
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5242226.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Captain_America_(Movies), Captain_America_-_All_Media_Types, Marvel
      Cinematic_Universe
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers, Steve_Rogers/Winifred_Barnes, Natasha
      Romanov/Sam_Wilson
  Character:
      Steve_Rogers, James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Winifred_Barnes, Sam_Wilson_(Marvel),
      Natasha_Romanov, Gabe_Jones, Timothy_"Dum_Dum"_Dugan, Jim_Morita, Jacques
      Dernier, James_Montgomery_Falsworth, Sarah_Rogers, Peggy_Carter, Brock
      Rumlow
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Incest, Didn't_Know_They_Were_Dating, Alternate_Universe
      -_Bakery, Lolita_AU, stepdad_au, Angst, Self-Hatred, teen!Bucky, Romance,
      Other_Additional_Tags_to_Be_Added, Sexual_Tension, Anal_Fingering, Anal
      Sex, Dirty_Talk, Nipple_Play, Implied/Referenced_Childhood_Sexual
      Experimentation, First_Time, Weddings, Marriage, Pregnancy
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-19 Updated: 2017-05-17 Chapters: 5/? Words: 17062
****** Faunlet ******
by RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary
     Recently discharged from service, Steve Rogers courts and proposes to
     Winifred Barnes, the young, widowed owner of a tiny Connecticut
     bakery. Her son, James, is fifteen, and acts it - cocky, obnoxious,
     but sweet as cream underneath it all.
     Steve is in love with Winifred, he's certain of it - but slowly
     develops deep feelings towards her teenaged son that are anything but
     fatherly.
     A Stucky "Lolita" AU.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
     Dedicated to ballvvasher for the original inspiration - you are so
     unbelievably awesome, and you oughta know it! ;D
     If the words "Lolita AU" didn't make it obvious enough, let me be
     clear - this story will feature underaged sex between an adult man
     and a significantly younger teenage boy. Bucky is fifteen for the
     majority of the plot, which means he is a year under the age of
     consent in Connecticut, and therefore, their relationship is ILLEGAL.
     However, there is absolutely NO mental/emotional non-con between
     Steve/Bucky, and the rape tag has been used to convey the statutory
     nature alone for the first several chapters. If this at all upsets
     you, or makes you uncomfortable, please don't read - I want you all
     to stay safe!!!
     This AU is based primarily on the 1997 film adaption of Nabokov's
     original novel - if you've seen it, certain images and lines of
     dialogue will seem familiar.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It’s still dark outside – just a little past three in the morning – and as
Steve creeps out onto the second floor landing, he nearly trips over something
long and soft strewn across the carpet.
“Y’okay?” Winifred whisper-calls from her – their – bedroom, a sleepy, fucked-
out haze slurring her words into a jumble.
He responds quietly with an affirmative sound, before fumbling for the switch
on the wall. The overhead light comes on with a faint electrical buzz, and he
quickly recognizes the pile of fabric at his feet as a pair of cotton pajama
bottoms, patterned in grey and blue plaid.
They’re still warm, and it takes a moment for the blood previously stuffing his
dick to travel back up to his brain, and register that the past fifteen minutes
were probably overheard by his girlfriend’s teenage son.
His cheeks flush, but he’s not even sure he has the energy to be mortified
anywhere beyond.
 
Silently thanking God for the foresight to slip his boxers on, Steve creeps
down the stairs and through the darkened family room, bumping his shin on the
corner table and muffling a curse behind his teeth.
The swinging door to the kitchen is closed, but a faint trace of light is
bleeding out from underneath, spreading over the ugly flocked carpet, and
somehow Steve isn’t surprised by the sight that greets him inside.
Jamie’s sprawled on his belly in front of the open fridge, pouring over a pile
of vibrantly colored comic books spread haphazardly across the kitchen floor.
The only light in the room emanates from the glow of the refrigerator, and it’s
a surefire way to ruin his eyes… Why Steve is even reflecting on this is a
mystery, when the most noticeable part of the situation is that the fifteen
year old clearly hadn’t been wearing anything underneath those discarded pajama
pants.
Steve quickly turns his focus to the pantry.
“… You oughta be sleeping.” He mutters, pulling open the squeaky door and
scanning the shelves for something relatively appetizing.
“Y’woke me up.” Jamie replies drowsily, his lower lip popping out on the ‘p’
sound. In any other time and place, Steve might have found it kinda cute.
He obviously needed sleep much more urgently than he’d thought, considering the
kid was half-naked and had more than likely listened to his mother being
enthusiastically fucked by her boyfriend of two months.
Although, Jamie didn’t seem particularly embarrassed about it.
“If you eat those, you’ll have garlic breath for round two.” He mumbles, as
Steve prises open the carton of hummus left on the counter. A dark flush
immediately colors his cheeks, half-hidden by his beard, and he’s not totally
certain what he intends to do when he swings around, bare-chested and shocked –
deliver some kind of paternal reproach? Make an attempt to laugh it off? Defend
the honor of the kid’s mother?
None of the above, actually.
Jamie’s fished the vanilla ice cream out of the freezer at some point while
Steve’s back was turned, and now he’s slurping it up in big, melting spoonfuls,
the excess dripping down his chin in globs of white.
Steve feels something lurch in his gut – something not quite shame or even
flattery.
Jamie plops the spoon down onto the upturned carton lid, a few dollops of cream
landing on the glossy comic pages, before pulling a box of raspberries out of
the fridge. He flops back onto his stomach, feet swamped in too-large white
socks as they swing idly over his bare ass…
For one horriying second, Steve realizes his mouth’s gone dry.
“Put that stuff away, and let’s go back to bed…” he manages to mutter out,
finally thinking to grab the sliced pita bread from the counter and empty it
onto a plate beside the hummus.
“Why?” Jamie asks, nibbling a raspberry off his thumb and chewing wetly.
“You’re gonna be up all night after you eat that stuff-“
The fifteen-year old pops the last berry off his smallest finger and balances
it on the tip of his tongue for a fraction of a moment.
“Make me.”
This is one of those moments when Steve’s certain he was never meant to be a
parent, because he has no fucking clue what to do here. If Jamie were his kid,
he’d follow his own mother’s good example and give him an earful, but he’s not
– biologically, he belongs to the woman - probably asleep by now - upstairs,
and a man buried somewhere in the local cemetery.
Whatever he’s thinking must show on his face though, because Jamie visibly
cowers just a little.
“… Gonna tell on me?”
Steve sighs.
All show and no substance, as usual.
“Not tonight. Now put that away, and go upstairs – and when I get up there I
want you to be asleep. I’ll check.”
Jamie pouts just a little, but shoves the snacks back into the fridge and
clambours coltishly onto his feet.
Fortunately, the too-large t-shirt falls about to his mid-thigh, protecting
what little is left of his modesty. Steve nods pointedly towards the door and
Jamie goes slowly, arms full of his glossy comics, and dragging his stockinged
feet until he reaches the doorframe. He pauses, one hand starkly pale against
the tan-stained wood, and bites his lower lip as he glances back.
Steve focuses on uncorking the wine bottle in his hand, gooseflesh prickling up
the back of his neck until he hears the swinging door clatter against the
kitchen tile.
 
* * *
 
Winifred always looks stunning when she’s baking. She’d disagree wildly if he
mentioned it, and Steve knows that to the casual observer he’d seem crazy - her
dark hair knotted back and tucked into a blue surgical cap, smooth, delicate
fingers encased in clear plastic, her floral sundress hidden behind a shiny
polymer apron. The only person who should be at all turned on is the balding
health inspection man who shows up now and then, but Steve supposes it’s less
to do with her body – although the bit of fluffed cream dusting her cheekbone
is rather appealing – and more the fixed determination as she bustles around
the tiny pastry kitchen, overseeing every mixer and set of processing blades
with the eyes of a surgeon.
That intensity had been the second thing he’d noticed about her – after the
wide smile that crinkled her eyes every time he stopped by the bakery on his
way through to New Haven.
Sometimes Steve honestly wonders if he hadn’t simply been inventing
increasingly flimsy excuses to slip back into Connecticut – as Nat had been
quick to call him on, part-time under-assistant junior conservationist wasn’t
the Institute’s most vital position.
He’d still be a liar if he said he regretted it.
Yet another groan slips past Winifred’s lips as she dips an icing spreader into
the bright violet mess at the bottom of the food processor, a few still un-
broken blueberries floating at the top, and Steve doesn’t even need to ask.
“Not thick enough?”
“No-“ she snaps back, ripping off her cap to rub a gloved hand viciously along
her scalp. Soft brown hair stands up in a bizarre, tufted clump.
“- andthe coffee grains are refusing to dissolve, which means, ‘surprise!’
Chemistry wins again.” She huffs with a humorless smile, her head cocked self-
deprecatingly.
“Culinary school: one, affordable self-certification program; zero -”
“Hey –“ Steve chides gently, both huge arms squeezing around her shoulders as
he nuzzles into her mussed hair. She feels delicate and bird-boned against his
chest, and an uneven breath flutters through her lungs as he swipes the bit of
cream off her cheek with the tip of his tongue.
She smirks.
“Tasty?”
He lets it dissolve in his mouth, before flicking the tip of her nose with his
tongue.
“Needs sugar.”
Her nose scrunched up in mock indignation, as she smacked his bicep playfully.
“Pig!”
“Hey hey hey, maybe I just need a second taste, huh?”
“Oh?”
“Mm?” Steve crooned back, lapping at her cheek a second time. A soft, guttural
laugh bubbles up from her throat – a noise that he knows from experience
heralds either a damn good sample bar from Callebaut, or something
significantly raunchier.
She nuzzles into his beard, her breath lifting the short hairs while her hips
rock in his grip, and Jesus Christ,he’d never thought about how much you could
do in a kitchen –
There’s a sudden, sharp banging on one of the cake pans hanging by the door,
and they both jump apart as if they’d been electrocuted.
As usual, Jamie doesn’t have the decency to look even slightly embarrassed.
“Breakfast’s up.”
His tone is blithe, untroubled, evidently completely unperturbed that he’d
effectively poured cold water over his mother’s latest attempt at a sex life.
What was this, Steve makes an effort to remember through the blue-hot mix of
arousal and rage currently curdling his brain  – the third time this week?
Winifred meanwhile seems about two seconds away from filicide.
“Then plate it!” she snaps, eyes wide and ears red, the forced, open-mouthed
half-smile broadening her face doing nothing to hide her obvious humiliation.
With a parting shrug, Jamie shoves himself away from the doorjamb and saunters
back into the main baking kitchen, arms and legs swinging with floppy, teenaged
looseness.
She manages to huff out a laugh as Steve grinds both palms against his
eyeballs, groaning.
“Just smack him on the mouth if he gets too annoying –“
“I could think of some better places…” he mutters, willing his dick into
something resembling good behavior.
 
*
Winifred stays behind in the kitchen to settle the blueberry conundrum, leaving
Steve to creep out into the still abandoned main room – the bakery won’t see
much patronage until roughly eight AM.
The little cock-block is finishing up setting glasses of orange juice on the
table – “Breakfast Cubed,” as Winifred calls it, three pancakes, three eggs,
three strips of bacon on each plate – and almost as soon as the thought drifts
impulsively through his head, Steve feels guilty.
Jamie’s had almost ten years to adjust to his father’s death, and in all that
time he’s learned to take his mother’s undivided attention for granted – and
kids don’t tend to share well, Steve spent enough of his childhood in a
pediatric ward to understand that.
He doesn’t want or need Jamie to see him as a replacement for George Barnes –
maybe he can try to be a friend, not merely an extension of the boy’s mother…
Jamie glances up from the stove, a little pink tongue tracing over his dry
lips… grey eyes fixed on Steve’s chest when he thinks he isn’t being watched…
He pulls out the nearest chair with an unavoidable screech, making sure to
offer the teenager what he hopes comes across as a truce-offering smile, but
there’s only the typical lip pouting, heavy-lidded attitude in response.
Oh well. It’s not as if he expected much better.
“Going to Gabe’s after school?”
“Mm-hm.” Jamie mumbles non-commitally, and Steve has to restrain himself from
rolling his eyes as his plate’s set down with a thunk.
It takes him several seconds to notice the brown grease stains littering the
porcelain, before Jamie’s leaning in beside him. Much too close – Steve can
feel warm breath on his earlobe, and Jamie has the same clean, fresh-butter
scent as his mother. Like warm bread straight from the oven.
“Don’t tell Mom,” he murmurs, a bare foot pressing at Steve’s ankle, against
his grey tube sock. “… but I ate all your bacon.”
A long-fingered hand snatches up a handful of raspberries from the bowl at the
center of the table before he dashes back to the kitchen, leaving Steve biting
his lip nervously, a pink tinge to his cheekbones.
He’s not blind.
He simply doesn’t want to see.
*
 
“It’s only a week – you can go without getting laid for that long.” Winifred
smirks, pecking Steve on the ear as they both heave the final, boxed layer of
cuberdon-blackberry-grapefruit-Cointreau cake – her pièce de résistance – into
the back of the minivan.
He wants to maintain that he’s not thatprimeval, that he has in fact lived much
of his life without the constant promise of climax - it’s the idea of being
left alone for a quarter of a month in the same house as a hormonal teenager
that’s bringing out the nerves.
“There’s a pastry backlog that should last you about four days – Jamie knows
how to thaw them out – and remember to glaze the loaves before you stack them!
If those lovely people from the FDA call, just…”
He zones out a moment, watching her face as she goes on a mile a minute, her
face bare, sweat shirts layered over her bird-boned frame, several ratty
scrunchies knotted into her still-wet hair…
“… And when the chocolate sprayer clogs up – ‘cause it will – just wash it out
a few times with h-“
Steve will realize later that he didn’t particularly think – didn’t even fully
consider what was coming out of his mouth until it was too late to bite it
back.
“…Marry me?”
She screeches to a halt, mid-sentence, and stares a moment, her mouth hanging
half open.
      Fuck it all, he didn’t just… Everything in his stomach threatens to come
      hurtling back up, and there’s still time, maybe he can salvage this…?
      “Say that one more time?”
      “Sorry – nevermind; I know how to file the order receipts, and if –“
      “Uh-uh, I wanna hear that again.”
      She’s openly grinning now, arms folded, and damn it, this is why Peggy
      told him all those eons ago that he hasn’t got a clue about women…
      “I just – I know this isn’t really the time –“
      “Not at all.”
      “-and you’re usually supposed to do this with a diamond and some
      champagne, but-“
      “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
      Any second now she’s going to burst out laughing, and Steve isn’t certain
      if he’d rather sink into the pavement or become spontaneously invisible –
      he can feel his skin flushing as he babbles frantically.
      “-if you need time I’ll understand, I mean, God knows I don’t expect you
      to jump into this after two months, I have no business asking, but–“
      “Yes.”
      “-you’re beautiful, funny, you… you make a … religiouslygood apple cake,
      and – what?”
      “Yes, Stevie, yes!” she hisses quietly between bouts of choked laughter.
      He manages to breathe for the first time in roughly three minutes, before
      letting her grab the front of his pullover and drag him into a heavy kiss
      against the side of the van, her previously stringent schedule apparently
      forgotten.
      He wants to pick Winifred up and dash through the streets, spin until
      they’re both dizzy, scream with joy and wake up every inch of this tiny
      slice of nowhere…
      When they finally break away slowly, Steve’s fingertips dragging through
      her hair, it’s to the familiar rattle and cra-thunkof a skateboard
      against the asphalt.
      Reality comes crashing back just as harshly.
      “Do we tell him now?”
      “After I get back.” She amends quietly, taking his hand and pressing it
      to her hipbone. “We both… need a little time to think anyway, and I’m not
      about to leave you with a shell-shocked teenager.”
      “Thanks… I guess.”
      She rolls her eyes with a huffed laugh.
      “We’ll celebrate properly seven days from now – and I expect to see roses
      and a rock!”
      “Understood.”
      Steve pecks her nose a last time before she wriggles out from under his
      arms and walks down the driveway to say goodbye to her son.
      Every emotion he’s been taught to expect washes through his veins in the
      space of several heartbeats – elation, excitement, ecstasy – and if he
      wants to be good and honest, perhaps a touch of self-satisfaction.
      Seems his mother had been more than correct when he’d called her that
      night six years ago, unsure where else to turn, salt tracks itchy on his
      face and Peggy’s perfume still hanging in the air.
       
      *
       
      Blithely handing over the key ring, Winifred left Steve responsible for a
      baked goods bistro and a fifteen year old boy with a kiss on the cheek
      and a teasing whisper of “Be a good daddy.”
      Roughly four hours later, the morning’s euphoria has already eroded away,
      leaving Steve wondering what the exact legal ramifications are for
      murdering your future stepchild.
      Jamie’s at least a decent help behind the counter – because apparently,
      one of the few things he takes seriously is his mother’s business – and
      plays the part of an angel in the public eye. Little old women simper
      over him by the hour, mothers with children ask after specific school
      projects, and the occasional ill-tempered customer just has to see big
      eyes and a bitten lip before they melt into a docile puddle.
      Out of view to anyone but Steve, the cherub grows a pair of horns and a
      forked tail.
      He’d promised to keep his head and with an increasing futile desperation
      to make this work, Steve endures six hours total of honey-laden back-
      talk, sarcasm, and silent treatment, all of which culminates in a crooked
      drawing of a dick smeared out in chocolate fondue over one of the white
      prep counters, thankfully after closing.
      Jamie’s leaning luxuriantly against the wall, the blatant smirk on his
      face garnished by a splotch of lingering chocolate, and Steve wants to
      scream. If this is what he can expect for the next six days, there’s not
      a soul alive who could keep him from flinging this kid into the nearby
      lake, and cementing it over – just to be safe.
      However, he’s currently exhausted and fed up and doesn’t have the energy
      to so much as shout – but he’s sure as hell not mopping up that obscene,
      immature mess.
      He bites his tongue a moment, eyeing the outline disparagingly. Through
      the corner of his gaze, he can see Jamie perking up slightly, likely
      wondering if this will be it, if he’s pushed his mother’s boyfriend to
      his limit.
      The satisfaction transforms to blatant shock when Steve reaches for the
      fondue pot, dips the tips of his fingers into the warm chocolate, and
      daubs it across the existing smudges.
      “The first step,” Steve growls humorlessly as he straightens the outline,
      thickening the layers, “is an even contour. You can’t get that, you’re
      screwed.”
      He switches from the pads of his fingers to the very tips, adding some
      detail – veins along the shaft, some weight to the testicles, the outline
      of the frenulum under the urethral slit.
      “Then establish your light source, and follow it like a bible,” he goes
      on, adding a few splatters that he can smear around and transform into
      shading. A few heavy shadows at the base give a suggestion of pubic hair.
      “and lastly, you sign and date it. “ His fingers fly, sweeping out his
      initials with a well-practiced motion and scribbling the month, day, and
      year a few inches below.
      “Cause if you want the right to lean back and be proud of something,
      you’d damn well better do it right and earn it.“ Steve finally snaps,
      replacing the pot onto the warming plate with a little more violence than
      necessary.
      Jamie looks a bit shell-shocked, his huge eyes flicking back and forth
      between Steve’s tight-lipped scowl, and the beautifully executed drawing
      of a penis smothered over the countertop.
      A drop of chocolate trickles down the edge of the marble and splashes
      onto the floor tile.
      Steve manages to get a measured amount of calm into his tone.
      “I’ll be upstairs taking a shower – dinner’s in thirty minutes.”
      There’s a strong temptation to glance back before he heads up the stairs
      and see if Jamie’s at least blushing, but the sound of the kitchen faucet
      being cranked on, followed by a short burst of running water, is
      satisfaction enough.
       
      * * *
       
      Steve’s not overly proud of his little show from the previous night, but
      it seems to have done the trick – once he’s home from school and behind
      the counter, Jamie’s no longer behaving like a brat. Rather the opposite
      in fact – right up to offering to load the serving plates into the
      enormous dishwasher by the pantry, something he hates doing; a fact
      Steve’s well aware of after a month of living under the same roof.
      “Didn’t know you could draw.” The kid mumbles quietly a few minutes after
      they lock up. He’s done nothing but mutter or whisper all afternoon, as
      if afraid of stepping out of line, and Steve’s a little surprised to find
      that he misses the smirks and the muffled laughter, if not the derision.
      Catch him at the right moment, and Jamie’s a good kid – a sweet kid.
      “Sure.” Steve murmurs back, keeping his tone light as he slides the newly
      scrubbed display shelves back into place. “If you’re going to repair art,
      it’s better to know a thing or two about how to create it.”
      “Yeah, everyone remembers that Jesus fresco.” Jamie quips softly, biting
      back a smile, and Steve just has to allow himself a chuckle.
      The fifteen year old seems to be scrubbing the same spot for at least two
      minutes before he finally speaks up again.
      “I, um… sorry for being a dick earlier, it’s… I… I just thought…”
      He doesn’t need to explain, it’s been a little obvious from the day Steve
      moved in, however much he didn’t want to face up to it. An obnoxious
      show, posturing for the grown-ups… just a misguided plea for attention by
      an innocent teenager with a crush.
      It’s not healthy – Steve’s at least twice his age – particularly when
      he’s potentially weeks, months away from becoming Jamie’s stepfather. In
      which case, it would probably be best to kill the allure of mystery now,
      and the glow of infatuation along with it.
      “Jamie, after you’ve got an hour of homework done, why don’t we go out
      for a bit?”
      He doesn’t miss the way he sucks in a breath, or the barely noticeable
      eye roll – and yeah, that might piss Steve off just a bit, when he’s
      making a concentrated effort to be nice. Jamie must catch on, because he
      reacts almost instantly.
      “No! No, I – I mean, yeah, that sounds good, I just… don’t call me that.”
      “What? ‘Jamie?’”
      “It – my Dad called me that when I was little, like – ‘James Buchanan’
      was his idea, he was some kinda history nut, but like… Mom just picked it
      up, but with anybody else…”
      Steve already feels like someone pulled his innards out by the roots.
      “No, no no no – I under – what d’you want me to call you then?”
      He shrugs, lips pouting.
      “Dunno. Whatever you want, I guess.”
      Normally Steve would try and lighten the mood, tease him a little with
      things like rugrator minion,but something tells him this simply isn’t the
      time. Ja- no, not Jamie – doesn’t need a father right now, doesn’t want
      one, obviously. And –
      “Bucky?”
      He glances up, as Steve tightens his lips hopefully.
      “Huh?”
      “As in – short for ‘Buchanan?’ It’s the best I could do.”
      The kid’s mouth moves silently, subtly, for a fraction of a second,
      before breaking into a bright smile, and for the first time in two
      months, Steve knows he’s finally done something right.
      “So, Stevie…” Ja – Bucky – purrs, with a shameless display of cockiness,
      “what else d’you draw, besides cocks on counters?”
      Steve shakes his head, biting back a chuckle.
      “Mm… whatever I see in front of me, I guess – ‘s long as it’s worth
      putting on paper.”
      Bucky pauses in mopping up the disinfectant, glancing up at him, and
      Steve can see in his eyes that, for once, he’s perfectly serious.
      “Could’ya – I mean… would y’draw me, maybe?”
      Blue eyes study his face for a second, tracing invisible lines in
      graphite and chalk.
      “Sure Buck… maybe someday.”
       
      *
       
      “And you’re certain this is the only place open after nine?”
      It’s a fair question – the tiny drugstore-cum-soda shop looks like it
      could date back to the ‘forties, and something that suspiciously
      resembles mold is creeping down one corner of the clapboard siding.
      Several insects buzz overhead, circling the ancient, red neon sign
      advertising “ice cold drinks” – even though everynickel and dime snack
      joint offers “ice cold drinks.”
      Bucky chuckles, his big eyes glittering in the red-glow.
      “When you live in this shithole– hell yeah!”
      Slim fingers lock around the cuff of Steve’s jacket, and tug him inside –
      after a few tries, the wooden door finally squeals open as a tiny brass
      bell jingles somewhere overhead. Warmth explodes across their faces,
      evidently sourcing from a radiator humming loudly in the ceiling, but it
      doesn’t quite drown out the be-bopping emanating out of a decrepit juke-
      box in the corner, bright-colored paint flaking off the rusted metal.
      It’s shabby, but Steve has to admit there’s a kind of charm to all the
      roughened edges – like a dog-eared, leather-bound book tugged off a
      grandparent’s dusty corner shelf.
      Still, it’s not exactly what comes to mind when one ponders the concept
      of a teenage hot-spot.
      “So this is where the cool kids hang out?” he asks with a slight smirk,
      not bothering to hide the skepticism.
      “Why not?” Bucky shoots back, lip quirked as he leans against the service
      buzzer, making it screech. His tongue runs across his mouth, leaving the
      dark pink skin glistening with moisture, and when he speaks again it’s
      with all the practiced, lazy drawl of a call girl in a nightclub.
      “So… buy me a drink.”
      Steve’s smile crashes to the floor, unsure how to handle the implication,
      until a round-faced, dark-skinned woman appears from a side door and
      slips behind the soda counter, effectively rescuing him.
      “Hey there, Pun’kin.”  She warbles with a lavender-lipped, dimpled grin.
      “Looking for Gabe? He’s upstairs.”
      “Nah thanks – just showin’ Stevie here a good time for once, Mrs. Jones.”
      The blush reaches down to under Steve’s collar as he’s tugged over, and
      Bucky hops onto one of the chrome stools lining the bar, the red-painted
      top almost entirely worn away.
      Gabe’s mother gives him an arched brow look – he just responds with a
      shrug.
      Kids – what can you do?
      It seems to placate her.
      “The usual for you then, sweetie?”
      “Yep! Two straws – please.”
      She grabs an enormous sundae dish from a shelf loaded with glassware, as
      Bucky shrugs out of his varsity jacket and braces his elbows on the shiny
      countertop, his chin resting on his hands.
      The transformation is incredible – dark-eyed and wanton one second,
      adorable tenth grader the next.
      It’s normal for that age… possibly.
      Steve twiddles his thumbs a moment or two longer before deciding to speak
      up.
      “So – what did you wanna talk about?”
      “Can’t it wait?” Bucky all but purrs, now revolving slowly on the
      spinning stool top, the toe of his sneaker resting on the foot-bar.
      “Just enjoy the place – ‘t’s the only real thing in this hellhole town
      anyway.”
      A half-smile lifts the corner of Steve’s lip.
      “Whaddya mean?”
      Bucky’s let his head fall back, eyes fluttering shut with a deep sigh, as
      if he’s inhaling the essence of their surroundings.
      “Dunno… it’s old… it knows stuff.”
      A breath rattles out of Steve’s lungs as he glances around, takes in the
      room as a whole – the heavy, chipped plaster molding, the smoothness of
      scuff-marks at the base of the counter, the burnished soda tap, gold and
      black floor tiles cracked under the weight of generations of shoes, the
      scent of sugar and cigarettes from jars behind the shelves and the
      (locked) kiosk near the back…
      The chink of glass on the countertop is enough to drag Steve back to the
      present, and the grinning fifteen year old waiting for him.
      “See?”
      Steve huffs out a laugh before his eyes land on the sundae goblet that’s
      been set down carefully, now filled to overflowing with dark magenta ice
      cream and frothy, pink-gold foam.
      Mrs. Jones receives a sweet smile in thanks, and Steve winces as Bucky
      pops out his retainer and drops it onto a paper napkin, quickly ringed
      with moisture. Pink lips wrap around a red-and-white straw, pouting out
      just a little, and Steve’s immediately conscious of that soft flutter in
      his chest…
      “Try some.” Bucky murmurs, pushing the other straw towards him, an eager
      glint in his eyes. The expression isn’t one Steve can refuse, so he does
      as bidden.
      It’s sharp and gently tangy, all at the same time – the gentle sweetness
      of what Steve eventually identifies as raspberry doing a well-waged
      battle with something sharp that almost burns his tongue…
      “Ginger ale.”
      Bucky’s smirking, licking some bright pink residue off the end of the
      straw, that little pink, flexible tongue dancing up and down the length
      almost hypnotically, and like a trapped animal Steve finds it difficult
      to look away.
      “’member Dad taking me here when I was little…  ‘N then he’d carry me
      home and we’d count houselights an’ stuff…”
      “Must’ve fun growing up… around here, I mean.” Steve breaks in gently,
      with what he hopes is an encouraging expression.
      “It was bullshit.” Bucky snaps back indignantly, the nostalgic haze
      apparently gone.
      “This whole placeis bullshit – ya know no-one would even talk to Gabe and
      his mom when they first moved in here? Nobody wants their kids playing
      with a “colored boy,” even if you’re only five! And then on Sunday it’s
      two hours of hymnals and ‘Amens’ an’ Sunday school, an’ then bible study
      every other day of the week, and all the moms have their little group
      meetings with doughnuts an’ coffee and ‘try drawing your husbands’ dicks,
      girls!’“ he mimicks in a ridiculously high falsetto “’– it really spices
      things up!’”
      Two elderly women behind him go pale, and, with matching nasty looks,
      abandon the magazines they’d been perusing and beat a hasty retreat to
      the door. Steve blushes a bit and crouches on the stool, trying to make
      himself a bit smaller. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t care,
      slurping up the last of the soda with a bubbling of suction inside the
      straw.
      “I mean… I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if, like, I’d be getting out of
      here one day, but everybody knows I get the bakery when Mom’s gone, and…”
      he trails off, before scooping a bit of the leftover ice cream from the
      bottom of the glass and sucking hard on the spoon.
      “What would youliketo do?” Steve prompts gently, hoping to diffuse the
      live wire a bit.
      He shrugs.
      “Dunno. ‘Never really… I mean, I guess I like science stuff, but –“
      “Aw c’mon, no ‘buts!’” Steve interrupts, and yes, there’s a true smile,
      finally. “Why ‘science stuff?’”
      The conversation delves into biology classes and science fair projects,
      and a tiny model of the USS Columbia that remains unfinished under
      Bucky’s bed. The change in the kid’s attitude is almost immediate –
      there’s no put-on sass, or sultry airs intended to make Steve
      uncomfortable – just bright-eyed eagerness, and an easy grin.
      It’s infectious to watch, so much so that by the time Mrs. Jones has to
      come shoo them out so that she can lock up, Steve’s alarmed at how much
      time’s elapsed.
      The fifteen year old doesn’t seem shocked as he swings himself off the
      barstool and meanders toward the door, the retainer crunching between his
      teeth.
      “C’mon Stevie - pay her and let’s blow this joint.”
      *
      The walk home is fairly quiet, interspersed by Bucky pointing out all the
      tiny business joints and minute houses where his friends live – and, for
      the most part, work. The custom jewelry boutique owned by Jim’s
      grandmother, an auto-repair shop where Timmy (“we call him Dum-dum,
      ‘cause of his jokes”) lives with his dad and two uncles, the incredibly
      small Paris-themed coffee house that’s run by a local French family,
      who’s only son apparently always has to be translated for by Gabe, but is
      just as much of a hellion as the rest.
      Back home, Steve relinquishes all straight-laced parental edicts, and
      decides that yeah, Mom’s out of the house – they can eat a late supper in
      the rec room upstairs.
      Bucky hollers in delight and runs for the walk-in freezer, and the TV
      dinners contained therein. So it’s not the healthiest option in the
      world, but they’re both in a good mood, and Steve’s genuinely enjoyed
      himself tonight – he can loosen up and eat pre-frozen macaroni and
      cheese.
      Once it’s been established that Steve has ( “Yes, really. Don’t look at
      me like that!”) never seen Finding Nemo, there’s nothing to stop Bucky
      from shoving in the DVD and leaning against Steve’s side on the enormous
      plush sofa, as they watch animated fish scuttle across the screen.
      Ultimately, he can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed when Bucky
      sings “just keep swimming” continuously for the rest of the night.
Chapter End Notes
     Character visuals for this chapter can be found here
     I'll be posting updates on this story, all my other stories, and
     randomness on Stucky, Marvel, smutty stuff, pretty stuff, food, cute
     animals, etc, on Tumblr Come drop me a message, and we'll chat. :)
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     So, this is THE chapter, so I'll remind everyone - UNDERAGE SEX. Mind
     the tags. If you think it might upset you, please don't read it.
     Thank you!
     Inspiration for the cake fight scene comes from bistucky on Tumblr.
     They are lovely and wonderful, and you should follow them now. :)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Are you positive you know what you’re doing?”
“Will you relax, Stevie – I’ve been doing this since I was five!”
“What in the –“
“Chocolate mocha with peanut butter filling, chocolate and hazelnut icing and a
maraschino cherry – all before I turned six and a half! I know what I’m about!”
It’s a little after five in the morning, but it feels like they’ve been up for
hours already, riding the high of caffeine and, in Bucky’s case, a sugary
cereal loaded with the kinds of fats and carbs that Steve would have killed for
a taste of, as a child.
Against all expectation, their pastry back-stock had been depleted after a rare
two days of booming sales, which resulted in Steve pacing frantically with the
phone, unsure whether or not to call his maybe-fiancée in a panic; he wasn’t
certain if he should be relieved or a little exasperated when Bucky had to pull
him downstairs and remind him that he did in fact know how to bake six dozen
cupcakes in one sitting. Something about being raised in a family business.
“C’mon!” Bucky had laughed, thundering down the narrow staircase and through
the frosted glass-paned door that divided the living room from the pastry
kitchen. “It’s not hard.”
Nearly half an hour, twelve ounces of chocolate, four cups of granulated sugar,
five eggs, and god knows what else later, Steve’s starting to wonder if he’s
been led on. More of the cocoa bar seemed to have melted on their hands than
actually made it into the mixer, and in a burst of exasperated fondness, he
pauses in sifting the powdered sugar and swipes a sticky finger over the tip of
Bucky’s nose.  Spinning around with an indignant squawk, Bucky immediately
plunges several fingers into the dark brown batter, and smears the mixture down
the side of Steve’s face – he retaliates by scooping up a handful of his own
and ruffling it into the boy’s hair.
Laughing uncontrollably now, Bucky aims a wet cherry at the center of Steve’s
forehead, only to miss and graze his chin instead. Steve’s about to counter-
attack with a tablespoon of buttermilk waiting innocently on the prep island,
only for Bucky to jump on him and tackle him to the linoleum, now sticky with
spilled batter.
“Think you know all the tricks?” he murmurs smugly. “’Gotta few left up my
sleeve, old man.”
Steve’s brows raise in surprise, before he locks his ankle around Bucky’s slim
thigh, flipping him onto his back and holding his wrists, pinning him down with
Steve’s weight.
“’Old man,’ huh?” he growls teasingly, and they’re both disgusting, or should
be, their skin caked with chocolate and sugar and sticky fruit juices, the
entire corner of the kitchen is a mess, and Steve should realize what kind of a
situation he’s placed himself in, the folly, the danger. But somehow he fails
to notice the flush in Bucky’s cheeks and the hips curving up, so softly, to
meet his groin, and all he can think in that fleeting, indiscernible moment is
how beautifulhis bright, grey eyes are, his hair mussed from sleep…
In a flash of a second, Bucky’s arched up, and his lips are closed over Steve’s
half-open mouth.
Bucky tastes horrible, like processed cereal and heavily sweetened coffee and
unscrubbed teeth, but his lips are soft and the tip of his tongue dances in a
little flutter along Steve’s palate.
His eyelids quiver, and for one luscious second he’s able to lose himself in
the sensation, before dry, hard reality strikes him hard over the back of the
skull.
He yanks himself away with a hard tug and struggles to his feet, leaving Bucky
sprawled on the floor, his face pinched up in confusion and a little hurt.
Steve sputters for a moment, before remembering how to speak.
“That – you’re – you don’t ever do that again, do you hear me James? It’s –“
Wrong, disgusting, sick…
“ – inappropriate. I’m not – I’m nearly twice your age, I’m dating your mother,
I – “
Bucky’s eyes have gone enormous and owlish, his lower lip pouting out and his
throat working, apparently trying to swallow back what Steve grudgingly
suspects might be tears.
“B-But – But I thought –“
Steve’s eyelids flutter shut, as his insides quiver and he realizes, for the
first time, just how damned stupid he’s been.
“Buck… I never… it wasn’t my intention to… I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, but
there are plenty of other… other, healthier options, that – James!”
Sticky hands shove him aside roughly, as the teenager makes a wild dash for the
living room door, and the stairs just past.
Steve holds himself still for a moment, before quietly walking to the
downstairs bathroom, and throwing up messily into the toilet.
Once the heaving is over, he rinses out his mouth, pulls the cleaning supplies
out of the adjoining closet, and heads back to the chocolate covered warzone
that used to be a kitchen.
 
*
 
Neither mentions it for two days. Their interactions are limited to a brief
greeting in the morning and the occasional cursory nod or blank inquiry about
school or the status of a grade report.
Needless to say, their evening excursions to the soda shop, the nearby diner,
or even the basketball hoop in the driveway have been stopped, and despite all
his better judgment, Steve misses them.
More frighteningly, it’s not the distraction from Winifred’s lingering absence
that he craves, as he comes to realize, but rather the smirk on Bucky’s face
every time he manages a slam-dunk or, with a conniving little wink, scampers up
to the diner counter and pleads with big eyes for a handful of bottle caps.
They always gleam with a dull sheen of grease, like everything in that tiny
corner café, but as Bucky’s been only too eager to prove, make excellent
playing pieces for an impromptu game of checkers on the patterned tabletop.
Bucky is fifteen. He’s a child. And still, for the past four nights, Steve’s
only been able to lie awake in the bedroom he shares with the woman he loves,
sick in his gut and praying silently to a God he barely remembers; don’t let
this happen, don’t let him be something so twisted, so evil,someone who could
actually find satisfaction in the willing corruption of an innocent.
It doesn’t help – he’s caught himself fantasizing, multiple times, dreaming up
some fantastic explosion or disaster; flashflood, tsunami, alien abduction –
anything to instantly and completely eliminate every other human soul for
miles, and leave them completely isolated, Bucky curled in his arms…
The need for some kind of distraction is becoming desperate, and as Steve
scrolls through the list of contacts on his phone, lying in bed late in the
morning, he can feel the nausea (that’s become all too familiar of late)
creeping up through his belly until it’s searing the base of his esophagus.
The phone buzzes, and he nearly drops it onto the floral bedspread, his
heartbeat racing at thousands of beats per second.
The message blips up a few moments later –
Buck – can i hve a frnd ovr 2day aftr skool? Gotta stdy 4 a qiz on mon.
It’s just as well… he’s closing the bakery for the day anyway, so it’s not as
if he’ll need any assistance at any time… 
Steve replies with an unemotional assent, and few knee-jerk parental nags – no
mess in the rec room, everyone’s home by five, no ordering pizza without asking
first, if the ice cubes in the fridge run out, make more, etc.
They’ll both need the practice, even if Bucky doesn’t fully understand yet –
and if it settles Steve’s conscience, so much the better.
 
*
 
“You’d best have some half-decent reason for dragging me all the way up into
Ass-Crack, Connecticut, Rogers, I swear to God…”
Steve lets himself grin, really grin, for the first time in about four days as
Sam pulls him in for a hug, the familiar scent of gasoline and Natasha’s
homemade laundry soap emanating from his beat-up leather jacket, the
rhinestones spelling out his road-name across the back glittering in the
afternoon sunlight.
“Needed a second opinion.”
“Dude, it’s an engagement ring – you know your lady better than me, just go
with your gut –“
“Says the man who spent three hours agonizing over the diamond counter in
Jared’s.”
Sam’s eyes narrow into what their friends have long-since dubbed the “angry-
bird stare,” but he ignores Steve’s chuckling, and follows him up the steps and
inside.
The trek up to New Haven is unfortunately something of a necessity, as word
travels fast among the locals back home – if Steve were to set foot in Isabelle
Morita’s jewelry shop and ask to see her stock of engagement rings, every
neighbor over fifty would have known about it within half an hour. Sometimes,
Steve really does despise social networking.
Fortunately the store is an independent and the selection is rather limited,
but Steve still uses up the better part of an hour and a half (Sam standing by
smugly with a timer running on his phone) second-guessing himself.
Technically, a two-carat diamond is more than he can afford, but he stretches
himself into a white gold setting and an extra two, tiny stones to frame the
larger.
The store associates assemble it on the digital screen for him to judge, and
for the first time in five days the truth of the matter is finally, finally
clear – he’s getting married. It just took several thousand dollars worth of
jewels and precious metal to fully understand.
Both Sam and every working employee are quick to reassure him that Winifred
simply can’t be anything but pleased – delighted, actually, the ring is
stunning. More stunning than he’d have ever considered purchasing, if not…
If not for her fifteen year old son, his conscience supplies unhelpfully.
He slams down on his mind with a brutality he usually reserves for thoughts of
his mother.
He loves Winifred. Of course he does, how couldn’t he? She’s sweet, warm,
wholesome, everything he could have asked for in a spouse. When she comes home
Monday morning, he’s going to kneel down properly and slide the ring on her
finger, watch her smile and brush tears from both of their eyes, hold her close
as he kisses her…
It seems strained even in Steve’s imagination.
 
*
 
Sam offers to buy him a late lunch as a pre-engagement gift, but Steve turns
him down politely, spinning some (hopefully) humorous yarn about needing to get
home before his soon-to-be stepson burns the place down.
After the week they’ve had, he’s only half-joking.
Fortunately, as a newly minted father himself, Sam does seem to understand and
farewells him with another hug and a plea to drop down to D.C. sometime soon
(“Tatiana is gonna meet her godfather before she turns twenty-one, I want it in
writing, Rogers!”) before climbing onto his bike and heading towards the
highway with a wave.
Steve’s drive home is uneventful, the radio blaring all the way to keep his
mind overloaded by lyrics and cadence and bass lines, instead of the mess of
morality and fear and lust that seems to be constantly boiling in his skull.
There’s a single bike in the driveway, propped up against the basketball hoop
beside Bucky’s skateboard. Steve doesn’t recognize the color – bright red, with
some fancy chrome finishing – but at least it’s only one extra kid to deal with
until dinnertime, instead of the usual mob.
The kitchen looks relatively undisturbed when he walks in, meaning Bucky and
his friends fortunately haven’t raided the cupboards for candy melts and
leftover flavoring ingredients – it’s been known to happen. 
Steve half-heartedly glances through the multiple fridges in the pantry and
cold storage before giving up and deciding to order dinner from the Domino’s
two blocks away – he doesn’t feel up to cooking, and shuffling off kitchen duty
isn’t an argument he wants to have with Bucky tonight.
There’s probably a full hour to go before he really has to worry about food
though – maybe more in Bucky’s case, depending on whether he or Timmy or Jack
or whoever have eaten yet – and Steve can flop onto the living room loveseat,
relatively guilt-free.
If one can consider a man who just purchased an engagement ring, yet looks like
a death row inmate, guilt-free.
No matter.
His sketchbook is still sitting in the drawer of one of the corner tables,
undisturbed, although the lock on the front cover is a bit of a deterrent.
Funny, he considers as he twists in the combination and pops it open, he’d
never really thought it would serve a practical use one day – just a way to
protect his private thoughts from outsiders, doodled out in softened lead.
A rose, withering from thirst after a drought; leveled buildings, copied off of
the news channel; a smiling, curly-haired woman biting into a heavily iced
cupcake, frosting ringed around her wide mouth. Further back, the half-page
scribbles morph into more detailed portraits – Sam, back in Basic, Natasha
behind him, her hair still buzzed short… His mother, drinking out of one of her
bone china tea-cups… Peggy, in her red evening gown… Sam and Nat on their
wedding day, snuggled up on Sam’s then-new motorcycle, Natasha’s gauzy skirt
and her short ringlets billowing in the breeze… Winifred in her brown fedora
and blue blouse, her eyes crinkled as she giggles across the table in the
diner, a shared plate of cheese sticks between them…
Bucky, sprawled on his back on the living room floor, i-pod on his chest and
buds tucked into his ears… Bucky, leaning out the window to shout at Timmy as
he passes by the house in his new second-hand Beetle… Bucky, licking chocolate
off his fingers with a grin, dark smears all over his chin and cheeks… Bucky…
Bucky… Bucky…
A loud throb from the second floor vibrates through the ceiling, rattling the
living room lights, and Steve is startled enough to drop his pencil, before he
realizes they must have the stereo nearly on to the max up there.
With an exasperated sigh, he snaps the lock shut again and heads up the stairs,
the volume rising with every step until it’s almost deafening, once he reaches
the rec room door and wrenches it open – there’s no point in knocking.
The roaring in his ears almost drowns out the racket blaring from the speakers.
 
It’s not Gabe or Jim, or anyone else from Bucky’s usual group, curled up on the
pillowy rec room couch - it’s sixteen year old Cynthia Schmidt.
She’s the dictionary illustration for “teenage lust.” Enormous, heavy-lidded
eyes, curls that tumble down her back, and full lips smeared in slick, ruby-red
gloss. Most of which is now coloring Bucky’s mouth as she writhes in his lap,
thighs clad in pink skinny-jeans straddling his hips. Both of his hands are
buried in her hair, fingers tightening with every flex of her hips over his
crotch.
Steve feels numb as he silently crosses the room, over to the red-leather
stereo, Megan Minaj or Nicki Trainor or whatever it is screeching out
deafeningly loudly, and switches it off. The sudden quiet leaves his ears
ringing, and as the two kids on the couch pull out of their liplock, startled,
he realizes that he’s been grinding his teeth, and now his jaw is throbbing.
There’s a red flush painting Bucky’s cheekbones, his pupils blown wide, and
with the wet makeup staining his swollen lips, he looks… God… it looks like
someone’s used that boy hard,and Steve isn’t certain if it’s the blatant
indecency of the situation that’s pissing him off, or the fact that it’s the
girl in Bucky’s lap who’s brought him to this state… This sixteen year old
girl, and not…
“Out.” He mutters quietly, cocking his head towards the door – it’s a bitchy
move, but he’s not in the mood to be nice right now.
Cynthia smirks, in that infuriating way teenage girls have; when they’ve just
passed their Sweet Sixteen and still think the word is their oyster. Another
peck on Bucky’s lips and she’s half-way out the door, a turquoise pleather
school bag hanging off her shoulder.
“’See you Monday…” she croons on her way out, and Jesus, even her voice is pure
sex… It’s not fucking fair…
Steve feels the blood drain from his face at that thought, cold sweat and fear
prickling the skin up his arms and down his back, while Bucky simply stares at
him, eyes wide and innocent as if he doesn’t have lipgloss streaked across his
face.
He shrugs, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lip.
“Don’t tell me you never did it when you were a kid.”
And yeah, that does cut a little too close to the quick, because no, Steve
never “did it” when he was that age – it took twenty-two years of advanced
medical care, dietary restrictions, personal training, and ultimately combat
certification for anyone to consider him something remotely attractive; when
he’d been fifteen, he could just as well say he’d had all the sex appeal of a
raw carrot.
“You could do better, you know.” Steve catches himself spitting out, barely
concealing the vitriol as he slaps the power button on the TV with a bit more
violence than necessary.
The smug satisfaction melts from Bucky’s face.
“I don’t get you, y’know?” he snaps, shoving several clearly untouched
textbooks off the couch, and climbing to his feet.
“Okay – so I don’t even fucking knowCyn, okay, but she’s hot, and my age, and
you were the one tellin’ me that I need to try healthier options – well I
fuckin’ did, and you know what? It didn’t work. ‘Cause I don’t want any fuckin’
girls my own age – I want you,Stevie! I’m sorry, I can’t help –“
“James!” Steve shouts at the top of his lungs, eyes screwed shut and fingers
knotting in his own hair. “James, I never told you to stick your tongue down
some poor girl’s throat, I –“
“Oh, and now she’s some “poor girl,” huh? Now she’s not just some slut you
caught your jail-bait crush makin’ out with – don’t look at me like that, you
don’t get to fuckin’ look at me like that! You liked it in the kitchen, you
know you did, and now you hate that you can’t have your fucking cake and eat it
too! I can make out with whoever I want –“
“I never said you couldn’t! Were you even listening the other morning, or just
pissed that you didn’t get your way for once? Even if I do want - I told you,
this – nothing can happen here, James – it’s not just sick, it’s morally wrong!
Do you have any clue what they’d do to me if –!”
“You’re a coward!” Bucky screams back, “You’re a fuckin’ coward and you can’t
handle that you wanna fuck somebody just ‘cause there’s a risk! There’s alwaysa
god-damn risk, y’might get sick or get AIDS or –“
“That’s not the same, and you know –“
“So what?! I want you! When Mom brought you home the first time, I thought you
were the hottest guy I’d ever seen in my fucking life, and I knew you’d never
look twice at me ‘cause I was just a kid to you, just a dumb kid, and it wasn’t
fair that she got to kiss you and touch you and – and do everything with you,
but I couldn’t, just ‘cause I’m just a kid, and kids aren’t fucking allowed! I
–mmmf!”
The rest of his tirade is muffled as Steve rushes him and presses their mouths
together, hard; both huge arms snap around Bucky’s slim waist and tug him in
close, something already frail and threadbare unraveling quickly in Steve’s
chest.
When he pulls away, they’re both breathing heavily, and red gloss is smeared
all over their lips.
Bucky gasps, makes a strangled, sobbing noise, before jumping onto Steve and
clinging to him like a koala bear, arms and legs wrapped around his neck and
waist as he crashes his lips to Steve’s a second time. His tongue slips into
Steve’s mouth, chasing his own around until they curl together, Steve squeezing
Bucky’s ass through his jeans, and everything about this is wrong, so fucking
wrong, but for now all Steve wants is to hold this fucking little boy in his
arms for the rest of his life and past, straight into fucking hell because
where else can he be headed?
He can’t back out, not now, it’s too late, he’s surrendered the high ground and
Bucky has him in the palm of his hand, but he’d rather be nowhere else… Bucky’s
groin slides along his own, both of them gasping, and with a shock Steve
realizes he’s hard, actually hard and anxious and ready to fuck a fifteen year
old…
Bucky pulls away and stares unashamedly, panting and doe-eyed, the tip of his
tongue resting on his swollen, painted lip, and the unspoken plea is obvious.
Steve doesn’t think, won’t let himself think – he just clutches Bucky tighter
in his arms and races out of the room, smashing open the bathroom door and
rummaging frantically for the KY in a sink drawer, Bucky pleading breathily
into his ear.
“Yeah, fuck Stevie, c’mon, please, c’mon, c’mon –“
Bucky’s room is the closest, and Steve does his best to ignore all the white
oak furniture, the posters lining the walls, the navy blue bedsheets he throws
Bucky over, before climbing on top of him and scattering kisses down his
throat, over the little hollow of his collarbone, as far down his chest as
Steve can reach before Bucky’s t-shirt makes it impossible, the collar pulled
taut and pinching at the skin of his neck.
One of Steve’s big hands slides underneath the fabric, easing over warm skin
and tense, quivering muscles, and when his fingertip brushes the bud of a
nipple, Bucky jolts with a gasp, his fingers flexing in Steve’s hair.
“I – ummm – lick ‘em Stevie, bite ‘em, –”
Another breathy moan cuts him off, as Steve rucks up the shirt and has to pause
for a second, wide-eyed – his chest is perfectly smooth, tight, delicate
muscles unmarred by age or any heavy exertion. Steve has no idea what sort of
expression he’s making, but it has Bucky wide-eyed and nearly panting like a
puppy, before he’s struggling and trying to wriggle the shirt off. For a moment
it’s stuck, adorably, half-way up his arms and his head still trapped inside,
and with a flash of inspired cruelty Steve dives at those tender little pecs
and laves his tongue over each nipple, pausing to suck viciously and graze his
teeth across the skin.
Bucky shrieks, flailing, his arms still confined and his vision blocked, and
when Steve laps down his belly, the tip of his tongue swirling over Bucky’s
navel, there’s a sound of ripping fabric as he frees himself, and lunges at
Steve like an animal.
It feels like drowning; the two of them pressed so close, mouthing at each
other desperately, that there’s no room left to breathe. Somehow Steve finds
himself flat on his back in those blue sheets, his feet hanging over the edge
of the narrow mattress, and Bucky’s smirking at him, tongue dancing across his
swollen lips as slender fingers work open the fastenings of Steve’s jeans.
“Holy shit…” he half-murmurs, half-gasps seconds later, Steve’s cock throbbing
against his palm, and just like that, all his smart-assed self-confidence is
gone.
A sudden, sobering thought drains the lust out of Steve’s entire body, as he
glances down towards the boy kneeling between his legs.
“Please tell me you’re – you’ve done this before…”
He should feel horrified with himself, that he’s actually hoping a fifteen year
old will assure him that yes, he is in fact widely sexually active – Don’t
worry about a thing Stevie, just watch me take you in deep and -
Bucky’s gnawing at his lip anxiously, and shit.Shit fucking shit shit shit…
“I’m – I’ve seen videos, I know what –“
Steve sighs, and sits up slowly; Bucky must immediately assume that he’s
calling the whole thing off, because he panics.
“Nooo! Stevie-!” he wails in protest, before Steve shushes him gently and pulls
him in close, settling his head on his shoulder and his back to his chest. Soft
dark hair tickles the skin above his collar, but the sensation is merely a
tease and makes him harder. God, when had he become so sensitive?
Probably the same instant the beautiful, precious little brat in his arms had
shot him a wink from the kitchen floor, nibbling raspberries off his own
delicate fingers.
“Steve, wha- what’re you gonna do -?” Bucky whimpers quietly, and as Steve
undoes the button and zip of Bucky’s jeans, he honestly wishes he had an
answer. He’s just as in the dark, and hoping to hell blind passion and focus
will get them through this.
“’M just gonna play, Buck…” he murmurs softly, rucking the dark blue denium
down pale thighs and running a hand sympathetically over the sizeable bulge in
the kid’s briefs before sliding them off. Bucky squeaks and laps his tongue
down Steve’s throat, long legs twisting eagerly in the bed sheets.
“… Want me to watch, hm? Wanna show me how you play with yourself, make
yourself feel good?”
Bucky’s quivering, eyes glazed and his mouth slack, but he slowly eases a hand
down his tight abdomen and slips several fingers gingerly between his thighs.
“Mmm… What d’ythink about, huh? When you’re touching your cock in the middle of
the night? Pretty girls? Or maybe the boys in those posters you’ve got
everywhere, hm? You think about them stretching you out, lookin’ all over,
takin’ turns and makin’ you come ‘til you can’t handle it no more?”
Steve can’t even recognize himself, not at this point – his voice has slipped
back into the Brooklyn drawl he grew up with, and he has no idea what’s
prompting the things spilling out of his mouth, filthy things – things he’d
never dream of muttering to Winifred, just to watch her eyes go round and feel
her spasm against him.
“Ste-Stevie, ohmygod…” Bucky babbles, his thighs shaking as Steve hauls them up
over his own knees, forcing them open. The fifteen year old – dear God - seems
to realize the position he’s in and wails piteously, his head falling back
limply onto Steve’s shoulder, a slim hand still working his own cock.
“So which one was it, huh? Girls, boys… maybe both? What d’ya think about?”
“Y-you, Steve, you - ! I – I – I wanna come, Jesus, Stevie, please, can I
come?”
Steve’s impressed and more than a little shocked that he’d even ask, but God,
it’s so fucking hot… He presses a kiss to the shell of his ear, a thumb
brushing across his nipple to make him jump, before he whispers;
“Bein’ a bit greedy, aren’t ya, askin’ to come already – I haven’t even touched
ya yet- “
“Ungh – please, please Steve, down there, touch me, down there, please –“
And there they are, the nerves finally returning to bubble in Steve’s gut,
because for all the dirty talk, all the cuddling and kissing and teasing, he’s
never touched a man’s ass in his life – women, sure, once they were interested,
but this is foreign fuckin’ territory… He takes a breath, tries to hide it, and
plunges onward. Bucky squeals in protest as a much larger hand closes over his
own, pausing the frantic motions up and down his throbbing cock.
“’Down there?’ Ya already know what you want, huh – thought this was new to
you?”
“It – It is, I haven’t – but – I mean – but -!”
He’s babbling, trying to find some explanation for something he can’t or
doesn’t know how to articulate, but Steve has a rising suspicion and offers
some help.
“You played around with somebody? Hm? Maybe right here in your bed, touchin’
right where you like it –“
His fingertips are cold, and it makes Bucky jolt and shriek into the empty
house as Steve traces gently around the rim of his opening, adorably tight and
furled up close.
“I – ohmygod- I – I just -!
“Mm-hm?” Steve hums, still stroking over his hole, his grip firm over Bucky’s
cock.
“I’d – ah! – I’d use to… Gabe and I’d fool around wh-when we were really
little, jus’ – uhhmm – jus’ playin’ doctors under the covers, ya know? An’ –
an’ I’ve kissed girls, but – but –“
“I noticed.” Steve growls, inwardly freaking out just a bit, because holy shit
– that’s not what he’d -
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter – Bucky’s still a god-damn teenager, and all it
takes is for Steve’s fingertips to catch just on the inside of his rim, before
he’s shaking and tensing and whimpering all over, spurts of cum painting both
their hands as Steve holds him close and tries to gentle him through (likely)
the first orgasm he’s ever experienced with another human being.
When it’s all over, Bucky slumps back against Steve’s shoulder, limp and
boneless, eyelids fluttering as he tries to catch his breath.
“Holy shit…” he mumbles weakly, still trembling, although Steve suspects it’s
more to do with nerves and virginal shock than any residual pleasure. He’s
still reeling himself, wondering what in the hell came over him, and fighting a
desperate erection that absolutely refuses to back down.
“How’d you… that… so fuckin’ hot…”
He’s still sprawled over Steve’s body, long, slim legs hooked and spread over
Steve’s own as if they were stirrups, and when he tries sit up Steve simply
wraps both arms around his bare chest to keep him still.
“Shh – just lie back, sweetheart… Let’s just wake up a little…”
Really, it’s just a silent plea to keep Bucky from moving around, his ass
pressed up mercilessly against Steve’s dick – at this point, it would only take
a little pressure in the right spots to set him off, and he’s already got a
teenager’s semen spattered all over his hands…
“Fuck, Steve… can we…”
It’s bizarre, hearing someone ask permission – almost in the same tone as a
request for candy at the check-out lane… Steve burns red at the thought.
“’s not a good idea, Buck…”
Bucky whines.
“…Please, Stevie… please, I wanna…”
His head tips back, neck twisting until he can brush a few soft kisses against
the skin of Steve’s throat, working up to his jaw, as far as Bucky can reach
before he pauses, doe-eyed and cheeks pinked.
“Can we play?…” he whispers, pleading, and Steve’s heart cracks down the
center.
Not even a dead man could resist that.
“… Yeah, Buck. We can play.”
 
*
 
Bucky’s much more vocal than his mother, a lengthy chorus of moans, whimpering
and “FUCK!” spilling past his lips with every finger Steve eases inside him,
his thumb stroking the smooth skin just behind his balls.
It’s as much an experiment for Steve as it is for the boy star-fished across
his body – a trial of motions and rhythms, finding out what feels good, what
doesn’t, and what makes Bucky try to jack-knife into a little ball, his hips
riding Steve’s fingers.
Steve’s cock is hard enough to physically hurt, and they both get a shock from
the chill of the gel when he finally slicks them up and pushes in.
He’s tight, warm, perfect, moaning into Steve’s mouth as they twist themselves
into a kiss, Steve’s fingers stroking lightly along the ridges of rib bones and
Bucky’s concave stomach, a loose fist wrapped around his cock for Bucky to
thrust into greedily.
Steve’s the last to come, muffling a loud, thick cry into Bucky’s neck, the
teenager already limp in his arms, the spendings of his second climax in thirty
minutes standing out white and moist against the sweat glistening on his
thighs.
 
*
 
Once Bucky’s come to a little, Steve carries him into the bathroom and fills
the tub with warm water, cradling him in his lap on the floor until he can
twist the faucet off and slip Bucky into the bath, stroking his hair until he
falls asleep.
Several stains on the bedsheets have to be rubbed with detergent before he can
toss them into the washing machine downstairs, along with every piece of
clothing he and Bucky have worn in the last three hours.
The only witnesses are Neil and Buzz, Bucky’s lazy, overfed goldfish, and Steve
-lightheaded and giddy from pleasure and fear – gives their tank a soft tap
with the pad of his finger.
“You won’t tell on me, huh?”
Their open mouths gape, their jeweled eyes blink, and it’s all the response he
can hope for.
Bucky’s still dozing when Steve pads into the bathroom and slips into the tub
with him. His breath flutters and something inside him begins to melt as Bucky
murmurs in his sleep while he cuddles up to Steve’s chest, kitten-warm from the
bath and his lips soft as he rubs them drowsily along Steve’s collarbone.
 
*
 
Bucky seems completely content to pretend nothing out of the ordinary has taken
place, and while all he wants is to pull the fifteen year old close and kiss
his lips until they’re flushed pink and swollen, Steve isn’t willing to
complain.
The pizza gets there a little late, but neither of them really notice, Steve
scritch-scratching away in his notebook and his eyes flickering back to where
Bucky’s sprawled on the floor, snickering at the computer screen where Kermit
the Frog is narrating the mating habits of the creatures from Planet Koozebane.
Steve’s fishing out some change for the delivery kid when the kitchen phone
blares out like a fire alarm – why hell they haven’t replaced it yet is a
mystery. He probably tosses the kid some incorrect change, before dashing back
through the sales room and into the kitchen, only to find Bucky had gotten to
the receiver first. Several seconds pass before he notices that all the color
has drained from Bucky’s face, and he’s breathing shallowly through his mouth.
“Y-yeah, he’s… he’s right here…”
Concerned now, Steve pulls the phone away and leans against the wall, Bucky
poised and tense beside the kitchen island, eyes wide and anxious.
“Hello?”
“Steve – we need to talk.”
Panic immediately drops into Steve’s gut. Winifred never uses that tone except
when she’s frantic, and trying to contain herself.
“Winn, calm down – what’s –“
“I wanted to discuss this face to face, but it’s been driving me crazy-“
His heart’s pounding against his rib cage, and he can feel the nausea building
rapidly in his belly, working up his throat…
“- couldn’t wait –“
She knows. She has to.
There’s no fucking coincidence, there can’t be – and he’d thought he’d been
careful, they weren’t so loud the neighbors could hear… were they? Had the
blinds even been shut? Had –
“I – I’d suspected for a while, but I wasn’t certain, and then about an hour
ago…”
Who the hell knows, who saw them, or was it just so obvious, from the very
start, before Steve had even understood himself? - He’s gonna pass out, right
now, right across the hard tile, but he can’t – Bucky’s standing there, stock
still, gnawing at his thumbnail, and he looks so fucking young…
“Steve –Steve, are you there?”
“Y-yeah, what’s –“
“I’m gonna have a baby.”
The radiator hums behind the wall, pumping heat through the vents into the
kitchen.
He still feels cold.
Chapter End Notes
     Come visit me on Tumblr
     Hope you all like it! :)
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     It's been... awhile, I know, but after a massive chapter rewrite,
     this puppy is continuing! Enjoy!
“Who would you pick?”
The pizza’s gone cold and leathery in it’s grease stained box, hardly even
picked at.
Steve turns away from the baseball match that he’s not really seeing; the
buzzing in his ears almost cancels out the inane noise.
“What d’you mean?”
The light from the TV screen glistens against the moisture in Bucky’s eyes, and
his chin starts to wobble.
“It’s just… I think I… d’you love me, Steve?”
He swallows back everything that wants to come spilling off his tongue, as his
throat stings and fights to close up on itself.
“You know I do…” he mutters quietly, and the pitiful glow of hope that rises
across Bucky’s poor little face is extinguished only seconds later.
“-You’re a part of your mom, and the two of you are impor –“
He feels the brush of metal against his ear as a tabletop picture frame barely
misses his head, shattering against the wallpaper in a cascade of broken glass.
“Fuck you!”
Bucky’s crying openly now, his mouth twisted up into an ugly rictus that means
he’s trying to fight off sobs.
“You don’t get to fucking act like my dad, not anymore! I don’t care if she’s
having your baby – it just means you fucked her, and now you’ve fucked me too!
But she’s the only one that matters, isn’t she, huh, ‘cause you screwed up, and
– and – I hate her!” he finally screams hysterically.
“I hate her, and I hate your fucking baby, and I fucking hate you!”
The impact shakes the floorboards when he shoves over one of the side tables,
the drawer crashing open and vomiting out dozens of pens and useless junk in a
miniature avalanche. One of the legs cracks apart with a splintering noise.
The racket seems to wake Bucky up a little, and he stands there, trembling,
crying, while Steve bites his tongue hard enough to bleed. His own eyes sting
while an ugly mix of shame, remorse, and hurt boils away in his guts.
“James…”
“No.”
It’s all Bucky seems able to manage, before his voice cracks and he dashes for
the stairs, sobbing. The noise carries all the way back to the living room,
heavy, rapid footfalls muffled on the carpeted stairs before Bucky’s bedroom
door crashes shut.
One of the talking heads on the TV makes a weak joke. A lightbulb flickers and
buzzes inside one of the floor lamps. They’re the weird spiral kind, that are
supposed to conserve energy. Steve isn’t certain why he noticed.
Well, he thinks dully, at least it’s out of Bucky’s system.
He’s not about to leave the mess on the floor, or make some parental demand for
Bucky to clean it up himself, since – despite the childishness and fury of his
outburst – Bucky is right in that respect. Steve lost all authority to treat
him like a son the moment he learned what Bucky’s skin tasted like on his
tongue.
And yet, they’re going to have to master the art of pretense sooner rather than
later – specifically, by Monday, when Winifred’s van pulls back into the
driveway bearing a second, invisible passenger who will need to learn from
Bucky that Steve is to be called “Dad.”
He goes a little numb, as the reality of impending fatherhood – something he’s
only considered in the abstract through all the years before this moment –
finally begins to sink icicle sharp fingers into his brain. Funny, he’s always
thought it was supposed to be a thing of joy; Sam had positively radiated
infectious happiness and pride that early morning in the D.C. maternity ward,
Tatiana swaddled contentedly in her father’s arms as her newborn-dark eyes
drank in everything around her. Steve had squeezed his fingers around Peggy’s
hip, she’d smiled, and for a moment they’d both hoped…
He shoves away the memory like nails picking at a raw wound, and forces himself
to accept that there’s no alternative option. He’ll give Winifred the
passionate welcome-home kiss she deserves, host a wedding reception complete
with salad dip and cheese cubes, cook burgers on the grill each Friday night,
hold Winifred’s hand through each ultrasound appointment, applaud elementary
school “plays” about shapes and vegetables, play baseball and barbies, attend
kindergarten and high school graduations, drive the van to every family-
friendly vacation spot, and settle into the suburban domestic hell he’s always
assumed that he wanted.
And Bucky… Bucky will take Cynthia to the school prom, marry her straight after
graduation, make grandkids for Winifred and Steve to spoil…
Only the realization that he has nothing to wrap around his knuckles stops him
from putting his fist through the living room wall.
The point is, they can both commit themselves to normal lives from this night
forward, and whatever happened this afternoon will become a faded memory
they’ll both take to their coffins.
Please – you’re not a complete idiot, some vicious little voice mocks from the
back of his skull.
You’ve screwed up his head far worse than any naked touching games with his
best friend ever could, and every damn time you look at each other, or see the
other smile, or hear the other laugh…
Sam would call denial the coward’s way out and recommend talk therapy; but, he
considers miserably, that’s no good without honesty – and all honesty will earn
him is a pair of handcuffs, and an ugly nine-letter label beginning with a P.
 
*
 
Rain starts splattering the bedroom windows around one in the morning, reducing
the glow of the street light to a golden, watercolor blur. A thunderclap
rattles the house frame, and Steve’s forcibly reminded of the midnight storms
in Brooklyn, when the entire shabby apartment block would sway and creak with
the wind…
The sound used to lull him to sleep, even as a child – tonight, it only makes
him anxious. He’s never appreciated how distinctly the noise of torrential rain
can resemble gunfire, or fists pounding at the door.
The thought is barely half-formed in his mind, when a small shadow crosses the
bedroom threshold, and his heart jumps into his throat.
Bucky clearly hasn’t slept either. Both of his grey eyes are red and tear raw,
his face still a little blotchy under the light from the window, a half-
transparent silhouette of the streaming raindrops reflected on his bare chest.
“Steve…?” he whispers softly, barely audible over the electrical static blaring
from the tiny clock radio. He creeps closer to the bed, and Steve’s body goes
still under the covers, realizing with a pang that Bucky’s eyes are still wet.
“ ’M sorry… I – I don’t hate you…”
He chokes a little, biting at his trembling lower lip as his finger nervously
traces the outline of Steve’s foot under the duvet, as if he’s frightened that
he’ll be slapped if he dares to move any closer.
“ ‘M sorry…”
An abrupt surge of protectiveness tears through him, and before he can consider
just how many people he’s about to betray, or how this can no longer be
considered a lone moment of weakness and poor judgment, Steve’s dragged Bucky
into his arms.
The sound of ripping fabric blends into the thunderclap outside as he tears off
Bucky’s pale blue underwear, the elastic leaving a bright pink line across his
skin.
“Fuck! Stevie-!”
Steve pinches at a bit of skin where thigh meets buttock, and the fifteen year
old lets out a squeal.
“You watch your mouth.”
Eyes widening, Bucky nods as a bright flush colors his cheekbones, all the way
down his neck to a pair of rapidly hardening pink brown nipples, and Steve
smacks one lightly, curious to see if it’ll darken.
“Ow! Ohmygod –“
He whimpers into the sudden kiss, suckling at Steve’s bottom lip like a kitten
at a teat, a string of saliva connecting them briefly when they pull apart. His
brow furrows up, little gasps rattling out of him with a kind of panicked
arousal, and for a moment he looks so adorably confused that Steve despises
himself.
Bucky’s insides are still a little pliant from Steve’s attentions that
afternoon – it seems like years ago – and he only winces a little as two
tentative fingers ease inside carefully, slicked up with the two sad little
packets of lube Winifred keeps in her bedside table for emergencies.
Bucky grits his teeth, squirming, as Steve finally brushes over that tiny spot
and toys with it idly.
“Fuck, please -!”
Everything pauses, and Steve’s lip quirks up into an odd half smile that sends
tingles through Bucky’s stomach.
“Wha’did I say, huh?” he growls, blue eyes flashing, just as his fingertips dig
mercilessly into that sensitive bundle of nerve endings, and Bucky lets out a
shriek.
“I – please, I – oh! – Steve – wh-what?! – “
Steve huffs out a weak laugh, and closes his palm around the head of Bucky’s
pink dick, carefully scratching a nail over the glans.
Bucky screams. He screams and wriggles and begs, his hands fluttering
everywhere, not sure whether to grab at Steve’s shoulders or the pillows or his
own scalp, and Steve dully wonders if Bucky’s understandable hatred of their
authority imbalance is always temporarily revoked when they’re curled up naked
and he’s pleading to come.
“C’mon, you heard me – wha’did I say?”
Thighs trembling violently, Bucky lifts his head and shakily whimpers out a
reply.
“I – I can’t – no swearing, I-I won’t, promise! Promise!”
He’s half tempted to let the poor thing off the hook right there, but judging
by the glow in his eyes this is getting Bucky off just as viciously, and Steve
can’t resist another cruel touch…
“Uh uh – tha’s not what I said, sweetheart… Tell me again, an’ do it right…”
The moan confirms his suspicions – this little boy lovesfeeling small in bed…
“Stee-eeve…”
“Go on.”
Bucky’s quaking all over, he probably won’t last longer than a few more
seconds, but he still manages a faint whimper.
“Wuh- ‘watch my mouth’ – please, I gotta come!”
Steve kisses him through it, open-eyed, watching him cry out silently and shake
and sob – until his beautiful grey eyes dull over, as if still confused by some
over-powerful anesthetic drug, and he melts into a warm little puddle under his
near-stepfather’s lips.
After allowing them both a moment to nuzzle and croon, Steve eases his hand out
of Bucky’s body – he’s not certain when all four fingers had squirmed their way
in, but the sight of them sliding free sends his already pulsing groin into
throbbing desperation – and pulls both slender legs up over his shoulders.
“You tell me if it starts hurtin’.” he murmurs tenderly, brushing his lips over
Bucky’s earlobe, and the boy shudders in response.
“Wuh – what’re you gonna – uh – uh oh – “
Muscles clamp around Steve’s dick as he pushes in gradually, scraping across
overstimulated nerves with each slow, deliberate drive of his hips.
Bucky makes a confused, whimpering noise, his left leg giving a few weak,
spastic little kicks as his body protests the attention. Steve begins snapping
himself inside a bit more harshly, both ears intent on any noises that might be
construed as actual pain, but none escape.
And when his own climax finally crashes over him, Bucky shrieking in his ear as
he’s forced to the brink for a second time, Steve can’t help but wonder if the
pitiless, oppressing heat of sweat-glistening skin is what hell must feel like.
 
*
 
Steve can’t sleep, too much adrenaline and too many frantic thoughts racing at
wild speeds. Bucky, on the other hand, sleeps like a proverbial baby. His jaw
hangs open limply, and, like a baby, he snuffles and flounders in his sleep,
snuggling deeper into the rumpled nest of bed covers.
The graphite lead pencil makes a final scratch, shading in the gentle slope
where a narrow waist melds into a jutting hipbone, and the line unavoidably
draws Steve’s eye to the indelible, splotchy red handprints left across Bucky’s
slim little thighs.
He forces back a sigh, biting his lip numb as he clenches his eyes shut, as if
hoping – just like the child he’s ruined – that denying the existence of his
actions will make them disappear.
He snaps the lock shut on his sketchbook, shrugs out of the dirty flannel shirt
he’d slipped over his shoulders for warmth, and cuddles up to Bucky amid the
ugly, ‘eighties floral duvet – in the same place where the fifteen year old
underneath him was probably conceived…
Pressing his lips to the soft skin of Bucky’s neck, breathing in the scent of
exhaustion and dried sweat, Steve catches one of the boy’s clammy, limp hands
and clasps it tight to the pillow.
“It’s a little soon t’ be playing with love, Buck…” he whispers, rubbing his
thumb gently over reddened knuckles.
“But if you’re willing to hide… and pretend, for me, then…”
He swallows.
“…then I’m willing to try ‘n hide… with you.”
He can’t manage the three tiny words that he knows Bucky is craving, but he can
only hope that, even in sleep, his own depths of feeling are understood.
 
*
 
It’s three-twenty-six AM, Monday on the dot, when the crunch of gravel in the
driveway announces the arrival of the end.
Breaking his word, Steve doesn’t have roses or the diamond waiting when
Winifred stumbles through the back door, haggard from driving and unshowered,
but he stands slowly from the counter seat - where he’s been waiting since
nine-thirty – cups her jaw in both hands, and kisses her.
It’s steady and tender, unresembling anything they’ve shared in the past, and
when she stares up at him, touched and confused as he pulls away, Steve ignores
the agony of his splintering heart before leaning in to kiss her again.
 
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     So, this chapter was initially going to be SIGNIFICANTLY longer, but
     in the end I decided to chop it in half. :p Enjoy!
The whole set-up is so perfectly, cheesily Kodak, Sharon must be having a field
day with her camera.
It was cheaper to hold the reception at the house, after the boatload of
expenses that came sailing in with the church – despite the non-descript flea
colored flocked carpet, the ratty velvet on the pews, and the roaring AC
throughout the service.
Trust Winifred’s creative side to be the saving grace; Steve can’t remember
who’s idea was behind the fairy lights, but he’d lay down money that it was
her. They glitter overhead like a private little star shower and transform the
shabby lawn and pebbled drive into a romantic grotto that Winifred reigns over
like a fairy queen, a glowing Titania in white lace to the knee.
They both field most of the congratulations, although, out of the corner of his
eye, Steve can’t help but notice Bucky receiving far more than his share of
attention. It only makes sense – thanks to the magic of Instagram, every guest
and their second cousin has been given the opportunity to gush about how the
sweet little stepson, blithely unaware of his parents’ impending engagement,
had beaten them to making their own announcement by popping the question
himself; Steve had thought his heart was going to force it’s way up his throat
and onto his tongue when Bucky had interrupted breakfast with a homemade apple
cake, “Will You Marry Mom – Yes/No” spelled out in runny glaze across the top.
Playing his own part with the patience of a martyr, Steve had chopped out the
“Yes” into a wedge, and dove into the family hug fest that followed. The entire
scene had been too saccharinely precious to allow description, but their
friends and neighbors had lapped it up like ants to sugar water.
“Whoa now - even I know the groom ain’t supposed to be hiding by the snack
table.” A familiar voice grates out, dragging Steve from his reminiscences with
a shocked jolt.
He’d never have expected Brock to actually turn up – the man had always ranted
after one beerlao too many about how marriage was what he charmingly termed a
“pussy trap” – and had simply assumed that the invitation would be taken as
intended; a polite gesture to an old army comrade who’d been good enough to
show an asthmatic special case the facts of military life.
“Got yourself a winner there, Rogers.” He comments with a sideways grin after
an appropriately masculine one-armed hug – another trait Steve’s gradually come
to accept with Brock, despite the man’s blatant bisexuality.
Steve follows his gaze to where Winifred is drinking up compliments from a
gaggle of her housewife friends, her smile crinkling up her dark eyes adorably.
“Thanks…”
“Almost makes up for the whole lawn mower and picket fence, huh?”
He shrugs in reply, something almost defensive rising in his chest.
“Yeah, well… there’s a lot you can learn to like, once you find the right
partner…”
Brock lets out a chuckle – a harsh, nicotine-roasted sound that always makes
Steve’s own throat twinge in sympathy.
“I’ll bet – what dude doesn’t go the whole fuckin’ nine yards for a tail like
that?”
“Down boy, I was there first.” Steve chides with a weak grin, hoping that a
barely passable attempt at Brock’s own brand of humor will conceal his rising
irritation.
“There’s plenty of fish out there, waiting to get reeled in.”
“Tell me about it – I was lookin’ at things the wrong way before I got here,
these small town hicks hide some seriously high caliber ass, like… that cute
little slice of boy-pink over there.”
He nods toward the little clearing set up in the driveway for the younger
guests, bubble wands and a bean bag toss provided as entertainment, where Bucky
is giggling over one of Timmy’s typically corny jokes.
There’s actually no other word to describe him tonight except “cute”; his dark
hair side parted and slicked back, and the silver-grey suit and peach tie
giving his flesh a creamy, soft outline that all but advertises innocence, like
fruit on the day it ripens.
He realizes he’s staring just as Brock smacks his lips, as if already savoring
Bucky’s flavor, and Steve’s annoyance finally begins to bubble over the brim.
“He’s underage.”
“Don’t mean he doesn’t know what’s good.” The other man purrs back, his
glittering eyes still locked on Bucky’s face - his pink lips are puckering up,
blowing a stream of iridescent bubbles for Tatiana, who hasn’t stopped clinging
to his leg all night…
“ – just sayin’, he’d mew like a little fuckin’ kitten by the time I – “
“Shut up.” Steve finally snaps, to which Brock has the nerve to actually look a
bit affronted.
“What, you pickin’ peaches with little boy blue, or - ?”
“No!” Steve answers much too quickly, and his stomach plummets as he realizes
his mistake.
An ugly grin of realization slowly begins to unwind across Brock’s unshaved
face.
“Wow… okay then… guess “Captain America” ain’t as pure as apple pie after all,
huh?”
“Look, it’s not like – that’s James, alright?”
Thick eyebrows lift in surprise.
“James?! As in, Mrs. Hottie’s kid, James?”
He suddenly bursts into a storm of rusty laughter that turns more than a couple
heads, to Steve’s panic.
“Rogers, you are so fucked!”
“Listen Brock, I know what you’re thinking, but – I just – “ Steve babbles,
half pleading. “Just shut up, for God’s sake, people are starin’-!”
The other man settles down to a few more lurid chuckles, before reaching into
his suit pocket and pulling out a pack of Camels.
“Hey, you know me, Cap – takes a lot t’ make me judge.”
Steve is on the verge of attempting to spin some half-baked explanation, act on
some flimsy hope and convince Brock that he’s got it wrong, when a firm hand
suddenly claps on his shoulder.
“The bride is requesting the groom’s presence – somethin’ about cutting the
cake.” Sam jibes with a grin, and Steve gratefully turns to make his escape,
his insides feeling hollow.
“Any chance of a bottle of Jack? I’m gasping here.”
Sam turns, and his smile fades somewhat.
“It’s a dry party, Rumlow – there’s kids here.”
Brock snickers again, in a cloud of escaping cigarette smoke.
“You got that right.”
Without any further comment, Steve allows himself to be led back into the heart
of his own wedding reception, Brock’s oily, knowing smirk staining the back of
his head.
*
The cake slicing is meant to be the centerpiece of the evening, and with some
help, they carry it off perfectly.
Winifred’s soft hands overlap each of his own, sharing the pressure as they
both help glide the organza ribbon wrapped knife through her home-baked
masterpiece of white buttercream and sugar paste peonies. She giggles a little
with helpless excitement when they strike the solid white chocolate core, he
presses down carefully, and the hollow center of the cake cracks open, spilling
out it’s hoard of pink coated candies to a roar of sudden understanding and joy
from the adoring audience. Under Peter’s expert hand, the jerry-rigged sound
system begins blasting out “Daddy’s Little Girl,” and after licking the
frosting from each other’s fingers, Steve leads his wife onto the tiny grass
blanketed dance floor, to cheers among the delighted, astounded, weepy crowd.
His beard scratches her cheek as she kisses his ear.
“We love you…” she breathes softly, guiding his hand to her lace-covered belly
as they sway gently in place.
“We love you so much…”
Kissing her lips fiercely to hide his stinging eyes, Steve pets his free hand
through her waterfall of dark hair, before drawing her head down to rest on his
shoulder. As they turn slowly, he suddenly notices Bucky in the crowd, an
exhausted Tatiana cuddled up to his chest.
Their eyes lock, and without glancing away, Steve firmly, deliberately presses
a kiss to Winifred’s hair.
She sighs happily, and Bucky’s wistful smile widens ever so slightly.
 
*
 
It’s just as well that Natasha designated herself responsible for Steve’s
luggage, because he’d had no idea what one’s supposed to pack for a four-day
spa trip. Still doesn’t.
Bucky had suggested the Grand Canyon for the honeymoon, and the pure delight
and wonder in his voice when he so much as said the name had made Steve want to
acquiesce then and there, even if the fifteen year old wouldn’t be coming.
However, Winifred – a romantic at heart – had fallen hard for the lazy sunshine
and aristocratic Georgian architecture that covered the TripAdvisor images of
Norwich, Connecticut, and bridal override had concluded where Mr. and Mrs.
Rogers would be spending their necessarily short honeymoon.
It’s not exactly a new kind of experience – Steve knows when he’s meant to
impassively obey orders and be a good soldier. Perhaps, to some extent, being a
husband isn’t so very different.
He’s just finished straightening the collar of his button-up – white shirt and
khakis, picture perfect even when they’re dashing to the car in a shower of
soap bubbles – when the screen door slams shut with a clatter and two familiar,
lightweight feet begin pounding up the stairs in a frantic stampede.
Bracing himself, Steve turns to face the door, his breath quickening as it
swings wide open and Bucky leaps into his arms.
Four slender limbs wrap around his waist and neck, all pulsating desire and
teenage softness, and with a quiet little gasp he presses his lips to Steve’s
open mouth.
He can taste sugary mint toothpaste, and ginger ale, and raspberry wedding
cake, because there are some things that Winifred simply can’t refuse her only
child.
Helpless, Steve’s eyes flutter shut as he caresses Bucky’s little pink tongue
with the tip of his own, savoring as much of that secret delight as he can
allow himself in these few, precious seconds. The door is wide open; anyone in
the world could walk past or slip inside, intent on telling Steve that his
bride is ready to depart, and find him embracing his stepson in a way that no
one would consider paternal…
It’s so dangerous, he almost feels secure.
Bucky pulls back from the kiss gently, and Steve’s breath catches at the soft
whimper that escapes, his lower lip lingering just a fraction of a moment
before he slips away completely.
“Don’t forget me…”
The whisper hangs in the air, and it’s vanished, as Bucky jumps out of his grip
on Steve’s body and races back out the door with all of a child’s boundless
energy, a final lip-bitten grin thrown over his shoulder as he rounds the
corner, and leaves his stepfather trembling at the center of the bedroom.
 
***** Chapter 5 *****
“So how’re you likin’ the honeymoon trimester?”
Judging by the grin under Bill Dugan’s bushy mustache, he clearly thinks he’s
just cracked a real side-splitter, and Steve concludes that Timmy’s god-awful
humor must be genetic.
“’t’s exhausting.” He replies automatically, and with dead honesty.
Between continental breakfasts in bed and prenatal massages, Winifred seemed to
spend every conscious (and not a few semi-conscious) moment shoving him to the
mattress or pulling him overtop of her, right until the hotel check-out hour
yesterday morning. Not that it wasn’t enjoyable – he’d discovered he had a more
than healthy appreciation for a pair of pregnant breasts, like at least eighty
percent of the male population out there – but a physical body could only offer
so much supply to demand.
As if on cue, Bill launches into an anecdotal reminiscence about his now-ex
wife’s utter insatiability while she’d been carrying their son, while Steve
hastily rings up the twenty-seven count of doughnuts to go and makes unspoken,
unnoticed pleas for the other man to lower his voice, just a little.
It’s a pointless hope – not only does the mechanic have a set of vocal cords
like a built-in surround stereo, every other soul inside the bakery’s tiny eat-
in area at this hour are local guys about their age, who all start shooting him
looks that manage to be sympathetic and suggestive all at the same time.
He’s not entirely sure how it happened, but once he’d married his way into the
neighborhood, Steve had found himself – without any prior permission or
knowledge, welcomed into an unspoken, undeclared club of cargo shorts, John
Deere, and portable coffee mugs.
He can’t be positive that the Catholic church would consider it a sin to pray
for a convenient lightning strike at the next community picnic, but it probably
falls somewhere on the scale.
“… and then by time we actually realized it was her water breaking, we…”
Bill thankfully trails off as Winifred sweeps in barefoot behind the counter,
slotting a fresh tray of cinnamon buns and blueberry scones into the display
case.
The eyelets in her white cotton sundress allow skin to peep through, and both
straps dangle down her arms, leaving both shoulders naked and splashed by loose
waves of dark hair. Someone whistles quietly as she smiles, and pads back into
the kitchen.
“She wearing anything under there?” Bill inquires in a rare undertone, and
Steve shrugs with forced nonchalance.
“No idea.”
It’s a true statement, and doesn’t really merit the knowing wink that the
mechanic throws his way.
“Oh hey, no worries sport; hot, scantily clad baker, it’s a small-town
tradition.”
He claps him on the shoulder before hefting the enormous box of blackberry jam
filleds.
“Make sure y’save your strength!”
With that final parting jibe, he lumbers out the door, and most of the others
are soon to follow. Exhaling a long repressed sigh of relief, Steve sets out
the service bell for the last few stragglers, and makes his way back through
the swinging doors into the kitchen.
Winifred’s arranging another bunch of pastries on a baking tray, looking like
some kind of summertime wet dream, as she hums along to an old Faith Hill
single playing on the portable radio.
“You mind doing drop-off duty today?” she asks suddenly, breaking the moment as
she nods to the end of the counter, where Steve’s personal little incubus is
wolfing down a bowl of chocolate puffs topped with more raspberries than
cereal.
Bucky still has a sort of not-quite-awake wooziness about him from oversleeping
earlier in the morning, and for an instant Steve wants to pull them both back
into bed – and wow… that particular idea becomes more and more screwed up the
longer he thinks about it.
“No problem.”
His wife smiles, and without any real provocation throws her bare arms around
his neck and plants a kiss to his mouth, even though her growing bump has begun
providing an awkward bottleneck to physical intimacy.
As does the older child, Steve considers with carefully concealed amusement as
Bucky makes a retching noise behind their backs.
 
*
 
Something’s up – it’s painfully obvious in every smirk Bucky’s been shooting at
him when he thinks Steve’s attention is focused on the road.
Confirmation arrives just minutes after the thought passes through his head,
when several ink smudged fingers begin walking their way up his forearm.
“Y’have a good time at the hotel?”
“Sure.” He responds as casually as possible, while Bucky’s hand trails up his
bicep and starts playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Steve’s
grip on the steering wheel tightens, and he privately thinks that there ought
to be some kind of award for people who can keep their focus on driving in
these situations… however often they happen.
“I missed you, y’know.” He eventually manages. “I missed you a lot.”
Bucky hums disbelievingly, but his grin gives him away.
“I’d have thought you’d be too busy with the blushing bride – guess I was
right, ‘cause you obviously don’t care about me anymore anyway.”
Almost dreading the answer, Steve forces his vocal cords into action.
“Why would you think that?”
A gentle waft of cool air is blown across the shell of his ear, followed by a
feather light nuzzle.
“Well, y’haven’t kissed me yet, have you?”
A couple of horns blare out in irritation as the car swerves out of traffic and
onto a deserted side road, before pulling over to the shoulder and coming to a
halt in the overgrown grass with a muffled screech.
Steve manages to crank up the parking brake just as Bucky clamors into his lap,
brows lifting flirtatiously while he snaps off his retainer with a squeak of
plastic and sucks Steve’s lower lip underneath his tongue.
It’s too wet, too clumsy, their teeth meeting with a painful ‘click’ and Steve
feels like he’s soaring, the knots that have twisted up his belly for the past
week all releasing at once as his hands wander underneath Bucky’s bright red
hoodie, scattering lightweight touches along ticklish ribs.
With a squeak and a wriggle, Bucky struggles out of his grip and slithers
backward, until he’s wedged himself into the foot well between Steve’s knees.
All the warning he gets is a mischievous lip-bitten grin, before the fly of his
shorts is torn open, Bucky painfully tugs his cock free of his briefs with
childish impatience, and swallows down the entire length in one gulp.
With a raw cry of shock, Steve feels the walls of Bucky’s throat spasm around
him, and the fifteen year old chokes him back up before falling into a teary-
eyed coughing fit.
“That is not as easy as it looks…” he mumbles hoarsely, and thatparticular
statement drags Steve clean out of the remainder of his head spin.
His brain flashes back to Cynthia Schmidt, and crimson painted lips.
“You’re not still…”
Bucky glances up with a raised eyebrow and a shit-eating smirk, which is
slightly ruined by his wet eyes.
“Would you be jealous if I was?”
He’s not sure how to reply to that without sounding too possessive, or
demanding exclusivity that he logically has no right to, but then his dick’s
back in Bucky’s mouth, and he doesn’t give a damn where Bucky picked this up
except that he did, Jesus Christ…
For a moment it’s utter bliss, and he’s so damn well locked in that he doesn’t
hear the crunch of loose gravel until the squad car’s pulled up right next to
them.
The universe goes a little fuzzy around the edges, and Steve would swear he can
feel his heart throwing itself violently against his ribcage.
Bucky continues to lavish little kitten licks all over the head of his cock,
blithely oblivious to the danger as the tip of his tongue flicks into the slit.
Steve’s acutely aware of the way his body is shuddering all over as the window
of the neighboring car rolls down like a tread to the gallows, and for one
heart-stopping moment the jowly, balding cop seated behind the steering wheel
shoots him a beetle-browed glare, before gradually lifting his right hand in an
unmistakable thumbs-up.
His eyes widening, breath frozen in his lungs, Steve returns the gesture with a
trembling hand.
The officer smirks and rolls the window back up before pulling a u-turn back to
the main road, and Steve never in his life thought he’d actually be grateful
for unethical members of local law enforcement.
The dizzying relief of the moment and a final polish of Bucky’s tongue over the
underside of his dick have him bursting down the boy’s throat, and once the
aftershocks have faded a little he yanks Bucky back into his lap and hugs him
tight to his chest.
“Wass’ up?” he sounds a little bleary, but it isn’t difficult to tell why, once
Steve pops the button on Bucky’s jeans, slips his hand inside, and finds him
hard as a rock.
“Mmmm…”
“Shh.” Steve murmurs back, still a bit lightheaded from the close call, and
rearranges the fifteen year old’s clothing back into something like decency.
“’Gotta getcha to school – ‘s almost eight.”
He can hear the protesting whine before it even leaves Bucky’s lips, and
strokes a thumb over his mouth to quiet him down. They’re still a little wet.
“Think of it as somethin’ to look forward to, okay?” he soothes, while Bucky
pouts at him, still confused.
No need to scare the kid out of his wits with information about their near
brush with protective custody, divorce papers, and prison time.
“C’mon Buck – just try to be brave.”
Bucky groans.
“Hurts…”
“I know, sweetheart… I’ll kiss it better tonight, promise.”
Bucky gnaws on his lips with a stifled grin, as Steve gently pushes him back
into the passenger seat and shifts the car into drive, swallowing back
remembered terror as his eyes catch on the outline of tread marks in the gravel
outside.
 
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