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Talk Dirty to Me

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Steve spends months tracking Bucky down, and when he eventually finds him, it's in a nightclub in Europe.

Bucky is completely wasted, having apparently spiraled into drinking and debauchery once freed from Hydra. 

The thing is, Bucky has never seemed more like himself than when he's totally sloshed. He's flirty and snarky and biting his lips 'til they're red as communism. 

A sour taste fills Steve's mouth at the sight of Bucky flirting with every passing stranger. 

And then Bucky starts dancing.

Jason Derulo's "Talk Dirty" booms over the speakers, and the light is dim and smoky in the nightclub, but Steve can see Bucky dancing clear as day-- the twist of his hips, the roll of his body, the sharp line of his throat. 

Watching Bucky dance is torture of the sweetest kind.

He starts grinding on people, men and women alike, hair falling in his eyes as he practically gets fucked on the dance floor. Bucky's shirt is much too thin to even be considered a shirt, and really it's just indecent, riding up with each thrust, and Steve can't take any more of it, because there are hands all over Bucky's body that don't belong there, and Steve feels the desire-- the need-- to protect Bucky, to claim Bucky as his own.

He pushes roughly through the crowd, and suddenly Bucky and Steve are face to face. He knows Bucky recognizes him, at least as the "man on the bridge" if not as "Captain America."

But Bucky doesn't run-- he doesn't falter for a second-- just keeps on dancing, and grinding his filthy hips to the sound of a saxophone warbling from the speakers. 

Steve all but body throws away the man Bucky is currently grinding on, and immediately takes his place, crowding close behind Bucky, as they both move in rhythm to the pounding music. 

Steve digs his fingers into Bucky's hips, possessive and just on the edge of painful, and buries his face is in Bucky's neck, desperately breathing in his scent and cataloguing every detail, lips barely grazing Bucky's skin. 

Bucky winds one hand around, burrowing his fingers in Steve's hair to drag him closer, urging Steve to lick, to taste, to touch his skin. Steve can barely breathe, completely engulfed in everything Bucky. He glances up to see Bucky's spit-slicked lips parted in a sinful "O" as he gasps raggedly, eyes fluttered shut, Adam's apple bobbing with a shaky swallow. Steve watches everything greedily. 

By now, Steve is more than hard, his pants ridiculously confining and slightly painful. He wants to fuck Bucky, or have Bucky fuck him, he's not really sure-- just knows that he wants everything Bucky will give him.

In a stroke of boldness, Steve mouths at Bucky's neck, tongue swiping out to hotly trace his thundering pulse, before scraping the tender skin gently with his teeth. He can feel Bucky gasp at the sensation-- feel, not hear, as the music is much too loud-- and Bucky's fingers tighten in Steve's hair. Steve notices vaguely that Bucky isn't touching him with his left-- metal-- arm, which is currently clothed in a long-sleeved shirt and glove, so as to remain less conspicuous. Steve smirks into Bucky's neck. As if Bucky could ever be inconspicuous, with his cherry-bitten porn star lips and fuck-me-now bedroom eyes. 

And then, Bucky rolls his hips in the most filthy way, and yeah, they need to take this somewhere else immediately because Steve might just throw caution to the wind and fuck Bucky right on the dance floor. Bucky appears to feel the same way, as he quickly drags Steve out of the crowd, fingers pulling at Steve’s belt-loops.

“Where are we going?” Steve manages to say, his voice low and gritty with arousal. Bucky just smirks, leading them to a bathroom door labeled “Handicapped.” Any other day, Steve would be appalled at the thought of fucking in a bathroom, especially one that might be really needed by those with physical handicaps—but at this current moment, a dirty nightclub bathroom sounded like the sexiest place ever because of who he’d be fucking—Bucky.

No sooner had Steve locked the door, did Bucky crowd him against the wall, and drop to his knees, fingers making quick work of Steve’s belt buckle and zipper, pulling down his pants just enough to free Steve’s cock from the confines of his jeans.

The look on Bucky’s face is primal and hungry, eyes nearly black with lust, as he surveys Steve’s cock, mouth practically watering at the sight.

“Jesus fuck,” Steve chokes out, because Bucky leans forward and promptly swallows his cock in one go, nose brushing against the wiry hairs on Steve’s pelvis. Steve grits his teeth, hands burrowing into Bucky’s hair—Bucky’s mouth is hot and warm and depraved and engulfing and Steve can’t even remember his own fucking name. With a jealous roll in his stomach, Steve realizes that Bucky could only get this good from experience.

Bucky bobs his head, licking and sucking at Steve’s dick like it’s a goddamn lollipop, his lips stretched and obscenely red and oh so fuckable.

Fuck, you’re pretty,” Steve breathes, intently worshipping Bucky’s every move. “Your mouth, your eyes—holy shit.” Because Bucky just fucking swallowed, his inner throat muscles contracting around Steve’s cock, and then Bucky hums and it’s a whole new sensation that sends electric bolts shooting up Steve’s spine.

Bucky looks up at Steve through thick, black lashes—his eyes stormy, pupils dilated.

“Wanna fuck you so bad,” Steve rambles, unable to keep the words from flowing out of his mouth. “Bend you over and take you, wanna grab your hips til they bruise, wanna touch you everywhere--” and Bucky lets out a broken moan around Steve’s cock, and in that moment, Steve knows this can’t end with just a blowjob—he has to worship every inch of Bucky.

Steve tugs on Bucky’s hair, pulling him to his feet, and holy shit that’s a sight to see—Bucky with sex hair, slack jawed and disheveled, cock-sucking lips parted and slightly panting. Steve slides his hands into the back of Bucky’s pants, grabbing his ass and pulling him flush against his own body—Steve can feel the hard line of Bucky’s dick through his jeans.

Steve kisses Bucky, hard and desperately turned on when he realizes that he can taste him own precome on Bucky’s tongue. There’s no finesse or technique—just lips and tongues and clacking teeth—much too violent, but still perfect.

Steve can't help but mumble against Bucky’s lips, “Wanna bite your neck—mark you—so everyone knows you're mine, wanna fuck that pretty ass til you can’t see straight” and Bucky fucking whimpers into Steve’s mouth, going weak against him. Steve smirks. Apparently, the Winter Soldier has a thing for talking dirty.

Steve bites at Bucky’s earlobe, tracing a path down to Bucky’s neck with his tongue, sucking and nibbling at the soft skin. A hint of stubble brushes against Steve’s cheek, sending a surprised jolt to his cock—guess Captain America’s got a turn on for five-o-clock shadow.

“Can I fuck you?” he whispers into Bucky’s neck, pausing to wait for a response.


It’s not even a whisper—it’s a prayer, it’s a fucking plea—that’s how badly Bucky wants him. He wants Steve everywhere, inside him, in his head, in his veins.

Steve’s hands fumble as he undoes Bucky’s pants; he pulls them down slowly, which irritates Bucky—he doesn’t want gentle and soft—he wants to be marked and filled up brutally, with no repentance. He doesn’t know to handle the soft kisses Steve trails up his thighs, or how he fucking nuzzles Bucky’s cock, mouthing at the shaft through Bucky’s boxers.

And then his underwear is gone, and Bucky is standing stark naked from the waist down because Steve apparently felt it necessary to completely remove his pants. Steve continues his soft exploration of uncharted skin, and Bucky’s flesh pebbles at the careful pull of lips on the jut of his hipbones, travelling up and over the bump and curve of every rib, until Steve’s tongue darts out to trace the peak of one darkened nipple, and Bucky jolts at the sensation.

He’s leaking now, almost trembling from arousal—he’s never been this turned on in his life, because Steve is fucking worshipping him, kissing scars and tonguing freckles, until Bucky just can’t take it anymore.

“In my pocket,” he gasps, as Steve continues his onslaught on Bucky’s senses.

But Steve is much too enthralled with tracing Bucky’s body with his tongue to hear what Bucky has to say. With the willpower of the gods, Bucky pulls himself away from Steve’s embrace, quickly retrieving the lube and condom he has in his pocket.

Steve raises an eyebrow at him.

“What?” Bucky pouts. “I never go to a nightclub unprepared.”

Steve kisses him to shut him up.

Bucky squeezes some lube onto his fingers—it’s cold, and he winces when he slides the first finger into himself. The cold gives way to a slight burn after a moment, but Bucky presses on, fucking himself on his fingers, trying to prepare himself hastily for Steve.

Steve frowns. It doesn’t seem like Bucky likes the sensation, judging by his half-wilted erection.

A gentle touch on Bucky’s cheek makes him pause for a moment.

“Let me,” Steve asks, eyes gentle, as though they weren’t about to fuck in a nightclub bathroom.

This time Steve kneels on the dirty floor, gently turning Bucky around, fingers lingering over Bucky’s hipbones. He slicks his fingers with lube, and slowly pushes in one finger. Bucky grits his teeth, breathing hard, and Steve peppers light kisses over Bucky’s lower back and the swell of his ass.

After a moment, Bucky’s body adjusts to the intrusion, and he nods, letting Steve know it’s okay to continue. So Steve starts to shallowly fuck Bucky with his finger, and it draws out a groan from deep in Bucky’s chest. And then Steve presses deeper and crooks his finger, and Bucky’s gasping and mewling because Steve’s hit that one spot and sparks are shooting up Bucky’s spine and all Bucky can think is “yes yes yes.”

Steve adds another finger, and Bucky’s thighs tremble because yeah, it stretches him a little too much, but the friction is worth every inch of Steve’s finger. Bucky pants, pushing back and trying to fuck himself on Steve, wanting more, so much more—so Steve adds another finger and fuck is that three now? because he can’t keep track of the lust curling in his belly, his dick practically leaking all over the floor.

After a couple minutes—though it feels like hours—Steve rises to his feet. Bucky hears the crinkle of foil, and peeks over his shoulder to see Steve rolling a lubed condom onto his dick. Bucky bites his lip, nearly giddy with anticipation. He sticks his ass out, smirking as an invitation to Steve.

But Steve doesn’t fuck him.

Steve grasps Bucky’s hips and turns him around so they’re face to face. He leans in close, pressing a chaste kiss to Bucky’s red-bitten lips, one hand sliding down Bucky’s hip to grasp his thigh, pulling up and hitching Bucky’s leg over his hip.

Bucky chokes at the feeling of their cocks pressed together. It’s overwhelming and intimate. He finds that he can’t look Steve in the eye.

Steve’s hands grab Bucky’s ass, spreading his cheeks and lining up his cock.

“Look at me.”

It’s a quiet command, but Bucky trembles all the same. He can feel Steve’s cock pressing at his entrance, teasing the tight ring of muscle. Undone, Bucky forces himself to look up.

Their eyes meet, and Steve slowly pushes inside Bucky.

It may be cheesy or cliché, but Steve doesn’t care—he wants to see Bucky’s face as he fills him up, he wants to see the look in Bucky’s eyes when he comes. And the expression that Bucky makes as Steve pushes into him is worth everything, even ninety fucking years in the ice, because Bucky is beautiful and the world is unfair, but at least they have this.

Bucky’s mouth opens, but he can’t speak, he can’t do anything but gasp and try to cant his hips up to take Steve deeper.

Finally, Steve starts to fuck him.

It’s messy and loud and rough—and more than fucking perfect—because it’s Steve and he’s everywhere, filling Bucky up too full, arms wrapped around under Bucky’s arms because Steve has to hold Bucky up. There’s sweat and sensation everywhere, and Steve’s hips are downright wicked as he thrusts into Bucky’s heat. Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders, back curving to keep Steve’s dick inside of him, as he kisses Steve on the lips, a flurry of teeth and tongue, warm and absent of finesse.

Somewhere along the line, Bucky finds he can’t hold himself up anymore—that’s the problem with fucking in a bathroom not a bed—every nerve ending in his body is overstimulated and on fire, muscles shaking with exertion—but Steve just holds him up secure in his arms, like he weighs nothing.

Steve fucks him deeply, slowly, when all Bucky wants is for it to be rough and passionless, but he can’t escape the overwhelming feeling bubbling up in his stomach that with Steve, he can never not feel passion—it will never be just a fuck. They’re doing it in a public restroom, and it’s still making love because Steve is Steve, and Bucky is addicted.

The angle isn’t right, and Steve can’t hit his prostate, but it still feels amazing and overpowering, and fuck, Bucky even totally forgot to touch himself—too distracted by the slide of skin on skin and the scent of Steve’s sweat.

“Touch me,” he begs, a broken whimper. Steve obliges happily, wrapping a large, calloused hand around Bucky’s cock, jerking him off in time with each thrust.

The faint bleed of music seeps through the thin walls, but all Steve can hear is Bucky’s choked whimpers and moans, practically deafening in Steve’s ears because holy shit those are the hottest sounds Steve has ever heard. Steve can tell Bucky is close—his low moans turning to breathy cries, every time Steve fucks into him.

“Fucking mark you,”   Steve growls into Bucky’s neck, sucking a bruise onto the hypersensitive skin. “Mine.”

And Bucky freezes, muscles locking up, and he comes—hard—white ribbons splashing across his and Steve’s bellies—his fingers twisting in Steve’s short hair. He gives a loud and strangled moan, before collapsing completely in Steve’s arms, jolting and over-sensitized to the slide of skin on skin.

Steve lasts a couple more thrusts before he comes too, following right after Bucky—Bucky twitches through the aftershocks of his own orgasm, trembling fingers tracing Steve’s sweat-slicked brow, comforting, as Steve rides out the last pulses of his orgasm, his own fingers digging into Bucky’s sides—hard enough to leave bruises.

Bucky smiles weakly, completely debauched and exhausted. He slumps against Steve, unsure of his ability to stand on his own. Steve smiles softly, gently coaxing Bucky back into his clothes, before zipping up his own pants.

Bucky can tell through his post-orgasmic haze that Steve’s thinking too much, too hard about what will happen-- what's between them. He shushes Steve before he can speak.

“Talk later,” he mutters.

And they do.

(Talk dirty, that is).