’s kissing you.

It’s not gentle.

His mouth hits yours like he’s been holding back for weeks and lost the leash in one second. His grip on your jaw tightens, angling you up, and his other hand slides to your hip, dragging you in against him with zero hesitation.

You gasp into his mouth. He swallows it.

He tastes like clean mint and rain and smoke.

You whimper and grab at his shirt, fisting the soaked fabric at his chest, clinging. He’s solid like a wall. Heat pours off him. He groans, low in his throat, when you open for him, and then his tongue is in your mouth, slow and sure and claiming.

You’ve kissed men before. You’ve never been kissed like this.

This feels like being cornered in the best possible way. Like being owned.

You moan.

He growls.

“Oh,” Sam says brightly from your doorway, “oh, wow, okay, so this is what we’re doing, cool cool cool, love that for you two, I’m gonna go tell dispatch we’re doing an extended safety inspection, carry on—”

The door slams.

You jerk back, mortified, breathless. “Oh my god—”

Bucky doesn’t even look away from you. His thumb strokes under your chin, coaxing you to look at him, dragging you back in. His pupils are blown so wide they almost eat the blue.

“Eyes on me,” he says quietly. “Not on Wilson.”

Your head snaps back like he’s got a grip on your hair.

“Yes, sir,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

A muscle in his jaw jumps. You feel his hand on your hip tighten, fingers digging into bare skin through your shirt.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, almost like it hurts. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart. You wanna play games with firemen? You get the fireman.”

You make a needy noise that doesn’t sound like you. “Please—”

“Shh.” He leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then just under your ear. His breath is hot on your neck. “We’re gonna do this right.”

You’re shaking.

“I need two things from you,” he murmurs against your throat, kissing his way down, slow, deliberate. “You’re gonna give ‘em to me and then I’ll give you whatever you want. Sound fair?”

You nod frantically.

“Words, menace,” he chides softly.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Sergeant.”

He hums, pleased. You feel the sound against your skin. “Good girl.”

You squeeze your thighs together helplessly.

“First,” he says, voice low, “you’re gonna tell me if you want me to stop. Any time. ‘Stop’ means stop. You say it, I step back. We clear?”

“Yes,” you breathe, chest heaving. “Clear.”

He presses a kiss to your throat, soft, like reward. “Second,” he murmurs, mouth moving against the frantic flutter of your pulse, “you’re gonna be honest when I ask you questions. You lie to me again? I’ll put my coat back on and I’ll walk right out that door.”

Panic shoots through you so fast you gasp.

“I won’t lie,” you blurt, desperate. “I won’t, I swear, I won’t, just— don’t leave.”

He exhales a quiet curse that’s basically a groan. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Then his hands are on you.

Both of them.

And you learn, very fast, what it feels like to be handled by James Buchanan Barnes.

His right hand, warm and rough, fists in the hem of your shirt and drags it up in one smooth motion. His left—metal, cool and impossibly steady—slides down over your hip and under the edge, palming your bare ass like he’s been waiting to.

You squeak.

He grins against your throat. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “That what you wanted, doll? You wanted the big, scary firefighter to put his hands on you?”

You’re not sure if you whimper or nod. Probably both.

He pulls your shirt up, up, over your ribs, over your head. You raise your arms without thinking, dizzy and pliant. He tangles you for one clumsy second, laughing softly under his breath when the shirt catches on your elbow, then tosses it somewhere behind you with zero concern.

You’re naked in your own kitchen in front of him. Bare and shaking and wet between your thighs already.

His breath leaves him in a harsh exhale.

“Fuck me,” he says quietly, reverent and filthy at once.

You flush from scalp to sternum.

His gaze drags down slowly, like a hand. Your throat. Your collarbone. Your breasts—he groans, actual, honest groan, when he sees you, like you’re some kind of miracle. His tongue flicks over his lower lip. His jaw flexes. He drags his stare down your belly, to the soft curve there, the dip of your waist, the way your thighs press together, already damp at the seam.

You squirm, suddenly shy under the scrutiny.

His eyes snap back up to yours instantly.

“Don’t,” he says softly. There’s heat in it. Warning. “Don’t you hide from me now. You hear me?”

You nod, dizzy.

“Words,” he says gently, patient even through the hunger in his eyes.

“I hear you,” you whisper.

His mouth twitches. “Good girl.”

You feel that praise like it’s physical.

He leans in and kisses you again, slower now. Deep and claiming, yes, but he slows the roll of his tongue, learning your mouth, mapping it. His hands bracket your hips—one warm, one cool—holding you steady as he licks into you until you’re making those soft, helpless noises again.

When he pulls back, you chase him without thinking.

He smiles. “Needy,” he murmurs, and it sounds like approval.

Your face burns. “You said honesty.”

“I did,” he agrees. “So you’re gonna be real honest with me right now, okay?”

You nod, breathless. “Okay.”

“Have you touched yourself thinkin’ about me?”

You let out a tiny, strangled sound.

His brows lift. “That a yes?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes,” you whisper.

“How many times?”

Your brain goes white.

“I— I don’t—” You swallow. “A lot.”

He hums, pleased. “Yeah? You get yourself nice and wet thinkin’ about me showin’ up in my gear?”

You whimper. You can’t help it. “Yes.”

“Thinkin’ about me bendin’ you over that counter and teachin’ you a lesson?”

“Oh my god,” you croak.

He laughs under his breath, low and delighted. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s what I thought.”

His right hand, warm and rough, skims up your side. Over your ribs, over the curve of your breast. He palms you there, big hand covering you almost entirely. His thumb drags over your nipple, slow, teasing.

You gasp, arching into him.

His eyes flick up to your face, watching you.

“That feel good?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” you whisper, breathless.

“Yeah?” His thumb circles, firmer now, and your knees actually wobble. “You like my hands on you, doll?”

“God, yes.”

“Good,” he murmurs, and leans in to put his mouth on your throat again.

He kisses down. Slow, unhurried, like he’s got you for hours. The rain’s still pounding outside; the world could be ending and he would still be right here, licking lazy heat along your pulse while his hand kneads your breast.

When he drags his teeth, just a little, along the curve where neck meets shoulder, you gasp and clutch at his shoulders.

He groans. “Fuck, yeah, grab me,” he mutters against your skin. “Hold on to me.”

You don’t know if you’re standing or floating.

His mouth moves lower. Over your collarbone. Down. He pauses over your breast, glances up at you once, giving you a breath of space to say no.

You nod so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whiplash. “Please,” you gasp.

He smiles against your skin.

Then he sucks your nipple into his mouth.

Your head drops back with a gasp so sharp it’s almost a sob. “Oh—”

He groans, low and filthy, like you taste good. His tongue flicks over you, slow and teasing, then harder, then he closes his teeth just barely, a whisper of pressure, and your stomach drops straight through the floor.

“Sergeant,” you whine, high and desperate.

His groan rumbles against your breast. His metal hand tightens on your hip, cool and unyielding, keeping you right where he wants you when you try to squirm.

“That’s it,” he mutters around you. “Say it again.”

“Sergeant,” you gasp, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into the soaked navy cotton. “Oh my god—”

He switches to the other breast, giving it the same slow worship until you’re trembling and making noises you’ve never heard from yourself. His mouth is hot, his stubble scraping just enough to make you feel raw in the best way.

By the time he drags himself away from your chest, you’re panting.

He looks up at you, lips slick, eyes dark. He looks wrecked. Hungry.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he says rough and honest. “You understand me?”

You let out an embarrassing noise. “You’re just— you’re just saying that—”

His expression sharpens, instantly. “No,” he says, voice low and firm. “No, ma’am. I’m not.”

You blink.

“You’re perfect,” he repeats, softer but no less serious. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous. I’ve been losin’ sleep over you for three goddamn weeks. Don’t you ever tell me I’m ‘just sayin’ that’ again. You got me?”

Your throat closes.

You nod, a little watery. “Y—yes.”

He leans up and kisses you, soft and sweet, like sealing it. Your chest aches.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your mouth.

You whine.

He feels it instantly, stills, and his voice drops to a quiet rumble.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You good?”

You nod fast, dizzy. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m good. I promise.”

Something in his eyes softens — a flicker of pride, or maybe relief.

“Good girl,” he says again, like a reward. And then his fingers slip between your thighs.

You choke on a gasp.

You’re so wet you’re embarrassed. Slick and aching and hot. His fingertips drag through you and come away shining, and he hisses through his teeth when he sees.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, like it’s a prayer. “Look at you. You been walkin’ around like this waitin’ for me to come put you out?”

“Oh my god,” you groan, face on fire. “Please don’t say it like that—”

He grins, wicked. “What, you don’t like bein’ my little fire hazard?”

You let out a strangled sound that might be a laugh, might be a moan.

He drags two fingers—thick, callused—up through your slick and circles your clit, gentle, lazy, barely-there pressure that still lights you up like a match.

Your knees go.

He catches you easily, metal hand tightening, hauling you in against his chest like you weigh nothing. “Uh-uh,” he murmurs. “Stay with me. I got you.”

“Please,” you gasp, clutching at his shoulders. “Please, I need—”

“I know what you need,” he soothes. “I know, sweetheart, I got you. Gonna take care of you now, okay? Finally gonna give you what you’ve been beggin’ for in that pretty little head.”

You whine, wordless.

“Spread for me,” he murmurs.

You do. You spread your thighs as far as you can with him still crowding you against the counter, shameless now, desperate.

“Good girl,” he breathes, genuinely pleased, and slides his fingers down, down, until he’s pressing one thick finger into you.

You gasp so loud you’re sure someone in the hall heard.

“Yeah?” he mutters through gritted teeth, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second like the feel of you almost knocks him over. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

“Bucky—” you choke, then catch yourself so fast you get dizzy. “Sergeant, please—”

His groan might actually hurt him. “Say my fuckin’ name like that again,” he mutters against your skin, “and I’m gonna lose every bit of self-control I got left, you understand me?”

You nod frantically, clinging to him like you’ll float away, because that sounds incredible. “Yes— ah— yes, sir—”

He swears, low and filthy.

Then he starts moving his hand.

It’s over for you.

He fucks you on his fingers slow and deep, not rushing, not pounding, just pressing in and curling, pressing and curling, finding that spot like he’s been here before. Like he was built to fit inside you and wring you out.

You make a noise that doesn’t sound human.

“That it, sweetheart?” he pants, eyes on your face even as his jaw clenches. “That where you wanted me?”

“Yes,” you sob. “Yes, please, please—”

“Yeah,” he grits out. “Been drivin’ me crazy, thinkin’ about this. You know that? Tryin’ to do my fuckin’ job—” curl, press, curl “—and all I can think about is how you’d feel milkin’ my fingers like this—”

You wail.

He laughs, breathless and so fond you could cry. “There she is,” he mutters. “There’s my little menace. That’s my girl.”

Your orgasm hits like a slammed door.

It takes you in one brutal rush, cresting and snapping all at once. You arch, cry out, clamp down around his fingers so hard you’re shocked he doesn’t hiss, and everything goes hot-white and shaking. You vaguely register the way he holds you through it—arm like a band of steel around your waist, mouth at your ear telling you, “That’s it, that’s it, let go for me, good girl, I got you, I got you”—and then you’re sagging against him, boneless and wrecked.

You’re still panting when you feel him ease his fingers out, slow, gentle.

You whimper at the loss.

He groans, quiet and filthy, watching his own fingers. They’re slick with you. He stares like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

Then, eyes on yours, never breaking contact, he lifts those fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

Your jaw actually drops.

“Jesus,” you whisper, stunned.

He hums around his own fingers, eyes rolling back for one split second like he’s fucking tasting heaven. When he pulls them free with a soft, obscene pop, his voice is wrecked. “You taste like trouble,” he murmurs, grinning slow and dark. “Figures.”

You’re shaking. “I can’t believe you just—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly, almost sweet, “I’m just gettin’ started.”

Your legs almost give again.

He laughs quietly and steadies you. “Think you can walk?”

You blink. “Where are we going?”

His grin goes wicked. “Bedroom,” he says. “Unless you want your neighbors to hear you choke on my cock in the kitchen.”

You make a tiny, strangled sound that does nothing to hide how your thighs press together at the image.

His eyes flare. “Bedroom it is.”

He doesn’t exactly ask permission to move you. He just puts his hands on you—one at your hip, the other low on your back—and steers you down the hallway like you’re his to move. You stumble a little, still boneless from the orgasm, and he huffs a quiet laugh, murmuring, “Easy,” like you’re not both about to do something that’ll haunt your dreams forever.

Your bedroom is a tiny, soft chaos of blankets and laundry and warm lamplight. You’re suddenly, violently aware that you did not plan for tonight to go this far—you didn’t tidy, you didn’t stage, you didn’t—

Oh, god.

The calendar.

You forgot about the calendar.

Bucky stops dead in the doorway.

For a split second you’re confused, then you follow his line of sight and want to actually dissolve.

It’s hanging on the inside of your closet door, right where you’d left it after laughing about it with your friend over wine. The fire station fundraiser calendar. The local “Heroes of Engine 41” charity thing they’d sold at the farmer’s market.

It’s currently flipped to this month.

This month is Bucky.

And not “Bucky in full gear, anonymous hero” Bucky. No. This is “Bucky with his turnout pants low on his hips and suspenders tugged off his shoulders, shirtless, drenched, helmet in one hand, looking over his shoulder like you just called his name.” It’s borderline obscene. Whoever took that photo knew exactly what they were doing. His abs look like they’re carved. His dog tags are dripping water down his chest. His mouth is a soft, dangerous curve.

It’s also signed.

To: Trouble. Try not to burn the place down without me. –Sgt. Barnes

You actually whimper.

Bucky is absolutely silent.

You cannot tell if he’s mad, turned on, amused, or about to arrest you.

Your face is on fire. “That’s not— I mean, that’s not what it looks like—”

His head turns, slow, and when his eyes land on you again they’re molten.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he rumbles, voice dropping so low it’s basically a purr. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

You cover your face with both hands. “I didn’t— Sam made me— he said if I didn’t buy one he’d tell you I didn’t support local heroes and I panicked—”

Bucky snorts.

You peek through your fingers.

He is staring at the calendar like he wants to physically climb through the paper and fight himself. His jaw is tight. His pupils are huge.

“You been jerkin’ off to my fundraiser photo, menace?” he asks conversationally, like he’s asking if you’ve had dinner. “That why you needed so many ‘emergency visits’?”

You let out a mortified squeak. “I— I have not—”

“Honesty,” he reminds you softly.

Oh god.

Your voice comes out in a whisper. “Yes.”

His eyes close for one glorious second like he’s in pain.

When he opens them again, he looks… different. Rougher. Hotter. Hungrier.

Dangerous.

“Get on the bed,” he says.

You go.

It’s not graceful. You sort of scramble backwards onto your sheets, breathless and wrecked, heart pounding wild. You sit with your back against the pillows, knees bent, thighs parted because you can’t pretend you’re shy anymore. Your pulse roars in your ears.

Bucky steps into your room like he owns it.

Like he owns you.

“Lay back,” he murmurs. “Head on the pillows. I wanna see all of you.”

You melt back, dizzy, spreading out for him without thinking. Your legs fall open in invitation.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“That’s my girl,” he says, voice rough.

You groan.

Then, slowly, never looking away from you, he reaches for his belt.

You almost combust.

He unclips the heavy utility belt, sets it carefully on your floor. The harness strap comes off next. Then his shirt.

Holy god.

You’d known he was big. You’d seen the fundraiser photo. It did not prepare you for the reality of James Buchanan Barnes shirtless in your bedroom.

He’s all broad chest and thick arms, heavy muscle that looks earned, not sculpted, like he didn’t get it at a gym, he got it carrying people out of burning buildings. Scars cross his torso, pale lines and healed nicks, each one a story you suddenly, desperately want to hear. His dog tags hang against his sternum, just like in the calendar, only now they’re real and right there and you could touch them if you reach.

You whimper.

His mouth quirks. “Like what you see?”

“Are you kidding,” you whisper hoarsely.

He laughs softly.

Then he reaches for the button on his cargo pants.

Your breath stops.

He’s not shy about it. He doesn’t tease. He just undoes the button, drags the zipper down, and shoves the pants low enough to free himself.

You actually gasp.

He’s… yeah. Big. Thick. Flushed. Sitting heavy against his lower abdomen. Your mouth goes dry.

Bucky chuckles, low and smug, at the way your eyes go wide. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice gone honey-dark. “Nervous?”

You swallow. “No.”

“Honesty,” he reminds you, amused.

You flush. “A little,” you whisper. “You’re— um.”

“Yeah,” he says with a little huff of a laugh. “That’s what I figured.”

Then he’s at the edge of the bed, kneeling between your open thighs. He braces one hand on the mattress right by your hip. The bed dips with his weight. You feel caged. You love it.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost soothing. “You’re gonna make me feel good with that pretty mouth, and then I’m gonna fuck you nice and slow, just like you’ve been beggin’ for in that little head of yours. Sound good?”

Your stomach drops straight through the floor.

You nod frantically. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, sir.”

His groan is borderline pornographic. “Oh, fuck, you’re tryin’ to kill me.”

He shifts up the bed, knees bracketing your ribs. He doesn’t sit on your chest. He’s careful about his weight, about his balance, like he’s done this and knows how not to hurt you. His hand—his warm hand—comes up and cups your jaw again, thumb stroking your cheek.

“You tap me, I move,” he murmurs, voice low. “You gag, you pull off. I don’t force. You hear me?”

You nod. “Yes, Sergeant.”

His eyes flash.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Open.”

You open your mouth.

He groans.

Guiding himself with one hand, he drags the blunt, flushed head of his cock over your lower lip. Slow. Teasing. Slicking you with pre-come. You whine at the taste. He hisses.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Pretty fuckin’ mouth. Jesus.”

Then he slides in.

You moan.

He doesn’t choke you. He doesn’t slam. He feeds himself into your mouth slow, just the head, then a little more, then a little more, until your lips are stretched around him and your tongue is pressed under the weight of him and your eyes are watering.

You whimper.

His head drops back on a low, broken groan. “Oh my god.”

You rest your hands on his thighs—thick, hard muscle under heavy fabric—and hollow your cheeks, sucking.

He swears softly. “Yeah,” he gasps. “Yeah, that’s— fuck, that’s perfect, baby, just like that. Look at you. Jesus, look at you takin’ me like a fuckin’ angel.”

Heat floods you at the praise.

You hum around him, wanting more.

His breath hitches. “Oh fuck— careful, doll, you do that and this is gonna be over real fast.”

You look up at him through your lashes, and the sound he makes at that—half groan, half laugh—goes straight between your legs.

“Menace,” he growls, fond and desperate. “Such a fuckin’ menace.”

You preen.

You keep working him, finding a rhythm. He lets you set the pace, lets you get comfortable. You drag your tongue along the underside of him, swirl the head, suck him back in. His thighs flex under your hands. His breathing gets rougher. His hand tightens on your jaw, not forcing, just anchoring.

“Such a good girl,” he pants, voice gone ragged. “God, you’re such a good fuckin’ girl for me, takin’ me so sweet—”

You whine, needy, and he chokes on a groan.

“Okay,” he mutters, voice breaking, “okay, baby, I gotta— if I don’t stop now I’m gonna— fuck—”

He pulls back gently, letting you breathe.

You gasp, blinking up at him, spit on your lips, eyes glassy.

He looks wrecked.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, running a shaky hand over his face. “You’re gonna put me in an early grave.”

You smile, dazed and smug.

He laughs, breathless and incredulous and so fond you swear your chest hurts. “C’mere,” he murmurs.

Then he’s shifting, moving you like you weigh nothing. He slides down your body, kissing as he goes—your mouth, your throat, the swell of your breasts, the soft of your stomach. You squirm, breath hitching.

When he settles between your thighs and drags them over his shoulders, you gasp.

“Bucky—” you choke, then whimper, “Sergeant, please—”

He glances up at you from between your legs with a grin that could start wars. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and then he’s licking into you like he’s starving.

You scream.

There’s no other word for it. You slap a hand over your own mouth on instinct, wide-eyed and shaking, because you live in an apartment building and you are about to make enemies.

Bucky growls against you and drags your hand away, pinning your wrist to the mattress with his cool metal hand. “Uh-uh,” he mutters against your soaked pussy. “Let ‘em hear.”

You moan something that isn’t words.

He eats you like a man dying of thirst. Messy, greedy, thorough. He groans like you’re his favorite meal, like you’re his first meal. His tongue drags up and down, slow and heavy. He sucks your clit into his mouth and your vision whites out. He slides two thick fingers back into you, easy this time, slick with you and his spit, curling just right, just right, just—

You come so hard you almost black out.

It hits even faster than the first one. Your whole body bows tight, your breath catches in your throat, you sob his title on a broken moan—“Sergeant, please, oh my god, oh my god”—and he groans like you just blessed him.

“That’s it,” he growls into you. “Fuck, that’s it, give it to me, doll, lemme taste it, that’s my girl—”

You’re shaking when he finally eases up, kissing you through the aftershocks, licking you slow until you’re twitching and too sensitive.

He presses one last kiss to your inner thigh like benediction.

Then he’s crawling up your body again, bracing over you, eyes blown and wild, mouth slick with you.

You’re boneless. Floating. Wrecked.

He groans like you just punched him. “Christ you’re a vision.”

Then he’s lining himself up, the head of his cock slick with your wetness, and pressing in.

You both moan.

He goes slow.

Thank god he goes slow.

You can feel him stretch you, inch by thick, perfect inch, and it’s almost too much—your mouth falls open on a silent gasp, eyes rolling back, hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders. He’s huge. He’s so big you feel split, stuffed, filled to aching.

“That’s it,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, breath harsh. “Shh, I got you. You’re okay. You’re so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart, takin’ me so sweet. You’re okay.”

You whine, high and helpless. “Ohmygod—”

“I know,” he groans. “I know, baby, I know. You’re doin’ so good. Look at you. Jesus fuck, look at you.”

When he’s finally, finally all the way in, seated deep, you feel full in a way that borders on spiritual.

You’re both shaking.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You feel— I can’t— I can’t even—”

You let out a breathless laugh that edges on a sob. “Move,” you beg. “Please, Sergeant, please—”

He swears, low and reverent. “You keep sayin’ that,” he mutters, “and I’m gonna propose to you, you understand me?”

You make a half-sob, half-giggle noise.

He laughs, breathless, and then he starts to move.

It’s obscene.

He fucks you slow like he promised, long, deep strokes that drag against every tender, sensitive place inside you, hitting perfect every single time like he mapped you with his fingers first. His hips roll, controlled and heavy. The muscles in his arms flex over you, caging you in. His dog tags swing and tap against your sternum with every thrust.

You’re gone.

You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, head tipped back, mouth open on high, broken noises you couldn’t hold back if you tried.

“That’s it,” he groans, eyes glued to your face. “That’s it, sweetheart, take it, take it, fuck, you’re perfect, you’re my perfect fuckin’ girl, shit—”

You’re babbling. You don’t even know what you’re saying. Please and yes and Sergeant and don’t stop and oh my god over and over like a prayer.

He’s shaking, jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temple, holding himself back with visible effort.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he pants, desperate. “Tell me.”

You don’t even hesitate. “I’m yours,” you gasp, raw and honest. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours, please—”

He growls, low and feral. “That’s right,” he snarls, thrusts stuttering. “That’s right, that’s my fuckin’ menace, my little fire hazard, mine.”

You tumble over the edge like he flipped a switch.

Your orgasm crashes through you so hard you sob. Your whole body locks tight around him, clenching, milking him, and you cry out his title on a wrecked, pleading wail.

“Sergeant—!”

He breaks with you.

He chokes on a groan that sounds like it’s being ripped out of him, buries his face in your neck, and thrusts once, twice, deep and hard, before he’s spilling into you with a shudder that borders on violent.

For a second, everything is just heat and heartbeat and rain.

You’re both shaking. You can feel his pulse pounding against your throat. His breath is hot and ragged where his mouth is pressed to your skin. You’re full, stuffed, stretched, perfect.

You’re also absolutely ruined.

He stays there for a long moment, holding himself up so he doesn’t crush you even though you’re pretty sure you’d like him to. His metal hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking slow and soothing along your cheekbone. His human hand fists in your sheets like he needs the anchor.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes look soft. Gentle, in a way he hasn’t let himself be yet.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough.

You nod, smiling, dazed and wrecked and so full of him you feel drunk. “Better than okay,” you whisper. “Holy shit.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, relief flickering across his face like sunrise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “You?”

He looks at you like you’re the fire and he’d gladly walk in.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m good.”

You grin, sleepy and smug. “So,” you murmur, “you gonna write me up for that citation?”

He groans and drops his face back into your neck. “Menace,” he mutters, words muffled against your skin. “You’re an actual menace.”

You giggle, boneless and warm, and wrap your arms around him, holding him there.

Outside, rain hammers your windows, steady and relentless.

Inside, you’re finally, blissfully, warm.

----

“Back up for me, sweetheart,” he says.

you mean into you? sure thang

the fire hazard is meeeeeeeeeeee

“You think I can’t tell the difference between a kitchen fire and you cooking fuckin’ nothing in a dry pan until it smokes?”

listen here sir, in my old apartment I actually couldn't use the oven bc opening the oven door would make the alarm go off, so-

“I like when you come.”

oh I bet you do

“oh no, Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what happened, I’m just so scared.”

I heard his fucking voice kennedyyyyyyyy

SARGENTTTTTTTTT RAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I would set an orphanage on fire for him to come around oh my god

The way his mouth shapes “Barnes.”

I want MY mouth to shape barnes wtf

my sergeant kink is going off the fucking rails right now

You wanted the big, scary firefighter to put his hands on you?”

yEAAAAASSSSSSSSS

“Unless you want your neighbors to hear you choke on my cock in the kitchen.”

I BEG YOUR PARDON????

PLEASE?????

HELLO????

JUST—

hey so I need that calendar stat

His breath is ragged, moans breathy as he watches your shivering form underneath him. Small hands pressed against his stomach to touch him as he uses his free hand to guide his throbbing cock through your glistening folds.

“Y-you can’t push in,” you whine, for- you don’t even know how many times you repeated the sentence while he fucks your pussy without actually fucking your pussy. “I’m- no birth control.”

He groans, somewhat frustrated. But also somewhere close to a covered whine because fuck, he wants to breed you so bad. Pump you full of his cum and watch it leak out of you.

But you haven’t talked about it. He usually uses condoms, and done.

So, showing up at his work in his break in this stupid tight dress and his hoodie on top made him go crazy. He didn’t think he needed some condoms at work, but once again you proved him wrong - wherever you go, he should keep a few in his pocket.

“Jus’ the tip, baby,” he whines, thick head of his cock pressing firmly against your clit when he forcefully pushes his hips against yours. “The tip, ‘n gonna pull out before I cum.”

And fuck, it’s almost convincing. Almost.

Would you know you could trust him - you definitely can’t - you would let him. But he proofed once that he can’t hold himself back. Neither can you.

“We don’t got–“ you get interrupted by a sharp snap of his hips into yours, his heavy balls pressing against your weeping pussy.

He keeps trusting steadily against you, making you moan and writh underneath him. His thumb moves to press down onto the tip of his cock.

Clark lets out a quiet hiss, his other and moving to claw at your hips, as he tries to angle his head to keep watching you without his glasses to slip down his nose.

“Baby, please,” he moans, rutting against you.

The coil in your lower stomach tightens, his pre-cum leaking down onto your clit as he keeps nudging it with the flush head of his thick cock.

“Oh- oh, baby,” he whines, withdrawing his cock enough to let it slide down your pussy, the tip catching your entrance and before you can complain, he pushes in.

A sharp cry erupts from deep within your throat, the stretch immense when the head splits your pussy apart, forcing a gasp from your mouth.

Clark mutters something about sorry under his breath, forcing half of his twitching length into your tight pussy.

The dull pain and the pleasure mixing together with his cock forcing your pussy to adjust to his size throwing you over the edge.

Your pussy gushes around his cock, sucking him in deeper as your walls clench tightly around him.

“Fuck, baby, s-sor-“ he babbles, cock twitching before you feel the warmth of his cum spurting into your pussy - filling you drop by drop with it.

Clark exhales softly, pushing his glasses up his nose before he looks at you apologetically, a soft grin spreading on his lips.

“Idiot,” you mutter, sitting up, with his cock still inside of you, as you press a peck to his lips. “You’re gonna get down on those pretty knees and use that skilled tongue to clean it. You make it messy, then you clean it up.”

He chuckles, already lowering himself between your shaking thighs to eat his meal from the source - or in other words, he’s cleaning your pussy to make sure you will let him cum inside of you again.

This has to be a new low for you.

The truth is something a little more like this: It’s Saturday, and you’re standing outside your best-friend-slash-coworker-who-has-a-(mutual)-crush-on-you-slash-the-most-handsome-man-in-Metropolis’s door because you haven’t heard from him since Thursday night.

You’ve called, you’ve texted, you’ve sent emails, you’ve left who knows how many voicemails. Nothing. Radio silence.

Jimmy has tried, Lois has tried, Cat has tried -- hell, even Perry tried, because when Clark didn’t show up for work by lunch time yesterday, Perry was even getting worried. It’s normal for Clark to be a little late from time to time. You think his problem is that he’s just too nice and he’ll talk to anyone, and he gets caught up with anything. You’ve witnessed it in real time. 

But not showing at all? That’s unheard of. He hardly ever has sick days, now that you think about it, so if he is sick, it must be lethal, and you have to at least make sure he’s okay.

At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself to justify the fact that you’re showing up, uninvited, and debating letting yourself inside with the spare key under the plant in the corner (Clark is so predictable).

You try knocking again. “Clark?” you call out. “Are you in there?”

It’s just so unlike him, to not show at all, especially after such a big day for Superman on Thursday afternoon. Clark rushed out of the office to go see the action and to get his front-page interview like he always does, and you all were certain it would be plastered on Friday’s paper. But it wasn’t.

Instead, it was some piece Jimmy was working on -- congrats, Jimmy, really, but still -- and Superman saving the city from a creature no one has ever seen before was tucked away inside, and barely a full column. It was a quick write up, the quickest you’ve ever seen Lois do, and it works, but it’s not what everyone was expecting. Steve ended up fielding phone calls about why Clark Kent didn’t interview Superman and why he didn’t get an exclusive like always. 

Needless to say, yesterday was hectic at the Daily Planet, and you worried yourself sick over Clark’s whereabouts, so much so that you’re now staring down his front door before noon on a Saturday.

God. You shake your head at yourself. He’s probably-- Maybe there was a family emergency? Your heart clenches at the idea of anything happening to Ma or Pa Kent, but…it’s a real possibility. Maybe he just hasn’t been able to look at his phone because of it.

It’s one of the worst case scenarios, but it feels like that’s all you’re working with considering you haven’t seen or heard from him in almost forty-eight hours.

Your foot taps impatiently on the floor. The tote bag full of cold remedies and just general things to cheer up a sad Clark Kent weighs heavily on your shoulder. You had thought you’d find him here, maybe sick with an awful flu, or--

You hear movement. Your foot immediately stops its tapping, your breathing halts, you think your heart might even stop beating. You lean a little closer to the door. 

Definitely movement. Someone is inside.

“Clark?” you call out again. “It’s me,” you try instead. “I haven’t heard from you, I-I got worried.” You pause, listening for the same shuffling. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

The only response you get is a low groan. Groaning that you aren’t even sure is Clark, but it’s something, and it doesn’t sound good.

“Can I come in?” you ask. You’ll think later on how to apologize for coming over unannounced and for presumptively looking for the spare key and for letting yourself in. Right now you just need to see if he’s okay.

You hear more groaning, followed by the sound of something crashing -- you have no idea what -- and you decide that’s it.

You tip the plant and swipe the key, inserting it and twisting the knob all in one swoop. “I’m really sorry,” you say as you push the door open. “I’m so sorry, but it sounded like-- I just had to check--”

All words promptly die on your lips when you see the state of Clark’s apartment.

You’ve been here once. Only once. You were caught in a bad storm after drinks with Clark, Jimmy, and Lois, and Clark’s apartment was closer, so he offered you dry clothes and a warm shower while the storm waned. That night, every lamp was on, he had hot cocoa ready for you as soon as you got out of the shower, and the two of you talked and laughed while the rain beat the windows.

Today, the sun is out, but it looks stormy in Clark’s apartment. Not a single light is on, the couch is askew, the coffee table overturned. 

And Clark.

His back is pressed to the far window, hands splayed like he’s pinning himself to the glass with all his strength. He’s in a t-shirt and boxers that are tented, and that would normally be enough for you to avert your eyes, except he looks ill. He’s practically ashen, and he’s sweating so much that his shirt is sticking to his skin, to every muscle. His hair is curled to hell, bordering on messy in a way that is worrisome, like he’s been gripping and tugging at it and trying to rip it out.

“Clark?” you ask, shutting the door behind you. You place the spare key down on the little table by the door. “Are you… What’s going on?”

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and he won’t look at you. He mumbles something, but you can’t hear him.

“Clark, please…” you pause, swallowing. You set your bag down by the door, walking closer to him, approaching him like he’s a skittish animal that might run away from you at any second. “Talk to me.”

“Stop,” he bites out. “Please.”

You stop moving, holding your hands up in surrender. What the hell is going on? His legs are shaking, he looks like he hasn’t eaten since Thursday’s lunch, and he still won’t lift his head.

“You should--” he pauses, sucks in a harsh, sharp breath. “You should leave.”

You scoff, not unkindly, just, confused and stressed and what has gotten into him? “Clark, I’m not leaving. We need to get you to a doct--”

“No!” he shouts, immediately shaking his head. “No, no, I’m…fine, I don’t need a doctor.”

“You are not fine,” you argue gently. “You look like you can barely hold yourself up. Are you sick with something?”

“No,” he whines, then adds, “yes, kind of.” One hand leaves the glass to press to his temple with a grimace.

“Is it a migraine?” you ask, wondering if maybe that’s why it’s so dark in here. But that doesn’t explain the fact that it looks like a tornado took off in here, too. “Don’t you get those if you don’t wear your glasses?” He’s not wearing them right now, which you’ve only just now noticed. “Where are they?”

You look around and spot them on the kitchen counter, as if they were ripped off and thrown down. Your eyebrows furrow.

“Clark,” you turn back to him. “Please tell me what’s going on. I want to help. You’ve had everyone worried sick, and we damn near called a wellness check for you, but I figured, let me just come knock on his door first-- But I can’t help if you won’t even let me near you.”

He whimpers this time, high in his throat, almost like he’s going to cry. “Please.”

“Please, what?” you cry. “What can I do? Let me help.” You take tentative steps toward him, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“I-I can’t,” he shudders. “I don’t want to hurt you--”

“Hurt me?” You keep walking slowly. “Why would you hurt me?” Your mind is running wild with all kinds of possibilities right now, one namely being, is Clark on drugs or something?

“It-it’s not something I can control,” he says.

“What is?” you ask, taking more steps. You’re just past the coffee table now. You’ll be able to reach out to him any second.

“It’s--” he cuts himself off with another wince. “Please, you need to stay back, I--”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to just stand over there and watch you like this,” you say sternly, taking more intentional steps now. You reach him quickly, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up!”

He sighs when you touch him, knees buckling. “I-I know. H-Hurts.”

“Clark,” you whisper, placing your hands on his shoulders. “What happened to you? Did you get hurt when you went to interview Superman? Did you get caught in the fight or something?”

He chuckles, but it’s not his usual sound. “Or something,” he murmurs sheepishly, finally tipping his head back to look up at you and--

Your eyes go wide. The world sways. Suddenly you feel like you’re the one who is sick. 

“C-Clark?” you stutter in disbelief. “Superman?”

He groans again, head lolling forward. “This is not how I wanted to tell you.”

You come back to yourself and remember he’s violently ill and you shake your head. Now is not the time to be starstruck. “Hey, no, no, it’s okay, it’s fine! So you’re Superman? It’s okay!” You know you sound ridiculous. “Do you-- Don’t you have healing-- Doesn’t the sun help you or something? Why are you still like this?”

“The sun can’t help this, it’s-- This is different. The Superman robots tried to help, but--”

You nod along, noting things to ask him about later, like Superman robots because what does that even mean? Who are they?

“Okay,” you say, like you’ve got it all figured out after what he’s told you. Like you have a plan. “Okay.” You don’t know what to do. “So we-- Did they-- Do the…robots know what it is that’s making you feel like this?”

He nods slowly, tipping his head back again to look at you, his blue eyes not at all tired like you expect them to be. They’re practically molten. “They have an idea.”

“Okay,” you lick your lips. You should not be thinking about how attractive he is up close like this when he’s practically on his death bed. “What is it?”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to spill it all out right then, but he snaps his jaw closed. “No, I-- I can’t tell you.”

You nearly scream out of sheer frustration. “What do you mean?” you try to have a gentle tone, but you’re not sure you succeed.

“It’s--” he hisses in pain again (you think?), hanging his head. “It’s complicated.”

“I don’t think anything can be more complicated than the fact that I just found out you’re Superman when you’re like this.”

He chuckles again, the sound growing warmer this time. “It’s-- Can you promise me something first?”

“Yeah, Clark,” your face softens. “Anything.”

He groans at that. “No…no, I mean it, I mean, if I tell you what this is, and you’re scared, or you-- You just don’t want to be around me, you have to tell me.”

Your eyes widen. “Clark--”

“I mean it, please,” he begs. “Because if you say you don’t want this, I promise, I will-- I’ll go and bury myself in the ice and I’ll wait it out and I won’t hurt you.”

“Clark, you’re not gonna hurt me.”

“I might,” he chokes out. “I could. I’ve-- It’s been two days of this, I don’t know my own strength, I might--”

“Clark, stop, stop,” you cut him off, both your hands cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. “Please, just tell me what’s going on so I can help.”

“I’m-- I think the creature on Thursday was released by Lex Luthor as a distraction.”

He stops, so you press gently, holding his face as you whisper, “Distraction for what?”

“When I was flying home after it -- back to the Fortress -- as I was leaving Metropolis I flew through a cloud but it wasn’t a cloud, it was-- I think Lex manufactured it because he knew I’d fly through it and he knew it would do this to me.”

You still don’t know what this is, other than the fact that he looks three steps from the grave.

“It’s…my body is--” He pauses again. “This is embarrassing.”

“Clark…” you sigh, pulling him into your arms despite everything. He’s much taller than you, yet right now he feels so small. His face finds your neck and he inhales deeply, holding his breath. “You can tell me.”

“It was a pollen cloud,” he murmurs into your skin, nosing your carotid artery. “And the pollen sets my hormones on fire.”

You rub circles onto his back. “So you’re…?”

“So turned on that I might die,” he whines, still mortified from having to admit this out loud. His hips move on their own accord, and you feel him grinding against your leg before he promptly stops himself. “S-Sorry.”

Your brain is spinning circles in your skull as you try to figure out exactly what he means. What this means.

“Will you actually die?” you ask instead of the other thousands of thoughts running through your head. You scratch his scalp gently, hoping this is somewhat helping, having your arms around him and his around your waist.

His breaths are shallower now, like he’s either afraid to inhale too much of you, or like he can’t get enough. “I don’t know. Probably not. I think I just have to wait it out.”

“But,” you lift your head and he does the same, “is there anything that will help?”

“I can’t ask that of you,” he says immediately, his throat working around a swallow. “I-It’s why I haven’t answered your calls-- I’m sorry that I haven’t, I just-- I flew all the way to the Fortress of Solitude and when the robots told me I needed to-- told me what would help, I flew to Ma and Pa’s, and then didn’t even go in and see them, I just came straight back here because you were--” He pauses, shutting his eyes, twisting them shut, his head thudding as it hits the window. “You were too far, I couldn’t hear you from there and I… I needed to hear you.”

“Hear me?” you gasp. “Clark, I don’t even live close to you, I--”

“I know!” he cries. “I know, but I swear I could hear you, or-- or maybe I really couldn’t, but I couldn’t stand being so far away from you, I had to be in the same city. And then I heard you when you got inside the building, and your heart was so loud outside my door, and gosh, you-- You smell like Heaven, sweetheart.”

Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, banging around against your ribcage. Sweetheart.

“Clark,” you begin, waiting for him to open his eyes, but he doesn’t. For the second time today, you decide, fuck it. You cup his jaw with one hand, not forceful, but not entirely gentle either. You know he’s embarrassed, but enough is enough. “Look at me.”

Clark’s eyes open instantly, glassy and red and full of fire. “Yes ma’am?”

“If what I’m gathering from this is correct, then…I want to help.”

“You do?”

You nod, thumb stroking his cheek. “Do you want me to?”

“Of course I want you to,” he whines, head threatening to tip back again. His smile is lazy, crooked, and so Clark. “I just-- I wanted to ask you out on a date first.”

You chuckle quietly. So your suspicions about your crush being requited weren’t all in your head, it seems. “We can go on a date once you feel better, okay?”

He nods. “Okay,” he murmurs, swallowing again, like his mouth is making far too much saliva. “Okay. Can we-- Can we go to that place on--”

You don’t know what else to do, so you kiss him. He’s embarrassed, he’s rambling, and he’s gotten so worked up in his head that he’s fighting it -- keeping you from helping him.

It’s a syrupy-sweet first kiss. You try to put every ounce of your nearly year-long crush into it, hoping he can feel all of it. You’d do anything for him, you’ve always felt that way, and you’ve shown it before too. Just in more normal, friendly ways than this. Than agreeing to have sex with Clark so he will feel better.

It sounds absurd, even just in your head, and if you think too much about it, you won’t be able to do anything because of how hard your mind will be reeling. Just this morning, just two hours ago, you thought Clark was sick with maybe the flu or had a family emergency or something else normal, and now. Now you know he’s Superman, now you’ve agreed to help him through whatever pollen-induced horny sickness this is, now you’re finally kissing Clark Kent.

He whimpers into your mouth, fingers wrapping around your wrist to tug your hand down to where he needs you.

“S-Sorry,” he cries, grinding into your palm.

You shush him, applying the pressure he needs. “That better?”

He nods furiously, lips mashing against yours as he chases the feeling of your hand on him, and you haven’t even really touched him. When you finally snake your hand under his waistband, his head falls into your neck, shoulders slumping.

His skin feels hot all over, but somehow even hotter here when you wrap your fingers around him, gently stroking. He kisses your neck, then licks, your eyes rolling from the feeling of him clinging to you, completely at your mercy.

Soon he’s rocking his hips into your hand, then wrapping his arms around you, pulling your body to his like he wants to meld you together. You thumb over his slit once, twice, and without warning, he’s shaking in your hold, spilling into his boxers.

He goes still against you, chest rising and falling rapidly against yours. Your free hand strokes his curls where he has his head buried in your neck, wondering if that was enough, or if it was too much.

“Clark?” you whisper. His skin doesn’t feel any cooler, but maybe it takes time.

The only warning you get -- though you don’t realize it’s a warning at all -- is a low groan, deep in his chest before he’s spun you around, pressing your back into the glass. 

When he kisses you this time, the sweetness from earlier is gone, replaced with a desperate, ravenous hunger. He’s still as hard as he was before when he fits his body against yours, hips grinding into you.

“Clark--” you try to get out in between kisses, but he’s ravenous now. Gone is the hesitant, shaking Clark from before. “Mmph-- Clark. Clark.”

He finally pulls back, a string of saliva connecting your lips that he licks away. “Sorry,” he whispers, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all, and doesn’t look it either, the way he’s not looking at your eyes at all but instead at your lips. “What did you--” He pauses again, out of breath. “What were you saying?”

It makes you giggle, seeing him like this, but there’s heat pooling in your lower belly, too. “No, I just-- That was a change.”

“Oh,” he grins, and it’s a bit wolfish, making your thighs clench. “I told you, I’m a little--”

“I know.”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply, breathless, pushing your hips out to grind into him. “Yeah, it’s great.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, hands squeezing your hips as he dives for another kiss, tongue immediately coaxing your mouth open. “Thank you. Thank you for letting me have you.”

“You have me,” you whisper. “Do whatever you need to-- Ah!”

His hands immediately split the seam of your shirt, exposing your breasts. He finds the clip to your bra and suddenly he’s thumbing over your nipples, massaging them, pinching them lightly, watching you squirm.

You grip his shirt, knowing you won’t be able to rip it, but after a few tugs, he gets the idea and does it for you, letting you shove it off his arms and to the floor with yours. His boxers go next, his previous release still sticky inside them, and then he’s dragging your pants down your legs, kneeling as he goes.

You’ve never been so grateful for him to have an apartment on one of the top floors as you are now, when he has you bare and pressed to the window.

“Look at how pretty…” he muses, kissing your inner thigh as he spreads your legs to accommodate his wide frame. He shoulders between them, then lifts one of your legs to rest over his body. “Already so wet for me,” he whispers, like he’s talking to your pussy, not you. “Gotta get her ready for me, though.” He looks up at you, so sweet despite the filth he’s speaking and how close he is to your clit. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You pet his head, smiling as you stroke his curls. “You won’t hurt me, Clark.” Even though he’s not in his right mind, you don’t think he’d ever be able to hurt you.

He leans his cheek against your thigh, just gazing so lovingly at your core. “I won’t,” he promises with a little sigh. “S’too pretty.”

You think you might have to physically guide him to where you need him, but then he’s finally leaning forward, pressing a tender kiss to your clit that makes you jump.

He grins again, wide and hungry. “Sensitive?”

“A little,” you admit. Because you won’t stop teasing me.

“I’ll be gentle,” he swears, and then proceeds to be anything but.

He wraps his lips around your clit, tonguing the hood back ever so slightly to focus directly on your most sensitive spot. Your hips buck involuntarily into his mouth and he moves closer, setting in.

His tongue darts lower, separating your folds, teasing your hole. You don’t think you’ve ever cum from someone eating you out without using their fingers too, but Clark just might get you there. And he seems determined too.

With his nose providing friction to your clit, his tongue presses into you, and he hums. A deep, guttural noise before he somehow moves closer, like he doesn’t even want to breathe while he’s going down on you. 

You’re gripping his curls like your life depends on it, because it sort of does, and you try to warn him before you cum, but he doesn’t slow down or make any indication that he hears you. He just dives deeper, licks faster, and starts mumbling nonsense into your pussy.

“I know you’re close,” he almost whines, like he’s desperate to feel it, to taste it. “Please, baby, please let me have it.”

Your head hits the window with a dull, quiet thud, your chest heaving. “Clark,” you gasp, and somehow he knows what you mean, what you’re trying to say in that one word because then he goes back to sucking on your clit, tongue flicking rapidly.

“Come on,” he says, somehow speaking while still fucking you.

“Clark,” your head lolls against the window, the pleasure making it impossible to hold any part of your body upright.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip to stabilize you. “I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You finally tip over the edge and climax with a cry, body sinking down the window until it’s only Clark’s strength holding you up. He lets you ride his face through it, one hand in his curls, pushing and pulling exactly where you need him most until you’re trembling with the aftershocks.

He crawls up your body, littering kisses as he goes, pausing to focus on your nipples again, swirling his tongue around them. Your brain is in a haze as you drag his face back to you so you can kiss him, not caring -- and frankly, finding it a little hot -- that you can taste yourself on his tongue.

Clark gives no warning before picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist, carrying you like you’re nothing back to his bedroom. He practically tosses you onto the bed, covering his body with yours, caging you underneath him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, almost like he can’t believe it as he covers your face in kisses. “Taste so good, every piece of you.”

While he speaks, his hips start to have a mind of their own, steadily rocking into yours, grinding his erection into your stomach. You felt him before, wrapping your hand around him, but feeling him like this, right there, is different.

It makes you gasp into his mouth when the head of his cock catches on your clit. He smirks, nipping at your bottom lip, doing it again just to see your reaction.

“That feel good?” he asks, just as out of breath as you are. You just nod pathetically as he does it over and over. “I’ve gotta stretch you, honey,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Feel how big I am?”

You nod again, feeling, from the outside, how deep he’ll be and God, you have no idea how he’ll fit, but you want it to. You want it so bad you might start crying.

One hand snakes its way downward while you continue kissing Clark. It’s hot and messy and there’s spit all over both of your chins, but you can’t bring yourself to care, especially not when he’s pushing a finger inside you and one already feels so big.

The whine you let out just tells him exactly how you feel, and he soothes you by putting pressure on your clit with the heel of his hand. 

“It’ll feel better in a second, honey,” he promises, already teasing another finger before pushing in, shushing you as you squirm and writhe against him. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “Feels good,” you groan. 

“That’s my sweet girl.”

“Feels good but I want you.”

“You’ll get me, honey, don’t worry,” he whispers, kissing you gingerly. “Need you to cum again for me first. Can you do that?”

You don’t know, but then he spreads his fingers, pressing right into your G-spot, and that lights your body on fire.

“Knew I’d find it,” he says, mostly to himself. “Gonna add another, okay, baby?”

You nod frantically and you hear him chuckle, but he’s not laughing at you. He’s just mystified by how gorgeous you are like this. By how much you need him, like you might need him as much as he needs you.

The Superman robots didn’t mention anything about the pollen being contagious, but then again, they weren’t even entirely certain of what it is, so it could be possible. You’ve swapped enough spit with Clark by now that he wouldn’t be surprised if some of it has transferred.

The thought of it just makes him feel even more needy for you. But he won’t hurt you.

He inserts a third finger, gently prodding your G-spot until you’re clenching then relaxing around him. He thrusts slow at first, warming you up to all three before he gradually spreads them, working you open. 

Your hips grind against his palm with vigor, chasing your high while simultaneously rubbing against his cock. He ruts against your hipbone, giving you what you need and letting himself have just a little friction too.

He feels it when you start clenching around him erratically, hears it when the little whines you let out start stringing together. “Gonna cum, baby?” he coos. “Gonna let go for me again?”

You’re helpless against him as you nod, pulling his face toward yours to devour his mouth.

When you cum this time, his fingers slip in even deeper, and that’s how he knows you’re ready. You’re sucking them in and not letting go, and the noises you’re making are music to his ears. He spills against your stomach, but only a little, because he wants nothing more than to finish inside you.

“I’ve gotta be in you, honey, I-I can’t wait anymore,” he groans, dragging his fingers out of you and lining himself up, his head easily slipping in from how wet you are.

“Please,” you cling to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Oh Clark, please, need to feel you--”

“I’m right here, my sweet girl,” he soothes, pressing in slowly. “Just let me in.”

Your legs widen in response and he sinks impossibly deep on the first thrust, his head nestled right against your cervix, just barely kissing it. The pain of it quickly blurs into pleasure with every movement until you’re rocking against him, your body somehow trying to take him deeper, even though that isn’t biologically possible.

“Oh, honey,” he groans, head falling forward and he mouths at your neck, nips at your sensitive spots there. “You’re so warm.”

You try to say something back, but it just comes out complete nonsense, except Clark catches some of the words.

“I’m so big, I know, honey, I know,” he coos, kissing your forehead. “But you’re taking me so well, sweet girl. Feel how deep I am?”

You nod against him, wailing when he lightly presses his palm down over the slight bulge in your lower stomach, right where he knows he’s nestled without even needing to use his X-ray vision. But after having that thought, he does use it, just for a moment, just to see.

The only problem is that seeing himself so deep inside you causes his orgasm to come barrelling toward him at a terrifying speed. He’s barely thrusting, more grinding deeper into you, once, twice, and then he’s falling over the edge, shuddering as he spills inside of you.

You gasp at the feeling, eyes going wide with how much there is. You guess it makes sense, given that he’s not exactly human, so things will be different. Like this.

And, you guess, like the fact that despite now cumming two times, he’s still just as hard as he was when you first got here. It doesn’t seem like his orgasms have given him any relief.

If anything, this last one has only spurred him on even more.

“Golly,” he hisses, leaning back onto his knees, hoisting your hips up onto his thighs without slipping out of you. “Are you okay? Still feeling good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, circling your hips against his. “Keep going.”

He grins, wide and wild. “That’s my girl,” he says, and then he pulls out, working himself inside again, seemingly in awe at how easily he slides inside. “You’re so wet, baby,” he sounds like he’s praying. “Some of that’s me, though, yeah?”

You nod, not even caring what he’s talking about because he’s so deep and hard inside of you that you don’t know what you’re going to do without him inside you.

“Wanna feel you again,” he mumbles, thumbing over your clit. “Can you give me another?”

You don’t even need to nod; he feels you immediately clench around him. 

“Love that I get to have you like this,” he whispers. “All for me, yeah? All mine.”

“All yours,” you gasp, writhing again. “Fuck, Clark.”

“Yeah?” he says, moving again, thrusting inside you and pulling all the way out before slipping back in, because he loves the way you clench and the little whine you let out when he does it. “Feels good, doesn’t it? You don’t need to say anything, sweet girl, I know it does. Show me how good it feels.”

You were already on the edge, but hearing him speak to you like this, when all you’ve known before is quiet, sweet, bumbling Clark in the office sends you right over. The stark contrast is doing something wild to your brain, short circuiting everything until you’re spasming around him uncontrollably.

“There we go, that’s my sweet girl,” he soothes you, letting you ride it out against him. “Can I move you, baby? Wan-Wanna try something else. Promise it’ll feel so good f’you.”

You nod and he slowly pulls out, shushing your whines at the feeling of emptiness. He gently turns you over, places a pillow underneath your hips. He palms at your ass, unable to help himself really, before moving you where he needs you with his hands on your waist.

And he just keeps talking to himself. “There we go, so pretty,” he says, one hand leaving your waist to caress your spine. “Laid out for me so pretty, so I can just-- O-Oh, honey.” 

Just the head slips inside and you squirm immediately, feeling a tiny spurt of cum enter you, and then he’s slamming forward in one devastating thrust, holding himself there. You can feel him shaking, feel him holding himself back.

“You feel too good, baby, I-I can’t,” he breaks off into another moan, hips pressing forward again, and a strangled cry leaves his lips before he’s cumming again, filling you up and spilling out around where he’s entered you. “N-No,” he whispers, sniffles. “Wanted to-- Wanted to last longer.”

But he’s still not going soft, so his early orgasm only seems to deter him for a brief moment. He catches his breath, leaning over you to kiss the back of your neck, blanketing your body with his.

And then he’s moving again, barely pulling out at all before pushing back inside, carving a space deep inside you just for him, as if he needs to, as if that space wasn’t already there. 

The little noises you make are his only indication that you haven’t passed out beneath him, and he takes them as his cue to continue moving, to keep slamming right into your G-spot. 

“Wanna cum together this time,” he says, and it sounds like a plea. “Can you do that for me, honey? Please, for me?”

You’ve never had this many orgasms with a partner, let alone in one night in such quick succession, but somehow it isn’t a question when Clark asks if you can give him another. It’s as if your body is perfectly attuned to him now, and if he wants you to give him another orgasm, then well, you will. Easily.

He keeps working your body perfectly, hitting all of the right spots, until he’s close and holding himself back just until he feels you right on the edge.

“Let go, honey,” he cries. “Let go with me, please, please, please.”

And you do, as if on command, your body lets go right as you feel his hips begin to stutter until he’s spilling another load in you, this one you can feel practically all of it leaking out of you and sticking to your inner thighs, and him.

Clark uses his X-ray vision almost by accident this time, just wanting to see if he can tell how full you are, and oh, he can. He tips his head back, holding onto your waist as he groans.

And then he hears you, and you’re asking for him.

“What is it, honey?” he asks, leaning over you to kiss your cheek. “Doing okay?”

You nod, a dopey smile on your face. “Can I--” you swallow, eyes hazy as you look at him. “Can I taste you?”

His hips involuntarily buck into you before he kisses your lips as best he can when you’re in this position. “You wanna taste me?”

You nod frantically. “Please?”

“Okay, honey,” he murmurs. “Okay. Yeah, anything-- Anything you want.”

He pulls out slow, careful not to hurt or shock you as he does. 

You bounce back remarkably fast, already sitting up and sliding off the bed to sink down to your knees, hands reaching out for him. He moves willingly, stumbling around to you, cock bobbing as he goes, still impossibly hard. He wonders how long the pollen will affect him, because although he feels his mind clearing slightly, he’s definitely not feeling any less turned on. And you don’t seem to be, either.

You lick him eagerly, cleaning him off first. He hisses as you do, the sensitivity starting to reach him, but it isn’t so bad that he wants you to stop. He needs you to keep going.

You grab one of his hands and move it to your head, and he asks, “Are you sure?”

You nod. “Wanna feel you in my throat, Clark.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, smiling so fondly down at you. “You tap me if it’s too much, yeah?”

You nod, but you’re not looking up at him, you’re too focused on getting your lips wrapped around his cock. And he decides to stop teasing and let you.

You surge forward, taking the head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before hollowing your cheeks and taking him deeper. 

He lets you have your way with him first, and if anything, his grip on the back of your head is so he doesn’t lose control and thrust into your mouth too harshly, though it seems that’s what you want him to do. Still, he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s not entirely sure how much of this is you and how much of this is the possible added effects of the pollen.

His train of thought is promptly interrupted by you taking him into your throat with zero warning, pressing your nose to the neat little hairs that gather at his base. 

“O-Oh my gosh, honey, give a guy some warning,” he chokes out, hands cradling your head. 

You pull off of him with a cheeky grin. “Sorry.”

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, shaking his head fondly at you. “Enjoying yourself?”

You nod frantically. “Are you?”

“I am, honey, I am.” 

“Are you feeling better?”

He nods. “I am, thank you. Still,” he pauses, rolls his shoulders. “Still turned on, less like I’m about to die.”

You hum. “That’s good.” Your hands explore idly while the two of you speak, ghosting over his inner thighs, close to his still-hard cock, but not actually touching him. “But you’re not done?”

You ask it so softly, like you don’t want to be done, either, and it almost breaks his heart. “No,” he says, petting your head a little. “We can keep going.”

“Good,” you mumble, starting to kiss him again, all along his length. “Because I’m not finished with you yet.”

His knees nearly buckle because you, once again, give him no warning before you’re taking him in your throat. And then you put both his hands on your head, and place your palms over his thighs, giving him full control.

He’s so glad his brain feels a little clearer now because if this had been earlier, he really might’ve hurt you. Now he can give you what you want without the guilt and worry.

You hum around him, causing his hips to buck on their own accord. He pulls himself back to then try an experimental thrust, his head slipping right into the back of your throat with ease. And instead of moving away, you press your head forward, taking him just a little more.

“Honey,” he gasps. “You’re being so good for me.”

Whatever you try to respond with comes out garbled nonsense around his cock, but he doesn’t mind. He holds your head gently, moving you back and forth just the way he needs, and you let him.

“You feel so good,” he groans, holding you down for just a moment before letting go, letting you breathe. “Don’t wanna-- Where do you-- Oh golly-- Where do you want me to--”

You answer by wrapping your arms around his legs, moving closer on your knees, practically trapping him against you. 

He whines, high in his throat. “O-Okay, okay, just for you, just this one, next one goes inside your pussy, though, yeah? Please?” You nod against him and he nearly cums right then, feeling the head of his cock moving in your throat. “Baby, I-I’m not going to last much longer like this--”

That only makes you move with more fervour, like you need to feel him cumming down your throat.

He can barely gasp out a warning before he’s spilling so deep into your throat that you barely taste it, and you don’t even move, you just swallow him down, humming happily to yourself.

Clark pulls you off of him after a moment, hauling you up to your feet so he can kiss you. He can feel himself softening now, just a little, but you--

The look in your eyes is wild.

“Shoot,” he hisses, hands cradling your face. “Sweetheart, look at me.” Your heart is racing, and maybe it has been this whole time, he’s only just now noticing because he’s finally starting to feel like himself again. “How are you feeling?”

“Hot,” you whine, arms looping around his neck. “Empty.”

“Okay,” he says, turning and laying you down. “Honey, I think…I think some of the pollen might be in your system now.”

You just blink up at him through bleary eyes, none of his words registering in your brain. But you’re still alert, for the most part, and able to move your body just fine because the next thing he knows, you’ve got your ankles locked around him.

“Okay, honey, okay,” he tries to soothe your disgruntled whines. “Hurts bad, doesn’t it?”

He can’t imagine how you’re feeling considering he felt bad and it was designed to affect him. You’re human.

What if it kills you?

Clark stops that train of thought before it even starts, letting your hand move down to stroke him until he’s fully hard again. He can make it better. He just needs to keep fucking you, and it’ll keep working through your system until (hopefully) it’s out of it, and everything will be okay. It’ll be okay.

“Clark,” you whine, lining him up with your entrance. “Feels empty.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he shushes you, kissing all over your face. “I’ll make it better, okay? Just let me make it better. Let me do all the work, okay?”

You nod, your hand leaving his cock to instead thread your fingers through his curls. “So handsome.”

He beams, slipping inside you just an inch, and it's so easy after the many rounds you've endured. “Thank you, darlin’.”

Your body is pliant beneath him, just barely holding onto consciousness as he slowly rocks into you. He keeps a steady pace, and listens intently to your heart rate and breathing, just in case. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, so he continues on -- as if you’d let him stop.

“Inside me this time?” you ask, but your voice is quiet, like you’re afraid he’s going to tell you no, but Clark could never. Not right now, not ever.

“Yeah, honey,” he promises, kissing your nose, then your forehead. “Is that what you need?”

Your head nods erratically against the pillow. “Need more. Not full enough.”

“Jesus,” Clark swears, hips stuttering at how desperate and certain you sound. He holds onto your waist, thumbs pressing over your stomach. “I’ll make it better, sweetheart, you just lay here for me, yeah? I’ll fill you up as much as you need. That sound good?”

You reach for his face and pull him down into a kiss, immediately licking into his mouth. You are ravenous, and he’s not sure how he’s going to satisfy you. He just hopes he can, because he doesn’t know what this pollen is doing to your body.

Worst case scenario, he guesses, he can fly you to the Fortress and see if the Superman robots can check you over. He might do that anyway, just to be safe.

Clark keeps the same steady pace, hitting your spot over and over and over, fussing over your every whimper and whine. Tears slip from your cheeks but you aren’t in any pain, just clinging to him and telling him to keep going.

You finally quiet when he spills inside you, sniffling into his neck as he holds you.

“Honey?” he asks, but he doesn’t move, just stays inside you, pressing just a little of his weight into you. “You okay?”

You nod against him but you don’t speak.

Clark can feel himself going soft inside you but he doesn’t dare move, not sure what you need right now and if moving might set you off.

But he doesn’t want to crush you beneath him, either.

“I’m gonna move over, okay?” 

You immediately cling to him even tighter, even clenching around him, worried he’s going to pull out.

“Just so we can lay down,” he rushes to explain, pressing a kiss to your temple. 

He rolls the two of you easily, putting him on his back with you on his chest, holding onto him like a little koala. It’s endearing, really, though it worries him. You’re just so quiet.

Clark fumbles for a blanket and spreads it over your back, his arms caging you against him. He feels your entire body relax, a content sigh leaving your lips as you snuggle even closer.

Your heart is finally slowing down, too, so he takes that as a good sign. You must just be worn out -- who wouldn’t be, after all of that?

He hears your breathing even out and he smiles, trying to crane his neck to get a look at your face, but it’s hard when you have it buried in his neck.

“Are you asleep?” he whispers, though he knows the answer. He rubs slow circles on your back and you shiver just a little, inching closer to him, as if you can get any closer. “Just sleep, honey. I’m right here.”

When you wake up, he’ll have to make sure you rehydrate and eat something. He’ll probably run you a bath, too, just so you can relax your muscles even more.

And then, the two of you can talk. Because he has things he needs to confess, things he really should’ve said to you a long time ago. Then he can plan your first date -- actually plan it out because you deserve the best, especially after today.

You were falling.

No, you were clearly standing upright, but it felt like you were falling. Whenever you looked at him, you felt like the rug was being ripped out from under you.

Him being your boss, Congressman James Barnes. He’s so handsome in a rugged, but polished way. 

Like the white button-up he’s in now. Sure, it’s sophisticated, but he has his grey suit jacket off, draped over the back of his chair. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing a bit of his forearms. A few of his top buttons are undone, leaving an immaculate view of his collarbone. That and his five o’clock shadow leave a perfect mix of rugged and polished.

The scent of his cologne is filling your nostrils—oak, amber, and lavender. It’s making your head spin. You feel crazy. You should not be breathing in your boss’s scent or staring at him like you are now.

Bucky is leaning over his desk, focused on a document. He’s chewing on the end of a pen with a furrowed brow, as if the papers had personally offended him.

You let yourself take him in for a few more seconds before you step into his office. You enter with a soft knock on his door.

”I thought I told you that’s bad for your teeth. And, if you keep scrunching your eyebrows like that, you’ll get wrinkles.” You tease, your voice is light and full of warmth.

Bucky’s eyes shoot up immediately. He gapes at you momentarily before taking the pen out of his mouth and relaxing his face. He snorts and rolls his eyes, but you can see the hint of amusement in his expression. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Always tellin’ me what to do.” 

“Maybe you’ll finally look your age if you get wrinkles.” You bite your lip to suppress a giggle.

Bucky shakes his head, but the corner of his lip lifts. “You’re hilarious.” His tone is laced heavily with sarcasm.

“Thank you,” you bow, your arm over your stomach as you bend. “I’ll be here all week.”

“Not if I fire you.” He tilts his head, smirking.

Your jaw drops in faux shock as you cross the room to his desk. You let out a soft laugh. “Smooth, Barnes.”

He swivels in his chair to face you; it’s evident he’s enjoying the banter. Bucky leans back in his seat, elbow on his armrest with his head propped in his hand. Fuck, he’s sexy.

You gesture to the document on his desk as your face goes serious. “If that’s stressing you out, take a break.”

He waves you off. “Nah, I’m alright. Besides, isn’t that what I’m doin’?” Bucky winks at you. Winks at you! What, is he trying to kill you? 

After a beat, you clear your throat and nervously grin. Bucky motions to you as he speaks. “What’d you need, darlin’?” 

You honestly forgot why you were even here, but you glance down at the packet in your hand, and it all comes flooding back. 

“You’re going to hate me.” Your expression turns apologetic. “But I need you to read this over and sign it.” You sheepishly hand him the packet.

”I could never hate you.” He grabs the papers, and your fingers brush. You feel sparks across your flesh. It’s like tiny fireworks coursing through your veins, threatening to reach your pounding heart. You haven’t let go yet, relishing in the bit of contact. 

You snap out of your daze and release them. Your cheeks warm, and you hope he can’t see the slight flush crawling up your face. You tuck a loose strand of hair that has fallen from your bun behind your ear. 

Bucky’s jaw sets as he places the packet off to the side. He coughs into his fist and locks eyes with you. “Consider it done. I’ll leave it on your desk before I go home.” 

“Perfect!” You force your voice up an octave to distract from your embarrassment. “Sorry, I know you have a lot on your plate.” 

“All good, it’s a part of my job.” 

“Yeah,” You cross your arms over your chest. “But you work too hard. Take a break.”

He arches a brow, trying to keep a straight face, but fails miserably. “Like I said, always tellin’ me what to do.” Bucky huffs air through his nose. “I could say the same for you.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt to deflect your concern. “I work a normal amount, and my break is in five, so don’t worry about me.”

”I’m always worried about you.” Bucky’s voice softens.

You can’t hear anything over your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Does he realize how those words affect you? You could die happy knowing you‘re even a thought on Bucky’s mind.

He sits up in his seat and continues. “When was the last time you went home on time and didn’t stay after hours?”

”I do go home on time.” Your voice squeaks; you’re lying.

Bucky lets out a dry laugh. “You’re not foolin’ me, doll.”

”Fine, if I promise to leave on time, you have to promise you’ll take a break.”

He contemplates your words and then gives you a stiff nod. “Okay, I promise.”

You grin as you stick out your pinky. He stares at you with a perplexed expression. “What’re you doin’?” 

You let out a deep sigh. “Pinky promise me.”

Bucky‘s eyebrows knit together. “I’m not twelve.”

You give him an unimpressed look. ”You’re right, you’re a hundred and something years old. Now give me your damn pinky.” 

He grunts, glaring at the ceiling as if it were the one to make him do this. He eventually concedes and interlocks his pinky with yours. 

Your fingers tingle again at his touch. You feel like a touch-starved puppy who’s finally getting some attention. If only both of his hands were on you, holding you by your waist and pulling you in to put his lips against yours-

You mentally punch yourself, so that thought doesn’t go any further. Maybe you need to get laid. Then, all these feelings for your boss will go away. This relationship is strictly professional, so you might want to find something to keep your mind off the idea of it becoming more. 

You straighten, beaming at him. You pull your hand away and turn on your heels to stride toward the door.

When you exit his office, you grab the handle, ready to close the door behind you. Before you do, you peek your head in. “Have a nice break.”

“Yeah, you too,” Bucky grumbles.

On your way back to your desk, you're grinning from ear to ear like an idiot. This is ridiculous. You need a distraction. You pull your phone out of your blazer and download Tinder.

This should be fun.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bzz. Bzz.

Bucky glances at your phone resting on his desk before refocusing on his laptop to determine where he left off with his email. Just as he gets his train of thought back-

Bzz. Bzz.

He takes a steady breath in and releases it. Why is he upset over a simple notification? He wonders why you didn’t take it with you to the bathroom. Bucky sighs and begins typing away on his laptop again.

Bzz. Bzz.

What the fuck? How many notifications can you get in a minute? He nearly wants to reach over and grab it to see, but he won’t snoop into your business. That’s unprofessional.

Bzz. Bzz.

Bucky groans, rubbing at his eyes as he inclines back in his chair. How can he get any work done with that thing buzzing on his desk? He hears your heels clack against the wood floor as you enter his office.

“You okay, sir?” Your pretty voice drifts through the air like a bird’s song.

Bucky’s gaze darts to you, and he gestures to your phone. “Can you get that thing under control? And I told you, stop calling me that.” His voice comes out harsher than he intended.

You raise your hands in surrender. “I’ll get right to that, grumpy.” 

You grab your phone off the desk, glance at it, and press a button on the side. Then, you slide it into the pocket of your trousers before perching on the seat across from him.

“Fuck,” he grunts under his breath, massaging his temples. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep much last night, but that’s no excuse.”

You shrug and give him a soft smile. “It’s alright, I can handle your grumpy ass.” You motion to your pocket. “I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to silence my phone this morning.”

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Bucky scoots forward, getting back to his email. His fingers are on the keys, but his mind is elsewhere. 

“What was that all about anyway?” He points to your pocket.

You cross one leg over the other, settling into the chair. “Oh, nothing. It’s just this guy I’ve been talking to.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and he has to force his face to remain blank. He shouldn’t be jealous. He’s not jealous. You're his assistant, nothing more. You deserve to have a life outside of work, outside of him. Anyone would be lucky to have you.

Lucky fucking bastard.

“Yeah? What’s his name?” Bucky lightens his tone as if it doesn’t bother him, which it doesn’t. He doesn’t care about his name, but he’ll try for your sake. 

“Uh…Derek.” You mutter.

His posture goes rigid. He attempts to tease you, so you don’t notice. “What’s uh…Derek like?” 

You giggle, and it’s the sweetest sound. Like a soft patter of rain against a window. “I don’t know, I guess he's nice.”

”You guess? Haven’t you been on a date with him yet?” Bucky inquires.

This is entirely unprofessional. He shouldn’t be asking about your relationship status. He’s just trying to get to know you, right? It’s normal for bosses to ask their employees about their lives. 

He doesn’t see you that way, though. He’d much rather label you as his equal. You do as much work as he does, if not more. He knows he could never do this job without you.

You let out a long sigh, drawing him away from his brain's constant back and forth. “No, our first date is tomorrow.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Tomorrow’s the gala, darlin’. I kinda need you there.” 

If you asked for a day off, he would be more than happy to give it to you. However, he wants to be selfish. You are the highlight of his evenings at those damn events. Whenever he feels anxious or overwhelmed by all the rich bastards around him, he seeks comfort in your company.

“I know, that’s why I invited him as my plus one. It completely slipped my mind. I should have asked you earlier this week.”

It’s not the best situation, but you’re still going with him. He hates the thought of you being around another man all night, but he’ll deal with it because it’s necessary. This is a professional relationship, and he has to accept that, even though he wishes it could be something more.

Bucky’s silent, so you continue. “I just didn’t want to be alone all night. I always appreciate it when you come over to check on me, but you shouldn’t have to feel obligated to.” He opens his mouth to interrupt you, but you talk right over him.

“I thought it would be easier this way. You can focus on the political side of things, and I can keep tabs from a distance like we always do, but instead, I’ll have someone to keep me company.” 

You’re rambling, your words spilling out like water from a faucet. You’re bouncing your leg and picking at your nails—clear signs of anxiety. He recognizes these behaviors all too well, although his own anxiety manifests as a silent, gnawing feeling. In contrast, yours feels like a wildfire, all-consuming and intense.

“Doll-” Bucky tries to cut you off, to ease the tension out of your body, but your mouth is moving a mile a minute.

“Gosh, what was I thinking? It’s a dumb idea and entirely unprofessional. I’ll cancel and reschedule our date for another time.” Your gaze has shifted to a point on the wall, as if you’re dissociating. 

He stands up from his chair and drops down to one knee in front of you. You still don’t notice his existence as you keep chatting away.

“It’s not that I hate galas, I like them, but it’s easier around someone. I don’t even have to talk to them just to be near them-” You stop suddenly when Bucky places his hand on your restless leg, halting its movement.

“Hey, darlin’.” Bucky’s voice is gentle, calmly trying to pull you out of your trance. His thumb strokes your knee over the fabric of your pants. Your wide eyes focus on him, and your breathing becomes erratic.

“You’re having a panic attack. Can you breathe with me for a second?” He demonstrates breathing in and then releasing slowly. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it with me now.”

You follow his lead, breathing deeply into your nose and releasing a long breath out of your mouth.

”Good, do that a couple more times with me.” Bucky coaxes. You obey his instruction, slowing your breathing down.

Once he knows that you can breathe easier, he speaks again. “Can you tell me five things you can see?”

”Huh?” You look utterly confused.

”It’s a trick I learned in therapy. Indulge me.” Bucky continues to gently massage your knee with soothing patterns.

You give him a tight nod. Your eyes begin wandering around the room. “Uh…your laptop, that little white cat figurine I bought you—Alpine.”

Bucky snorts; he really loves that figurine. One day, early in his term, you were discussing pets. You asked him if he would ever consider having a pet, and he replied that he couldn’t because he’s too busy. Curious about his preferences, you asked what type of pet he would choose if he had the time, and he mentioned that he liked cats. That’s how the cat figurine came to be. Of course, you were the one who named it.

”That’s two. Give me three more.”

Your attention flicks back to Bucky, and he notices how drained you look. “Your tie has blue stars on it.” 

You lock eyes with him, and a faint smile appears on your lips. "It matches your eyes, though yours are the perfect shade of blue. That color is rare; I don't think I've seen it anywhere else."

Bucky swears that his heart skips a beat. He doesn’t think he’s ever received a compliment quite like that before. He decides he only wants you to compliment him from now on.

He clears his throat when he realizes he stared at you for too long. “One more, doll.”

You lift your gaze again, searching for something in his office. “That dumbass painting.” You point to the wall, and Bucky pivots to see. 

You’re referring to the painting with dogs around a table playing poker. He chuckles, scanning your face as if your thoughts are written there and he’s trying to read them.

“What’s wrong with it?” Bucky sounds offended, but he’s suppressing a smirk.

”It doesn’t fit your aesthetic.”

“My aesthetic?” The word feels foreign on his tongue, as if he were never meant to say it.

You clarify, your hands motioning to the room around you. “Your style.”

He no longer tries to hide his amusement, grinning like you are the most interesting thing in the world. “And, what is my style, doll?”

“Dark, mysterious, clean, and you’re a minimalist.” You express it as though it’s obvious, and he can’t deny your description.

”Huh, I guess I’ll remove it then. I didn’t realize you had such disdain for dogs playin’ poker.”

”I don’t, it’s cute,” you insist. “And, don’t take it down. You put it there, and it’s your office.”

“Nope, it’s already settled.” Bucky rises from his kneeling position with a grunt. “I’m removin’ it. I didn’t put it there anyway. It was here before I became a congressman.”

Bucky grabs the pitcher of water off his desk and pours it into one of the stacked plastic cups beside it. He sits in the chair beside you and hands you the water.

“Drink.” He orders, but his voice is soft.

“Now you’re telling me what to do.” You tease, lifting the cup to your lips and gulping down the refreshing liquid.

He ignores your comment and presses on. “Wanna tell me what happened to make you have a panic attack? Was it somethin’ I said?”

“No,” Your shoulders slump forward as you release a breath. You set the empty cup down on his desk before speaking again. “It was the silence. I immediately thought you were angry with me when you didn’t say anything.”

“Have I given you any reason to believe I’d be mad at you?” It’s a sincere question. You’re the only person he genuinely cares about protecting. If you think he’s upset with you, then he’s not fulfilling his role.

You shake your head, and it instantly puts his worries to rest. Bucky clasps his hands together and continues. “I’m okay with the idea of you bringin’ a plus one, I just wish you had told me-” 

You open your mouth to speak, but Bucky raises a hand to signal that he isn't finished. “I wish you had told me you don’t like being alone.”

You furrow your brow, surprised by his unexpected response. You bite your lip, searching for the right words to express your feelings.

“I’m not your responsibility.” You murmur. There’s no malice behind your words, just a woman who’s done things on your own for far too long and doesn’t want to ask for help.

“No, you’re not.” Bucky begins. “But we’re a team, and if secrets exist between us, this doesn’t work.”

He’s such a hypocrite. He’s holding back vital information from you. Bucky likes you, and no one can pry that knowledge from him. Feelings are fleeting; whatever he feels towards you will fade eventually. Right?

You smile sweetly, your eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s like the sun has entered the room. You’re bright and blinding. You’ll destroy him from the inside out if he looks for too long. 

He doesn’t mind the idea of that, though. He was yours to take apart anyway. How can he move on when you look like that, and you make him feel like this?

“You’re right. No more secrets.”

“Damn right, I’m always right.” His expression is all smug, which prompts you to roll your eyes and giggle, but it seems somewhat frail.

Bucky gets up from his spot. “You should go home. I got it from here.”

You stand to meet his eyes, defiance etched on your face. “No, I’m fine. I was going to help you-”

He cuts you off. "If you want to help me, go home. Get some rest, darlin’. I’ll see you at the gala, and you can introduce me to uh…Derek.”

You snort, shaking your head. “You are not making that a thing.”

“Oh, I’m definitely making that a thing.” Bucky puts his hands on his hips. “Now, go before I fire you.”

You narrow your gaze. “Fine, but you can’t keep threatening to fire me when it’s convenient for you.”

“Nah, I like seein’ the look on your face every time I say it.” His smirk is wide and arrogant. You glare at him in response, and it’s adorable.

He tips his head in the direction of the door. “Do you need a ride home?”

Your expression softens. “No, I’ll manage.” He gives you a stiff nod.

You amble towards the door, but pause, peeking over your shoulder. “Thank you, Barnes. For everything.”

Bucky staggers slightly. He would do anything for you. He doesn’t need a thank you in return, but it sounds too good coming from your lips. He’s staring at you like a damn fool, undoubtedly with hearts in his eyes.

”Of course, doll.” He mumbles. You hum and proceed forward, stepping out of the door and out of Bucky’s view.

As soon as you leave, he flops back down in the chair. He lets out a long sigh, metal hand running down his features. 

How will he manage a whole night with another man's arm around you? 

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You’re leaning against the bar, glass in hand, and patiently waiting. 

No, pacing by the bar and fixing your hair for the tenth time tonight is not what anyone would describe as patience. You have never been a patient person, and you can thank your anxiety for that.

You arrived at the venue about half an hour ago, an hour before the gala even starts. You like to be on time or extremely early. There’s no in between. 

The real reason you arrived early was to meet Derek before the event. You wanted to chat and get acquainted before everyone else arrived. 

He’s late. You would understand if he had sent a quick text saying he would be there soon, but you haven’t received anything in an hour.

You spent the last twenty minutes pacing back and forth. The bartender noticed your nerves and slid a glass of water your way. You’ve been sipping on it while trying to fix your curled strands. This is why you usually wear your hair up—so you don’t have to worry about adjusting it repeatedly. Then there’s your dress, which you keep fussing with.

You wore a navy satin dress with a plunging neckline that revealed just enough cleavage. The back was mostly open, featuring crisscross straps. The dress hugged your curves perfectly and accentuated your figure, making your ass look fantastic. You exuded elegance along with just the right amount of sultriness.

It wasn’t your typical style, and the thought of revealing too much of yourself made you feel insecure. Since you hadn’t been on a date in a while, you decided it was the perfect opportunity to try something bold. Now, you worry that after putting in so much effort, he might end up standing you up.

You continue to drink your water, letting it cool you. You almost wish you had something a bit stronger to ease the tension in your body.

Suddenly, you feel a presence behind you as a warm hand brushes your arm. You quickly turn your head around.

Damn. Congressman Barnes.

He looks like snow cast in shadow under the midnight sky, with the snowflakes illuminated only by the moonlight. He’s wearing a crisp white button-up shirt over a black tuxedo and dark dress pants. Although his bow tie is crooked, it doesn’t matter at all. Bucky wears suits every day, but tonight he looks incredibly handsome with his hair slicked back and his blue eyes shining.

Shit. You’re gawking at him. To distract him from your flustered state, you flash him a wide smile. His warm flesh hand rests gently on your arm, but after a moment, he acknowledges that he is still touching you, and he lets his hand fall away.

Bucky opens and closes his mouth several times before spitting it out. “You look…lovely.” 

Your smile falters slightly, and you feel your breath become heavier in your lungs from that simple word. Sure, he has complimented you before, but this feels different. You can't quite put your finger on why, though.

“Thank you.” Your voice is delicate, and your grin turns genuine, unlike the showy one from before. “You don't look too bad yourself.”

Bucky huffs air out of his nose, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes seem to penetrate your very being, as if he's tearing through your flesh to truly understand every part of you. He knows your most vulnerable sides and didn't flinch. So, what’s the harm in him seeing everything?

You turn your gaze away from his eyes, afraid of losing yourself in them. Your eyes shift to his neck as you take a step forward until you're directly in front of him.

“You look perfect, but can I make one minor adjustment?” 

He gives you a firm nod in response. You extend your arms to grip both sides of his bow tie and adjust it to your liking.

“Great,” Bucky grumbles. “I can’t even dress myself properly.” 

“You did fine, it was just a bit crooked. Sometimes all a man needs is a woman’s touch to look presentable.” There’s a teasing lilt to your tone. 

After adjusting, you rest your hand over the middle of the bow tie. Glancing up into his piercing blues, you realize how close you are.

You swear he’s reading every one of your thoughts as if they’re on full display. It’s intimidating, yet his eyes tell you he’ll treasure them, keeping them tucked away in his mind in a special spot just for you.

His cologne envelops you like a warm hug, drawing you in as if urging you to kiss him. You find yourself captivated by the scent, which clouds your mind and impairs your logical thinking.

Instead, you gently pat him and take a step back, admiring your work. “Now you’re ready for your close-up, Congressman Barnes.”

He shakes his head and playfully rolls his eyes. “Thanks, doll.” He peers around the room. “Where’s uh…Derek?”

You let out a lengthy sigh. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

He looks puzzled, so you clarify, “We were supposed to meet thirty minutes ago, but he hasn’t shown up or even sent a text.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, but releases it as if the tension was never there. “Would you like me to wait with you?”

You wave your hand as if to shoo him away. "No, please, go mingle."

He seems like he might press the issue, but gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Well, as soon as he gets here, I’m givin’ him a piece of my mind for makin’ a pretty girl wait.”

He’s stolen the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping for just a bit of air to keep from suffocating. It feels as if he hasn’t realized that his sweet words are slowly killing you. Then, he walks away as if nothing had happened.

Air rushes into your lungs again, overwhelming you as if it’s choking you. You’re panting like you ran a marathon, yet your feet remain planted in the same spot.

You pull out your phone from your purse and shoot Derek another text.

I’m at the bar whenever you get here.

You need him here now. The whole reason you put yourself out there is to distract your heart from liking someone you can’t be with. And once again, Bucky has turned your world upside down. You must avoid your feelings before they sink their teeth into your vulnerable, beating heart.

Minutes go by, and finally, you see a familiar figure moving around the ballroom. Derek is even more attractive in person. He carries himself with confidence, and his presence fills the space, as if his frame were larger than it actually is.

He is wearing a casual beige polo shirt loosely tucked into mocha-colored trousers, paired with loafers. His dark hair is perfectly coiffed around his eyes, and the sleeves of his shirt fit tightly around his biceps.

It seems he wore it intentionally for that reason, and you don’t mind. You can appreciate some muscle; there’s nothing wrong with showcasing something you worked hard for.

Of course, appearances aren’t everything for you. You matched with him because of his impressive profile. He works as a financial manager, which shows he is skilled with money. He has a dog named Luna, who is a husky. In his free time, he has hosted multiple charity events and volunteers at homeless shelters.

Derek seems like the perfect guy on paper. From your conversations with him, he checks all the right boxes: he’s kind, caring, and communicates well. The only downside is that he left you waiting for almost two hours. However, you believe in not judging someone based on first impressions, so you’re genuinely excited to see how this date unfolds.

You eventually wave him over. “Derek, hey!”

He immediately responds to the sound of your voice, greeting you with an easy smile as he checks you out.

Being examined by an objectively handsome man should elicit some feelings, right? You might expect butterflies in your stomach, your skin to heat, or your heart to skip a beat. But it does nothing for you. Not like when Bucky even glances your way, then your palms become instantly sweaty.

Stop thinking about Bucky and focus on the man approaching you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into a quick hug while you drape your arms around his neck. You might feel rigid in his embrace, like stiff cardboard. As he steps back, you remind yourself to relax and not let your nerves get the better of you.

Derek leans back to get the full view of you up close. “Damn, you’re hotter in person.”

Oh, what an interesting way to start a conversation. You can't help but think of Bucky and how gently he spoke about your appearance, as if it were difficult for him to express what he was seeing in just a few words. In contrast, Derek is quite bold. Perhaps that's a good thing?

”Thank you, you’re very handsome in person.”

He smirks at you like he knows it. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He pushes his hair back and deliberately flexes his arm muscles. “Listen, I’m sorry I’m late. Something came up.”

Well, that’s vague. It’s fine, you’re over it. At least he’s here now.

“All good,” you gesture toward the bar seats. “Would you like to sit?” He nods, climbing onto one of the stools, while you take the one next to him.

“What‘re we drinking?” Derek claps his hands and rubs them together. 

“I’m on the job, so unfortunately, it's just water for me. You can go ahead, it's an open bar.” 

“Come on,” he pokes you in the side. “Just one, I won’t tell anyone.”

You lightly giggle. “No, really, I shouldn’t.”

He rolls his eyes, and he seems annoyed. “You’re no fun.”

Derek turns to the bartender and orders a rum and Coke. Your water is refilled. You turn in your seat, resting your jaw on your hand, and wait for the conversation to flow.

As the night progressed, the date hadn’t. Derek only seemed to want to talk about himself, which would have been fine if he had included you in the conversation. Instead, he spoke right over you and didn't ask about you once.

You nod along and actively listen. He takes full advantage of the open bar while you stay hydrated. He is not at all what you expected and is completely different from the man you texted daily.

There’s a beat of silence, and you take that opportunity to finally get a word in. “I read on your profile that you do charity work. What charity did you last host for?”

Derek shrugs. “No idea, my dad is in charge of all that shit.”

“Huh?” You give him a perplexed expression.

“My dad runs the company where I work and organizes the charity events. Sometimes I don't even bother showing up.” He chuckles as if it’s funny, but you don’t laugh.

You change the topic since he doesn't know anything about it. "What kind of volunteer work do you do at homeless shelters?"

“That was a lie.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “Look, it's tough out here for us men. Sometimes, you have to lie to even get a date with these self-absorbed women.”

You suppress your growing anger. Why would someone lie about that? You feel like you need to make an excuse to run to the bathroom.

Derek leans closer to you. “But you’re different, sweetheart.” His hand wraps around your waist, and you can smell alcohol on his breath.

He presses his mouth to your ear and whispers. “Maybe we can find a private room in this place.” Derek’s hand drifts down your back and he grabs your ass.

Your body tenses up, and you feel extremely uncomfortable. He just squeezed your ass as if he had the right to do so. You hadn’t given any indication that such behavior was acceptable. Even if you had, he should have asked for permission before touching you in that way.

You hardly know each other. You know almost everything about him, but he knows very little about you. You’re trying to lean away from him to breathe air that isn’t his, but he’s holding you close.

You almost convince yourself that this is what you want, but your body rejects the idea. The thought of having sex with him makes you feel physically ill. He’s drunk and would only be using you for his own pleasure, which wouldn’t be enjoyable for you at all. You crave meaningful sex, not a brief distraction to forget about your boss.

Your breathing is shallow, and you begin to shake. You try to speak, but the words won’t come out. Silently, you pray for anyone to come to your rescue. Although you could push him off you, you can’t find the strength; you feel frozen.

Save me, please, you think. You don’t know exactly who you’re pleading to, but you hope someone can somehow hear you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Bucky has been watching you all night, especially when Derek arrived. He was supposed to go over and introduce himself to your date, but he didn't have the courage to do it. 

He’s fine with watching from a distance. He doesn’t have to hear you laugh at Derek’s jokes or look at him with your beautiful, sparkling eyes.

He places himself so that he can catch a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye during every conversation he has with the wealthy assholes. He hardly pays attention to what they are saying because he is concerned about you. While he adds a few remarks to each topic, he isn’t genuinely interested in their responses.

Bucky becomes especially interested in your date when Derek leans in closer. He clenches his fist and grinds his teeth in frustration. He almost looks away, but notices how uncomfortable you appear. Though Bucky is quite a distance away from you, he knows exactly what he saw.

You attempt to pull away from Derek, but he only draws you closer. Meanwhile, Bucky has vanished without a word to the person he was talking to. He moves through the crowd with purpose, as if on a mission that no one can interrupt.

Derek leans back to examine your face, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. Bucky feels a wave of nausea; he can tell you're not interested in Derek's advances because you appear to be panicking internally.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands behind you. Derek eventually lowers his hand, and the tension instantly leaves your body. You glance back at Bucky, and your breathing becomes lighter.

”Can I borrow you for a second?” Bucky nearly grits the words out through his teeth.

“Sure.” You turn in your seat and begin to get off, but Bucky is there with a hand out to help you. You grin in appreciation and use his hand to leap down.

After you’re down, Bucky’s hand falls back to his side. You turn to Derek while motioning towards Bucky. “This is my boss, Congressman Barnes.” You swivel around to Bucky. “Barnes, this is Derek.”

Bucky nods in Derek’s direction but avoids making eye contact. Derek stumbles out of his seat, clearly drunk and struggling to hold his liquor.

“Congressman, it’s an honor to meet you,” Derek slurs as he stands in front of Bucky, extending his hand. “Let me just say, your campaign was inspiring.”

Bucky takes a moment to push down the raging fire crawling up his throat. “Thanks.” He grunts and takes Derek’s outstretched hand with his metal one. His grasp is unyielding, as if one wrong move could snap all the bones in Derek’s hand.

“Shit,” Derek growls as he grimaces in pain. ”Strong grip you have there.”

Bucky grins mischievously as he claps his hand on Derek’s shoulder. "Sorry, sometimes I don't know my own strength." He then releases his hand and steps back, offering his arm to you.

You link your arm with his, resting your hand on his forearm. “I’ll be right back,” you assure your date, but he secretly clutches his hand as if the bones have shattered.

Bucky guides you away, his expression marked by irritation. You glance up at him and squeeze his bicep with your free hand. “What’s wrong, grumpy?”

“Nothing. Why would anything be wrong?” Bucky mutters, keeping his eyes forward, as if you’ll see the reason swimming there if he looks at you.

“I don’t know; you tell me.” You stop, making Bucky halt and glance in your direction. Your eyes show concern. “Are the rich bastards stressing you out?” 

You reach up, placing your thumb on Bucky’s forehead, rubbing out the frown lines between his eyebrows. His eyes flutter closed at the sensation as he lets you melt away the tension with your touch.

You hum and remove your thumb from its spot when you register that all the strain in his forehead is long gone. Bucky peels his eyes open again as he speaks. “What stress, darlin’?”

You giggle, and it lights up the entire room. “I swear it was there a second ago.” You tease, patting his forearm. “What’d you need me for, Barnes?” 

Shit. Bucky didn’t fully consider the consequences; he just wanted to help you escape that uncomfortable situation.

So, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “I need a second opinion. Could you listen in on the conversation? Let me know what’s worthy of my attention.”

“Of course, lead the way.” You answer with warmth in your voice.

Bucky guides you towards a group of people in suits engaged in conversation. You both join the discussion, and Bucky introduces you. You shake a few hands and receive a warm welcome. As the conversation resumes, you actively participate in it.

Bucky is impressed by your enthusiasm for political topics. Words come easily to you, and you have a wealth of knowledge. He always knew you were intelligent, but witnessing you in action is captivating. 

The conversation shifts to more personal matters, including families, properties, and everyone’s golf score. You and Bucky don’t participate in that section of the discussion. 

You angle your mouth to Bucky’s ear and whisper. “I should get back, but let me know if you need anything.”

He doesn’t want you to leave. Things are easier with you around. Bucky can’t let you return to that jerk, who’s drunk and trying to take advantage of you.

Bucky gently grabs your arm before you leave and leads you away from the suits for a private conversation. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

”Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” You respond, trying to avert Bucky’s gaze.

”Darlin’,” He begins. “I saw him touch you.”

You shrug, acting as if it’s no big deal. “That’s typically how things go on dates.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not like that.”

”Please, stay out of it.” Your voice is small, like you don’t want to argue with him right now.

“What if he tries that shit again?” Bucky doesn’t mean to raise his voice at you, but he loathes this situation. He wants more than anything to protect you, even if you're not his to protect.

“Then, I’ll handle it. I’m very capable of doing things myself.” You match his tone, clearly showing that you’re getting upset with him.

He wants to avoid making you angry, so he tries to make his voice sound lighter and more compassionate. “I know you’re capable, but I want you to be safe. I’m not convinced you're safe with him.”

You take a deep, shaky breath, and Bucky sees this as a signal to continue. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but you shouldn't waste your time on him. He disrespected you, and I don’t think he deserves a second chance.”

“Well, I believe everyone deserves a second chance.” You state calmly.

Bucky scoffs. “Not everyone, doll.”

You don’t miss a beat. “You did.”

Bucky's shoulders slump as he reflects on your words. He has always struggled to believe he deserves forgiveness for his past. Although he knows, on some level, that he had no other choice, that doesn't erase the lives he took and the families he destroyed.

Those feelings will never fade, no matter how often he’s told ‘it wasn’t him’. He still has to live with the screams and gore he witnessed with his own hands. When he relives those memories, it’s his hand that is doing the killing, even if it’s dark now instead of the silver one in his nightmares. 

It's not an out-of-body experience where he watches the soldier do his bidding. No, it's all Bucky; that's clear to him. Now, he's questioning his judgment all because of you. With just two simple words and that twinkle in your eye, you convinced him that he deserved a second chance and that he is worthy of the life he’s living now.

How does she do that? That must be a superpower or something.

“Listen,” you begin again. “I appreciate your concern, but please let me do this.”

Bucky’s hand drops from your arm as if he's enchanted. He doesn't want to tell you what to do; God knows he's had enough of that in his lifetime. He shouldn't do that to you either.

“You’re going to give me wrinkles with all this stress you’re puttin’ me through, darlin’.” His gaze narrows at you.

“Aw, you poor thing,” you smirk. “Seriously, please don’t stress. You're first on my contact list, if anything goes wrong.”

First on your contact list? Bucky won’t dwell on that too much, for his own sake. He rolls his eyes, and you chuckle at his disapproval. 

You step towards him and quickly kiss his cheek. Bucky practically melts at the brief contact. As you pull away, your eyes shine with forming tears. “Thank you for always looking out for me. I truly don’t deserve you.”

Bucky is stunned into silence as he stares at you, dumbfounded, as if you just told him the world is falling apart. He wants to say it's the opposite—that he doesn’t deserve you—but the words are stuck in his throat, as if he’s choking on them.

You smile at him as if you can read his thoughts, and one of the tears rolls down your face. You turn and stride away. Before he knows it, the crowd has engulfed you.

There's a sharp pain in his chest. For some reason, he feels like he just lost you. Bucky should have fought harder for you. Although he doesn’t deserve you, he would treat you right.

If it were Bucky instead, he would have a hand on the small of your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, and asking you to dance. He would take his time with you, making you feel like you were something special, because you are special.

Now he has to spend the next hour drifting in and out of meaningless conversations while he worries about you. 

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You wipe the tears from your eyes as you return to the bar. You’ve never felt so deeply cared for in your life, and you refuse to take it for granted. Already, you’re planning ways to show your gratitude to Bucky, making sure he knows how much you appreciate him and everything he has done for you.

You spot Derek still at the bar where you left him. His head is resting in his hand, and it looks like he has switched to water. Sneaking up behind him, you say with a hint of amusement in your tone, “Did you drink them dry of all their alcohol?”

Derek spins around, and upon seeing you, he bursts out laughing. “No, I thought this would help me sober up faster.” He lifts his glass.

You hum in response. Derek jumps down from his stool and faces you. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was out of line. First, I shouldn’t have gotten drunk on a date. Work was frustrating me, and you were making me nervous. I thought the alcohol might help, but I realize now that it only made things worse.”

Derek takes a deep breath. “Second, I talked about myself the whole time. That was not fair to you. I didn’t even ask you anything; I just rambled on and on about shit that doesn’t matter.”

“Third,” he rubs the back of his neck. “The biggest mistake. I shouldn’t have touched you like that. That was highly inappropriate, and I should have asked you before even thinking about it.”

Wow, you weren't expecting that, but you're pleasantly surprised. It doesn’t justify what he did, but at least he’s taking accountability. 

“I think we need a do-over. What do you think?” You offer.

Derek seems relieved by your words. “That sounds great.”

You give him a kind smile. “How about a walk?” 

He glances down at your attire. “In heels?”

You snort. “I’ll take them off.”

“I’ll carry them for you.” He winks at you. You already feel more at ease with this new start.

Derek motions for you to follow him out of the room, and you do. You stroll side by side through the hallway. His fingers gently brush against yours, as if silently asking for permission. You feel warmth in your chest and heat rising in your cheeks.

He pauses by the coat room and motions to it. “I gotta get my jacket quick.” You nod for him to go ahead, and he steps inside. 

You lean against the doorframe as you pull your phone out of your purse. “I should send my boss a text before we leave.” You swiftly type something out and send it to Bucky.

Change of plans, we’re going for a walk. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. You can make me work extra :) 

Derek grabs his leather jacket and throws it on. “I thought you’d never get away from him.”

You put your phone back in your purse, and your brow furrows. “Hmm?”

“I thought he was going to hold you hostage all night.”

“Well, he is kind of my job.” You shrug with a grin on your lips.

“I know that,” Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t get me wrong, he seems like a nice guy, he just asks a lot of you.”

“I don’t think he asks enough of me, honestly. I have the easiest job.” 

He tilts his head. “You don’t think he’s demanding or testy?”

“Not at all. Sure, he sometimes gets grumpy, but I know he means well,” you admit. Derek quirks a brow, then dips his head and shakes it. He stays quiet for a moment.

You press the matter because you're curious. “You seem like you want to say something else.”

“It’s nothing.” Derek waves you off.

“Come on, just say it.” Your tone is playful..

Derek takes a deep breath as he contemplates whether to say what’s on his mind. “I mean, he’s kind of a murderer.”

Your body stiffens, and you frown; you are entirely disgusted by the fact that he said that.

"No, he's not." Your voice is firm and unwavering.

“You’re defending him? I get that you work for him, but you don’t have to follow him blindly.”

You scoff. “Of course, I’m defending him. He was brainwashed for fuck’s sake and he didn’t have a choice. How would you like to be stripped of your choices and used as a weapon?”

Your blood is boiling. Why were you so naive to think that this guy was anything other than a jerk? Derek disrespected you, and now he's doing the same to Bucky. You should have listened to your boss when he advised you not to give this guy another chance.

“You believe that shit? He almost broke my fucking hand, shaking it. That seems like a conscious mind, freely being violent, to me.” Derek shouts.

You could laugh because you weren’t aware that Bucky tried to break his hand. You thought Derek was exaggerating, but now you realize he wasn’t.

You’re finished with this discussion. You need to walk away before you become ‘freely violent.’ You start to march away, but stop and turn around when Derek speaks again.

“Hold on, I see what this is. You follow Barnes around like a lost puppy because you want something from him.”

You let out a dry laugh. You can’t believe you’re still listening to this guy like he has anything relevant to say.

Derek gets closer to you again. “No wait, I got it. You’re trying to get in his pants for a promotion.”

Your heart pounds with anger as you glare at Derek. “Not that I owe you an explanation, but I truly love my job, asshole.”

“No one wants to be an assistant.” 

“Well, this date is over.” You stomp down the hallway, attempting to get some distance from him.

“It’s a shame.” You glance over your shoulder, and he’s giving you a condescending smile. “You would have been a decent fuck.”

Your hands ball into fists tightly, and your fingernails dig into your palms. You shouldn’t even be entertaining Derek, but you yell back anyway. “That’s your problem, huh? You think with your two inch dick rather than your brain.”

You can tell that bothered him. “You’re just mad because I figured you out.” You roll your eyes, and your feet shift forward again. “That’s right. Go cry to your boss and beg him to fuck you.”

You keep moving, unbothered by his shouts. Derek continues, much to your dismay, “I knew you were desperate, but I didn’t realize you were also a slut.”

Your movements falter slightly. Out of everything Derek said, that’s what affects you the most. It feels heavy on your chest. Everything he mentioned about you and Bucky feels like weights tied to your ankles, dragging you down. Your vision blurs as tears prick your eyes.

You hear a door shut in the distance, and you hope that means he’s gone because you can’t hold back your tears any longer. You need to sit down, but the waterfall of tears obstructs your vision. You find a wall to lean against and slowly slide down into a sitting position.

You pull your knees to your chest and sob. Tears stream down your cheeks as you gasp for air in a broken cry.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Change of plans, we’re going for a walk. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. You can make me work extra :) 

Bucky has been standing in the same spot for several minutes, staring at your text. He’s thinking about whether to find you and take you home or stay put like you asked him to.

He struggles to follow your precise instructions; stay out of it. He strides out of the room like a tracking dog following a scent. As soon as he exits the ballroom, he hears it.

Muffled cries fill his ears, and he knows it’s you without even looking. Your back is against the wall, but you’re curled in on yourself. He tentatively steps over to you, so he doesn’t startle you.

“Darlin’?” Bucky’s tone is tender, full of sympathy. He’s never seen you like this, and it breaks his heart.

Your head snaps up from your knees. Your red, tired eyes dart over Bucky’s form. You quickly wipe the tears from your face and force a weak smile.

You point your thumb toward the ballroom. “I’ll be in; I just need a minute.” Your voice is thick with unshed tears.

“No,” he declares as he walks over to you, positioning himself against the wall while maintaining a little distance to give you space. He grabs the fabric of his dress pants at his thighs and adjusts them before sitting down beside you.

Bucky stretches out his legs and lets the quiet settle between you, interrupted only by your sniffles. After a while, he decides to continue his statement. “You’re going to sit with me for as long as you need.”

Once you can breathe clearly and the occasional tear falls, you mumble, “You should have broken his hand.”

Bucky lets out a nervous chuckle. “You saw that?”

“Sort of, but…Derek confirmed my suspicions.” It’s a struggle for you to get his name out as if it’s strangling you from the inside.

He clenches his jaw, furious that Derek hurt you and that Bucky could have prevented it. But then again, you’re stubborn, and he knows you would eventually find a way to return to your date, even if he physically tried to hold you back. Yes, he’s a super soldier, but he doesn’t stand a chance against you when your heart is set on something.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Bucky murmurs.

You shake your head. “Not right now, maybe later.” You wipe a stray tear from your jaw and rest your chin on your knee, examining a point on the opposite wall.

Bucky's heart squeezes in his chest. He doesn't know what to say or do. When he feels pain, he prefers to sit in silence. Maybe that’s what you want, so he chooses not to speak.

You break the stillness with a question. “You know how we said no secrets?”

He nods his head even though your focus isn’t on him. “Yeah.”

You slowly turn your head to meet his gaze. The color of your eyes is dim, and the skin around them is swollen.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Your voice cracks as if there’s a threat of more tears yet to come.

Bucky's throat tightens as he watches you. The sight is like witnessing a butterfly losing its wings yet struggling to stay aloft. You keep falling, desperately pleading for someone to save you from your impending doom. Bucky has been there for you, arms wide open; he’s just waiting for you to notice him.

“Could we do our post-gala recap tonight instead of tomorrow morning?” you ask, sounding uncertain, and his heart shatters.

“Works for me, doll.” Bucky’s lips lift at the corners. You return his smile, albeit smaller. At least he got that much. 

“Damnit,” his eyebrows knit together, deep in thought. “I didn’t bring my keys for the building. I can swing by my apartment-”

You interrupt him. “We can go to your apartment instead.” Your following words tumble out of you like you can’t hold back your growing anxiety. “If that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“That doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all.” He reassures, and your expression softens.

You nod and relax against the wall behind you. “I think I’m going to wait in my car, if that’s alright with you. I don’t feel like being in a crowd.”

Bucky scoffs in amusement; he wouldn't leave you alone in your car, especially not like this. You just admitted that you didn't want to be by yourself.

“No,” he stands up to his full height. You were baffled, staring at him with wide eyes. Your expression read What do you mean ‘no’, but you were hesitant to question his authority.

He offers you his hand and clears up your confusion. “We’re leaving.”

“Now?” You inspect his outstretched hand and then his face.

”Yes, now. You’re ridin’ with me.” 

“But, my car-”

Bucky cuts you off. “I’ll bring you back.” He waves his extended hand around. “Take my damn hand.”

You comply, allowing him to help you to your feet. “Always telling me what to do,” you smirk, and he can't help but chuckle. You brush off invisible dirt from your dress and look up at him.

Fuck, you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, even with your exhausted eyes and tear-stained cheeks. You’re like a sunset, with colors in full vibrancy. Reds and oranges swirl together to create the masterpiece that is you.

“Is there something on my face? Oh shit, did I cry all my mascara off? The packaging said it was waterproof.” You grumble as if you’re furious about your makeup. He can just see you writing a lengthy review about how you bawled your eyes out, and the mascara didn’t hold up.

He shakes his head and chuckles. "No, your mascara is fine." He doesn't know why, but he admits the truth about why he was openly gawking at you: "I was staring because you're beautiful."

You blink multiple times at him, then he notices your cheeks flush. “James, I—I know I look like a wreck. Don’t lie,” you stammer out.

Bucky smirks at the sound of his first name. He rarely hears you call him anything other than ‘Barnes,’ but when you're serious or scolding him, you use ‘James.’ He lives for those moments, just to hear you say his name that way.

He shrugs. "Logically, you should. But you're beautiful, no matter the circumstances."

You’re attempting to suppress a smile, but failing. “You can’t say things like that.”

A charming smirk appears on Bucky’s face. “Why not?”

“Because,” you’re searching for the best answer, “you’re going to give me a big head.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you hold it up.” He winks at you.

Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of red. You playfully roll your eyes and slap his arm. “Are you going to keep flirting, or are you taking me to your apartment?”

Is that what he was doing? Talking to you like this felt so effortless that he didn’t even realize he was flirting. He enjoyed it and wanted to continue. He liked seeing you all flustered—the way you tried to pretend you didn’t like it, but your flushed cheeks gave you away.

Bucky tilts his head. “I can do both. I’m a great multitasker.”

Your lips part and you suck in a breath. Now he’s thinking that little comment he just made could have a double meaning. Maybe he intended it that way because you definitely took it like that. And, damn, now he’ll be thinking about it the whole way home.

“Uh-huh, I bet you are.” You reply in a mocking tone.

Bucky could do this forever with you and never tire of it. However, he knows that this is extremely inappropriate. No matter how much he wants you, he understands he can’t have you.

He wants to be the person who makes you laugh, comforts you on tough days when you're feeling anxious, kisses your shoulder when he wakes up beside you, and holds you in his arms to relieve his stress, as you melt away his tension. He craves all the cheesy, romantic moments that come with being in a relationship with you.

But you are unattainable. You’re his assistant. Bucky feels like all the other creepy political figures who fantasize about being with someone who works for them. They get a sickening power high from it. 

That’s not how he sees it, though. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Unlike the other wealthy assholes who view their employees as mere possessions, he perceives you as something precious that he doesn’t deserve. Perhaps that’s why he believes he can’t have you — because he thinks you’re too good for him.

“Ready, darlin’?”He eventually asks. You nod, still grinning. If he sees you smile like that one more time, he might not be able to stop his common sense from flying out the window.

Bucky offers you his arm, and you wrap yours through the opening, gripping his bicep as he leads you out of the building. He calls for the car to come around and helps you into it, placing a protective hand over your head to prevent you from bumping it.

Once he knows you’re safely inside, he squeezes his eyes shut and wills the feelings within him to stop burrowing into his heart. It’s like a festering wound he can never quite be free of. 

One hell of a wish that is. He’ll never get rid of these maddening feelings for you.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The car ride to Bucky’s apartment is mostly quiet, which is fine with you because your mind is keeping you thoroughly entertained.

Congressman James Barnes was flirting, and he was flirting with you. He called you beautiful and meant it, even when your face was streaked with dried tears. He winked at you, and you felt your stomach flutter instantly.

You were foolish to think one date would erase these feelings, because now that you know him, no man will ever compare. You’ll constantly hold everyone to the standard set by Bucky.

Bucky's driver approaches his apartment building, which appears to be quite expensive based on its exterior. You know that this apartment was provided to him by the government upon his return to the States; it was part of the deal for his pardon. He received a nice apartment situated high enough that no one would disturb him, but the government was keeping a close eye on him.

It made you feel nauseous just thinking about it, even though he wasn’t being monitored closely at the moment. It was absurd that he had been under constant surveillance in a home he never chose. Hydra had taken away all of Bucky’s choices, so why couldn't he even decide something as simple as where he lives?

You open the door to get out, but you hear another door slam, causing you to stop. Then, Bucky jogs around the car to stand in front of you with his hand out. Ever the gentleman.

You smile and take his human hand to help you out of the car. His metal hand rests gently atop your head again as you exit. You feel like a princess with this kind of treatment.

Bucky subtly waves to his driver as the car pulls away. He then guides you inside, takes you to the elevator, and directs you down the hall to his apartment.

Once inside, you were surprised by how charming and modern it was. It wasn't at all what you had imagined, but you liked it.

“Make yourself at home.” Bucky passes you and wanders into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water, please,” you murmur, still taking in your surroundings. You take off your heels at the door, not to be polite, but because your feet are killing you.

You pad into the kitchen after him, and he’s putting ice in a glass. The kitchen is bright white with a splash of color. There’s an island with stools lined up along it, and that’s where you decide to ‘make yourself at home’.

You lift yourself onto the stool, and Bucky slides your water glass over the counter. You nod in thanks and take a sip. He then disappears down the hallway that you’re certain leads to his room.

He returns without his tuxedo jacket, bowtie, and shoes. His collar is unbuttoned, and he's rolling up his sleeves as he rounds the island to sit beside you. Every time you see him like this, you can't help but internally freak out.

You nearly choke on your water, and he’s there with a hand gently patting you on the back. “You okay there?”

“Of course, just drank it too fast.” You nervously smile, hoping he misses your lie. Bucky drops his hand when you stop coughing.

You need to change the subject because you have to stop thinking about how dreamy he looks. “Where would you like to start?” 

You take your purse from your shoulder and place it on the surface to dig for your phone. “I don’t have my laptop, but I can write your thoughts down on my notes app and transfer them to a document later.”

He shakes his head and grabs your wrist, pausing your action. “We can do that tomorrow. Relax, talk to me.”

You glance up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. Breathing feels pointless because you can't seem to exhale. His eyes are shifting in a way that makes it seem like his smoky blue gaze conveys something entirely different from what his mouth is saying, but you're struggling to understand their message.

He releases your wrist, and you come back to reality. You set your purse off to the side as you inhale oxygen properly again. “What do you want me to say?”

“What happened?” Bucky mumbles. He doesn’t want to pressure you if you’re not ready to talk.

You take a deep breath and begin to explain. “When I returned to the bar, he had sobered up a bit and apologized to me. I foolishly believed he was genuinely sorry and asked if he would like to start over.”

You let your eyes fall away from him, examining the drops of condensation running down your glass. “But, then, he insulted you, and that apology didn’t mean anything anymore.”

Bucky nods slowly. “What’d he say?” You shake your head, unable to tell him the vile words bouncing around in your skull.

”It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” He insists.

You meet his gaze once more, and your eyes begin to well up with tears. Not out of pity for him, but because it pains you to hear someone speak negatively about your favorite person. The most heartbreaking part is that the worst of it comes from his own mind.

Hydra is long gone, but now he is torturing himself. You wish you could take away all that pain and those awful thoughts, replacing them with something pure.

From your experience, you understand that the healing process is a slow journey. It requires time and energy to rebuild your mental and emotional state and regain a sense of humanity. You want to be the person he trusts enough to share that process with.

Bucky doesn’t need fixing because he wasn’t broken to begin with; he needs someone to confide in and rely on. You want to be that person who’s there for him through it all, just as he is for you.

“That’s the problem. You don’t deserve that.” Your voice quivers slightly. 

He scans your face like he’s trying to find the lie hidden in your features, but he won’t find one.

“Okay,” he lets out a long sigh. “You’re right.”

“Absolutely, I am.” You agree matter-of-factly, then deepen your voice to impersonate Bucky: “I’m always right.”

He scoffs. “I don’t sound like that.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender. ”I know, I’m working on it.”

Bucky smirks, shaking his head as if trying not to laugh. His expression becomes serious again. “What else did he say?”

You wave him off. “It’s not important.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving you a disapproving look. You roll your eyes and say, “Why do you need to know?”

He shrugs. “For research purposes.” 

You purse your lips, but eventually concede. “He suggested that I was trying to…get in your pants for a promotion.” 

His jaw ticks, but you reluctantly carry on. “On top of that, he called me desperate and a slut, so truly the highlight of my week.” You release a dry laugh.

Bucky’s jaw is clenched so tightly that it seems he might break a tooth. His hands are balled into fists, and the raging fire in his eyes is unmistakable.

”Don’t.” You warn.

“What?” He grits his teeth.

“Don’t get mad. He’s not worth the energy.”

“Not mad.” He growls. You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow, and he proceeds. “I’m fucking pissed.”

“Well, I’m over it, you should be too-”

Bucky interrupts you. “Hold on, I’m plotting his murder in my mind.” His eyes squeeze shut for a second, and you stifle a giggle. “Okay, now I’m at the part where I hide the body.”

You playfully slap his arm, and his eyes shoot open, amusement evident on his face. “Are you making me an accomplice to your imaginary crimes?” you tease.

“Who said imaginary?” He smirks. You laugh, and your eyes crinkle at the corners. You shouldn’t find planning a murder comical, but it feels nice to laugh again.

After a beat of silence, Bucky speaks. “Can I ask why you went back to him?”

Your smile fades as you lean forward, resting your elbow on the surface in front of you and propping your head in your hand. "If this is your way of saying 'I told you so,' just save it. I already know I was being stupid."

“That’s not-” he blurts, but cuts himself off to start over. “I just wanna know. And, you’re not stupid, don’t say that.”

You swallow hard, trying to gather your thoughts before revealing yourself to him. "I haven't been on a date in a couple of years, and I had a lot riding on this one. I know it sounds naive, but I thought it would be a one-and-done situation."

You chew on the skin of your bottom lip. "When he touched me, I thought I was the one with the problem. I believed there was something mentally wrong with me for not wanting him. But I was just making excuses for him, as I always do for horrible men who don't deserve my mercy."

Bucky’s eyes are fixed on you, intently listening and absorbing every word. This support is something you didn’t realize you needed, but it’s helping tremendously, and you hope he understands that.

You sit up a little taller in your seat, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you as you open up to him. “I tried dating before, and it was terrible—one bad date after another. I made a silent vow to myself that the next guy I met, I would settle for, because I’m tired of coming home alone. I want love, and if that makes me desperate, so be it.”

You give him a weak smile as you finish your rambling. You avert your gaze and start glancing around the kitchen, suddenly embarrassed.

“Look at me,” he orders in a soft voice. You find his eyes again, and they’re earnest. “Never settle, darlin’. You are something special, and you deserve nothing less than perfect.”

You're looking at him as if he has cleared your cloudy sky and made the sun shine brighter. You don't know how to react or what to say. Your heart is pounding against your rib cage, as if it's trying to escape.

Bucky clears his throat and hops off the stool. He veers around the island and picks up an old-fashioned radio that you notice for the first time.

“What are you doing?” you mumble. He turns the dial, and the crackle of the radio fills the air. The noise fades as he finds the station he was searching for. Right away, you recognize that the music is from the forties, instantly bringing a smile to your lips.

“I found a station that still plays music from my era some time ago. I listen to it occasionally, and it takes me back.” A broad smile lights up your face as you notice his relaxed demeanor, as if the mere sound of the music puts him at ease. 

Bucky rounds the counter again, standing in front of you. He offers you his flesh hand with a charming smirk. You tilt your head. “What?”

He nods to his hand. “I’m showing you how a real date should go.” 

Your stomach does somersaults and you bite your lip. “Are you smooth-talking me, Barnes?”

“Maybe, is it working?” His voice is deep and suave.

“You know it is.”

He extends his hand further. “Dance with me.” 

You take his hand, and he helps you down. He leads you to an open space between the kitchen and the living room.

He grabs your arm with his metal hand and places it on his shoulder. Slowly, he lowers his hand from your arm to grip your waist, sending a shiver down your spine. With your hands still interlocked, he raises his elbow and points outward.

“I should probably tell you, I don’t know how to dance.” You mutter.

“Do I have the honor of being your first dance?” His expression is marked by feigned shock.

You giggle and roll your eyes. “Yes.”

His face softens. “Don’t worry. I’ll lead, you follow. We’ll start slow.” 

You nod, and he sees this as a chance to begin. “Watch my feet and mimic my movements.”

You glance down between your bodies, and he takes a step back. You take a step forward, then he side steps, and you follow. You register that it’s your turn to take a step back, and he takes a step forward—another side step in the opposite direction, and you find yourselves back where you started.

“Good, you’re a natural.” Bucky sounds pleased, which brings a grin to your face.

He repeats his actions while you follow, and you watch his feet several more times until you feel confident in your understanding.

Your gaze returns to his, and the expression in his eyes is undeniably captivating. This moment feels like much more than a simple dance. You search your mind for a topic to discuss, hoping to avoid getting lost in the music and giving in to the urge to kiss him.

“Do you like being here?” The question runs out of your mouth.

Bucky’s taken aback by your sudden inquiry. He gives you a perplexed expression. “You mean this apartment?”

“Yeah, this apartment. Brooklyn. I know you lived here, but Brooklyn has changed a lot since the forties.”

“Oh, definitely, but I still enjoy living here.” He answers with a shrug. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.” You resume your thought. “Don’t get me wrong; it's a lovely space, but do you see yourself living somewhere else?”

Bucky hums, lost in thought. “Yeah, I do. I want a house away from everything—somewhere without the noise of traffic, surrounded by nature like I had in Wakanda. Maybe I’ll finally get that cat.” He pinches your side, and you let out a snort.

You release a lengthy sigh. “And, I’ll be long gone.” You’re teasing, but there’s some truth to your words.

He shakes his head, clearly offended by your assumption. “That’s not how I see it.”

“Well, if you’re talking about settling down, you won’t be in politics anymore, and I won’t be your assistant.” You clarify.

His eyebrows knit together. “You don’t want to stay friends?” 

“Yeah, I do.” You squeak.

“Why’d you say it like that?” Bucky presses, and he’s caught you in a lie.

Your heart is racing now. Are you really about to tell him how you feel? You can’t imagine a future without him in it, but if you remain just friends for the rest of your life, it might break you.

You open and close your mouth before spitting it out. “Because I want to be more than just your friend.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, and his jaw clenches. His metal fingers twitch on your waist, causing more chills to run through your body. He scrutinizes you as if you had said something obscene.

You part your lips to interrupt his thoughts. As soon as you do, his attention shifts to your open mouth. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip as his gaze traces the outline of your mouth.

“Fuck,” He grunts. “I wanna kiss you so bad.”

You must've forgotten you were still dancing, as you're tripping over your feet. You recover, getting back into the rhythm of the movements, but your mind feels like it's short-circuiting.

“Th-then,” you stutter, “kiss me.”

“It’s a bad idea.” His tone is serious, though a soft smile plays on his lips.

You contemplate this for a moment. He’s right; your situation is complicated, and kissing your boss would be a bad idea. Yet, you can’t find it within yourself to care.

“Maybe, but you tend to have many of those.” You quip, smirking.

Bucky huffs air through his nose as if it’s funny, but when he speaks, his voice is firm. “No, I mean, it’s a terrible idea.”

You scoff, lightly hitting his shoulder where your hand rests. “That’s not making me feel any better, James.”

His smile fades, and his eyes darken. He looks as if he’s been longing for you, and now that he has permission to have you, he’s still contemplating the situation.

He comes to a sudden stop, causing you to halt your footwork as well. He still hasn’t released his grip on you, almost as if he physically can’t. You hear a deep, frustrated sound coming from his throat, indicating that he's angry with himself.

“Fuck it,” Bucky grumbles. 

Before you can fully register what he’s doing, he pulls you in by your waist and crashes his lips against yours. You gasp, and he swallows the sound. His lips bruise yours with a desperate intensity, as though he’s starved, and you’re the only one who can satisfy his hunger.

You reach out and cup the back of his neck with your palm. His hand falls away from yours as he grips the side of your neck, right under your jaw. With your hand now free, you run your fingers along his back, drawing him closer. Your bodies fit together perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle.

His tongue glides along your bottom lip before invading your mouth. It explores every crevice like he’s committing your mouth to memory. You swirl your tongue around his and moan into the kiss.

Bucky shifts his weight, struggling to find his footing, as if the sound alone weakened his knees. His tongue retreats, tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth before he pulls away completely.

Your eyes flutter open, and you find him studying you intently as you both try to catch your breath. His fingers gently brush against your rosy cheeks and swollen lips. He sweeps your hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear.

“We need to stop.” His voice is strained, as if the words are forced from his throat.

“Why?” You breathe.

He closes his eyes as if he can’t bear to see you in this state, flushed and desperate for more of him. “If we continue, I won’t be able to hold back.”

You smooth the loose strands that hang in his eyes back to their original place. “Don’t hold back.” Your tone is low and sultry.

Bucky's eyes fly open, breathing hard through his nose. His metal arm envelops your torso, pulling you close until you feel him, thick and hard against your lower stomach.

“Darlin’,” he drawls. “Do you feel what you do to me?”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, and your eyes dart between his features, unsure of where to focus because you desire all of him. Your hand travels down the smooth expanse of his chest, feeling the quick thump of his heart beneath your fingertips. You grasp the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until you're only inches apart from his lips.

“Yes,” you murmur against his mouth. “Now, shall we continue, or do you have any more objections?”

He releases a shaky breath against your lips and shakes his head. You must’ve stolen his ability to speak. “Fantastic,” you whisper.

You lean in to kiss him again, this time more slowly. Your lips brush against each other gently, savoring the moment. You relish the soft curve of his mouth, the way his stubble tickles your delicate skin, and the feel of his nose nudging against your cheek.

Your tongue delves into his mouth uninvited, but he welcomes it with a satisfied hum. Now it’s your turn to explore his mouth with your tongue. You don’t get an adequate exploration because his tongue is sliding against yours, making it hard to focus on anything but his taste.

His warm hand slips into your hair, gently tugging at the roots to intensify the kiss. You whimper into his mouth, and suddenly, it feels like a switch has flipped. The kiss quickly becomes heated, as if your mouths are battling for dominance.

You unclasp your fist from his shirt as both of your hands move to the buttons of his dress shirt. One by one, you start to undo them. Once you’ve finished, he removes his hands from you and shrugs the shirt off. You hear the light fabric drop to the floor, and his hands quickly return to their previous positions.

Bucky begins to step forward, pushing you backward while your hands explore the firm contours of his chest and stomach. Your calves bump against something soft, and you realize it's the couch. You break the kiss, but his lips follow yours as if he's not finished savoring you.

“Sit.” You coax.

His eyelids flip up to reveal dilated, icy eyes. He inclines back and smirks. “Always tellin’ me what to do.” 

He sits down reluctantly with a huff. You back away from the couch, taking a moment to admire the view. As you scan his shirtless body, you notice the defined muscles. The black metal of his arm glimmers under the dim light.

You reach behind you to pull at the navy ties on your back as he proceeds to complain from his seat. “Y’know, this is my apartment.” 

The ties give way, and you start to slide the thin straps down your shoulders. “I feel like I should be tellin’-” Bucky stops himself as the material of the dress cascades down your body, pooling at your feet. You’re completely naked save for the steel blue panties you're wearing.

“What were you saying?” You poke fun at his stunned expression.

He swallows hard as he observes the angles and curves of your form. "It's irrelevant."

You giggle, warm and breathy. You hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties. “Should I take these off, too?”

“No,” he blurts. “Keep ‘em on.”

You let go of the band, relaxing your hands at your sides. Bucky stretches out his arm and beckons you closer. “Come here.”

You saunter over to him. Once you’re close enough, he grips your hip with his metal hand. His cold touch sends shivers down your body. You sink onto the couch, positioning your knees on either side of him as you straddle his thighs. 

His flesh hand drags along the length of your figure, fingertips ghosting over you like he’s touching petals on a flower. “You’re stunning, doll.”

Your heart skips a beat at the compliment. Bucky’s eyes shift from your body to gaze up at you, and you cup his cheek. Your thumb strokes his skin, and he leans into your touch.

“Me?” You mutter. “You are perfect.”

His lips curl as he tilts his head up to peck your jaw in gratitude. When he leans back, his head dips to examine your panties again, his fingers toying with the waistband as he bites his lip.

“Do you know why I bought these?” you ask sheepishly. He shakes his head, his gaze still fixed on the steel blue fabric. “They reminded me of your eyes.”

Bucky looks up suddenly at your confession. "You're tryin’ to kill me, aren't you?"

You tilt your head back and chuckle. When you glance down again, he pokes your side. “That’s not funny! I swear, you’re going to give me a heart attack. You can’t just say that and expect me to stay calm,” he scolds, but you can’t help but keep laughing.

You tip your head forward and trail kisses from his cheek to his ear. “Sorry, baby. I wouldn’t want your heart to give out,” you whisper.

As you lean close to his ear, you gently nibble on his earlobe, and he lets out a soft grunt in response. You begin to kiss your way down his neck, focusing on the spots that elicit the strongest reactions from him. Your tongue flicks out to taste his skin, and you feel him shiver beneath you.

Bucky’s metal fingers press into your hip, as if he’s struggling to resist the urge to take you right here and now. His other hand lightly traces the wet spot on your underwear, making you groan against his neck.

“Hmm…you’re soaked,” he announces as he applies more pressure to your pussy. Your hips jerk when his fingertips move in circular motions on your underwear clad clit. 

You place lazy kisses along the area where metal touches skin. It's too hard to do anything beyond that now, as your head spins from his actions. You lean your forehead against the cool metal, finding a soothing comfort in it.

“There you go, just relax for me.” His voice is raspy as he speaks in your ear. 

He moves your panties to the side, running his fingers through your slick folds. Bucky slides a single digit into your entrance and you suck in a breath. He languidly pumps his finger into you while gently kissing your shoulder.

Your warm, heavy breathing against his chest quickens as he increases his pace. He inserts another one, stroking your walls with his long fingers. You let out a throaty moan and reach up to clutch his metal bicep to ground yourself.

You tip your head back to see him as he thrusts his fingers deeply into you. A delighted sound escapes your lips as his fingers crook deliciously inside of you. You grind against the palm of his hand as he works at your core.

“That’s it. Take what you need, darlin’.” He encourages.

You tilt his chin up and press your lips to his in a passionate kiss. He responds with equal enthusiasm as his fingers expertly plunge further and faster. Lips connect roughly as his teeth graze your bottom lip to nip at it. Your mouth separates from his, and your hot breath brushes across his lips. 

“I—I want to ride you.” You pant.

His fingers falter as he processes your comment. He inspects you as if he can’t believe you’re real. His metal fingers brush against your collarbone to tuck your hair back.

“Shit,” Bucky mutters, awestruck by you. “If that’s what you want.” 

He gradually reduces his pleasing movements as you nod your head in agreement. His fingers slip out of you, and when he holds them up, they’re glistening with your juices. He puts the digits to his mouth and wraps his lips around them, sucking them clean.

Your jaw drops at the sight; it’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen. You didn’t realize he could turn you on even more than you already are. 

He takes his fingers out of his mouth with a hum. “You taste divine. I would eat you out, but I guess we’ll save that for another time.” He states with a wink.

You aren't sure you can get off the couch now because your knees feel weak and your stomach is a fluttering mess.

He snaps the band of your underwear, pulling you from your daze. “How ‘bout you take these off for me while I take off my pants, sound good?”

You clamber off the couch as Bucky starts to unfasten his belt. You watch him intently while your thumbs hook into your panties. Sliding them down your thighs, you realize you’re both observing one another getting undressed.

You step out of your underwear and toss them somewhere in the living room. You hear him grunt from his seat now that you are completely bare.

He lifts his hips off the sofa and tugs his pants and boxers down the length of his thighs. You watch his cock spring free and your mouth begins to water. You want to drop to your knees for him, but the thought of him inside you is too tempting to resist.

Bucky tears the fabric from his legs and mimics your actions by tossing it across the room. He reaches out and holds you by your hips, then leans down to place soft kisses on your waist. He pulls you closer, and you both settle back into your spot on the couch.

His dick rests against his stomach, hardened and demanding. You take him firmly in your grasp and he sucks air through his teeth. You pump him a few times, spreading the precum with your thumb.

Your core is throbbing with anticipation. You decide you need him now. You position yourself over him, swiping the head of his cock through your slick. You line up his tip with your entrance, teasing it.

Bucky glances up at you with pleading eyes, and his grip on your hips is almost bruising. “Please, darlin’. I need to feel you.”

You didn’t know how beautiful begging could sound, but hearing it from his sweet lips is like silk blanketing your ears. “I know, honey. I need you too.” 

His eyes soften at the nickname. You’ll save that knowledge for later. 

You don’t waste any more time. You grab his shoulder with your free hand in preparation. Slowly, you lower yourself onto him as if you have all the time in the world, wanting to memorize every second of this moment.

He releases a strangled moan as his body goes rigid beneath you. He’s stretching out your tight pussy luxuriously as you inch down his cock. You maintain eye contact with him, observing the way his face twists in pleasure.

You settle onto his thighs, and he bottoms out inside you. You feel incredibly full, it’s a sensation you could easily get addicted to. As you take your time to adjust to his sheer size, you brush your knuckles across his cheekbone.

“You feel so good.” You praise. “Where have you been all my life?”

Bucky’s flesh hand loosens on your hip to take your wrist and kiss your palm. “Right here. I’ve been waiting for you.”

You lean in, kissing him desperately because you’re already addicted to him and can’t get enough. Your lips move tenderly against his, pouring every ounce of adoration you feel for him.

You ease up on his cock, moaning into each other's mouth. You fall back down, his dick filling you once more. You maintain a steady pace up and down on him, using his shoulder as leverage.

He breaks the kiss, allowing his hand to wander into your hair. He gently tugs on the strands at the base of your scalp to angle your head upwards. His mouth finds your neck like a magnet, kissing and licking the soft flesh.

Your hips roll at the pace of his languid kisses on your neck. Your greedy pussy is taking every delectable inch of him, drawing him in deep. Bucky groans against your throat, sending vibrations through you.

He caresses his way down your body, letting your hair fall as he trails his fingers over your thigh. Your hips pick up speed, riding him quicker. His forehead rests against your chest due to the sudden change of pace.

“Doll-” he drawls. “You feel incredible.”

Bucky licks a line up your sternum as his metal hand glides up your side. His touch is feather-light on your breast, a cool sensation sweeping over your nipple. His mouth moves to place wet, open-mouthed kisses along the opposite breast. 

He eventually finds your nipple with his mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. He latches onto it, sucking and swirling his tongue around it. You arch into him, a lewd noise escaping your parted lips.

He palms at the other breast, massaging and swiping his thumb over the delicate skin. The pleasure you’re feeling from his skilled tongue only spurs you on, and it drives you to ride him faster, harder, and deeper.

He grunts and bites your nipple. Your mind feels overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. Has sex always been this magical? Not for you, at least. 

Bucky is the missing piece you’ve been searching for, not just because of the sex, but because of everything he brings to your life. The sex is incredible because he is incredible. It’s that simple.

“Just like that. Fuck—you’re doing so good.” He mumbles in between kisses as he trails over to your opposite breast. His metal hand moves back to your hip to help guide your movements.

He backs away from your chest when he knows he’s given equal attention to each of your breasts. He concentrates on your face, observing the way your lips part and the sounds that flow from them.

His fingers dig into your thigh as he begins to massage it. Bucky kneads the pliable skin, moving up and down the flesh until he’s squeezing your ass. With the leverage he has, he bucks up into you with the same rhythm you set. 

Your voice breaks into a guttural moan as he pulls you down forcefully onto his cock. You continue to match his tempo, but your hip movements are becoming more erratic.

“Let me take over, darlin’.” He groans. “I wanna make you feel good.”

How did you get so lucky to have a man who is more concerned about your pleasure? He makes it his mission to satisfy your every need; you just have to allow him to do so.

You softly smile. “I think you underestimate what your cock is doing to me.”

“Well, let me make you feel even better,” Bucky reiterates. You nod in response and stop your actions.

“Good girl,” he rasps. He scoots to the edge of the couch while still fully inside you. Carefully, he positions your legs to wrap around his hips, and his metal arm covers your torso. Then, he effortlessly picks you up as if you weigh nothing and begins moving across the apartment.

You cling to him, though you know he would never let you fall. He steps into his room and gingerly sets you down on the end of the bed. Leaning over you, he kisses the tip of your nose, causing you to giggle.

“You didn’t want to fuck me on your couch?” You tease.

“No,” he lowers his mouth to your ear and growls, “because you’re not some random hook up.”

Bucky punctuates that statement by slamming his dick into you. You whine and squirm beneath him. He inclines back and clutches your hips, thrusting into you at an unrelenting pace. You throw your head back against the mattress because he was right, this is even better.

He’s touching parts inside of you that you never knew existed. Your legs tighten around him as you reach for his neck, craving the sensation of him beneath your fingertips. His gaze is locked on you, and his eyes sparkle with a desperate desire to please you.

“Tell me how that feels, doll.” 

“Fucking fantastic.” You breathe, your lungs are working overtime, as he effortlessly drains the oxygen from your chest.

A ghost of a smile appears on his lips; that's exactly what he wanted to hear. Bucky's hand moves down to the underside of your knee. He takes hold of it and lifts it up, so your knee presses into your side. Finding the angle he desired, he pushes into you with renewed purpose.

You arch your back, and you wail when he hits that sweet spot deep inside of you. The head of his cock pounds against your g-spot repeatedly, reducing you to a writhing and whimpering mess.

He’s bringing you to the edge, and it’s happening quickly. The pressure is rising within you like a tidal wave, and you feel like you might drown in it. Your senses seem heightened, and Bucky is surrounding you, integrating himself into every one of them.

“James–” His name feels like a prayer on your lips.

“I know you’re close, pretty girl. Let me get you there.” His metal hand reaches between your bodies and his thumb rubs tight circles into your clit. 

Your cunt instantly clamps down on his dick and you moan loudly. You were already close, but now you’re teetering on the edge. Your free hand fists the sheets, and your thighs begin to shake.

“I’ve got you, darlin’. Let go. I’ll be right behind you.” His words drift over you like steam rising from a hot spring, warm and enticing.

Your body obeys immediately, your orgasm hitting you like a tsunami. The pressure coiled in your stomach releases and your pussy clenches hard around him in waves. You scream out in a breathless cry, your grip tightening on his neck as you tug him closer.

You’re a shuddering, aching mess under him. Your eyes are sewn shut, and you feel as though you’re floating. A wave of euphoria washes over you, leaving you high on the sensation.

Bucky presses his forehead to yours, whispering your name like a mantra. He grabs both your hips again, as if afraid you'll slip away.

His cock proceeds to ram into your pulsating cunt, working you through your climax until he’s twitching inside you. His cum spills deeply into you with a low groan from his lips. He’s coating your walls and warming your core with the thick liquid.

His hips come to a stop, and his head rests in the crook of your neck. Bucky wraps his arms around you in a tight hug. You lazily fold your arms over him, holding him as if you never want to let go. He nuzzles into your hair, inhaling your scent. You gently scratch his upper back, relishing the intimacy of the moment.

“You’re unbelievable.” He mutters right below your ear. “You’re real, right? This isn’t a dream?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yes, I’m very real, honey.” You kiss his shoulder softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky hums contentedly and leans back, gently slipping out of you. “Good.”

He strolls away from the bed and into the bathroom, turning on the light. You prop yourself up on your elbows to see what he’s doing. The sound of running water becomes audible, though you can’t see it.

He returns with a damp washcloth and completes his thought. “I’m holding you hostage.”

You’re smiling broadly. “I don’t believe this is a hostage situation if I’m here willingly.”

“Are you sure you don’t already have Stockholm syndrome?” he asks, a smirk on his face.

You chuckle and shake your head as he moves closer. He opens your legs and steps between them to wipe down your inner thighs, gently gliding his hand over your dripping cunt.

The sight gives you a warm feeling, knowing this isn’t the last time Bucky will take care of you. “Well, aren’t you the king of aftercare?” you joke.

“I can't leave my pretty girl in a mess, especially since I'm the one who made it.” Once he's finished, he tosses the dirty rag into his hamper and lies down beside you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you close into his embrace.

You hum in contentment, burying your head into his chest. “I have a sneaky suspicion this won’t be the only mess we make tonight.”

Bucky squeezes you, running his hand through your hair to cradle your head. “I think you read my mind.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The door clicks softly behind Bucky as he treads carefully through the hall. His heavy boots thud against the floor, so he decides to take them off at the door to avoid waking you from sleep.

He changes out of his tactical gear and puts on a pair of sleep shorts. Gingerly, he moves the blanket aside to crawl in beside you. You are facing the opposite direction, and your light breathing indicates that you are still asleep.

Bucky wraps his arms around you and kisses your shoulder, unable to help himself. You stir slightly, resting your arms over his and melting into him. 

“Where’d you go?” Your sleepy voice breaks the quiet.

His chest warms at the adorable sound as he whispers against your neck, “I had some business to take care of.”

You hum and snuggle into the pillow, settling back into a relaxed state. Suddenly, your head pops up, and you peek over your shoulder at him. “James, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Bucky retorts.

You let out a heavy sigh; it's clear you know he's lying. You kick off the covers and hop out of bed, moving toward his closet. He ogles your naked form; fuck, he wants to take you again.

You grab a random shirt from a hanger and slip it on. Turning to face him, you cross your arms over your chest with a blank expression. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”

It's as if you see right through him. One glance into his eyes reveals exactly where he's been and what he's done.

“What? I’m fine. Come back to bed.” He pats the spot next to him.

You narrow your gaze at him, and your expression says it all: you don’t want to make me mad, James.

“Okay, okay.” Bucky points to the bathroom. “Cabinet. Top shelf.”

You practically stomp to the bathroom. He hears the sound of you rummaging around, and you exit with the opened first-aid kit in hand. You set it on his nightstand and search through it.

“Sit up,” you command in a surprisingly authoritative tone.

He smirks and does as you instructed him. “Always tellin-”

You hold up a finger, stopping him. “Not the time.”

“Don’t be upset.” He mutters.

Your shoulders, once tense, relax as you shake your head. “I’m not upset.” Your voice is softer and more gentle now.

“Then what’s wrong, doll?” Of course, he knows what’s bothering you, but he doesn’t seem to want to admit it. You haven’t seen this side of him; he’s afraid that because you have, you might leave.

“You paid Derek a visit, didn’t you?”

Bucky nods stiffly. “I did.”

You rub your forehead with your thumb and pointer finger. “Do I have to help you hide a body?”

“No.” He states simply.

You let your hand fall to your side now that you have confirmation that no murders occurred tonight. You point to his bloody and bruised knuckles and say, "If your hand is any indication, you beat the shit out of him."

“He got what he deserved. I actually let him off easy,” he grumbles, wishing he had done more to the bastard. He didn't use his metal arm; that was an act of mercy. Now he's regretting that decision.

“That’s not the point.” You release a long breath. “What if someone saw? Or worse, what if he talks? Your job could be in jeopardy.” You give him a worried expression.

“No one saw, and I doubt he’ll be saying much, if anything at all.” Bucky’s mind drifts back to the condition he left Derek in. His face was swollen, bloody, and bruised. Yup, he won’t be talking for a while; I made sure of that.

“Not helping.” You scold.

"Listen, nothing is more important than you. I would gladly lose my job if it meant keeping you safe." Your expression softens at his words, and he continues, knowing he has your full attention. “That asshole doesn’t get to speak to you like that, and get off scot-free.”

Bucky adjusts his tone to be light and caring as he takes your hand in both of his—flesh and metal. “I will always protect you. You never have to doubt that.” 

After a beat of silence, your lips curve into a smile. “Okay.”

He quirks a brow. “Okay? That’s it, no more arguing?”

“What’s there to argue about?” You shrug. “Like you said, the asshole got what he deserved.”

He returns your sweet grin and kisses your hand gently before letting it go. You bite your lip and turn around to search in the medical kit. Grabbing an antiseptic wipe, you extend your hand toward him. "Now, let me clean you up, honey."

“Yes, ma'am.” He offers his hand willingly. You clean the blood from his knuckles, scrubbing deep into the grooves between his fingers.

“Did Derek at least cry?” you inquire, tilting your head as you examine his wounds.

“Like a baby,” he replies. You snort as you toss the dirty wipe into his trash can. Taking out some ointment from the kit, you apply it to the sores on his skin. He doesn't really need it since he’s a super soldier with rapid healing, but he lets you do it anyway because he appreciates the way you care for him.

“He apologized, by the way,” he adds. “At least, I think he did. I couldn’t understand him through all the blood in his mouth.”

"Bucky," you scoff, but then you break into laughter. "That's awful."

He wants to laugh with you, but is caught off guard when you call him by his nickname. He’s never heard you say it before, and it sounds so pleasant to him. You put away the ointment, and then he grabs your wrist. You whip your head around to meet his gaze.

“Say that again.” His voice is low and rough.

You furrow your brows in confusion but then understand his meaning, and your expression softens.

“Oh,” you shift to face him, your voice becoming seductive and breathy. “Bucky.”

He basically melts; his lips part, and all his muscles loosen up. “Again. Slower. I like the way it sounds.”

You giggle and gently cup his face in your hands, obeying his request. “Bucky…” You lean down and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. His eyes flutter closed; he believes he has died and gone to heaven, with you as the angel welcoming him at the pearly gates.

You lean back, and he looks up at you with hooded eyes. “Alright, my hero,” you murmur. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Bucky's face is etched with amusement as you utter the words ‘my hero’. He has never been called that, nor has he felt like much of a hero anyway. But honestly, that word wouldn’t matter if it came from anyone else because he only ever wants to save you.

Laptop propped on your thighs, your delicate fingers danced across keys. The click-clack of the keyboard filled the room like a broken melody. Only the bedside lamp and your screen illuminated the space, giving your skin a subtle glow.

Luckily, it was Thursday, and tomorrow was your day off. However, you figured it was better to get ahead of your work schedule before Halloween, because come the weekend, you'd be heavily distracted.

You had been invited to a few parties this year—some from your close friends, others from work friends. And you were dragging your boyfriend along.

Bucky was reluctant at first; he hated large crowds, but with a bit of convincing on your end (finally letting him cum after edging him for hours), he agreed.

So, it was off to search for costumes after that. He grabbed the first thing he saw—a police uniform, and practically sprinted to the front of the store to check out. He wasn't as into the dressing-up part as you were, so you went along with it and picked out an inmate costume to match.

You heard a clatter, followed by a string of curses from the bathroom. "Buck?" you called out.

A few more sounds of rummaging around came from beyond the door before he answered with a sigh, "Yeah, baby?"

"You doing okay in there?" you asked, setting your laptop on the side table so you could swing your legs over the side of the bed.

"Yeah," he grumbled. "Just tryin' on my costume."

You hummed, sitting up a little straighter. "Ooh, can I see?"

"I dunno, it looks…ridiculous on me," he mumbled, no doubt scanning his reflection in the mirror.

You shook your head, though he couldn't see you. "Just get your cute ass out here. I'll be the judge of that."

A huff came from the other side of the door, then the knob eventually turned. He stepped out of the bathroom, head low as he adjusted his leather jacket.

Your breath got caught in your throat, eyes trailing down the length of his figure. A crisp white button-up was tucked into his jeans, a badge clipped to the waistband. The collar of the dress shirt was loose, a couple of buttons undone, exposing the line of his clavicle. He had a holster positioned on his belt, which held a gun. On the other side, a pair of cheap handcuffs hung off his belt loop.

You were gawking, jaw slightly unhinged and eyes lidded. His arms outstretched at his sides, palms facing upwards as he tried to discern your expression.

"Well," he pressed. You didn't say anything, still stunned by his appearance.

His shoulders slumped, and his hands got more animated as he added, "Fuckin' knew I looked like an idiot. 'M just gonna wear black, and call myself a shadow or the grim reaper or some shit."

You were quick to cut in after that. "No, no," you swallowed hard, trying to regain your composure.

"You look…good," you finally managed, and your voice dipped into something sultry. You rose from the bed with a subtle squeak from the loss of you. Sauntering over to where he stood, your eyes gleamed with a simmering seduction.

Bucky visibly froze, not expecting a simple costume to elicit such a reaction. Your eyes raked over him once again, tucking your lip between your teeth, placing your hands on the spot where his chest strained against the cotton material.

"Officer Sexy, reporting for duty," you purred, fingers gliding across toned muscles. They twitched under your touch, rippling under the pads of your fingers like tiny waves.

You noticed a flush crawl up his neck at the compliment. He always seemed to turn sheepish whenever you admired his appearance, but that only made you want to do it that much more.

He snorted, shaking his head. A smirk altered his expression, turning embarrassment to a rising confidence. "You like it then?"

"Like it?" You parroted. "Buck, I want to jump your bones."

His smile widened, dipping his head to lock his darkening eyes with you. "Yeah?" He brought his metal hand up to snake under your shirt. You shivered, icy-cool plating sliding up your torso, evoking a chill on your warmed skin.

"You turned on, sweetheart? What is it, the uniform, or what I can do to you while wearin' it?" he whispered, voice husky as he lowered his face to be inches from yours.

You gazed up through your lashes, fingers trailing beside the buttons that begged to be ripped open. "A little of both," you muttered, tone laced in syrupy honey. Your digits drifted lower and lower until they gingerly dragged over the half hard-on that was faintly making an appearance behind the denim.

His jaw ticked; he hated being teased, especially when you made it your mission to hear those sweet whimpers falling from his lips in breathy gasps. You cupped him over his jeans, never enough to provide any real pleasure. Still, he let a huff of air out of his flaring nostrils.

You granted him more pressure, rubbing the heel of your palm over his bulge. You could feel him grow under your touch, even if it was only teasing strokes. His hand gripped your waist in a desperate attempt to stay in control. Your other hand reached up to slowly undo his belt as you continued your ministrations on his denim-clad cock, ignoring the way his desire-clouded eyes bore into you.

But he snatched your wrist before you could even try to get the leather free from its buckle. "That's not how this is gonna go," he growled, jaw tight.

You tilted your head with a smug look flickering across your features. Your other hand remained on his dick, still massaging the outline of him. "Oh, Officer, tell me how this is going to go." Your tone was sickly saccharine, as if you wanted to set him off on purpose.

He seized your jaw with his metal hand, forcing your gaze upward. All the light was snuffed out in his irises; only a dominance remained in those inky eyes. "You're gonna be a good girl and listen to what I tell ya," he seethed, and there was no room for argument.

You wanted to misbehave, give him a run for his money, but that look in his eyes told you it was time to obey. So, you did. You dropped your hand away from his dick and fluttered your eyelashes innocently, although you were far from that.

Bucky's lips lifted into a wicked grin at your eagerness to heed his words. "You dunno how to keep your hands to yourself, do you?" he observed, but he wasn't waiting for an answer. He walked you backwards, metal hand still tight around your jaw, not enough to harm, but to hold you in place as he pinned you with his sharp gaze.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and he shoved you, causing you to fall to the bed with a creak. You propped yourself up on your elbows, but he snatched your waist and shifted you higher with little effort. He grabbed your wrists, positioning them above your head.

"Don't think I can trust you to keep 'em to yourself," he murmured, collecting the pair of handcuffs that dangled from his belt loop. He clicked the steel around your wrist, the curve digging into your flesh as he did it. You gasped at the sudden realization that these weren't some flimsy plastic pair; they were real.

He chuckled darkly at your reaction as he moved the other cuff around the bedpost and clamped that one down on your other wrist. "If 'm bein' honest, I've had this planned for a while. Your body at my disposal without those hands gettin' in my way."

Your head spun; this wasn't the version of your boyfriend you were familiar with. If he did have power over you, he'd usually be gentle, but he wasn't worried about being careful with you now. He was ready to bend you, break you, until you knew exactly who you belonged to.

In your year of dating, he hadn't shown you a kinky side. If he did, it was on the lighter side. But now, he wasn't afraid to show you just the kind of things he was into. You couldn't deny that it was arousing watching the passion flare in his eyes like a raging fire.

He inclined back, admiring his handiwork and just how delicious you looked bound to the bed for him. You tested the strength of the handcuffs, the chain between them pulling taut. He hummed, a low condescending sound emanating from deep in his chest.

"Poor thing, can't go anywhere. You're all mine, aren't you?" he said, hands grazing up your bare legs until his fingertips traced the hem of your sleep shorts. He gripped your inner thighs, spreading you open.

"What's this?" he inquired, thumb tracing over the damp spot on the material. Your cheeks heated with embarrassment. It wasn't the fact that you were soaked. It never took much to get you that wet around him, but it was the way his eyes pierced through your very being, like he might ruin you from the inside out.

"So wet, my love, and I've barely touched you. You like when 'm in control, huh? When I make you bend to my will." He caressed the damp spot with his flesh hand, finger pads sliding over your clit. You jerked your hips, your breath coming out in quick pants.

"Yeah," you breathed as heat swirled in your lower stomach. His touch was soft, but his gaze was so intense that every brush of his fingers felt overwhelming, as if your senses were heightened.

"'M sorry, what was that? Didn't hear you," he taunted, still giving you the slightest pressure as his digits moved in languid circles over the silk that hid your clit.

"Yes," you repeated.

"Yes, what?" His voice lowered into a gravelly tone.

"Yes, sir," the title rolled off your tongue as if you'd said it a thousand times. He smiled down at you, metal hand outstretched to tuck a hair behind your ear.

"There she is. There's my good girl," he commended. Calloused fingers traced along the waistband of your shorts, thumbs dipping below the fabric to slip them down your legs.

Once they were off, he was gripping the backs of your thighs and pushing them up to press against your stomach. You were exposed, cunt spread as he stared down at the slick that glistened in the dim lighting.

"Fuck, this pussy's beggin' to be ate, isn't she?" he grunted, and you nodded frantically. You were throbbing in anticipation for any pleasure he might give you, and he looked hungry. A craving for you flickered across steel blue eyes, making your skin tingle.

He licked his bottom lip before he spoke. "Gonna give her what she needs. You gotta be good for me, though. Want those pretty eyes on me the whole time. If you look away, I stop. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," you responded eagerly.

He hummed in approval. He glanced down at your aching cunt again, his mouth twitching. Then, a string of saliva was dripping past the seam of his lips and landing between your spread thighs. His spit flowed down the length of your pussy, coating you in a piece of him like a brand.

That's when Bucky dropped to his knees with a soft thud against the wood flooring. With the leverage he had on your thighs, he swiveled you to he edge of the bed, your ass practically hanging off. He lowered his mouth to your pleading cunt, tongue darting out in his slow approach.

He flattened his tongue and licked through your folds, from hole to clit. You gasped at the contact, stomach clenching when he pressed more firmly into you.

"Always taste so fuckin' good, sweetheart," he muttered, shoving your thighs flat against your stomach so that he could gain more access to you. He dove in again, tongue sweeping through you before he was giving you little kitten licks to your sensitive bud.

You whined, balling your hands into fists as you tugged at your restraints. He lapped at your juices before sucking your clit into his mouth. His lips wrapped around you, tongue swirling and flicking at the bundle of nerves.

You were a goner; mewling as he dipped down to tongue at your entrance and back up to lather your clit with his tongue. He worked expertly at your wet heat, tongue prodding into your hole as he devoured you.

"Buck," you whimpered, squirming beneath him. With the way you were chained to the bed and your legs above your head, you couldn't go very far. Not that you wanted to go anywhere, it was just too much too quickly. Your nails dug into your palms as he ate you out, trying to hold yourself together and take the immense pleasure he was giving you.

He locked eyes with you—a wolf feasting on his prey without any sign of relenting. His tongue was a heavy presence on your pussy as he tilted his chin down to bury his face further into you.

Your toes curled above you, the thrill of his actions settling deep within your gut and twisting like a dagger. He was worshipping you with his mouth—you, an altar for him to kneel at as he glorified you with his tongue.

You were wailing, the sounds of your enjoyment were like an amplified speaker—your moans a sweet symphony that filled the space. And your boyfriend was loving every minute of it. He groaned into your cunt, a buzz that made your stomach flex with the new feeling it brought.

"S-so close, baby," you warned, the pleasure rising sharp and quick.

He moved back up, giving your clit a hard suck before releasing it with a soft pop. He pulled back, and you were able to get the full view of his salt and pepper scruff smeared with your arousal. You whined as he just watched you. You wiggled your hips, your need taking over your form.

"Why did you stop?" you complained.

"Oh, were you gonna cum? Don't remember givin' you permission to do that," he was patronizing you with that cocky smirk stretching across his lips. He wanted you to know he had complete control over everything, your orgasm included.

"Please," you begged, a desperate edge to your voice. "Please, let me cum. I've been good."

"Oh, I know you have. Just takin' what I give you, huh?" He moved his hands away from your thighs, and they dropped, dangling off the side of the mattress. "But now, that smart mouth is movin'. You think I wanna hear you bitch 'bout not lettin' you cum?"

He never talked to you like that; your normally gentle, respectful boyfriend was asserting his dominance. He was showing you that he wouldn't let your spoiled behavior slide without chastising you.

"I'm sorry," you said weakly. Your body was jittery from the loss of pleasure, but you tried to remain still to hopefully stay in his good graces.

He let out a heavy sigh, pushing up to stand. He grasped your ankles and planted them on the edge of the bed, keeping you open for him.

"You wanna make it up to me?" he questioned, tilting his head. You dipped your chin in acknowledgement, too tense to answer using words. "Just stay like that. Wanna try somethin' on you."

He reached down, fingers encasing the gun strapped to his hip. He pulled it out, silver glinting as he held it in his palm. Your body froze, joints locking up as he scanned the weapon. You knew he would never hurt you, but that didn't stop your heart from racing.

Bucky eventually leveled his gaze at you, watching the way your chest heaved. "Scared, sweetheart?" Maybe it was the way he said it so calmly, but you found solace in the way he looked at you while holding the gun. So, you shook your head; that restless sensation in your body suddenly felt like elation.

"Good," he drawled. "You know I would never hurt my pretty girl." He clutched the pistol tightly as he moved it down, inching closer to your weeping cunt. You watched with bated breath, eyes wide as the muzzle nudged your entrance.

He placed his metal hand on your knee, thumb sweeping over your kneecap in comfort. "Just relax for me," he coaxed in a smooth tone.

Pushing forward, your hole stretched at the intrusion. You moaned, biting your lip as rough steel entered your plush walls.

"Atta girl, let me feed it to her. There ya go," he praised as the barrel slid in steadily. It felt wrong; your body was rejecting it with the way your pussy clamped down on the foreign object. Your breath came out in whiny pants as he shoved it in fully, the trigger guard pushing up against your opening.

Your cunt flexed around it, attempting to adjust to it, but it was like you physically couldn't. You felt every jagged edge and hard line of the gun. You took a stabilizing breath, trying to breathe through the pain.

The weapon glided out, elevating some of the pressure. He forced it back in unhurriedly as if he had all the time in the world. You were gasping for breath, jaw clenched in a silent scream.

"Shh, I got you, baby. Breathe for me," he cooed as he drove the barrel back in leisurely. You tried to obey, you really did, but your head was spinning as it prodded your walls.

Your head fell back, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to regain some semblance of reality, but your mind continued to slip.

You were snapped right back to the present as a hand came down, slapping your pussy. You jolted forward, your eyes shooting open at the sharp sting he sent to your swollen clit. Your wrists wrenched against the cuffs, and the steel dug into your delicate flesh. You screeched, loud and tremulous—your voice sounding thin, as your thighs closed on instinct.

Bucky swiftly pushed your knees apart as he murmured, "Eyes down here, remember? Gotta watch what I'm doin' to you."

You gave him pleading eyes as the gun proceeded to plunge into your quivering cunt. He transferred his metal hand from your knee to your chin, gripping it between his thumb and forefinger.

He tilted your head down, forcing your gaze to land on your slick folds and how the weapon disappeared between them. "Look how good she's takin' it. Such a perfect pussy," he praised.

Your walls finally seemed to accommodate the unfamiliar device as his words washed over you like rippling waves licking at the sand. You let out a sweet sound from the back of your throat as the pain bled into pleasure.

"That's my pretty girl. Give in to it, baby. Lemme hear you," he rambled, loosening his grasp on your chin to brush a metal-plated knuckle over your cheekbone.

You crooned, arching your back as the arousal built once again, but this time it was spreading like wildfire. Your orgasm was within arm's reach; you could feel the way it infiltrated your body.

"Buck, please," you implored. "Please let me cum."

He let a low buzz escape him, lips twitching into a grin. Then, he slowed down his movement, keeping you right on that edge. "Not yet, my love. Hold it for me," he instructed.

You whined, but you didn't argue with him. You were too impatient for a release that you weren't going to risk him edging you again, so you kept your mouth closed.

The weapon skimmed through you at a measured glide. There was no build-up anymore, just a sizzling pressure lingering in the pit of your stomach. Each press of the gun through your walls elicited another whimper. Your muscles were stiff from the suspense of your climax, and being denied of it twice now.

Bucky's non-human hand came down to your stomach, securing you to the bed as his thumb dipped down to rub sensual circles into your bundle of nerves. Your pussy squeezed around the pistol, crying out in despair. Tears pricked your eyes, vision blurring as the coil within the confines of your gut expanded, threatening to explode.

He picked up his pace, propelling the weapon forward rapidly. The tears fell over your lower lashline like a dam breaking, the salty water coming down in hot streams down your cheeks. You tried to hold out for him, but it was becoming more difficult with every slight motion.

"I-I can't, baby, please," you pleaded with him once more.

"Go on," he enticed with the simple rasp in his tone. "Cum for me, sweetheart."

The knot in your stomach unfurled as soon as you received his permission. You sobbed as your cunt fluttered around the barrel. Your orgasm shattered your body, your figure trembling as your climax dispersed in crashing waves.

Bucky fucked you through it, gun prodding into you as his thumb repeatedly rubbed into your clit. You were writhing around, sheets tangling around your feet as they kicked and skittered off the edge of the bed.

Your form went limp, thighs shuddering as your head lulled to the side. He finally ceased his pleasing movements. He pulled the gun from your gushing hole. He tilted the weapon this way and that, watching the new gleam shift under the light from your juices covering it.

"Fuck," he droned. "Look at the mess you made."

Your eyes were hooded, trying your darndest to keep them somewhat open. He stepped between your spread knees, hovering over you. He lowered the pistol just above your mouth. "Open f' me," he commanded.

With how exhausted you were, you only managed to part your lips slightly. He maneuvered the muzzle between them, shoving it into the cave of your mouth. You enveloped the steel with your lips before he even said anything.

"Be a good girl, and suck it clean f' me," he purred, face inching closer to yours. You did what he asked of you, sucking off your own slick from the barrel. "Get all of it. Hmm, that's it, pretty girl."

He drew it from your lips, a thread of saliva still connecting you to the weapon. He slipped it back into its holster before moving up to the head of the bed. You heard a jingle as he freed a set of keys from his pocket. He slid one of them into the lock with a click as the cuffs loosened from your sore wrists.

Bucky interlocked his hand with yours, bringing your red wrists to his mouth to kiss the ache away. You smiled weakly at the kind gesture, gazing up at him with a warmth in your eyes.

"Sorry, did I go too rough?" he asked, and just like that, his control clattered to the ground. His expression softened as he trailed kisses onto your opposite wrist.

You shook your head, hands reaching up to grab at his leather collar and lure him in. "That was so fucking hot, Buck," you whispered before capturing his lips in a tender kiss. He sighed against your mouth while his lips brushed yours.

He hummed, inclining back as he broke the kiss. "Well, we're not done yet."

Shifting onto the bed, the mattress dipped under his weight. He moved between your legs, leaning over you. He clasped the sides of his jacket, attempting to shrug it off, but you stopped him.

"Leave it on," you muttered.

"Oh, now you're givin' out demands, huh?" he teased, setting the leather back into place. Instead of the leather of his jacket, his hands fell to the leather of his belt. The clank of metal announced the buckle's removal. He unbuttoned his jeans, yanking them down his thighs unceremoniously.

His angry, red-tipped cock came into view as he slid it through your center, gathering your juices onto his shaft. You sucked in air, hands outstretched to clutch his shoulders. He held onto your hip with his metal hand as his other one lined himself up with your still pulsating pussy.

He pressed into you, the head stretching you out even further than the gun did. You let out a throaty moan as he surged forward without warning. He was buried to the hilt, and wasn't giving you any time to get used to his girth. Bucky thrusted deeply into you, causing you to tilt your head back and wail.

He shushed you, seeking out a way to calm you softly. "You can take it. Know you can, baby." His dick rammed into you, pounding you into the bed below.

You keened, your back bowing as he hit your sweet spot over and over, finding it easily. Sometimes you wondered if he knew your body better than you did, with how his tip bumped against your G-spot like a compass pointing homeward.

His flesh hand drifted up your side, tracing over the swell of your tit. His palm came up, seizing your breast. He squeezed and massaged it through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. Your nipple perked, poking into cotton. His thumb flicked over it, watching the way your mouth opened in a silent groan.

His hips meet yours in a kiss of skin against skin. The erotic noises of your soaked pussy and the sounds of pleasure poured out into the bedroom and beyond; you wouldn't be surprised if the neighbors heard you.

"Shit," he grunted. "I don't think 'm gonna last. Almost came seein' the way you were takin' my gun earlier."

Your cunt compressed around his cock like a vice as another orgasm hovered over you. Your skin erupted in goosebumps as you came with a broken cry. It hit you so fast, your vision went white, and you swore you saw stars twinkling in your vision.

"Oh my- fuck-" he hissed through his teeth. With a couple more sloppy jerks of his hips, he spilled into you. Warmth spread out along your clenched walls as he prolonged his own climax, giving you shallow thrusts. He was still spurting cum as he slowed to a stop, your combined release leaking out from the edges of your cunt.

You were still on a euphoric high when he lowered his weight onto you, taking a moment to catch his breath. Bucky nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, nose nudging at your skin as he breathed in your scent. "Did so good f' me," he commended.

After a few minutes of quiet, you eventually spoke, even if your words came out as a frail string of words. "Holy shit, you should get promoted to sheriff."

He chuckled into your neck, his body vibrating above you. "I dunno if I can wear this thing anymore. Some kinda demon took over me," he admitted.

"I liked it," you mumbled. "I want Officer Sexy to fuck me from now on."

He snorted, raising his head to place a lingering kiss on your cheek, then leaned back to take in your expression. "Yeah? We'll see 'bout that, my love."

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Main Masterlist

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Bucktober Masterlist ⋆⭒˚.⋆

A late Saturday night. The wind whistled just outside with an eerie tonality. It was quiet, relaxing, despite the spine-chilling sounds that the television produced. A bright, flashing light illuminated the space, the TV giving your skin a soft glow in the dim living room.

No one vacated the Avengers' compound besides you, Bucky, and Steve. Being newer to the team meant training relentlessly—a couple of uninterrupted weeks of working your ass off to prove yourself. And, of course, the two Avengers were assigned to instruct you, along with a few others, but they were long gone on the weekends.

The weekends meant everything to you; it was a cause for rest that your body craved. It was also an excuse to get close to the two whom you'd considered your friends. Though you knew them long before your introduction into the team, it was still nice to get alone time with them once in a while. They were happy to indulge you during your break because of how hard you worked early in the week.

You were sprawled on the couch across the two like a lap dog. Your head was a gentle weight on Bucky's thigh as your legs draped over Steve's knees—your favorite position.

It was your idea to watch a movie together. You suggested Scream, one, because Halloween was right around the corner, and two, because you hadn't watched it in some time.

Bucky and Steve knew better than to argue with you about your pick, so they shut their mouths. They grabbed a bucket of buttery popcorn and plopped down on the sofa like a pair of loyal companions. Snuggling up to you with a navy blanket, they cloaked you with their warmth.

Calloused fingers danced in your hair as you watched the movie. Bucky was keen on playing with your hair; it gave him solace. He was nervous about touching you before, when he was still shedding the Winter Soldier from his fragmented form. But now, he couldn't keep his hands off you, even if he tried.

Some days, it was his arm just lightly grazing yours or his head resting on your shoulder. But others—the harder days—his touch was firmer.

Like when he would come up from behind you and wrap his strong arms around your middle or his metal hand gripping your upper thigh—that would inevitably lead to a heat pooling in your lower stomach. You didn't dare comment on that, though.

You also found comfort in his touch, as well as Steve's. His warm hands had found your feet under the blanket, gently massaging them. His thumbs dug into the heel of your foot, clearing the tension from your muscles.

It was the part of the film where Billy and Stu revealed themselves as the killer, one of your favorite scenes. The intense buildup all leading to this satisfying betrayal.

Billy was licking off the fake blood from his fingers, causing your thighs to squeeze together. It was such a simple action, but the way he was looking at Sidney as he did it was a surprising turn on.

You bit your lip to hide the smile spreading across your face. This was supposed to perturb you with how sick the two men were, but it had the complete opposite effect.

"Whatcha doin', darlin'?" Bucky's voice came, raspy and laced with a teasing lilt. Almost as if he had uncovered a secret, and he wasn't hesitant to spill it to anyone who might listen.

Your head jerked upward, locking eyes with him. He had a Cheshire smile plastered on his face. That damn smirk, you thought.

"What's that lip doin' between your teeth?" he added, flesh hand drifting down to free it with his pointer finger. His touch lingered, dragging it slowly over your bite-swollen bottom lip before pulling away.

Steve turned, glancing down at you with a just as wide grin. "Huh, I think she's turned on, Buck?" He pinched your thigh, eliciting a squeak from your lips.

You swallowed hard, heart racing. They caught you red-handed, and there was no way out of this one. "I-I-" you stuttered, not quite knowing what to say.

"Oh, definitely. She can't even defend herself," Bucky agreed.

Your embarrassment faded, turning to a sharp anger clawing at your rib cage. You balled your hand into a fist, lightly punching Bucky in the gut.

He feigned a pained grunt. "Hey, he's the one who said it," He exclaimed, pointing at the blonde beside him.

You wiggled your foot from Steve's grasp, hitting him weakly in the stomach. "You're both assholes," you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest like a spoiled child.

Steve snorted, squeezing your knee. "Sorry, pretty girl. Didn't mean to make you mad. It's just-" he cut himself off, tilting his head thoughtfully.

You leaned forward slightly. "It's what?"

He shrugged, "I didn't realize you were into that. The, y'know," he gestured to the television, "dark thing."

You rolled your eyes, embarrassment creeping back in. "Can we just watch the damn movie?" you grumbled, gaze focusing back on the screen.

You saw Steve shake his head out of the corner of your eye. "It's not a jab, just an observation."

You ignored him, nuzzling your head back into Bucky's thigh and watching the way Billy and Stu crowded themselves around Sidney. That feeling in your stomach resurfaced as you imagined yourself in the woman's place.

Steve sighed, but dropped the subject altogether. Bucky's hand was back in your hair, but this time it felt less like it was for himself and more to soothe you. The rest of the night was uneventful as you finished out the movie in the super soldier's laps.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The next morning came and went in a flash; the dark of the night seeping into your walls once more. You hadn't seen either of your other temporary housemates. It was strange. You contemplated whether you had scared them off with the revelation of your darker side.

It wasn't like you were on your knees begging for it; it was just some fantasy that lay dormant in your skull. It was never about the men on screen, but the idea—a man chasing you in light of his hunger for you. However, the film expanded on that idea, turning one man into two. And having two bodies under you as they touched your figure made your head spin with too many ideas. So, really, it was their fault.

But now you were waiting in the kitchen, a fork pushing around food gone cold. The prongs poked at the mashed potatoes on your porcelain plate.

You were independent. You didn't need someone around all the time, but at the same time, you hated the feeling of being alone. It crept into your very bones and settled into you like a form of deterioration. So, the empty compound felt like an echoing chasm, so still, you could hear a pin drop.

As if on cue, you heard a noise from downstairs—a loud crash, like two symbols coming together. You stood from your seat, the legs of the chair screeching against the floor tiles, and wobbling before correcting itself. "Hello?" You shouted. "Steve? Bucky? Is that you?"

No answer, just a tapping followed by a long scrape. You shivered; you really shouldn't have suggested that movie if you're this on edge. You stalked forward, your bare feet padding through the kitchen like you're playing a game of "the floor is lava".

You peeked around the corner, checking the downward flight of stairs. You took each step one at a time. The metal whined with every motion of your tiptoes, like it was greeting whomever was the other occupant in the facility. Almost as if the stairs themselves were saying, she's trying to be quiet, but she's doing a shitty job.

Once you reached the bottom, your head swiveled this way and that, but there was no one in sight. You shrugged to yourself, turning. Maybe you were crazy after all, hearing things that weren't actually there. You made your way back upstairs, head lowered, so you wouldn't miss a step and fall on your ass.

Then, you glanced up only for a split second. Your heart dropped into your stomach. A dark, cloaked form was hovering over the stairs. And the fucking cherry on top of the sundae, they were wearing the same mask you saw last night on the flickering screen—the Ghostface mask.

Your eyes widened in horror, your hand gripping the railing so tightly that you thought the metal might snap. Before you could even fully process, your feet were moving again. You skipped several steps, descending them like a cheetah. You honestly couldn't believe your speed. You instantly heard the sound of heavy boots hitting each step with a force. As if you thought you couldn't get any quicker, you picked up your pace.

You whipped around the corner, heading straight for the door, when you stopped dead in your tracks—a second form, veiled in midnight, and the same white, contrasting mask. You glanced down, rapidly spotting the silver gleam in this one's hand. A knife, black handled and pointed steel, shining from the outside bulb. Was this a sick joke, or were you getting murdered tonight? It was as if all your training flew out the window, and you stood there in shock.

A scream escaped you, sharp and loud. It split through the calm of the night like a bullet. Booming footsteps came from behind you. You glanced over your shoulder, spotting the first Ghostface now standing with a wide stance and tilted head. You were surrounded. Your chest heaved, but not just from the exertion of your short race, but from this utterly fucked situation you found yourself in.

You darted to the side, changing your strategy and running towards the only other exit. You heard rather than saw the two of them follow after you. You kept your eyes forward, not wanting to lose all the distance you gained.

You could hear their breathing from behind you, but it wasn't as heavy as yours. It was steady and measured, as if the chase didn't faze them. You made it to the door, jiggling the handle. Your first couple of attempts were unsuccessful as the door wouldn't open. Your shaking hands were your own personal hell as your sweat-slick palms slipped from the knob repeatedly. You eventually found purchase, swinging it open. You couldn't help but spare a single glance back. The two dark figures were slow in their approach, as if they were taunting you, making it seem like they were going easy on you.

Your stomach churned, but it almost felt like a blaze in the pit of your stomach. Were you really aroused at a time like this? Holy shit, you're pathetic.

You pushed the sensation down, venturing past the precipice of the doorway and into the chill of the air. The wind whoshed past your ears as your legs pushed off the ground, bare feet getting muddied along the way.

You felt like you had been running for ages, with the way your lungs burned. You couldn't keep doing this; you needed to come up with a new plan. The gears in your mind turned, finally settling on hiding as your best course of action. You just had to find a safe place to lie low for now until you could retrieve your phone from your back pocket and call for help.

You didn't bother peeking over your shoulder to see if they followed you; you ran into the dense forest for a quick hiding place. Low-hanging branches and greenery brushed your uncovered legs as you ran. A few dug into your clear skin like jagged claws. You, no doubt, had scrapes and scars wrapped around your calves like a miniature dog had mauled you.

You eventually spotted a bush and rushed towards it. You crouched low, crawling on your knees and elbows into the underbrush. It enveloped you like a hug, twigs getting twisted in your hair as the bigger branches poked your flesh.

You took a few steadying breaths before pulling out your phone. The brightness of the screen highlighted your face, eyes squinting as they adjusted to the white light. You debated calling the police, but only for a second, as the pair of super soldiers popped into the forefront of your mind like a flashing sign.

You scrolled through your contacts, pressing the first person on your list and hitting that green phone as if it were your lifeline. The call rang quietly on your end. Then, louder in the woods. What?

You heard a rustling before it blared louder. "Oh, Stevie," a too-familiar voice came, but it sounded darker in this context. "Look who's calling me."

A deep chuckle came from your left. "Cute, she needs help," the blonde answered. His voice rose, trying to get your attention. "I'm a little offended you didn't call me, sweet girl."

Your breathing slowed, not just because of the well-needed break from extending your legs, but from the realization. "Steve? Bucky? What the fuck. You scared the shit out of me," you admitted. You slithered out of your temporary hiding spot, brushing the dirt from your flesh and pulling some loose twigs from your hair.

You scoffed, "You're both assholes, you know that?" You glanced around the wooded area, trying to seek them out now that the ruse was up.

Bucky snorted, leaves crinkling under a set of boots that sounded closer and closer with every step. "You said as much last night," he mumbled. "Or did you forget about yesterday? Turned on by the mere thought of someone chasing you. Dirty, dirty girl."

You swallowed, the embarrassment heating your cheeks. "What?" you asked, but it came out smaller than you intended. "I thought we dropped that?"

You heard two roaring laughs fill the space. It echoed around you, their voices doubling and tripling like waves rippling on the sand. "You think we'd drop that delicious information?" Steve clicked his tongue, "You are sadly mistaken."

Your eyebrows knitted together in frustration. You wrapped your arms around your middle to bring back some warmth into your shivering body. Your skin dotted with goosebumps from the icy air like a brand. "Well, I'm cold, so I'm heading back inside. You two can freeze your asses off for all I care," you murmured angrily, cautiously trudging through the forest once more.

In a blink, one of the cloaked figures was in front of you. You ceased your movements as the other stepped out from behind him, like a reflection. You couldn't tell which one was which; it was irrelevant at this point.

"Run," Bucky's voice dipped into something terrifying. It set you on edge, but strangely made that fire in your core ignite.

"I'm not playing your fucked up game anymore," you glared into the pitted eye sockets of their masks like four tiny black holes sucking you in.

"I don't think Buck stuttered," Steve growled, low and insistent. "Run. And when we catch you…" He trailed off, looking to his match.

"We fuck you," Bucky finished, and you could hear the grin even under his covering.

Your breath caught in your throat, a quick sound escaping as a tightness filled your chest. The fire in your gut felt like a raging inferno, consuming your insides like a forest fire. You had never seen this side of them before; your usually calm friends were penetrating your very being with their voices alone, like a large drill boring into you.

You don't know why, but you immediately obeyed, knowing their tones left no room for argument. Your feet carried you swiftly back into the woods, feet slipping from the muddy ground. They chased right after you, the sound of boots bouncing clear across the wooded section.

Your heart thumped against your chest, but not from fear, but…excitement. You were living a fantasy that was only ever constructed in your mind, like a spinning film reel. You sprinted with a newfound purpose, the adrenaline propelling you. They gained on you rapidly. Of course, they were super soldiers and clearly weren't using all of their abilities to catch you.

You ducked under a particularly large branch, jerking your head left and right for a place to conceal yourself, but to no avail. Their boots trudged behind you like a thumping bass to a creepy song.

"Tired yet, sweet girl?" Steve called, voice barely worn. "Better save some energy for us. We're gonna be a handful."

Your stomach flipped as you surged forward. You almost stopped, the desire making your blood run hot in your veins. Instead, you took a sharp turn toward a towering, wide tree and came to a halt in front of it. You knew it was a bad idea, but you decided to go along with it anyway.

You planted your bare foot onto the rough bark while you swung your arm up to grasp a thicker branch. You hauled yourself up with all the strength you could muster without the leverage of shoes. Your other arm came up to wrap around it, pulling yourself further up.

Leaves crunching announced the pair's arrival, boots slowing to a stop. "Oh, darlin'. You gotta be smarter than that," Bucky mused.

His words went in one ear and out the other as you continued your pursuit. One foot slipped from its position, causing you to slide down slightly, pieces of bark chipping off like old paint. "Careful, wouldn't want to hurt yourself. We'll be doing plenty of that ourselves. Leave you absolutely wrecked, sweetheart," Steve warned you cheekily.

You dug the ball of your foot into a branch, lifting yourself like you couldn't even hear either of them. You didn't even glance down to acknowledge their presence, just ascended higher.

"Enough of this," Bucky muttered, footsteps marching onward. You felt cool metal fingers wrap around your ankle and gave a hard yank. You gasped, palms getting cut up from your descent. You scrambled, trying to regain your balance, but his touch remained firm.

"Bucky," you screeched, "Quit. You're hurting me." Your pleas fell on deaf ears as he continued to tug, fingers digging into your ankle as if to show you he could do much worse. He jerked on your leg, causing your opposite foot to slip from its spot and plummet.

You fell into his arms, bridal style, with short, intakes of breath. You pushed and shoved at his shoulders, but he didn't budge. Instead, he threw you to the ground with a forceful thud, sticks splintering beneath you. "'M done waitin'," Bucky snapped, hovering over you. Steve came into view next to him, and you knew the game was officially over.

Still, you fought. You rolled over onto your stomach, elbows pressing into the dirt as you crept away. This time, a warm hand found your calf, pulling you back and turning you over. "You don't listen, do you?" Steve inquired, but it didn't seem like he was waiting for an answer. "Game over. You lost. Now, we claim our prize."

He kneeled, his strong hand pinning your arms above your head while the other removed the mask. He leaned forward, and now you saw the hunger sparkling in his wild eyes. You squirmed, but it was useless. You didn't want to leave anyway; the way he was gazing down at you was too tempting to resist him anymore.

"Squirm all you like. 'S not gonna change what's gonna happen to you." His fingers traced along your jaw until he cupped it firmly. "Open wide."

You hesitated, which wasn't the correct response because he squeezed, forcing it slightly agape. You parted your lips, opening your mouth for him. "Good girl," he cooed before promptly spitting into your mouth. You were briefly stunned, but he pulled you right back to reality as he spoke, "Swallow f' me."

You did as he asked, letting his saliva slide down your throat, and he hummed in approval. "Givin' you a sample before all you can taste is me, huh? You won't be able to wash me from your mouth once 'm done with you."

You felt a set of hands—metal and flesh—gliding up your legs to part them, settling between your thighs. Fingers danced on your flesh, inching closer to your throbbing pussy. Two digits skimmed across the seam of your shorts, making your hips jerk upward at the sensation it sent to your clit through the thin fabric.

"So wet," Bucky commented darkly. "Someone is either really turned on by gettin' chased or by the thought of us destroyin' you."

Letting impatience cloud his judgement, he hooked his fingers into your shorts and tugged them down the length of your legs. He tossed them somewhere in the grass without remorse. He lowered himself, removing the mask, along with the cloak, to gawk at the panties you were sporting—pink and lacy. They could almost be perceived as innocent if not for the wet spot dampening the material. "Picked such a pretty pair f' me, huh, darlin'?" He stated cockily, his eyes darkening.

Bucky breathed deeply, inhaling your scent as his nose appeared to be inches away from your cunt. His tongue darted out, licking his lips with a hum. Steve gripped your chin, forcing your gaze back to the blonde. "You gonna let him taste you, pretty baby?"

You nodded, though you knew you didn't truly have a choice; he was just giving you an illusion of having one. "Such an obedient little slut. My little slut," Steve murmured against your lips before capturing them in a heated kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed, softly moaning at the brush of his lips.

His mouth was persistent, demanding access to yours. He nipped at your bottom lip, dragging a gasp from your throat. He took the opportunity to shove his tongue through the gap between your lips. Tongue prodding into all the crevices of the cave of your mouth.

You heard a shing, then something with a cold bite gliding across your inner thigh. Your initial thought was Bucky's metal finger, trailing down your flesh, but it had a serrated edge. Your eyes shot open, but Steve was holding you in place.

Steve's hand drifted to the back of your neck, craning it back to deepen the kiss. You melted back into the kiss, letting your worries dissolve. However, that didn't last long.

Piercing pain to your soft, supple skin. Roger's lips muffled your screams, and you squirmed once more. "Shh," Bucky soothed, dragging the blade down as his other hand gently massaged your thigh in a strangely comforting manner. "Just wanna make sure you know who you belong to."

The knife clattered to the ground, your blood seeping over the slit he created with the blade. His mouth was on you in an instant, lathering you in his saliva as he cleaned your wound. His mouth left you, but not before placing a tender kiss on the injured area.

Icy fingers pulled your blush panties to the side, hot breath fanning across your slick folds. Bucky flattened his tongue, licking a broad stripe through your wetness. You whined into Steve's mouth, but he swallowed your sounds with another sweep of his tongue.

Bucky lifted your leg, hooking it over his shoulder. He pressed your other thigh to the ground, keeping you spread for him. "Tastes so sweet. Could get addicted to this sweet pussy," he rasped, diving in for another taste. The tip of his tongue swirled around your sensitive bud before sucking it into his mouth. You arched your back, hips wiggling from the pleasure he was giving you.

Steve pulled away, his teeth biting your bottom lip and tugging gently before freeing it. Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as you glanced down at the man feasting upon you like a wild animal—a lion devouring a pure, feeble fawn. His feral eyes locked on you, looking up through his lashes as his tongue dipped, teasing your tight hole.

You let out a strained whimper, the pleasure coiling in your gut like a spring ready to release with a pop. Steve sat back on his haunches, releasing you from his grasp in the process. He shed the black cloak, leaving it to float to the ground like a deflated ghost. His nimble fingers fiddled with his belt, metal clanking as he extracted the leather from its buckle. You jerked your head, watching the action intently.

His hardened cock sprang forth as he yanked the denim and boxers down his hips. Your jaw dropped; what the fuck were you supposed to do with that monster? Your pussy clenched at the sight, squeezing Bucky's tongue that was jabbing into you.

"Gimme your hand, sweet thing. Be a good girl and stroke it, alright?" Steve coaxed, taking your outstretched hand. He brought it to his dick, wrapping your delicate digits around his girth. He moved your hand for you at first, giving himself the perfect grip with your fingers. Precum leaked from the aching tip, glistening slightly even in the dark of the night.

Steve's knuckles grazed over the apple of your cheek, grinning down at you. "There you go. Doin' so good," he praised, dropping his hand to his side to sit back and enjoy the show. You pumped him at a leisurely pace at first, admiring the way he felt in your palm.

Bucky groaned against your cunt, vibrations rippling through your body. You moaned, his tongue working you closer to the edge with every sensual suck, swirl, and lick. You stroked Steve quicker in response, forcing a low grunt from his lips.

Bucky's tongue lashed between your folds like a weapon, flicking it over your clit before diving back down to lap at your juices. You writhed beneath him, his unabating tongue sending sparks across your flesh.

"Buck," you whined desperately. Still, your fist continued to move along Steve's shaft in harsh strokes.

"I know, darlin'. Let me get you there," he mumbled around his working tongue. He pushed the tip back into your weeping pussy, practically fucking you with it.

Steve inclined forward, reaching down. His fingers advanced to your swollen clit, rubbing slow, precise circles into it. You keened, hips canting upward as the pleasure became overwhelming.

Without much more effort, the damn broke, pleasure washing over you in waves as you came on Bucky's unyielding tongue. Hips bucked, and your free hand dug into the grass below, ripping out the green threads.

Still, neither of them ceased their pleasing actions. You were wailing, hand falling away from Steve's cock, flicking back towards his lower stomach with a gentle slap. You tried and failed to push at Bucky's shoulder and Steve's forearm, but they didn't give in.

"Please," you begged, "too much."

"Oh, Pretty girl. 'M afraid you don't know what that's like yet," Steve growled with a saccharine smirk. His hand shifted off your overstimulated clit to grab your throat. Not to restrain, but to hold you there against the forest floor.

"Now, open. I'll show you what too much is," he demanded. You obeyed, your mouth wide as erotic noises were ripped from your throat.

Steve patted your cheek in acclamation before he gripped the base of his dick and brought the tip to your parted lips. He eased into your mouth and down your throat. His tip bumped the back of your throat, making you wrap your lips around him as you choked on the length of him.

Spit sputtered around your lips, and still he kept going until your nose pressed against his skin. You gagged around him, tears pricking your eyes like a reminder of what they were doing to you.

"Such a perfect throat," he groaned, squeezing your neck for a moment before going back to the same pressure as before. "Ooh, I can feel myself in there."

His hips pulled back and then thrust forward again. "Gonna fuck this pretty throat until you've memorized the feel of it, baby," Steve added while his hips jerked onward.

You were still high on your orgasm, another one building as Bucky mouthed at your cunt. Now, your head was reeling from both sensations the super soldiers were giving you.

Your nails dug into the flesh of Steve's thigh while he fucked your mouth senseless. Your other hand searched for something to grab to ground yourself. Bucky's metal hand found yours, and he squeezed it before gingerly resting your interlocked hands on your torso.

"I've got you, darlin'," Bucky's rough voice came, planting a kiss on your bundle of nerves, and then going back to work.

It wasn't long before you were moaning around Steve's cock, another orgasm threatening to wrack through you. A muffled animalistic noise escaped you as you fell over the edge for a second time. Two back-to-back climaxes brought your body to a shuddering mess.

Steve withdrew his dick so that you could breathe through your release. After drawing your orgasm a little longer, Barnes' mouth finally relented.

Your eyelids closed automatically, utterly exhausted just from two intense releases. Steve leaned down, pressing a few kisses to your cheeks, forehead, and the tip of your nose. Bucky trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses to your limp form until they both were hovering above you.

"You doin' alright, sweetheart?" Steve asked, tone laced with concern. You nodded weakly, not quite ready to open your eyes.

"Poor thing," Bucky remarked, knuckles brushing over your heated cheeks. Without further deliberation, he picked you up from the ground, standing up with your head resting against his shoulder.

"Wrap your legs around me, baby." He nudged your thigh lightly, coaxing. You did as you were told, loosely enveloping his waist while you folded your arms over his neck. "There ya go. Gonna get you inside."

He pressed a kiss to your hairline, arm firmly covering your back as his other palm cupped your ass. He carried you into the compound, Steve hot on his heels.

In a blink, you were in Bucky's bedroom, hiking your legs up, so he didn't crush them as he lay down. You gazed up at him, a small smile spreading across your lips.

"There she is," he whispered, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "Ready for more, or do you need a longer break? We'll wait as long as you need."

He glanced at the end of the bed where Steve had undressed himself. The bed dipped under his weight as he waited for your answer, analyzing you for any sign of wanting to back out.

"I'm ready," you confirmed, pushing up on Bucky's chest, adjusting to straddle his hips.

Your dripping cunt lingered over the strain in his jeans. You dragged your slick folds over the seam along the denim, and you shivered while he grunted, fingers grabbing at your hips. You fidgeted with the button, pushing it through the slit of his pants.

Steve scooted in behind you, palms greedily gripping your waist as his mouth attacked your neck. You shifted, tugging at Bucky's denim-clad thighs, but they wouldn't budge. Steve chuckled against your skin, "Let me help with that."

He took over, grasping at the material and pulling it down his legs until his friend's cock was freed. An angry, red-tipped dick taunted you—the length, the girth. If you thought you wouldn't be able to handle Steve's before, you certainly weren't able to take this one.

"Fuck," you mumbled lowly.

"Look how hard you got him, just from getting you off," Steve observed, seizing Bucky's cock with a rough pump of his fist. Bucky moaned, head falling back against the sheets. Steve's other palm came back to your torso, holding you steady as he lined up Barnes' tip with your entrance.

The pair forced you unhurriedly down his length. You whined as he stretched you out with every delicious inch. Bucky spoke through his clenched teeth, "So fuckin' tight, shit-"

You sank further onto his dick, reaching behind you to cup the side of Steve's face as your other hand stayed as a support on Bucky's toned chest. You tilted your head, and the blonde's mouth was on yours in an instant, devouring any of your sounds. The kiss was all tongues lashing and teeth nipping.

The super soldier below you bottomed out, leaving you whimpering against Steve's lips. You broke the kiss to focus on Bucky again. Your hips rose, then you slammed down on him. He let out a sharp curse, gaze focused on you as you began to ride him. You bounced up and down on his cock as Steve's hands wandered up your figure, taking the shirt with him.

"That's a good girl. Ride him nice and slow, just like that," Steve encouraged, slipping you out of your top.

You were entirely bare for both of them, tits on full display. Bucky's eyes went hooded, looking lost—lost in you and in his desire. "Fuckin' gorgeous." He promptly released your hip to cup your breast, squeezing delicately as his thumb and forefinger pinched your nipple.

"Prettiest girl I've ever seen," Steve muttered into the crook of your neck, massaging your other breast with extra care.

"Come 'ere," Bucky lured you in with his voice alone. You lowered yourself while he craned his neck to suck one of your peaked nipples into his mouth. You gasped, his tongue swirling and teeth lightly biting.

Steve's dick pressed against the swell of your ass. He squeezed and gripped your cheeks, most likely leaving an indent. When you glanced over your shoulder, he was lining himself up with your ass, tip nudging your second hole.

Your breath hitched, "Steve, I can't-"

The blonde swiftly cut you off, "S'alright, sweet thing. I'll be gentle, promise." He planted a kiss on the line of your spine to comfort you. His hips twitched forward, pushing into you with a deep groan. Your nails dug into Bucky's chest, creating little crescent moon shapes as you cried out.

Barnes' arm wrapped around you, hauling you into his chest. You laid down flat, cheek squished against his peck as Steve's cock penetrated you. Bucky rubbed soothing circles into your back as you adjusted to both of them. "Shh, I said I got you, baby," he reassured once more.

"So full," you whined.

"Oh, but you're takin' us so well," Steve commented with a snap of his hips. You screeched, your body trembling from the new sensation.

Bucky's heels dug into the mattress, rocking his hips up into you. You bit your lip so hard that blood dribbled down your chin. Your face contorted in pleasure as Steve thrusted from behind, an iron grip on your hips as he lost control.

They worked in tandem; one driving deep into your pussy as the other pulled out slightly, then vice versa. If you were overwhelmed by their actions before, you didn't know what you were now. Utterly cock drunk, full, and slipping into a cloud of ecstasy.

The next second, they picked up their pace, thrusting into you without any real rhythm. You were a moaning, whimpering mess as you felt the actual weight of the double penetration.

"Please," you pleaded again, but you weren't exactly sure what for. You didn't want them to stop, but the way they were filling you, it felt like the thin wall between them might break you.

Steve's hands were dragging down your sides, coaxing and gentle. "You're doin' so good, just stay like that."

"Feels so fucking good," you wailed, burying your face in Bucky's chest.

"There you go, give in to it, darlin'. Bein' such a good girl, letting us destroy you like this," Bucky praised, hips stuttering slightly. "You're ruined for everyone else, aren't you?"

You nodded against his firm muscles, trying not to fall over the edge too soon. You were getting used to the feeling, loving how they felt sliding against one another, with only a thin barrier between them. There was absolutely no other way you wanted to be fucked.

"Breathe, sweetheart. Almost there," Steve said, squeezing the globes of your ass and spreading you further.

You tried to calm yourself; inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. It was too damn difficult with the way their cocks prodded into your tightening holes.

Bucky shifted you slightly, and with the new position, he bumped your sweet spot repeatedly. You crooned, cunt clenching around him like a vice.

"Ooh, I felt that. You close, pretty girl?" Steve asked, but he really didn't need the answer, given how your body quivered.

Steve's hand wedged between you and Bucky's body, searching for your sensitive bud, hoping to make you fall apart onto both of their cocks. His fingers rubbed at your clit with a violent force. Your form jerked, back arching into Steve.

"Fuck, darlin'. That's it. Come all over our cocks. Make it messy. Wanna see you come apart on my cock," Bucky rambled, hands framing your face as he brushed the hairs from your eyes. He stared at you with every inch of his attention, intent on watching your climax unfold.

It didn't take long before your pussy fluttered around Bucky, asshole clenching right along with it. You came with a broken sob, tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks.

Your vision went white; you swore you saw stars in the height of your orgasm. Your eyes fluttered closed, your head feeling heavier in Bucky's palms. "Fuck," he grunted, voice strained from the tight hold you had on him. "So beautiful when you come."

Your body nearly convulsed as they continued to fuck you through it. Their cocks almost twitched in unison as they moaned loudly; nothing but sounds of pleasure and skin slapping together filled the room.

Bucky lifted his hips, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. Then it was Steve's turn to jam his dick as far as it could go, it pulsing inside you as hot ropes of cum filled you from both angles.

You fell onto Bucky's chest, your whole body sighing from exhaustion. You felt impossibly full, your combined releases dripping down your inner thigh and creating one giant mess.

You felt sticky and worn, your head spinning from the experience. But at the same time, you felt utterly content.

Steve pulled out of you with a hiss, steadying himself against the edge of the mattress. The other super soldier didn't make any move to rid himself of you. Instead, his arms draped across you like a blanket.

"Did so good f' us, darlin'," Bucky mumbled, tucking your head under his chin.

The bed creeked as Steve's form left the two of you before returning with a wet rag. You shivered as he wiped down the places that were slick with mess.

You hummed, nuzzling your cheek into Bucky like a cat, cuddling into her owner. "Thanks, Stevie," you acknowledged weakly.

He chuckled in return, "My pleasure, sweetheart." After he threw the cloth in its designated hamper, he crawled back into the bed beside the two of you.

"Gonna move you, okay?" Bucky mentioned before lifting you effortlessly off his length with a sharp intake of breath. He drew you into his side, placing you between the blonde and himself. Your face squashed into Bucky's peck like your own personal pillow as Steve curled behind you, resting his arm over your waist.

"Super soldier sandwich," you murmured softly, already drifting off to sleep.

They laughed at your tired-out state. "That's right, baby," Steve whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. The space was filled with a quiet as the three of you settled against each other.

After a few silent minutes, Bucky spoke up, "That's not the last time that's happening, just so y'know, darlin'."

You groaned lowly, squeezing your eyes shut. Bucky let out a satisfied sigh, planting a lingering kiss on your forehead before letting you rest.

You couldn't even think right now, let alone think about another round in any capacity. But it felt nice to revel in the company of the men on either side of you. You snorted to yourself; fuck, Scream just became your new favorite movie.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Main Masterlist

"How about this one?" You asked, holding up a Barbie costume and a Ken one to match.

Bucky scrunched his brows, clearly offended by the mere idea of dressing up in an all black cowboy getup with a pink ascot. "How 'bout no," he grumbled.

"Come on, Buck. That's the tenth one you've said no to," you pleaded, hooking the set back on the rack and striding over to the next section.

"The party is next week. Can you at least try to be helpful?" You added, thumbing through the next rack of outfits. He didn't answer, so you glanced over your shoulder. "Baby?"

He was in another section, primarily for women, practically gawking at them. It was the sexier selection. They barely passed as costumes. You wouldn't be surprised if the employees went through the lingerie department and said, "This could work as a Halloween costume."

You couldn't tell if he was baffled by the thought of someone going out in public like that or…turned on? His fingers delicately ran over the fabric of one of the costumes—a sexy nurse outfit. It was a tight pale blue dress with a white collar. The white cap at the top of the hook indicated it was a Red Cross style costume with the scarlet logo displayed in the middle. And you figured the reason he was so intrigued by it was because it appeared to be inspired by the forties.

His tongue ran along his bottom lip before capturing it with his pearly whites. His palms ran up the sides of the dress. Was he imagining someone in it? "Would you like to go in matching nurse costumes, James?" you teased, coming up behind him.

His hands immediately fell away, balling them into fists at his side. He glanced over at you, a flush creeping up his neck and settling into the apples of his cheeks. He swallowed hard, muttering, "What? No."

You hummed, smirking, "I bet you got hurt on purpose all the time when you were in the army, huh? Just to see those pretty ladies in their uniforms."

He blushed a deeper shade of red, matching the cross on the costume. He shook his head dramatically, scoffing, "That's ridiculous, and a total waste of their time."

"Oh, don't forget I know you were a player back then," you stated, shoving him gently. "So, who was the lucky woman who caught Sargent Barnes' attention?" you inquired, eyes flicking over to the outfit again.

Bucky furrowed his brow when he realized you thought he was reminiscing. "No, I-" he cut himself off, words getting caught in his throat. His gaze dropped, eyes slowly moving up your body until they locked with your irises.

Oh. He was picturing you in that. You don't know why it didn't click earlier. It wasn't your style. You didn't wear anything that accentuated your figure. You liked loose sweaters and baggy jeans. But with the way he was looking at you, you wanted to say to hell with your fashion sense and bring that thing home.

The corners of your lips twitched. "Should I buy it?" Your voice dipped into something sultry. His jaw ticked, Adam's apple bobbing as he thought about your question.

Before he could fully decide, he was turning on his heel, heading in the other direction. "Can we pick out this stupid couple's costume already?" he murmured. You softly snorted, watching as he disappeared behind the clothing racks. You tilted your head, scanning the ensemble once more. You yanked it off the hanger before you could think better of it, and sprinted off after your boyfriend. This was going to be a fun night.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Red stiletto heels click-clacked across the hardwood floor, fabric slightly shuffling as you sauntered out of the bedroom and into the dimly lit living room. "James Barnes? Is there a Mr. Barnes here?" you ask, voice honeyed.

You round the couch, standing in front of Bucky. The sky-blue material clung to your body like a second skin. The first few buttons of the dress were undone, tits practically spilling out of the opening. The hem of the outfit hit your upper thighs, the fabric stretching against their thickness.

He looked dumbfounded. His jaw unhinged, mouth somewhat agape. His wide eyes drank you in, gaze tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your breasts, and your bare legs. It was all too much for the poor guy. His chest heaved with every breath. "Are you James?" you repeat, trying to stay in character, feigning professionalism.

When he found his voice again, it was rough and raspy. "W-what're you doin'?"

You stepped closer, placing your hand on your jutted-out hip. "You did make an appointment, right, honey?" His eyes were dark, but confusion flickered across his face, so you added, "Look, I don't have all day, Mr. Barnes. Do you want this appointment or not? Because I have other patients waiting."

His mouth opened and closed several times. He sat up straighter in his spot on the sofa before he finally answered, "Yes, ma'am."

You smiled widely; he was playing along. Your plan seemed to be coming together. "Beautiful." You lowered your voice, seduction laced in your tone, "Now, you had the cock inspection, yes? Wanna make sure everything's working correctly?"

Bucky let out a shaky breath, adjusting his position once more as you began to notice the new guest under the denim of his jeans, making his presence known. "Y-yeah," he stuttered.

"Very good," you commended. You closed the distance, putting your hands on his knees and spreading them wide. You settled yourself in between his thighs, dropping to your knees with a gentle thud. Your hands moved, rubbing up and down his thighs. His wild eyes watched you intently. "You doing okay, honey?"

He nodded his head frantically, his lips parting with heavy breaths exiting the small space. "Oh, sweet baby," you cooed. "I'm gonna need an audible answer. Can you be a good boy and do that for me?"

He was nearly trembling under your palms, hips jerking instinctively upward at the nickname. "Yes, I'm doin' alright," he clarified.

Your fingers inched closer to the strain in his pants. "Good boy," you praised, steady fingers freeing the button from its slit. His thighs twitched again, impatient and needy. "Shh…just gonna make sure everything's in working order. Stay still for me."

You gripped his jean-clad thighs, pulling the fabric downward, enough to catch sight of the boxers underneath. Your delicate digits danced along the waistband of his boxers. They slid beneath the band to pull out his hardened cock, wrapping your dainty fingers loosely around his girth.

He pulsed in your hand, the head aching, and leaking drops of precum. "Looks like you have no trouble getting hard. That's good news," you observed. "Let's see how he reacts to touch, huh?" You tightened your grip slightly, giving him one good pump of your fist. He grunted at the sensation, his thighs tense from trying to remain motionless for you.

The precum dripped down the slit of his dick, landing on one of your knuckles. "Oh, very reactive. That's exactly what a good nurse likes to see." Your hand moved again, giving him slow, precise strokes. He let out a strained sigh, his eyelashes fluttering.

"Does that feel alright?"

Bucky's head lulled to the side, little moans escaping his throat. "Yeah, darlin'. 'S real good." You hummed in approval, your other hand drifting back on his thigh to gently massage the muscles as your other worked him.

Your stomach flipped at the sight of him like this. You were on your knees, but utterly in control. And he was into it. More than into it; he was high off it. High off the praise, the pleasure, the way his girl was all dressed up for him. His eyes were locked on you, watching your every move, shift, ragged breath as if you were the only thing that mattered to him. The world fell away, narrowing only to you.

You leaned forward, your warm breath fanning across the head of his cock. "We gotta check how sensitive this tip is. It's an important part of the examination," you explained, placing a soft kiss on the reddened tip. He hissed, shivering at the contact of your mouth on him.

"Ugh…please," he begged, voice pitching into a whine. You laughed darkly, your wrist working to pump him more firmly.

"Patience," you sing-song. "I like taking my time with my patients. Gotta make sure I thoroughly inspect every part of him." You plant another peck to his tip, lips brushing the ridge like dancing dangerously close to the edge of a cliff. He squirmed, hips stuttering as you teased him.

"Please…please, need that pretty mouth," he pleaded with you once more, eyes glazing over with desire.

You glanced up through your thick eyelashes, a grin spreading across your lips. "Now, how can I say no to that when you beg so nicely for me?" Your tongue darted out, your head dipping down between his legs to lick along his shaft. He sucked in a sharp breath, stomach muscles twitching as your saliva thinly coated the underside of his dick.

You swirled your tongue around the head before muttering, "Hold my hair for me, sweet baby?" He instantly obeyed, nodding. Calloused fingers carded through your silky strands. He gathered your hair with both hands—metal and flesh. Then, he formed a makeshift ponytail with his fist, lightly holding it in his warm hand.

"That's my good boy. Gonna see how long you can last while you're shoved down my throat," you said, still acting the part. You opened wide, mouth hovering over him until you wrapped your lips around his throbbing cock. He moaned, a rattling noise from deep in his chest. Your head inched further down, taking his length further into your mouth and down your throat.

You gagged around him, spit slipping through the cracks of your lips. His mouth opened, gasping as he hit the back of your throat. Your movements were measured, head bobbing up and down on his dick at a leisurely pace. His head fell back against the couch, eyes to the ceiling.

You replaced your mouth with your hand again. "Eyes on me, James," you scolded. His head rolled, dropping between his shoulders as his pleasure-filled gaze secured on your face.

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled. "Sorry, you jus' feel so good."

"It's okay, honey. Just need you to remember who's making you feel like this." Your mouth returned to its original position. You began to work him sloppily. You speed up your pace, taking him deeper. Saliva spilled from the edges of your lips, moaning as you felt his hips jut forward. The vibrations of your sounds spread through him, along with another wave of pleasure.

"How could I possibly forget?" he answered weakly. Tremors wracked through his form with every pass of your tongue along his shaft and every sensual swirl around the head. He nearly panted, chest rising and falling quickly as your lips envelop him tighter. You hollowed out your cheeks, sucking him until he was grunting from how intense the feeling was.

"Darlin'," he groaned, eyes blown and muscles tense. He was twitching in your mouth, and you could tell he was getting closer to that edge, threatening to fall over into a cloud of ecstasy. You pushed your mouth all the way down, his happy trail tickling your nose as you coughed around his girth. Then, you pulled off of him. A wet slap resonated as his cock fell to his upper thigh.

He whimpered. He actually whimpered when the presence of your mouth disappeared, intentionally edging him. "I-I was so close. Please, n-need to cum," he stuttered with upturned eyebrows.

You rose from the floor, unbuttoning the bottom part of your dress, the material loosening around your legs. You swung your leg up and onto the couch, straddling his thighs. His hands immediately grabbed your hips to steady you. "I changed my mind. I want you inside me when you cum. It's for my study on this pretty cock," you asserted sweetly.

His dick twitched pathetically on his thigh. You took him firmly in your grasp while your other hand moved your lacy panties to the side. You scooted forward until the lips of your cunt meet his shaft. Hips rocked back and forth, coating him in your wetness.

"Baby," he whined, "C-can't." You ground down on his length, not quite making any move to push him inside your weeping pussy, just sliding between your slick folds.

You cupped his cheek, thumb caressing the flush of it. "Poor thing. So desperate for release," your tone was condescending as you spoke. "You can do it, just gotta hold out for me, yeah?" You patted his cheek as you glided over him, his dick running through your wet heat repeatedly. His tip nudged your clit, eliciting a pleasant moan from your parted lips.

His hips rutted upward at the simple noise. "'M beggin' you, darlin'. 'M not gonna last." You pretended to ignore his pleas, grinding against him. Leaning forward, you trailed a few sloppy kisses to his jawline. He whimpered again, cock spasming between your folds, hips jerking desperately.

"Mmm…my good boy," you whispered against his skin. Just like a light switch, his cock pulsed, white hot spurts of cum coated both of you. Grunts turned to whines as his release erupted onto your costume and his black shirt. The white stain was a stark contrast to his dark clothing, and there was no denying what he had just done because the evidence was directly in front of both of you.

"S-sorry," he apologised in a shaky voice, "Tried to warn you."

You gave him an affectionate smile, "You did, didn't you?" Your fingers moved to push a lock of sweaty hair from his face. You placed a kiss on the tip of his nose before murmuring, "Next time, we'll finish out the examination while you're inside me."

He let out a gentle huff of air, a weak attempt at laughter from his exhaustion. He glanced down, eyebrows knitting together in concern. "Fuck, I ruined your outfit."

You giggled, a light and airy sound. "That's alright, just means I can buy a new one. What do you say, next time I dress up as a sexy teacher, spank you with a ruler?"

His eyes went hooded, a soft grin playing on his lips in response. "You're gonna kill me, I swear it."

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Main Masterlist

“Alright! Get ready to sell it Barnes” Tony calls out, hushing everyone before he starts rolling, signalling a thumbs up to sam to start filming “and action!!”

Bucky braces himself on his forearms keeping his body off yours, moving forward instead of actually thrusting. The lewd sounds you start to make make his hips involuntarily buck forward more than necessary and he nearly stutters.

“Oh God! Please, slow down” you cry softly, portraying your role as a shy house wife perfectly, nervous to consummate her marriage.

Bucky doesn’t think he can take your delicate pleading, his cock straining, desperate for some relief. He can feel it leaking the more you moan, his knuckles turning white gripping onto the sheets.

“So good to me” Bucky whispers back, swallowing thickly as his mind starts to wander over how you’d sound it he was actually stretching you out. Would you moan about how he was too big? Would you beg for him to keep going till he dripped right out of your sweet cunt? Would you want to lick and taste how wet he got for you, moaning over how fat and thick his dick was, worried over how you’d fit all of him inside you? His massive size carried all over, the blush on his face spreading to his neck when his erection nearly brushes against your covered core.

You blink up at him, staring into his baby blue eyes feeling his hardness press against you as it grows, nearly wetting the sheets. Your eyes are locked together and Bucky’s sure he’s not going to control himself, not when you’re looking at him like that. Not when you’re biting your lip, he could’ve sworn he felt your hips buck up, your thighs spreading slightly.

You let out a whimper, his warm breath fanning over your face and he can smell how fucking wet you are. He’s humping the air, just centimetres from where he really wants to be, fuck he wasn’t going to hold it, his balls felt tight, his cock was going to fucking burst-

“Kiss me My love” you say your final line before pulling him down for a heated kiss, letting it get more hot and heavy that the script intended. As soon as he tastes your tongue on his, he moans into your mouth, eyes rolling back, his back muscles flexed and tensed as he soaks the with his cum. He doesn’t pull away, tearing the sheets with his grip as he cums hard, his cock throbbing, till he can feel the front all warm and damp, whimpering till he’s all empty.

“AND CUT! FANTASTIC” Tony cheers, over the moon with how it turned out, “that was great and nice touch ripping the sheets Barnes, made it look real. Everyone take 5 and we’ll shoot that diner scene”

Everyone starts to pack up to get ready for the next shoot and Bucky swears he hears you let out a little giggle as you pull away, smiling at his flustered state.

“You okay, Buck?” You coo while he bites back a whine, his softening cock now sensitive and aching. Your assistant runs over to slip you into a robe, dragging you off to hair and makeup while he holds the sheet to the lower half of his body.

He grabs the robe Steve hands to him, smirking at his best friend with his head cocked to the side.

“You sure that was acting, Buck?” Steve snorts, nodding to the wet patch on the sheet while Bucky groans, grabbing it and stuffing it away before running off to his room.

Fuck, he wants to see it. He wants to know what it looks like, wants to watch himself in you…

Just a little peek, he thinks, keeping his eyes on where he’s filling you, and then using his x-ray vision.

The sight almost breaks him. He grunts, the hand on your hip squeezing you too tight, his hips rutting forward in a sudden, hard thrust.

You squeak softly, gasping at the sudden show of strength. Clark quickly regains his control and sheepishly mumbles, “Got carried away, sorry.”

He goes a little slower, and you melt under him, your body falling back into the steady rhythm he’s set.

But his eyes go back down, and he can’t look away. Not when he can see how he looks in you.

Your gummy walls, all wet and pink, are stretched wide open by his cock. He watches himself drag against them, the way they wrap around his shaft and the thick head, the way they flutter with every slide of his cock.

Suddenly, Clark is very close to an orgasm. He stills for a minute, making you mewl softly, and he watches your walls pulsing around him.

“Just need a sec,” he mumbles, feeling a blush rise from his neck to the very tips of his ears. “Just…” He shudders, moving a hand to splay over your womb and caress the soft skin of your lower abdomen. “I’m trying to last a little longer for you.”

“It’s okay,” you say breathlessly, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

His hand moves a little bit lower, over your mound, and his thumb catches on your swollen clit. You whine, pushing your hips against his hand, and he feels you clench around him tight.

He sees it, too. The way your walls clamp down on his cock, all tight and warm as they suck him in.

God, he’s gonna lose it.

But he keeps going, wanting to make you come before he does, and he knows he’s not going to last while he watches himself sink into you.

“I got you, honey,” he mutters, gaze focused on the way you squeeze him, on how perfectly you fit him. “Want you to come for me. Can you do that?”

You nod, moaning his name softly, as a warm coil of pleasure starts tightening in your belly. He watches and feels you, mesmerized by the sight, and then he slowly starts moving too.

He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip in, before sliding back into you, slowly. He watches the thick mushroom head part your walls, stretching them far as the rest of him follows until he fills you completely. The tip brushes against your cervix, and the sensation has you tightening around him.

He keeps at it, fucking you like this, slowly, his eyes hooked on how he looks in you.

He hadn’t been prepared for when you’d come.

He watches as you get wetter, slick dribbling everywhere. And when your orgasm finally hits, you moan his name, clamping down on him, tight, your walls hugging his cock and squeezing as hard as they can. He watches as you pulse and flutter, every little tremor of aftershock making your walls squeeze him tighter.

The sight knocks the breath from his lungs and sends his body into overdrive. He finishes just as you start to come down from your high, his cock twitching in you and spilling his thick, sticky cum right against your cervix. He grunts, watching it coat over your gummy walls, painting them in that whitish tone. It gathers right at the edge of your womb, waiting to get in and put his baby in you.

He’s panting like a dog by the time he’s done, his arms shaking from the effort of holding himself up. He meets your gaze after a while, his cheeks a soft pink, eyes somewhat sheepish.

You just stare back at him, a soft smile on your lips. You’ve never seen him lose control like that, not even the first time he finally felt you raw.

Clark stares at you and wonders how the hell he’s going to explain what just happened.

𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @jazlinda @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya @fae-dreamer-99 @heynanasposts @lahniu @paddockspookie42 @lilychristine01 @chronic-fangirl-222 @sunnyteume @take-it-on-the-run @ninikrumbs @smzyyx @shamlesslipzz @spn-reader @gettingprettyfvckintired @cherryresidence @mollymal @liebgotts-lovergirl @lowrisemiller @mingyuziiiii @opalesquegirl @hrtsforstrkysblog @inside--her--fantasy @kodzuminx @evie2435 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @diseasedclitoris @for-smut @soggywhore @snowfall--sunrise @sunmooner @elijahhewsonswifelol 

---

Clark Kent masterlist

Pure.

Bucky shook his head, turning back to the bar, wiping down a few glasses, though still sneaking glances at the window as you walked by. He’d first noticed you months ago, in the summer, blinking when he saw an unfamiliar but pretty face walking down the street, a bundle of sunflowers in your hand. His eyes lingered on you, smiling softly when you handed a little girl a flower before continuing down the street, disappearing around the corner. Bucky knew everyone around the area; after all it was his territory. The east belonged to his pack so he was curious about the sweet stranger he’d never seen before. 

You didn’t seem to pose a threat so he didn’t dive into investigating you. The more often he saw you, the more he’d find to admire. It was late in the afternoon, meaning Bucky would only see you again closer to the end of his shift which would be around midnight. He felt his cheeks heat up when he realized he knew what your routine was. 

Stop being creepy Bucky. 

Hours went by, less than sober customers walking in and out, Sam, Steve and Peter were talking Bucky’s ear off about something he stopped paying attention to 20 minutes ago. 

“...and that’s how I caught Clint in the vents, you should’ve seen his face” 

“Caught in 4k, no cap”

“Why would he be wearing a cap”

“I’m going to move you all to the graveyard shift” Bucky groaned, barely focused on their conversation, mostly because he lost track of whatever Peter was referencing, 15 references ago. He glanced at the clock, only a few more minutes left until he was off. It also meant you would be passing by his bar soon enough. Which is why he frowned when he didn’t see you. For the past few months, Bucky noticed you’d always walk home, something he wasn’t very fond of but it’s not like he could do anything about it. The area was generally safe but it wasn’t perfect, especially at night. 

Bucky shoved the uneasiness he felt to the back of his mind; you had a life outside of the moments he saw you. You could have taken a cab or gone home with a friend. Maybe you look a different route. Maybe you made plans. He thought of 101 reasons as to why he didn’t see you to try convince himself he was worrying over nothing. Bucky grabbed his jacket, heading out into the cool night, the moon softly lighting the empty streets. 

Something felt off. 

The worry he felt when he didn’t see you hadn’t ceased and for some reason the feeling was growing. 

She’s fine.

She’s made it home safe. 

You don’t even know her-

Bucky stopped dead in his tracks, turning back to a faint sound he heard near a pitch black alleyway. He took two steps towards it, only to hear silence filling the air.

Until he heard it again. 

He knew he heard something, a pained whimper so quiet, he almost thought he imagined it. The hairs on his neck stood up, something not feeling right, bounding towards the source of the sound. His pupils dilated to scan the dark area, eyes growing wide when he saw the sight before him. 

“Quiet!” John hissed, his teeth grazing your cheek. “Such a pretty lookin’ princess” he whispered, his fangs glistening under the moon light, his finger tracing along the column of your neck. “Hold her still” He grumbled while his friend kept their hand firmly over your mouth, their other arm wrapped around your arms and waist. 

“Been watchin’ ya sweet heart” Valentina purred, trailing a sharp nail down your cheek, a sinister smile on her face watching you struggle, “These young ones are hungry” She sat back on a crate, crossing her legs, while the blond grabbed a fist of your hair, craning it back to expose your neck. “Go on, make it quick before one of the mongrels find us” She spat, venom in her voice, feeling a sense of uneasiness roaming the streets they were forbidden to set foot in. 

“Ladies first” John smirked while Sharon hummed, smacking your cheek when as you struggled, trying to break free. “This will be a lot easier if you’d just fucking-

She stopped mid sentence, her eyes darting around her, the sudden scent of pinewoods and cedar evading her senses. A snarl tore through the air, your eyes falling on a white wolf along with three others growling and stalking towards your attackers, the largest white one bounding towards you, pinning John underneath him. Sharon tried to grab you, her nails digging into your skin, only to be torn off by another wolf, dragging her by the ankle. You fell to the floor, gasping when the smallest wolf came to your aid, standing guard in front of you, warning for the others to back off. You couldn’t place what it was but there was something distinct about each wolf, it was almost as if you could see their different personalities. 

“Fuck-”  John tried to throw the large animal off him, heaving at the weight that sunk into his chest.  

“You don’t belong here” The white wolf let out a deep growl, claws piercing into his chest, breaths heavy, fanning on his face, sharp teeth on full display. All you heard was a growl but John seemed to understand what it meant, frantically nodding his head. “Leave now, take the rest with you” He understood the low rumble to be a final warning for them to leave if they wanted to stay alive. 

“Lets go!” Valentina had already jumped to the top of the building, not waiting for the rest, the group running off into the night, leaving you half bleeding and scratched on the ground. John gasped for air, scrambling off the floor as he managed to climb up a fire escape, striding across the rooftops to follow the rest. 

Your heart stopped as the white wolf turned to face you, taking slow calculated steps, as if to show you he meant no harm. He was beautiful with piercing sapphire blue eyes and thick white fur. Your eyes grew wide, your breath catching in your throat as he began to shift, fur disappearing replaced with brunette hair, limbs now muscular arms and legs. There was no longer a wolf before you, a tall handsome stranger standing in its place. It was just you and him in the alleyway; the other three wolves who had protected you had trailed after your attackers to ensure they left the territory. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Who-who are you” You whispered, trembling in the corner as Bucky approached you, his teeth no longer sharp, eyes now a soft shade of blue. He carefully stepped towards you, kneeling on the ground to help you sit up, his touch gentle. “Please don’t hurt me-”

“I won’t hurt you” He smiled softly, resting his hand on top of yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. Your mind was still reeling over what you had just seen, your head feeling dizzy from the deep cuts that ran along your arm. The skirt of your dress had ripped, nicks covering your knees from where you fell. 

“But-you-” You stumbled over your words, your heart still rapidly beating out of your chest, “You were just-” 

“Fluffy and walking on four legs?” He gave you a playful smirk, his smile dropping when he noticed your eyelids grow heavy, your body exhausted. “You’re really hurt”

“M’okay” You rasped but you knew you were far from it. The area where you were scratched began to burn and you didn’t understand why. You let out a whimper of pain, clutching onto him as the pain worsened. Bucky’s heart broke, the need to protect you and take care of you overbearing all his other senses. He tucked you against his body, not thinking twice about his decision to bring you back with him. 

“Come with me doll, we’ll take care of you” His voice was soft, soothing, like a warm blanket covering you. You gave him a faint nod, melting into his hold as he lifted you into his arms with ease. Something about him brought you a sense of calm you had never felt before. 

It was the same feeling you felt when you stepped into your home after a long day. The feeling of slipping into a warm bath. The feeling of fresh sheets and a cool pillow. The first sip of hot chocolate on a cold day. Soul soothing. 

You slipped in and out of consciousness, as he carried you through towards the forest that surrounded the area, his scent of pine and something distinctly him bringing you comfort. The soft crunch of twigs crunched beneath his footsteps as he walked down the trail towards a clearing. 

Tall beautiful log cabins surrounded the camp, the area completely hidden from the outside world. Bucky managed to open the door to his cabin while still holding you close, setting you down carefully on the couch before frantically calling Wanda. By the time Wanda was knocking on his door, you were  completely unconscious, bruises starting to form on your skin, your breathing slowed. 

“She was attacked” Bucky stayed by your side while Wanda looked you over, running her hands carefully over your injures. 

“Vampires?” She asked Bucky, flecks of red flashing across her eyes when Bucky nodded. “What are they doing here”

“They’ve been watching her” Bucky swallowed thickly, the sense of dread returning when he thought about what could have happened if he hadn’t found you in time. “They were going to feed...”

“Leave it to them to prey on the most vulnerable” Wanda shook her head in disgust, scanning the shelves for all the medicines she’d made. She grabbed a small vial, squeezing a few droplets out onto your skin, wrapping the scratches with a soft cloth. “She’ll be okay, just needs to rest. They didn’t bite her so she won’t be affected in anyway. Just keep an eye on her throughout the night in case she’s in any pain” 

Bucky nodded, thanking Wanda as she left. You stirred, the oil on your arm starting to sting making you groan in pain. 

“Doll, are you alright? What hurts” Bucky was at your side in an instant, eyes clouded with worry. You clutched onto your arm, curling into a ball, biting your lip waiting for the pain to cease. 

“Just stings, that’s all” You tried to bear the sting, letting out a strained groaned as the pain radiated more. It seemed to come in waves, pulsing through your body. Bucky crouched beside you so he was at eye level with you, his hand gently skimming over your covered scratches. You relaxed for a moment at his touch, your eyes meeting his pretty blue ones. 

“It’s the healing oil. It stings more because...” Bucky bit his lip, pausing and choosing his words carefully, “Well, the medicines were made for-for our kind?” He gave you a lopsided smile, “It’s very potent”

“Your kind?” You cocked your head, urging him to continue though there was only so much left to explain after you’d literally seen him shift from wolf to human. 

“Werewolf” He grinned; you could hardly believe moments ago his perfect teeth were razor sharp. 

“Werewolf?” You repeated, still struggling to take in everything that had happened in the past few hours. You’d always felt an intense unexplainable energy in the air since you’d moved to the area but you were not expecting werewolves. Or vampires for that matter. Bucky chuckled at your wide eyes, helping you sit up. 

“Not Jacob from Twilight werewolf” He playfully rolled his eyes while you giggled, “A real werewolf sweetheart” 

“Ah, of course, so more Mason from Wizards of Waverly place” You giggled, half expecting yourself to wake up from whatever strange dream this was. “tell me more”

“Hmm” Bucky thought, not knowing where to start, a part of him worried you’d be scared off, though you didn’t seem to be uncomfortable around him. “We’ve lived here for generations, the territory is ours. We don’t typically reveal ourselves to the outside world. We don’t have to wait for a full moon to change, we can do it any time. We shift according to our places in the pack”

“And what's your place in the pack” 

“Leader” He smiled softly, proud of his pack, the family he loved more than himself. 

“Thank you by the way”, your fingers skimming over a few scratches that were on his hands, previously large paws when he had fought off Walker, “For saving me...” You realized you didn’t know his name.

“Call me Bucky, doll” 

Bucky insisted you sleep in his room though you refused, not wanting to impose. He laid out his softest and warmest blankets and coziest pillows, creating a safe space for you to sleep in. You gasped, looking at the way he’d set everything up, it almost resembled a nest of blankets and pillows. He wanted you to be as comfortable as possible, giving you some of his clean clothes to sleep in after you showered. You fell asleep instantly, his soft scent all over the bed lulling you into a peaceful slumber as soon as your head touched the pillow. 

Bucky made his way back outside to check on Steve, Sam and Peter, rolling his eyes when he saw they were perfectly fine, the three nursing beers while sitting on the stairs of his cabin. 

“What the hell are you-”

“So this is who you’ve been keeping an eye on” Sam smirked, nudging Bucky’s shoulder while Steve and Peter shared shit eating grins. 

“Shut up Sam”

“See? He didn’t deny it!”

“So what, you’ve been watching me?” Bucky cocked and eyebrow while Sam scoffed. 

“Please. You’re always looking out the window like a love sick puppy” 

Bucky was able to control many things with his body but he couldn’t for the life of him control the blush that spread across his cheeks. 

“I didn’t know alpha’s could blush” Steve cackled while the rest joined, each poking fun at the way his cheeks reddened more. 

“I’m going to sleep, or so help me God-” He shook his head, going back inside and laying on the couch. He couldn’t help the butterflies that fluttered around his tummy, the sweet sunshine he loved to see everyday was there. 

In his home.

In his bed.

In his clothes.

...

Calm down Bucky.

He made sure to periodically check on you like clock work, not getting a wink of rest through the night, not when you had been hurt. He loved the way you looked, curled up in his bed, sleeping soundly. A flash of anger pulsed through him when his eyes fell on your bandages. Those that hurt you. It’d be a problem for another day but he’d fine a permanent solution to that problem very soon. 

*****

You blinked awake, the delicious scent or fresh berries and pancakes wafting through the air. You felt warmth creep up your cheeks when you found another fresh set of clothes placed by the bed along with a brand new tooth brush and a towel. You mentally scolded yourself for the way your heart tried to skip at his acts of kindness, but you couldn’t help it.

There was something about him. 

You quickly got changed, padding down to the table where stacks of pancakes were piled high along with cut up berries. Bucky grinned when he saw you, his heart fluttering again at the way his Henley hung loosely on you. 

“Good morning doll, how you feeling”

“Better, again thanks to you” You felt giddy over his handsome smile and yet a sense of calm whenever you were near him. You couldn’t understand why you felt so comfortable around his presence. He was a stranger to you yet you felt like you’d found your place. You’d known him for less than 24 hours but there was a connection. Around him, you felt protected. Cared for. Perhaps it was the fact that he was the leader, so naturally he had a very protective nature. That had to be it, it’s not like you were special to him.  

You repeatedly had to remind yourself to stop gazing at him because there was another issue. It’s not like you were blind. Bucky was gorgeous. You loved his scruffy beard and dark hair, what you wouldn’t give to run your fingers through his soft-

What- 

You blinked, clearing the rogue thoughts that tried to probe your mind, distracting yourself with breakfast instead. 

“I didn’t know werewolves liked pancakes” You teased, ignoring the way your skin heated up, popping a berry into your mouth.

“I like to eat lots of things, doll” Bucky smirked at the way you moaned, licking off a droplet of the berry juice that stained your lips. Your pretty lips. Soft. Supple. Kissable. Would look even prettier wrapped around his co-

He shook his head, hoping to get his mind out of the gutter, why was he like this. A knock on the door made you jump while Bucky rolled his eyes, grabbing a few more plates before making his way to the door. 

“For fucks sake, even on a Saturday” Bucky mumbled to himself, knowing damn well the three idiots he called friends would have smelled him making breakfast from 3 cities away, let alone a few cabins down. You heard the voices of a few men, two large men about the size of Bucky entered the kitchen along with another who looked much younger. 

“Y/n, this is Steve, Sam and Peter”

You instantly recognized the three as the very same ones who had came with Bucky the day you were attacked. All three of them were as sweet to you as Bucky but you couldn't help but find Peter the most adorable, who managed to eat the most out of everyone. They happily raided the kitchen, passing each other glances you couldn't pinpoint, each look making Bucky more flustered.

“You protected me” You smiled at Peter, who blushed, stuffing another pancake into his mouth while Sam shook his head in disgust. 

“It was nothing, we’re just happy you’re safe” Peter preened at your praise, finishing the last of what was on the table. 

“Barnes, Peter ate everything again”

“For fucks sake-” 

Bucky didn’t let you lift a finger the entire morning, serving you everything you wanted and clearing the table away. In fact, he didn’t let you do anything that day. Or the next. Or the day after that. A week. Two weeks. He wanted to make sure you were completely okay before letting you leave. He was there to take care of anything you needed, cleaning and applying the oil to your cuts, redressing the bandages. Getting you fresh clothes. Fluffing out your bed so it’d be warm and cozy.  While you adored the warmth of his bed, you couldn’t help but wish he’d just stay with you instead. He’d introduced you to the rest of his pack, everyone happy to have you around when they saw the way his cheeks would tint pink when you sat beside him.

You’d both spent countless hours each night, talking by the fire place or walking in the moonlight. Each night, he’d make sure you were comfortably tucked in before crashing on the couch, occasionally morphing into his wolf form and curling up by the door just to be extra safe.

Bucky wasn’t sure why he was so drawn to you. What started as admiring you from afar was now making his heart beat faster. Skin warmer. He knew the feeling was far more intense than just friendship. He felt a bond. Something that pulled him to want you by his side forever.

For you to be his mate.

It was rare for werewolves to find a mate that wasn't a werewolf like himself but here was. In love with you. He never felt a pull like this towards someone else. Everything he felt was 10 times stronger than before, growing more and more with each day he spent with you. 

*****

“I know it’s been a few days but...maybe you should stay a little longer?” Bucky knew there was truthfully no reason for you to stay any longer; the wounds had completely healed and you were perfectly fine.

Still...

"Are you sure?" You bit your lip, wanting nothing more than to curl up in his arms for the night as he stood by the bedside, handing you one of his sweaters.

"Of course, I-I don't want anything to happen to you, so just to be safe" He smiled softly, itching to just crawl into bed with you and snuggle.

“Bucky, you-you don’t have to sleep on the couch” You sat up just as he was about to leave, your heart beating a little faster when he stopped and turned around. "You can sleep here"

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, moving over slightly and lifting the covers up so he could lay beside you. At the start of the night Bucky was as still as a statue, worried you'd find it odd if he got too close, making sure there was distance between you both before he closed his eyes.

Of course, even in his sleep he sought you. You sighed contently at the feeling of his arm wrapping around you waist, pulling you close to his chest, his face burying into your neck, a happy low rumble emitting from his chest at the way you felt in his arms. He nuzzled his face into your skin, keeping you flush against him the entire night, hoping the sun would ride just a little bit later.

Every night, your cuddles became a little more intimate. You'd start off at opposite ends of the bed, only to find yourself tangled in each other each morning. Hands would wander a little more each time with gentle touches and a few extra kisses.

****

"Just come cuddle" You giggled as he scooted over, giving up on trying to sleep at the other side of the bed. Bucky smiled, pulling you to lay on his chest, his hand slipping past your shirt, gently stroking your spine. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, loving the way your skin felt on his lips. He didn't want to stop, continuing to trail kisses down your face, holding you a little tighter, the need to have you completely growing stronger. His eyes locked with yours, nervously leaning down, smiling against your lips as you closed the gap between you both.

His hands carded through your hair, deepening the kiss, his tongue tracing your lips, slipping into your parted mouth. He couldn't help himself, rolling you both over so you were pinned under him, dominating the kiss till you both needed air. Your eyes grew wide feeling his length pressing against your tummy, hips rutting slightly, fighting himself from stuffing you full of him.

"Buckyy" You panted from under him, gripping onto his arms, spreading your legs further for him. The needy whine that fell from your lips made him growl, he could smell how aroused you were, his cock painfully hard in his sweats. "Need you"

“I-I don’t want to hurt you” He whispered, his mind conflicted over wanting you so badly but also worried his hurt you with his strength. He nearly whimpered feeling the warmth of your core pressed against him, your thighs squeezing the sides of his waist.

“You won’t hurt me Bucky” Your eyes were pleading with him, needing this just as much as he did, he only had so much self restraint.

“Let me taste you?” He crawled down, his fingers skimming around the waist band of the boxers he had given you to wear, pulling them down as you nodded. He threw his own shirt off before settling between your legs, spreading your pussy apart, his hunger for you growing at the way you glistened under the dimly lit room. "You smell so sweet, angel"

You felt shy under his intense gaze as he looked up at you while kissing the soft flesh of your thighs. Bucky nearly growled as soon as his tongue flicked across your clit, feeling the way it throbbed each time he licked you. His lips sealed around your sensitive nub, alternating between lapping up your arousal and toying with your clit, suckling and kissing you, moaning when he felt your hands tug at his hair.

"Grind on my face sweets" Bucky threw your legs over his shoulders, urging you to push his face down deeper, the greedy side of him wanting to suffocate between you legs. You squeaked when he guided your hand to pull at his roots, a feral look flashing in his eyes when you hesitantly pulled a little harder, his eyes rolling back.

"Just like that baby, I'll use my tongue all over this pretty pussy, just show me how" He groaned as you pushed his head down, your back bowing off the bed feeling his tongue slip inside you, drinking every drop you gave him.

"Bucky, need you-" Your body felt hot, pussy clenching and throbbing, aching for him to fill you. He kissed up your body, throwing the rest of your clothes off before lining himself up with your entrance, his breath fanning over your face.

"Sweetheart, I don't know if I'll be able to control myself" He stroked your forehead, his cock leaking against your pussy. "It's more than just- I can't explain it-

You smashed your lips against his, squeezing your legs around his waist tighter, cutting off his nervous rambling. "Please, I want you, want to feel you Bucky, all over you"

"M'right here angel, you have me" He let out a shuddered breath as he started to press into you, moaning against your neck once he was fully sheathed inside you. He moved slowly, rocking his hips while his nose tracing against the column of your neck, his hands moving to fist the sheets. He could feel them tear under his grip, your tight pussy and sweet scent awakening something primal.

“Doll...” He groaned in your ear, his cock swelling more with each thrust, “Baby, I-

He let out a desperate growl, his hands balled into fists, his corded back muscles tensed, holding back from pounding you into the mattress. You could feel his cock grow harder, stretching you more, the swollen tip rubbing against your sweet spot making you gush around him.

“What is it” You whispered, your thumb caressing his scruffy cheek, your soft touch only making it more difficult for him to hold back.

“Fuck baby” It almost hurt him, desperately wanting you to be all his, his tongue licking and nipping your neck, biting his lip to keep from sinking his teeth in. “Want you to be mine”

“I'm yours Bucky” You carded your fingers through his hair, grazing his scalp, making him growl, the soft color of his eyes now an intense sapphire blue and glowing. Bucky gently nipped your neck, holding back how badly he wanted to claim you, mark you, the smooth canines of his teeth growing sharper the more you moaned for him.

"Y-you don't understand sweets, I want-I want you forever"

"You have me Bucky" You clenching around him, your moans broken as the band in your belly tightned more. Bucky grinded his hips down, desperate to be as deep inside you as possibly, the coiled hair at the base of his cock rubbing your clit, warmth spreading through your body. "I'm-I'm gonna-

"Cum for me angel, I need it, need it baby, cum for me please" He moaned with you, his hand flying to the headboard, the wood splintering and cracking under his grip. He started to chase his own high, speeding his thrust's up, his balls slapping your ass grunts growing deeper.

"M'gonna cum baby" He could hard speak, too consumed and overwhelmed by the way he felt inside you, his cock swelling and throbbing, spurts of precum already soaking your pussy.

"Cum Bucky!"

"You're mine" He panted, his forehead resting on yours, "Say it sweets, say you'll always be mine?"

"M'yours" You nodded, kissing his nose, your hands cupping his face, "All yours Bucky, make me yours"

"Oh FUCKK" Bucky moaned against your neck, his teeth grazing your soft skin, biting just enough to to mark you without hurting you, gently licking the area after while he continued to moan and whine, his orgasm unending. "All mine"

You both laid tangled in the sheets, going for a few more rounds until the sun came up. You shivered at the feeling of his hands trace over your skin, your whole body sensitive from how many times he had you cum all over his cock. His hands. His face. There was a feeling of security surrounding you as you laid on his chest, the faint mark on your neck tingling.

“Will you be my mate?” Bucky whispered shyly, blushing more at your giggle while you sat up slightly, your nose bumping against his.

"Even if I'm not a werewolf? " You teased while Bucky playfully rolled his eyes, nipping you again.

“Of course, how else will I protect you bunny” He let out a growl, cocking his eyebrow while you squealed, finding yourself flipped under him again. "You'll stay with me sweetheart?"

"Even if I can't change into a giant a fluffy puppy like you under a full moon?"

"Yes"

"Even if I can't hear Sam sneaking into the house for breakfast from 3 houses down"

"We'll work on that"

"Do I always have to rub your belly and feed you my peanut butter treats when you turn into a pouty little werewolf, pretending to be a big scary leader to everyone else"

"Yes and now that you know that secret, you have to stay" Bucky grinned, his hopeful eyes shining brighter when you cupping his face, kissing him deeply.

"I already told you, I'm all yours"

****

Imagine the utter joy the rest of the pack get from how soft Bucky is for you. They're so used to seeing him unmoving and broody but now theres flowers around his cabin and the blush is just part of his face now. Steve and Sam help move some of your things over to Bucky's, more than happy to have you around because now there's even more food for them to eat.

Nothing turns you on more than when he goes into protective mode. His eyes glow. His muscles tense. The growl that rumbles from deep in his chest makes your thighs squeeze together. He keeps you by his side, always touching you, his hands lingering on your waist, toying with your hair or playing with your fingers.

It's not often he fully transforms but when he does, its because someone got too close to you.

You can't help but giggle when you see him transform into his werewolf form because he's beautiful and scary, teeth barred out, claws flexed out, but only you know how adorably cuddly he is when he's just alone with you. He nudges his head against your hand, whining for you to give him attention, he's three times your size but his tail swishes about like a playfully puppy.

Theres no doubt you're the best thing thats ever happened to him.

He can’t help but touch it, just his thumb ghosting over the puckered hole. You’re so responsive even there, twitching against his finger. He presses the pad of his thumb against it, a little harder this time and you gasp.

“Bucky?” You ask, voice breathy and shaking. “What’re you doing back there?”

His thrusts haven’t slowed despite his fascination.

Bucky presses again, still not breaking the seal but applying enough pressure that the skin of your ass starts to swallow him, his thumb almost disappearing as your cheeks close around it.

“Was winking at me.” He says, like it makes any fucking sense.

You whimper, pushing back against him. “What?” Your hole twitches again, the feeling of his finger, of anything is so foreign. It feels taboo and unnatural. It makes your stomach twist.

“Can I play with her?” He asks, his voice is uneven, filled with nothing but pure curiosity. “Just the thumb.”

You choke, a broken, almost desperate sound falling from your throat. You’re caught off guard by just how badly you want it.

“Gentle?” You ask, or more accurately, beg.

You can’t see him, but Bucky nods fiercely. “Gonna be so nice to her..” He promises.

You moan a broken ‘yes’ and Bucky can’t help but sigh with relief.

He swipes his thumb through your folds, gathering as much of your wetness as possible. He plans to starts with just the tip, up to the knuckle but then you make the sweetest, breathiest little noise and he can’t help but push the whole digit in.

You gasp, back arching “Fuck.” You pant.

Bucky isn’t much better, letting out a low groan at the way you open up for him. He’s so lost in it, in the tightness of your asshole, in the possessiveness of knowing he’s the only one you’ve let in like this.

Then he feels it, the slow push and pull of himself inside your cunt. The pressure of his own cock pushing back against him has him seeing doubles, a single thought ringing over and over again in his head.

Full of me.

Pinktober Masterlist

Main Masterlist

thanks for reading!!! love you all honey bunches and oats!!!! And yes that’s a childish gambino reference it IS the serious

Stepping aside, the blonde mechanic held out an arm in the direction of the room, shepherding you inside. The fella who had been relaying everything to the boss slipped past as you entered, before he shut the door behind you.

And as the tatted-up man behind the desk finally glanced up to look at you, the tone of your voice trembled slightly as you then spoke, “…are you Mr. Barnes?”

Chuckling lightly at your formality, “Mr.–, well, yeah. I’m Bucky,” he eyed you a moment, making you shift timidly under the brashness of his stare, “you wanted to speak to me? No offence, sweetheart, but you don’t look like the type to jump on a bike, but I mean, if that’s why you’re here, I’ve got a few in the back that could be yours for the right price.”

“Oh, that’s not why I’m here,” you shook your head.

“A car then?”

“No, no, this is about–…” you tilted your head, “well… it’s about Thomas.”

Sitting back a bit more in his seat, Bucky puffed out, “well, fuck me. I didn’t know he had a wife.” 

“What? No!” you swiftly screeched, eyes growing huge at his assumption, “I’m his sister.”

“Ah…” the older man breathed as he once again let his eyes wander, “so you’re the famous little sister… I thought you were away at some fancy university.”

“Ever heard of a little thing called summer break?” you scoffed, though instantly regretted the attitude as it surely wouldn’t help your case.

But thankfully, your comment only made the intimidating man chuckle, “okay, uh, so, why the urge to come chat to me instead of going off to the beach with your friends or something?”

After you took a second to gather up the courage, you then stated, “I don’t want him coming around here anymore. You can’t have him.”

Unfazed, the man behind the desk muttered, “and why not, if I might ask?”

“You know why,” you shifted slightly, your eyes narrowing in Bucky’s direction.

“And just what are you implying here?” he leaned forward, planting his inked and burly forearms on the table between you both, “I simply gave him a job as a perfectly respectable mechanic.”

“You know damn well that’s not what you did… I know you’re not just the boss of some auto shop…” you uttered quietly, “…a year ago, he had a bright future ahead of him, a good job lined up, a good head on his shoulders, and then you came into the picture and poisoned him.”

“Poisoned him, huh? That’s cute…” he chuckled chillingly at your accusation, “he’s a free man, sweetheart. He can do whatever he wants to do. If he wants to ride a bike, then he’ll ride a fucking bike.”

“You know damn well that’s not all that you and your kind does,” you snapped, your fist clenching into a fist nearly hard enough for your nails to break the skin.

“And just what were you thinking I was supposed to do about it, huh?”

“I know he’s not a full-fledged member yet of your gang.”

But that phrasing finally made a crack in his charismatic façade, “don’t call it a gang, it’s a motorcycle club.”

“I know he’s not a full-fledged member of your mob yet,” you blindly repeated heatedly, “a prospect, or whatever you call it. You can still kick him out without any fuss,” you stated before your voice then shrunk once more, cracking under the pressure as you went on, “please, just–… I’m scared of what’ll happen, who he will become if he doesn’t quit now. I’ve already lost both of my parents, I can’t lose him too.”

For a moment, Bucky simply sat back in his chair and stared at you. But then, when his eyes finally settled, his mind had cooked up a solution.

“…you know, one of the beauties of living in a small town like this is that everyone’s business spreads like wildfire… you just can’t help what you hear through the grapevine…” he slowly told you, “let’s see… rocky childhood, your brother basically raised you, yet somehow you still managed to walk the straight and narrow, become the valedictorian of your class in high school, get a scholarship to some college that otherwise would have never even looked twice at a girl like you from a shithole of a town like this… history major, right?” you then promptly nodded, utterly stunned by all of the details the criminal knew about you, “yeah… a real good girl, just as I suspected… but just how good are you really?”

“What?” your brows only knit together further, “if you’re trying to make me take his place, I–”

“Jesus fuck, calm down, kid,” Bucky scoffed, “I’m not putting a smoking gun in your hand. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

“I–, uh…” a shiver ran down your spine, “sir, I’m just here to help my brother.”

“And how far would you go to do so?”

“Well–…” you thought about it for a second, “what do you want? Money? I don’t have much, but I could try and scrounge up something–”

“No, I’m not interested in your money,” his eyes then dipped.

“Then what do you want?” you pleaded, trying to ignore his bold gaze, “I’ll do pretty much anything, as long as it’s legal.”

“Are you still a virgin?” he then casually asked you, completely out of the blue.

“Excuse me?” your vision promptly widened.

“I mean, you sure fucking squirm like one,” he smirked, continuing to stare.

“I-I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you crossed your arms, half in an attempt at covering yourself up more.

“So you are, alright,” he concluded from your dismissiveness, “well, then I do think there’s a way here for us to strike a deal.”

“I–…” you blinked hard, “I’m sorry, what does my romantic life have to do with that?”

“Oh, you really are innocent, aren’t you?” he then laughed, “how old did you say you were again?”

“I didn’t,” you shifted before you then told him, “I’m twenty.”

“Twenty…” he echoed, tasting it on his tongue as if he’d just gone down on you, “damn…”

“How old are you?” you shrugged, not understanding how this basic information had anything to do with how you were gonna help your brother.

“Well, over double your age…” he cocked his head and you caught sight of some of the grey that dusted his beard.

“Okay…” you breathed, blinking back at him with furrowed brows, “I’m sorry, I’m a bit lost. Are you gonna help me out or not? Are you gonna kick Thomas out?”

“I am,” he pursed his lips.

“Really?” a relieved gasp swiftly filled your lungs.

“Yeah,” he nodded, averting his gaze before he then filled you in on the rest of the proposition, “that is if you let me pop your cherry.”

Utterly stunned, the glints of celebration promptly vanished from your face, “y-you want to–”

“Be the first person to fuck that sweet pussy of yours,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“I-I–…” you stammered a moment before stating in a firm tone, “no,” glaring back at him as if the biker had just grown a second head.

“You sure?” his tone didn’t waver, as if your apprehension didn’t faze him one bit, “I thought you were desperate to get your dear brother to turn his life back around, but I guess if it’s really not that important to you, then maybe I could move his final initiation test up–”

“No, wait!” you cried out, nearly scurrying over the table right then and there, “don’t! I–…”

Tilting his head, the tinge of repulsion that flickered across your features only egged him on, “yes?”

“Fuck, I can’t believe I’m actually agreeing to this…” you murmured to yourself before huffing, “fine, I’ll do it. If it means you’ll leave my brother alone, then alright.”

“Great,” the corners of his lips twitched into a smirk that made your stomach churn, “swing around Nick’s bar tonight. Have a drink with me.”

“Here,” Bucky handed you a drink, tearing your wide eyes away from the seedy biker bar you now found yourself in.

“Thanks…” you stared down at the amber liquid inside. Raising the stout glass up to your lips, you then naively took a sip that was way too big, causing you to instantly cough as it burned down your throat.

Peering over at you as you lowered the glass again, the biker let out a cruel chuckle, “don’t tell me you’ve never had a drink before either.”

“No, I have,” you shot back defensively, your throat still on fire, “just not one this strong.”

“Hm,” he twisted slightly in his seat to face you more, “well, it’s your choice. It’ll help your nerves, but then again, I don’t mind if you’re shaking so much that I’ll have to wrestle you,” he stated calmly, making you go bug-eyed and swiftly choose to pick up your drink once more.

It didn’t take very long at all for you to get drunk, although it probably helped that each time you finished off your glass, someone would swoop in and refill it before you could protest.

The place was buzzing around you with rough-looking individuals, all of their backs adorned with patches, though you were too scared to meet any of their eyes. A few even tried to walk up and shoot their shot with you, though as you shrivelled up in hopes of turning invisible before them, the bikers would catch Bucky’s eye and hastily turn on their heel again. 

When your wandering eyes eventually spotted the dingy restroom in the corner of the bar, you figured that it might be able to grant you enough of a break to catch your breath and let you muster up the courage for what came next.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” you murmured, spotting out of the corner of your eye as he offered you a slight nod of approval, before you then jumped off the barstool, only to discover on your short trek across the room just how dizzy the alcohol had now rendered you.

The lavatory was grimy and mucked up with layers of old posters and flies on the walls, but it still turned out to be a safe enough space for you to freak out a little bit in.

Though once you’d dried your tears and gathered yourself once more, someone was standing directly on the other side of the door as you began to creak it open.

And before you could even react, Bucky had pushed his way inside, shoving you back in as well before you could slip past, and his inked fingers swiftly locked the door behind him.

“Mr. Barnes, what are you–, mmhpf–,” your words were promptly muffled as the biker suddenly grabbed your face and held it tight as he pressed his lips to your own. A yelp vibrated against his mouth as you willed your trembling hands not to shove him away, “I thought–, you wanted–,” you squeaked in between stolen kisses, “to go–, somewhere–, else–”

“And I thought you wanted to get this over with,” he muttered, tilting back a moment to gaze down into your wide eyes, “don’t you?”

“Well…” you then just bashfully nodded as you couldn’t get yourself to actually say it out loud, “…but I–, I’m sorry… could we maybe just slow down a little bit?” 

“Slow down?” he echoed, as if you’re speaking some alien language.

“Yeah, I just–…” you averted your gaze, “…I don’t really know what to do…”

“Really?” he raised a brow before you offered a nod, “well, alright. Help me out here for a second. Tell me, how much exactly have you done before?”

“I–… nothing…” you timidly shared.

“Nothing? Not even fooled around with a boyfriend?”

“I’ve never had a boyfriend, so no…” you nearly whispered, before then catching his eye and letting out a desperate cry, “I’m sorry, please, I can still do it, you just gotta guide me a bit! Please don’t back out of the deal!”

“Oh, no, honey, I’m not,” his stare traced your helpless expression as a few of his knuckles drifted up to trace the edges of it, “I’m very much not…”

“Oh, good!” you gasped, before swiftly regretting how enthusiastic it had sounded, “I mean, not–, just–, you know what I mean…”

Letting you squirm under his gaze a moment longer, he then uttered in a strange tone, almost as if you’d given him the most wicked of ideas, “you wanna go slow? We can go slow… I think I can live with that arrangement,” a wolfish grin bloomed upon his gruff face, “so why don’t you start by kissing me again?”

Nervously, heart hammering in your chest, you raised yourself up onto your tiptoes and planted a swift peck upon his lips.

“Hmm…” he hummed, before his pointer finger then drifted up into the space between you to do a come-hither motion, “you can do better than that, kiddo…” he lowered himself down a tad to be closer to your height.

When you then kissed him once more, one of his palms slid up to the back of your head just as you were about to break it, keeping you from fleeing as he then deepened the kiss.

As he began to make out with you, his tongue greedily flickering out to taste your own, your body initially locked up, though soon, as he selfishly kept it going, you horrifyingly felt yourself begin to relax into it.

Reminding yourself that it would all be over before you knew it, you tried your best to calm yourself, let go and try to find a way to enjoy it.

As his feet soon shuffled against the dirty floors, you bumped against the sink and squeaked against his devilish tongue.

His hands greedily began to wander down your body, his bold and scorching touch made ripples and waves in the short dress that you wore. At first, the touch made you draw in a sharp breath, but then as his lips strayed from your own and began to dance down the length of your neck, smothering the sensitive skin in sloppy pecks, your brows promptly knitted together in confusion as the way his fingers traced down your frame, grabbing your ass before then sweeping up to grope your tits, actually felt good.

As the older man’s broad hands then harshly coasted down to your bottom once again, he scooped you up to sit on the edge of the sink, making you let out a startled gasp at the sudden and unexpected move, although that only made the biker chuckle in return.

Now that his ravenous lips were no longer glued to your skin, his dark eyes drifted down to ogle the short hem of your dress before he then slowly hiked it further up to reveal your underwear below, which, to your horror, was completely and utterly soaked, making the poor cotton nearly translucent as it clung to your core.

“Fuck…” he let out an exhale as he slowly sank down to crouch before you. Getting a bit too close for your comfort, you tried to shift and close your thighs more, but his rough palms just shot out to catch each of your knees, “a-ah,” he didn’t even raise his gaze as he ordered, “keep them spread.”

“Mhm,” you hesitantly hummed as you blinked down at him between your legs.

“Good girl,” one of his hands then slid all the way up your inner thigh till it met the edge of your panties. Gasping at the contact, you then dared to peep down as he let his fingertips ghost over your covered core and tickle you, “so sensitive…” he noticed your body trembling at his touch and the way your brows knit together above your wild eyes, “what, are you scared, sweetheart? That’s okay, you can be scared… I know, you’ve probably been told all of your life that no one is supposed to touch your pretty princess parts, especially not someone like me, so it’s alright to be scared.”

Leaning in, he then pressed a kiss upon your covered clit, already puffy and throbbing beneath the drenched cotton.

“Oh my god…” he groaned as your scent tempted him even closer, his nose tickling you as he inhaled deeply, “I gotta get these off,” he hazily then grunted before ripping your panties off, down your legs and swiftly tossed them over his broad leather jacket-clad shoulder to the dark corner of the dirty bathroom.

He immediately let his fingers find your folds, first pinching your pussylips teasingly together, before he spread you apart for his marvelling stare.

“Look at that…” he inspected your untouched hole, grinning at the way you already cried out for him, “oh fuck…”

And without any further ado, the biker dove straight in, his calloused grasp holding you steady as he began to eat you out.

When his famished mouth soon sucked down on your clit, an uncontrollable moan tumbled out past your lips, one that you wished and hoped he didn’t notice, though he promptly groaned against your cunt, “yeah, you like that?” he glanced up at you as he smirked against your pussy.

“Y-yeah, it actually feels good…” you hesitantly admitted, forcing yourself to let go and give in to it since it would only be this one time, “…really good…”

Sloppily flicking down to taste your entrance, he soon began to fuck you with his wicked tongue, though only long enough to make you gasp before he then withdrew and licked his way back up your slit, only to sweep back down to plug you up, settling into the teasing pattern till a tingling knot began to form in the pit of your belly.

And even though you cried out at the high that soon crashed into you, your thighs clamping shut around his skull, he still didn’t cease as his mouth kept on devouring you whole, his nose all the while bumping your puffy pearl, “stop, stop!” you tried to push the biker away, “no more, it’s too much!”

“Yeah, I know,” he uttered condescendingly as he rose back up, your juices staining his salt and pepper beard, “stop complaining,” he then undid his trousers, his eyes still glued to your cunt as he got out his cock. As he jerked it slowly a couple of times before you, your lips parted in a silent gasp at his size, although it was when he swiftly inched in closer that your eyes truly grew in horror. Letting a dollop of spit drop from his mouth, first to your inner thighs, before it cascaded down to glisten up your pussy even more, he then tapped the heft weight of himself crudely against your throbbing and tender clit, making you jolt atop the sink, before he then momentarily rested his length down against your pussy, smirking fiendishly at just how deep his cock would burry itself in your body, “this isn’t about you. Your pleasure is frankly irrelevant in our deal,” he grunted as he soon drew your thighs together to envelop his dick and let him fuck them, “all you gotta do is spread your little legs and let me deflower you however the fuck I want.”

Soon the thighjob deteriorated, the leaking tip of him pressing and bumping rudely against your overly sensitive clit each time he thrust his hips forward, so it didn’t take too long before his bruising grip let go of your legs and he instead began to dedicate all of his attention to your cunt. With a few sharp taps of his hard length against the glistening softness of your puffy pussy, your frame jerked so sharply that your thighs couldn’t help but shakily part for him.

Trailing the bulbous tip through your wetness, his pearly precum slicked up your pussy to the dripping degree that mortifying, sloppy sounds echoed through the small bathroom each time he’d callously smear his cock against your quivering entrance and through your folds.

Though when you found the courage to finally glance down and watch as the biker repeatedly parted your petals around his fat girth, you nearly tried to escape from under him as you noticed, “o-oh my god, wait, where’s the condom?”

Although, the older man only rolled his eyes and sighed as if you were an annoying little child, here to spoil all of his fun, “oh my god…”

“B-but I’m not on the pill or anything,” you squirmed as he continued to rub his hardness against your cunt, “y-you can’t–”

“Relax, I’ll just pull out,” he huffed, “this just feels so much better, trust me…”

As he kept on going, rutting against your softness like an animal in heat, you then curiously let your hand wander down your frame till your fingertips brushed against his slick dick, crudely gliding against your pussy, your stare intense as you blinked down at it.

And as you were in uncharted waters, why he hadn’t stuffed it inside yet remained a mystery, as your clenching hole was already winking and making out with his fat tip. Perhaps he was just waiting for you to pop it in yourself, seeing as it was your very first time.

Although, when your touch tried to direct his cock down to sink inside your warmth, Bucky’s palm appeared from out of nowhere and smacked your fingers away, “hey! Behave! Keep your hands to your fucking self! You don’t get to control this, I’m the one who decides how this goes down, and you sure as fuck aren’t allowed to touch anything without my permission, you got that?”

Blinking up at him with wide eyes, your voice quivered, “y-yes, sir.”

“Fucking brat…” he mumbled before his efforts then grew rougher.

Soon he had you cumming once again, your body jerking harshly at the overwhelming high and your eyes squeezing shut, rendering you to nearly miss as he soon shot his load all over your pussy and belly, painting your skin white for you to discover as you woke back up from your haze.

“I–…” your dizzy vision narrowed to a squint as you peered down at the mess he’d made, “…was that it?”

“Oh wow,” he swiftly huffed as he met your confused gaze, “no, please, tell me how you really feel.”

“No, I’m sorry, I just thought you were gonna put it inside…”

“I changed my mind, this isn’t how I wanna do it,” a smirk twitched at his lips as he casually tugged his dick away.

“What?”

“Come again tomorrow,” he met your eye once more, “you can try again.”

“And just how do you know I’ll come again?” you pushed your skirt back down to somewhat cover yourself.

“You will,” he uttered with a level of cockiness you didn’t even think was possible.

“No, I won’t,” you shifted to sit up straight as you continued to balance on the edge of the sink, “I let you touch me, I did my part of the deal, now it’s your turn.”

“The deal was to let me pop your cherry, however, I may wish,” he scoffed, “you, little miss virgin, still haven’t had a cock split that pussy open yet. And don’t fucking come at me with your generation’s ideas about how complex and broad the term of virginity actually is, fuck that shit. You’re fucking mine till I break your hymen,” he growled, sending shivers down your spine, “mine to–, how did you put it? Take it slow with?” his tongue briefly flickered out to wet his lips as it remembered moments earlier, how it had dove inside of you and felt you clamber around it.

“Y-you can’t be serious,” you gasped.

“Do I not fucking look serious?” he let your eyes dart across his stern features, “honey, if you don’t do as I say and let me do this exactly how I wanna do it, then I’ll just keep your brother on, and I won’t fucking hesitate to make the rest of his life short and like hell.”

“I-I’m sorry! How should I have known that?”

“Because I fucking told you,” Bucky’s inked palm came down upon your ass once more. His black leather belt constricted your wrists at the small of your back as he held you balanced over his lap. Your panties hanging down around your ankles, the cotton still stained from your morning activities, “I said you weren’t allowed to touch anything without my permission, that includes this little pussy of yours.”

The people in the mechanic shop still buzzed around on the other side of the office’s thin walls, making you nervous about someone potentially wandering in to see your whole world on display.

Briefly pausing his spanks to inspect your pussy, he swiftly groaned, “fucking slut…” he spread you apart crudely, “you thought you could sneak this past me and I wouldn’t notice?” he then smacked his palm against your core, his fingertips colliding harshly with your throbbing clit and making your hole clench around nothing, “that you could get this little cunt off and just think that I wouldn’t see how soaked your panties still are?” he kept on whacking, “even your fucking fingers still smell of pussy.”

“I’m s-sorry,” a murmured moan slipped through your fog as you felt your toes curl in the inevitable end that crept nearer with every slap he dealt to your aching cunt.

But unfortunately, the biker noticed and swiftly said, “are you really about to fucking cum right now?”

“Mhm,” you hummed back and dug your nails into his thick thigh. However, when he then stopped his hand mid-air, denying you of the bliss, you promptly twisted to glance up at him with your hazy eyes, “w-wait–”

“One crucial lesson that you clearly need to get beaten into that young brain of yours,” he yanked his belt from your bound wrists and then bent it in half as he uttered, “is that bad girls don’t get to fucking cum,” before he began to crack the leather down upon your already sore bottom, truly marking it up with bruises.

“Ah!” you cried out as the sharp stings.

“Let me hear,” he croaked as he kept on whipping your butt.

“B-bad girls–”

“They what?”

“D-don’t get to cum–”

“That’s right,” he emphasised his words with the belt in his hand, “don’t even try and pull that stunt again. That’s two fucking strikes already… the fuck am I gonna do with you…”

Bucky had you balanced on a short tower of wide beer cases in the storage room of Nick’s bar, as he had made you hold back your legs to crack you mortifyingly open for him.

“There we go,” he murmured when, after an entire hour of edging and teasing you, the butt plug in his grasp finally sank into your little hole, “you did it,” his thumb rubbed the flared base of the metal toy.

You still didn’t understand his new obsession with your ass lately, moving entirely away from your virgin pussy to play with your other untouched hole, teasing it and stretching it out at any chance that he got. It was almost like he’d forgotten that it was your cunt that he was supposed to fuck to get this whole ordeal over with.

“C-can I come now?” you trembled as you peered down at him with hooded eyes, his face still lingering near your aching core, “I did it, I let you put that thingy in me, so can I? Please, sir?”

“How sweet of you to ask,” he chuckled lightly, “but no.”

“No?” you pouted as your throbbing cunt continued to drip before his very eyes.

“No, we don’t have time for that shit,” he straightened back up, “we gotta head out.”

“What? Where?”

“Thought it was about time you came riding with us,” you watched as he wiped off his soaked fingers on his jacket.

“Why? I don’t know how to.”

“Well, you don’t need to know in order to sit with me on my bike,” he stated, “come on, we all leave in less than five.”

“What, now?” your eyes grew even wider.

“Yeah, now,” he then grabbed your frame and hauled you over his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Ah! Wait! B-Bucky!” you yelped as he kicked the door to the back room open again, “you didn’t take the toy out!” you tried to reach back to do it yourself, but he promptly smacked your fingers away, “and my underwear–, I don’t–”

“Quit your whining, you’ll survive without your panties for a bit,” he grumbled as he walked out through the bar, making you blush as he past numerous bikers, flashing everyone your parts as your short dress rid up so far that it no longer covered anything, “and the plug stays right there, you got that? Don’t you dare so much as touch it after the work I just put in to finally fit it inside of you,” he smacked your ass, “you got that?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you murmured as he exited the bar and neared the clustered motorbikes all lined up out front. At the very least, you could find a drop of solace in the fact that your brother didn’t seem to be present today.

“Good,” he then sat you down on the ground, directly next to his own shiny bike, “now, hop on.”

Glancing nervously to the intimidating motorcycle, you then uttered, “…what about a helmet?”

But instead, he just repeated more firmly this time, “hop on.”

The gang of bikers, all on their vehicles, were so loud that you nearly couldn’t hear yourself think. It was almost like you were trapped in the centre of a swarm of bees.

Slotted behind the leader on the long leather seat of his motorcycle, your arms were tightly tangled around his waist as you watched the landscape zoom by around you.

The roar of the engine beneath you was so strong that the vibrations ended up teasing you, making your bare and drippy cunt, beneath your tiny dress that flowed in the wind, leak even more and stain the seat below with your desperation. Each agonising hum of the bike even made your little ass clench around the plug, whimpers slipping from your lips when you lost the battle and couldn’t ignore it any longer.

But then, suddenly on the ride, Bucky strayed and took a detour from where the rest of the group was headed, and though you tried to ask him about it, the biker didn’t bother offering you the satisfaction.

When he finally rolled to a stop, you’d reached an outlook point at the top of a hill, without a single other person in sight.

Plucking you off of the bike once he had dismounted as well, he didn’t waver before then manhandling you and bending you over the bike like a ragdoll in his grasp.

“Bucky–, a-ah!” you squealed as he then suddenly took the steely plug out.

“Shh…” he smacked your ass in return before stuffing the slick toy into his pocket.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you watched as he freed his fat cock, “w-what are you doing?”

“What does it fucking look like I’m doing?” he crudely tapped his bulbous tip against your asshole, briefly flicking against both it, as well as straying further south to gather up some one the cream that was leaking out of your cunt, using your juices as lube to slicken up his dick, “finally filling up your little hole,” he pointed out plainly before doing just that.

“Ah!” you cried out as he sank just the tip in, “bu-but, not there!” you then felt as he withdrew once more, only to instantly dip back in and make you gasp, “that’s the wrong–, you’re supposed to–”

“Oh, I know, honey, I know…” he cooed condescendingly, “but why put a stop to our fun already when I can just fuck your ass instead?”

As he buried himself another inch, you cried out at the aching stretch, seeing as even though the biker had teased you profusely, didn’t mean that your ass was ready to be split open in such a manner in order to take his girth.

“Fuck, you’re so tiny…” he groaned from behind you as he gazed down at your trembling frame beneath him, “tight little virgin ass just doesn’t wanna let me in, huh?” his touch drifted down to trace the tight ring of your hole around his cock, struggling to open up for him, “is this princess too high and mighty to take such a big, mean biker dick?”

“P-please–,” you choked on a sob as your nails dug into the motorcycle’s seat below you.

“Please, what? Do you not like it, huh? Does it hurt?” he mocked before you offered him a shaky nod, “how about this, does this hurt?” he then suddenly snapped his hips with such ferocity that his heavy balls tapped against your neglected pussy as he buried himself inside of you completely, “just you wait…” he moaned as your little hole choked his cock, “by the time that I’m done with you, you’ll be the most perfect little anal whore…”

As you felt his palms scoop below you to rip down your neckline and spill out your tits for his touch to play with, your eyes flickered down as well, although it was something other than his rough hands that caused your vision to widen.

As one of his hands crumbled your short dress, gathering the fabric in his calloused grasp, you spotted the prominent bulge that appeared in your lower stomach, the jarring imprint shifting to the rhythm of his ruthless pace.

There was no way you would be able to cum from simply the sensation of him fucking your ass, but it did manage to keep you agonisingly close to the edge, frying your brain completely as you dizzily blinked down at how your pussy defencelessly drooled about it, begging for attention.

“Shit, you feel so good, baby…” his wide palm cracked down against the curve of your ass, “maybe I should just keep fucking you like this and never stretch out that pretty little cunt of yours…” he considered with a fiendishly smirk upon his lip, “keep you pure… only fuck your ass so that I can keep you forever…”

When he soon filled up your poor ass with his hot load and he finally pulled back out, he instead popped the plug back in, before you could even catch your breath, keeping his cum stuffed inside of you.

Sitting next to the leader of the biker gang in a booth at the bar, Bucky didn’t offer you even one single glance as he spoke with his comrades and lit up yet another cigarette.

Although, that wasn’t all he was doing that night, as below the table, his devious hand set some other plans into motion.

With his fingers buried so far up your skirt that all you could do was sit there and concentrate on breathing, all of the bustling voices around you flying over your foggy head, it didn’t take long before the older man just pulled you into his lap.

Bucky simply carried on his conversations as normal, not caring one bit if other folks thought that you were just a pretty girl merely sitting on him, or if they knew what he was actually doing, that he was in fact making you warm his cock, on his selfish detour of a mission to stretch out your ass.

Maybe the dazed look on your face gave it away, or perhaps the way that his palm, that rested on your core to keep you steady and keep you in his lap, how it occasionally offered your wet pussy a slap loud enough to echo out through the entire bar. But even so, no one seemed to care, as it was only your heated cheeks that acknowledged the embarrassment.

But eventually, when he had downed his drink, he dragged your cockdrunk being out of the establishment, through the back and into the alley behind the bar. For a moment, you thought that he was gonna take you home to his own place, somewhere that you had practically begun to live in yourself, but instead of storming towards his bike, he didn’t get further than that passageway as he instead shoved you up against the rough brick wall and kissed you.

Spinning you around so that your front collided with the wall, he then stuffed your ass once again, a strange sensation that you had begun to get used to, though still wasn’t too fond of. But even so, you had still learned by now that complaining was of no use and would only egg the criminal on further, so if you wanted a shot at being able to still walk afterwards, then you’d learned to simply keep your mouth shut.

Smacking your puffy pussy once again, his grunts melted against your ear as you felt two of his fingertips sinking into your cunt, just barely slipping in at all, only hooking them to keep you in place as he railed your butt.

And though you tried not to orgasm, as the biker had repeatedly told you for the entirety of the night that you weren’t allowed such privileges, when the root of his rough palm grinded down against your throbbing clit, you were so edged that you helplessly squirted all over his palm.

Pulling out, he promptly growled, “the fuck did I tell you?” as he slapped your cheek with the hand that was still soaked from your cunt.

“I-I’m sorry, I was trying, I swear–”

“What’ll it take for you to get that this isn’t about you?” he spun you around to face him once more, “you’re not supposed to like it, you’re supposed to be a good little slut and make me feel good, you got it? Focus on me, not what that pussy wants. She’s a dumb little virgin anyways, doesn’t know what she really wants, so just shut up and take it,” your brows knit together at the sensitivity as he then reached down to drag his throbbing cock through your dripping folds, “you begged for it,” gathering your juices on his way to fill your ass back up, “begged for me to let your dear brother go. You got yourself into this mess, so be a good little fuck toy and just do as I say…”

“…been shut down since the sixties, even since people caught wind of all of the nefarious things the headmasters let slide for generations,” Bucky uttered as you walked by his side down one of the long and dusty hallways of the abandoned boarding school that he had wanted to show you.

Though the biker had claimed that the reason for dragging you there was purely because he thought you’d love the local lore, try as he might to make it seem that way, in reality, it was all just a ruse.

“How do you know about all of this?” you asked as you slowed your step to peek inside of other rooms you passed.

“Well,” he tilted his head as he then shared, “believe it or not, once upon a time, I was also a history major.”

“Really?” you whipped your head around to look at the older man, “you went to college?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged as you followed his stride, “or well, for a few months,” he added, “I loved every second of it though…”

“Then why did you drop out?” you blinked back at him.

“I didn’t drop out,” he met your eye, as if the truth was too obvious to even point out, “I was locked up.”

“Oh,” your puzzled expression promptly dropped, “oh…”

Slipping out of the corridor, the pair of you then entered a grand room that a rusty plaque by the door stated was the old headmaster’s office. The glass was cracked in the huge bay window that stood behind the dust-cloaked mahogany desk in the middle of the room.

Your slow steps caused the dirty floorboards below to creak and groan as you let your eyes dance around the spines of the numerous books that still littered the dark bookcases.

Curving around the desk, you then cracked open the large ledger, that lied hidden among the other knick-knacks, and began to skim the list of names, presumably of the children who had lived here.

“This is wild…” you couldn’t help but whisper as you let a finger ghost down the page.

“Yeah…” Bucky’s voice tickled your ear as he crept up behind you, “just imagine if you’d been alive back then… I mean, this is where you’d have ended up…” he stated before letting his lips dip down and kiss your neck as you kept on reading, “and being the troublemaker I know you to be, you’d probably have ended up in here all of the time…” he smirked against your skin before you felt his palm smack your ass, “getting fucking reprimanded, probably getting on everyone’s nerve enough for them to just drop you off at the local whorehouse to get you out of their hair…”

Fingers coasting up your front, the older man then caught your jaw and twisted it enough for him to catch your lips. Turning you around to face him completely, the kiss then swiftly grew sloppy as he drew you closer.

Soon, one of his arms extended behind you to carelessly clear the desk, sweeping every item to the ground, before he then scooped you up to sit on the edge.  

The biker had gotten into a habit at this point of not letting you wear any panties, in addition to preferring things like skirts and dresses that granted him easy access. Today had been one of those days, rendering the mild breeze that seeped through the cracked windows flowed in and kissed your cunt directly, sending shivers down your spine as the older man spread your thighs to slot himself in between them.

“Give me your hands,” he soon murmured against the kiss, though when you then held them out in the sliver of space between you both, Bucky reached into his back pocket and conjured a zip tie, which he then swiftly fastened around your wrists.

His kisses then suddenly ceased before he backed up a few steps, taking a moment to admire as you panted up at him, slightly sloped back on top of the desk, legs trembling to stay parted for him after the loss of contact, and with your bound hands resting against the swell of your tits. Undoing his dark pants, he then freed his cock simply because the sight of you made him throb too hard not to offer himself a few strokes. His consuming stare flickered momentarily in deliberation, before he then finally shifted back into your orbit.

As he tapped his heavy cock against your cunt, you couldn’t help but blink down at how huge he looked pressed up against your softness. Your stare only widened when he then humoured himself and lined his fat length up against your belly to see just how far inside of you that his cock would reach, “look at that… that’s how fucking deep I’ll get…” he groaned as he drew his dick back down, the details of him dragging against your aching clit, “rearrange your guts just to make room for me…”

You naturally assumed that this was all talk, as it usually was, that he would once again ignore your virgin pussy and opt for your well-trained ass instead. But when his pussyjob then grew sloppier and he actually did push against your untouched opening, not simply in a cruel and teasing nudge, but one that persisted till the bulbous tip of him eventually popped inside, just a tad, making you gasp loudly, “oh my god…” all you could focus on was the burning stretch of him splitting you open, before you then blinked down and realised what he was finally doing, “oh my god!”

“That’s right… I’m your fucking god now…” he groaned as you clambered around him, struggling to take him as he had purposely not given your pussy any attention at all up till now, “holy shit… look at that tight little cunt opening up for me…”

Soon, on his slow and bullying journey inside, his hardness was met with some resistance. But instead of fretting, the older man simply dragged his fat cock back out, slowly withdrawing it till he barely remained inside of you at all, before he then thrust forward once more, carving his way back in before he reached it again, only to initiate that pattern and repeat it, knocking on the thin wall again and again with steadily growing harshness till he broke it.

Though an outright scream left your form at the painful sting, the biker let out a moan just as rumbling as he sank in a bit further before then sliding back out to just the tip and grinning down at the crimson now decorating the half of his monstrous length that he had fit inside of you so far.

“Well, would you fucking look at that…” he then reached down, his touch briefly skimming over your clit before his fingers drifted down to part and pull on either side of his thick cock, spreading your pussy open even more to let him see how he broke you open. Smearing some blood on his digits, he then brought them up to his own mouth for a taste. His eyes rolled shut as he sucked them clean, groaning against his fingers as your eyes widened in horror. But when he then reached down for more, he instead uttered, “here, taste your fucking virginity,” and before you could try and twist away, not giving you a choice in the matter, he shoved his crimson digits into your mouth.

It tasted like iron and sin.

Crudely fucking his fingers in and out of your mouth, he didn’t let you breathe again before he’d reached far enough down your throat to make you gag on them.

Briefly dipping down, he dragged his tongue against the corner of your lips, licking up the little bit of blood that had smeared against your skin, “so, how does it fucking feel to finally have a cock all up in this little cunnie of yours, huh?” his deep voice vibrated against your hot cheek.

“F-feels–,” you panted, “weird–,” your eyes squeezed shut tightly as you tried to comprehend the staggering sensation, “nghh…h-hurts.”

“Oh, that’s so good, baby,” he only grinned before he placed a peck upon your brow, “that’s just perfect…”

Snapping into your cunt with more force, his pace increased as he attempted to stuff the remainder of his length inside of you.  

“Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh…” your gasps bubbled out of you to the rhythm of his harsh hips.

“I want you to cum on my cock,” you then heard him growl.

“I-I don’t know if I can–,” you swiftly shook your head as it felt as if he was splitting you in two, “it’s too much–”

“I don’t fucking care, you will do it,” he reached down and began to rub your poor clit, making you choke on a strangled moan, “come on, let me feel it,” he begged as his tight circles pressed down harder, “just let go, you can do it. Cream all over my cock, kiddo…”

Tears were streaming down your face by the time that a dangerous sense of warmth formed in the pit of your belly, and your entire body soon contracted painfully as he forced the agonising orgasm out of you.

“Fuck, that’s it, goddamn… that’s what I’m fucking talking about,” he grunted as your cunt clambered so tightly around him that his selfishness became even more agonising, “uh, do that again and you’ll make me nut so hard inside of you,” he muttered, though you barely heard his voice through your haze.

“Y-you, what–, ah!” you cried out as he then ignored your blubbering and suddenly buried himself completely, finally cramming the last few inches inside of your warmth, “t-too deep!” you struggled to suck in a breath as the tip of him nudged against your cervix as if it was threatening to burst through and fuck directly into your womb.

“No, I’m not too deep, this is exactly how it’s supposed to be. Your little fuckhole is supposed to take every single inch of me,” he chuckled down at the imprint of himself that bulged through your belly, “look at that… you see me right there, baby?” he pressed his palm down against it, making you squirm, “you see me all up in your guts?”

“Holy fuck…” you blinked down at it, mouth agape as it was so much more jarringly prominent when it was your pussy that he was wrecking and not just your poor ass.

“Oh, babygirl…” he kept his strokes long and rough, repeatedly withdrawing to the tip before slamming back in till his heavy sack smacked against the mess that had soaked your skin, “that’s right… that’s my fucking hole…” his eyes stayed glued between your trembling legs, “fucking split open and crying all over me… christ…”

Your strangled moans soon withered away as his inked fingers found your throat and didn’t stop squeezing till black dots began to dance around your dizzy vision.

The desk rattled beneath you when he eventually groaned, “fuck, I’m gonna cum…”

“P-pull–, o-out–,” you panicked in a squeak that he swiftly silenced completely when his grip only tightened, cutting off your air supply even more as he continued to brutally fuck you.

Even after he had pumped your pussy full of his load, the biker still didn’t stop completely, as his pace only slowed as he continued to rut his sensitive cock inside of you in a possessive attempt at fucking his load even deeper, although all his fat girth truly did was to force the sticky mess to gush back out.

“O-oh my god,” you blinked down his cum gradually leaking out around him, “did you just–”

“Doll, if I haven’t knocked you up already,” he panted, making you remember the countless of things he had done. From the times that he had filled up your ass with his load and droplets had dripped down to your needy pussy, or when he’d cum in your panties and forced you to wear them for the remainder of the day, or even the few times when the biker had cum on your cunt and rubbed the mess against your skin before stuffing as much of it inside of your hole as he could manage, “then I just gotta make sure that I do it now…” he continued to roll his hips, “this way you’re stuck with me…” he caught your eye just as his painfully slow pace began to bloom horrifying tingles deep within your belly once more, “this way you get to be mine forever…”