Archive of Our Own

“You’re Bucky’s two o’clock?” 

The guy working the front desk at RENDEZVOUS—Steve, according to the all-caps scrawl of his safety-pinned name tag—stares at you slack mouthed over the counter, silver stud piercing twitching with the confused dip of his brow. An elaborate inking of a woman’s gaze is peeking out from the hem of his tank top, and it feels like she’s judging you too. 

“Yes. Can I check in?” 

“You can, um—” Steve blinks himself out of it, glancing between you and the doorway of hanging black beads to your left. “Why don’t you just go on back.” 

You thank him and turn toward it, but Bucky, apparently, comes shouldering through before you can, a hulking mass of black ink, silver metal, and leather. He stops when he sees you, turning to offload a large box behind the front desk, wipes a hand over the hair he’s pulled back into a low bun, then sets it on his hip. A pink tongue fidgets with the piercing on his lip. 

“You’re my two p.m.?” 

Equal parts exasperated and mortified, you square your shoulders and nod. 

The guy takes one look at you, your face and then your chest that he’s supposed to be piercing, neatly concealed beneath your cardigan, and shakes his head. 

“No.”

You gawk at Bucky and then swing your head toward Steve with a cocked brow, but he only raises his hands as if to say I can’t control him. 

Bucky turns back and disappears through the beads again, and this time, you follow him without asking for permission. 

“Excuse me?” you call after him. “I made an appointment. You can’t just turn me away.” 

As he passes through another door in the painted black hallway, he reaches up to tap the plaque installed crookedly above the frame, fraying at the edges like this isn’t the first time he’s had to draw attention to it. “Read the sign.” 

We reserve the right to deny service to any customer at any time. 

With a huff as you glance over the list of people they refuse to serve, of which you pointedly don’t fall into any of those categories, you barge past the threshold into what appears to be his office. There’s a client chair fixed in the center, shelves running the perimeter of the ceiling with all sorts of art and piercing paraphernalia, a big storage unit with organized supplies and a desk shoved into the back corner. 

Nearly everything in here, including the jacket draped over the back of his chair and his clothes, is black. Your colorful jeans and cardigan stick out like a sore thumb, but you don’t let it stop you from pressing on. 

“I’m a paying customer,” you tell him. “I made a deposit.” 

Bucky sits and starts flipping through papers on his desk, not even looking at you when he speaks. “Steve’ll get you a refund.” 

“Can you at least tell me why I’m being refused service?” you grit. 

“Because I’ve had too many pretty things like you come in here on a dare or some shit, only to turn around and leave me a bad fuckin’ review after you break up with your boyfriend or whoever it is you’re tryin’ to prove a point to. M’not doin’ it again. Brings my ratings down.” 

“Okay, well, first of all,” you step around the chair and cross your arms, “if you’d bothered to actually have a conversation with me before outright refusing to take me on as a client, you’d know this was my decision. Not a dare, I wasn’t peer pressured into anything, and I most definitely wouldn’t alter my body just because my boyfriend thinks it’d be hot.” 

His gaze flits back to you again, a brow raised. “You got one, then?” 

You deflate. “Well, I—no. I’m single, but—that’s not the point.” 

“So why do you want it?” 

“I don’t have to tell you that,” you argue. 

Bucky shrugs, turns back to his papers. “Suit yourself. You can find someone else to do it.” 

“Okay, fine, just—” you blow out a breath, shifting on your feet. “Maybe it’s a little bit because I want to prove to myself that I’m not…boring. But this is for me.” 

“Mhm,” Bucky hums, “and what happens when you regret it in six months?” 

“I won’t regret it. And if I do, I can just take the piercings out.” 

His eyes narrow. “No bad reviews?” 

“Your shop has a four-point-eight rating,” you say with an exasperated breath. 

Bucky grumbles under his breath. “Should be five.” 

You roll your eyes. “Look, I’ll give you a good rating before I even leave the store if you want. But honestly, right now, I’m not feeling very generous.” 

Leaning back in his chair, Bucky twists it to face you directly, and you try not to fidget under the scrutiny of his gaze as it drags over just about every inch of you. When he gets back up to your face it’s burning hot, and you raise a brow. 

“You finished?” 

Without a word, he stands and for a second you’re afraid he’s about to physically remove you from the premises. But he moves around you, his shoulder bumping yours, to shut the door to his office with a click. 

“Take off your shirt.” 

You spin to face him, blanching. “What?” 

“Take it off,” he repeats, just as clinical and bored as he had before. “You scheduled for a consultation. I gotta see if they’ll sit right.” 

“Sit right?” 

“Some people look good with ‘em, some won’t. And I can’t exactly get a good look through your Sunday best.” Bucky pinches the shoulder of your cardigan as he passes back to his desk, and you twist yourself away from him as he goes, stalling. 

“And you’ll know from just—looking?” 

“Yeah, doll,” he drones. “I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve had a driver’s license.” 

You give him a flat look. “Has anyone ever told you you should work on your bedside manner?” 

“Can’t say I’ve ever had any bed related complaints, no,” he smirks. “Clock’s ticking.” 

Grinding your molars together, you plant your feet and drop your bag into the client chair while he sits down again. You’d figured undressing would be a part of this, sure. But his attitude isn’t exactly comforting. 

You would never dare tell him that the final, deciding factor you’d chosen to book with him over the rival piercing shop on the other side of town was the picture next to Bucky’s profile. An effortless smolder and the silver glint of a lip ring that you couldn’t help imagining the feel of against your skin, a leather jacket snug over his broad shoulders, the photo drenched in a moody, aesthetic monochrome. So far from your regular type that it made heat stir in your belly. 

But now you’re getting half naked in front of him, and he looks like he couldn’t care less. So. 

You undo the buttons of your cardigan under his watchful eye, moving down the line one by one. When both sides hang open you peel it off of one arm and then the other, making sure the sleeves aren’t pulled inside out so that you can slip it back on quickly and easily if needed. Bucky looks like he’s fighting a laugh as you drape it neatly over the back of the chair and move on to your shirt. 

It’s only a tank top, white and plain with subtle lace trimming around the arms, the cardigan most of the outfit anyway. He only needs to see your chest, so you slip one strap off your arm and then the other, leaving your stomach and hips covered but baring your bra to the cool air of his office. Your skin, thinner and more sensitive around your chest, begins to prickle with goosebumps. 

You like this bra; it’s difficult to find a good balance of support and style for your size, and this one manages to mold the shape of your teardrop breasts up  and together quite nicely. 

“Cute,” Bucky says, smirking at the little bow nestled in between the two cups. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, then force them back open in a glare. 

“Just—will it work?” 

He blinks. “You think I got eyes that can see through layers of padding?” 

In hindsight, you should probably have expected as much. But being here in person is much different than how this went in your head, and it’s not like Bucky’s a doctor or someone who is legally obligated not to judge your body no matter what it looks like. 

Point is—you know all the right ways to make your breasts look good in lingerie or a bra or even a particularly tight shirt. 

But without the added support, you’re not so confident. 

With clammy palms, you focus your gaze on the floor, a centerpoint between Bucky’s face and your own chest so you don’t have to look at either one, and reach back to unhook the bra. 

The cups fall forward and open, your breasts pooling out uncontained. The sultry curve of the shapewear gives way to the mounds of skin underneath, the weight of them concentrated at the bottom and sitting lower than you’d really prefer for them to. 

In a last second twitch of self consciousness, you cup the undersides of them and hold them up, so your nipples are facing more toward Bucky than they are the ground.  

When you finally gather the courage to look up at him again, his gaze is planted firmly on the view. He eyes your chest openly and concentratedly, his lips pursed and brows furrowed as he gets a good look. 

The fact that he’s not looking at the hesitation in your face makes you feel a little braver. “Are you actually coming up with an answer or is this just your way of getting a free show,” you deadpan. 

“Funny,” he returns in the same tone. He turns to pull out a notepad from his desk drawer, uncapping a sharpie with his teeth. “You’re a double D cup?” 

“How did you—?” 

He rips off the note and taps a finger against it on his thigh. “They’re a little bigger than I’d usually agree to, but I think they’ll look nice, ‘specially with some of the newer ones we’ve got. They sensitive?” 

You glance down at your breasts and back to his face. 

“My, uh—?” 

“Your nipples, doll,” he implores. He points the end of the sharpie at you and gestures between them. “They usually perk up like that?” 

You pause for a second, not entirely sure that he isn’t making fun of you. Your breasts have been called a lot of things before, but perky has never been one of them. 

Regardless, Bucky isn’t laughing. 

“Oh. Um. No, not really,” you tell him belatedly. 

He mutters something else about piercing types and jewelry design, scribbling away on the paper in his lap. 

“Can I put my bra back on now?” 

He grunts an affirmative, still writing, and you’re grateful for the privacy as you turn your back to him to get yourself situated back into the bra. You buckle it in front and then shift it around as opposed to stepping into it the way you do when you get ready at home, slip the straps back up your arms, then reach into the padding with your hands to adjust the weight of the way they sit in cups. 

The tank top comes back up next, then the cardigan, and you do up the buttons halfway at record speed, more than enough skin shown for the day. 

When you spin back around Bucky’s looking at your face this time, with all the curious intention he had before at your chest. It makes you pause, feeling suddenly transparent, and you busy yourself with your bag while you wait for him to fill the silence. 

You tense automatically when you hear him stand, his boots thudding over to you. The small yellow note has been shoved into his front pocket, but he offers you what looks to be a preparation manual for pre-piercing care. He tugs it back slightly when you go to grab it from him, close enough to you that he can look down and see right into your tank top, the line of your cleavage a little visible with the top buttons of cardigan undone. 

“I meant it,” he taps the edge of the paper against your chest, right where the bow on your bra sits. “S’cute.” 

“Thanks,” you tell him, quieter than you mean to. You square your shoulders, nab the small booklet from his hand before he can tease you again and slip it into your bag. “So. You’ll do it?” 

“Yeah. I’ve got a condition, though.” 

You frown. “What is it.” 

“You let me pick the barbell.” 

“I’ll be stuck with it ‘til it heals, won’t I?” you ask reluctantly. 

His mouth threatens a smile. “You will, yeah. But I’ll pick a cute one. Cross my heart.” 

“Fine,” you relent, shoving a hand between the two of you to get some space. “Pleasure doing business with you. You’ll get your five stars after I see what you picked for the barbell.” 

He laughs then, half at your offer for a handshake and half at your bargain, and you think the twitch in his brow is something like impressed. He slips a palm into yours and shakes. 

“Sure, doll. Whatever you want.” 

You walk out of his office, say your goodbyes to Steve, and absolutely do not let yourself imagine Barnes saying those words to you in any sort of other, unprofessional capacity. 

(And if you do later that night anyway, he certainly doesn’t have to know.) 

+

The second time you’re bare chested in front of Bucky is just as daunting as the first. More so, actually, because now there’s needles involved. 

Not just needles, of course; from your reclined seat in the chair, you have a perfect view of the tray Bucky’s arranging beside you, full of sterilization tools, body safe pens, the actual hollow needle that he’ll pierce you with, and the barbell he’d picked out hiding mysteriously out of view so it’ll remain a surprise. 

Bucky’s got gloves on, every tool sealed in a package he opens in front of you to ensure sterilization. The way he moves is a little mesmerizing, the quiet confidence you assume can only come from, as he’d said before, years of practice of doing it. He’s an expert by now, and that, if nothing else, soothes a little of your nerves. 

“So tense, doll,” Bucky smirks up at you as he wipes you down with a surgical scrub, sterilizing the skin. It’s cold, especially against the AC in the room, and it makes your nipples even harder under the attention. “Don’t go around showin’ these off all that often?” 

“Not like this,” you mutter, eyeing where your bra is resting atop your folded shirt and jacket. 

You’re legitimately not sure if your top half has ever been so entirely bare in front of someone like this. You’ve been far more insecure about less. It’s one time you’re actually grateful for Bucky’s blasé attitude about your nudity; if he’d seemed like he was interested at any point, you’re sure you’d be even more nervous. 

“Probably have a better time here than half the guys you could take home these days,” Bucky muses sourly, tossing the sterile wipe into the trash can beside his desk from his stool. “Half of ‘em don’t know their way around their own equipment. Much less anyone else’s.” 

You exhale a laugh. “You make a habit of knowing what guys are like in bed?” 

Bucky’s grin spreads into something downright filthy, pausing where he’s uncapping the pen to look up at you. “Yeah, doll. I do.” 

You flush hot at the implication as it falls over you, Bucky’s amusement clear. You try desperately not to picture what that would look like, fail epically, and decide you should probably avoid Bucky’s eye for the next few minutes out of respect. He returns to the pen when you clear your throat, his mouth still tugged up at the corner. 

The skin-safe marker is a little rough against the sides of your nipples, but Bucky’s quick about it. The furrowed concentration returns to his brow as he leans in over your chest to mark the points where the piercing will sit on either side, and he makes you look at them in a handheld mirror from several different angles before you confirm it and move on. 

“You gonna get jumpy on me and make me use the clamp, or are you gonna sit nice and still so I don’t have to go dig it out of the drawers?” 

“I’ll be still,” you tell him. 

“Good girl,” he rasps. 

You freeze for a second, a little offended and a lot something else that you don’t want to examine right now, words caught in a tangle in your throat as your face flushes with heat. 

Bucky relents eventually, shaking his head. 

 “I had to test you a little first. If you’d hit me, I’d have gone to get the clamps.” 

You scoff at him, wishing you weren’t grinning, and pointedly keep your hands still by your sides. “Dick.” 

“I’m not the one who liked it, doll,” he teases. “Got the proof right in front of my face.” 

He gently flicks one of your nipples with his gloved fingers, and you laugh and flick his forehead in retaliation since you don’t have to move your body to do it. 

“Hey. Watch it. I’ll rate you three stars, Barnes.” 

“You want my kids sleepin’ on the street?” 

You freeze again, eyeing him with wide eyes. “You have kids?” 

“Well,” he says slowly. “Steve acts like he’s one, sometimes. S’close enough. Oi! What’d I just say about punching, huh? Y’want the clamp?” 

You grumble, settling back into the table and trying not to rub at your knuckles where they’d connected with his arm. “No.” 

He stands, leaning over you as he reaches up to adjust the ring light. “Then be good for me, sweetheart.”

The confusing mix of teasing and reluctantly turned on had made you forget to be scared for a minute, but when he sits again, wheeled in close as he rips open the sanitary package with the piercing needle in it, you move your eyes up to the ceiling. 

“I’m startin’ on the first one. Don’t look,” he murmurs. 

You frown. You hadn’t been going to anyway, but— “What? Why not?” 

“‘Cause it’s a surprise, first off. But you also seem like you’re the squirmy type when it comes to pain,” he says. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” 

“Alright. Feel free to watch me poke a sharp, sterilized needle through one of the most sensitive, nerve-dense parts of your body—” 

“Okay. Point taken,” you huff, eyes fixed even more firmly on the ceiling tiles now. “I won’t look.” 

There’s another rip and the clang of clinical metals, and then a warm, gloved hand on your right breast. Bucky holds the skin in his palm, squeezing lightly until it’s just like he needs it, and you hold back a shiver at the subtlety of his breath against you when he leans in. Just barely, there’s a cold little poke at the side of your nipple. Just enough to let you know it’s there. 

“Deep breath,” Bucky murmurs, and the pressure increases. “Goin’ in now.” 

You squeeze the side of the leather chair with the fingers of your opposite hand as you feel it truly pierce you, your eyes closed and breaths achingly even as you try not to heave in and throw him off. There’s a pinch that brings tears to your eyes, and then another quick slide out as some of the pressure releases. 

“Good. Breathe, nice and easy. Needle’s out.” 

The barbell comes next, you know. Your nipple throbs as you take a full, deep inhale, and you fight the urge to look down and make sure he didn’t just whack the whole thing clean off. You take your lip between your teeth, chewing at it to distract yourself from the pain. 

“Why’d you think you were boring,” he asks, another package ripping. 

You blink your squeezed shut eyes back open, looking hard at Bucky’s concentrated face so you don’t have to look down at what he’s doing. 

“What?” 

“Before,” he clarifies, “you said you were doin’ all this to prove you weren’t boring.” 

“Oh.” You lick over your lips, wincing at the slight taste of blood. Maybe talking is better. “I, um. There was this guy…” 

“So this is about a boyfriend,” Bucky accuses. 

“An ex-boyfriend,” you amend firmly, sighing. “That’s over. Very over.” 

The pressure returns, but it’s not so bad this time. You can feel a steady, solid point, cool against your hot nerve endings, and it moves slightly when Bucky gently twists the other ball at the end of the barbell he’d picked onto the outside. 

“Good riddance,” he says. 

You raise a brow. “You don’t even know the story.” 

“I know there’s a reason you don’t like having ‘em out without a bra on,” Bucky answers definitively. “Doesn’t take much to put two and two together, doll. Unless I’m wrong?” 

Had you really been that obvious? 

“No. It’s…” you clear your throat, shifting a little on the table when he lets go of you. “You’re right.” 

You keep your chin tipped back as he hums and continues rifling through the materials on the table, the noises all more familiar this time as the stinging in your nipple eases to a dull throb that mimics your pulse. 

“Done with that one. Gonna do the other one now,” he tells you, glancing up at your face. “You doin’ okay?” 

You try to gauge any sort of reaction to the way they might look, but Bucky’s expression gives nothing away other than focused expertise and a little bit of empathetic concern. 

“Yeah. I’m good.” You nod, giving him a small smile. “Thanks, Bucky.” 

You don’t mean just for the piercing or for checking in, and you think, you hope, he understands that too. 

There’s a brief pause as he shifts around to your other side, and the process starts over again. It’s easier this time when you know what to expect, when to prepare for pain and when you can relax. 

When both sides are throbbing but otherwise finished, barbell inserted and balls screwed on like bookends by Bucky’s gentle, rough fingertips, he gives you a minute to get used to the feel of them before he helps you sit up and has you walk over to the hanging mirror that faces the chair. 

You keep your eyes lifted accordingly until he has you right in front of it, and he stands behind you to your left when he finally tells you you can look. 

You do so, eagerly and quickly, your gaze falling immediately to the bare shape of your breasts in the reflection. They’re still your breasts, still flatter at the top and heavier at the bottom, still resting over the top of your ribcage without anything to pull them up. But standing straight with your shoulders back, you can see the glint of jewelry adorning your nipples now, and your gaze lingers there much more than it does on any of your insecurities. 

“Are those…?” you ask, stepping forward to get a better look at them. 

The silver barbells are small enough to fit your nipples without overwhelming them or being too heavy, but thick enough to support the little bit of weight in the studs at either end. You turn your body in the mirror, admiring, and gasp when you realize they’re not just the plain silver balls you’d seen on the racks out front. These ones are little hearts, studded all over with tiny, glinting faux diamonds that catch and sparkle even in the low light of his office. 

You hardly realize you’re grinning until Bucky’s face pops up in the reflection over your shoulder, arms crossed over his chest, looking tentative but hopeful. 

“Like ‘em?” 

“Yeah,” you laugh, turning to face him, your bare chest still in between both of you. “Bucky, they’re—I love them. I would hug you, you know, if—” 

He chuckles, gesturing at the piercings. “Understandable.” 

Something in you warms again at his expression, and the thought of him going through all the options and picking out jewelry just for you makes you feel more important than your ex ever did. 

“Thank you,” you tell him again, softer and more emphatic, and his steely disposition, for once, gentles a little in response as he nods. 

You think he understands this time. 

+

Six months out from your appointment finds you still single, more confident than you’ve been in years, and right on time for your follow up to check the healing progress. 

It’s not like you’re crediting a couple of barbells for a massive perspective shift, but they were a start. The very beginning of a new chapter, one where you tried new things and advocated for yourself and stepped outside of your comfort zone in ways that you wanted, not anyone else. Once the ball was rolling it didn’t stop, and it hasn’t even now, months later. 

Suffice to say, you’d given Bucky his well earned five stars. 

“Hi, Steve,” you wave as you pass by the front desk. 

“Hey,” he grins, glancing up from his art book to nod at you. “Bucky’s in his office. You can head back.” 

Nothing’s really changed since you were last here, all the same art on the walls, the same music coming from the floor speakers, the same rustle of beads as you step into the back hallway toward Bucky’s office. His door’s open when you get to it and you ease in a breath, taking a moment to appreciate the broadness of his back as he stands over something at his desk for a moment before you lean against the doorframe and knock quietly. 

He turns, and the pinched furrow of his brow evaporates into a crooked smile when he sees you. He sets his papers down and rounds the chair, coming to stand in front of you in the doorway. If he notices the way your breathing hitches, he doesn’t mention it. 

He runs his eyes over your face, shoulders falling with a sigh. 

“Missed you,” he says. 

You falter again, heart thumping in your chest. “Bucky…”

“Shh,” he says, gaze pointedly dropping to your breasts. “I’m talkin’ to them.”

With a laugh, you roll your eyes. “Asshole.” 

His crinkle when his smile widens, and he nods for you to come in while he reaches for the handle of the door. “C’mon. Lemme see my handiwork.”  

You step inside and set your bag down on the side table, your fingers reaching up to unzip your jacket. The noise is loud over the soft echo of music back here, and the fabric slips off your shoulders easily. You drape it over your bag and turn back to him, taking a seat on the chair. 

Bucky’s brows climb his forehead when he catches sight of the barbells through your shirt. “No bra?” 

You shrug, coy. “Somebody reminded me that it was stupid to let other people dictate how I dress.”

“Now that sounds like a deeply intelligent individual,” Bucky reasons, washing his hands at the sink in the corner. 

“You’re right. Steve’s awesome.”

He pinches you with his clean hands, and you yelp as you reach down to peel your shirt up and off. 

There’s a noticeable difference in the way you’d been last time versus now, and you can tell from the way Bucky watches with curious fascination that he notices it too. Your shirt lands with your other clothes and you reach back for your bra, but he stops you with a hand on your elbow, stepping up behind you to flick it open and ease it off your shoulders. 

The leather is cool against your bare back when you recline against it, and you shiver, nipples perking to attention as Bucky takes a seat on the stool at your side. 

The healing check is brief and mostly checklist, and you answer Bucky’s routine questions about them while he prods gently around the insertion points and checks for any pain. He thumbs over the very tip of your nipple when he asks if you’ve experienced any numbness or lack of sensation, and you try to keep your voice even when you tell him that, if anything, it’s been the opposite. 

Even once his questions have stopped, his touches linger, and you’re just as eager for them to keep going as it seems like he is. You’re free to watch his face this time too instead of staring at the ceiling, to memorize the way his pupils dilate and his mouth parts around a measured exhale. 

“All healed up, huh,” he rasps. 

“Seems like it,” you agree. 

He nods, pursing his lips at them. “You did a good job takin’ care of ‘em.” 

“I had a pretty good piercer,” you tease. His eyes flick up to yours with a mischievous grin. 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah. I rated him five stars.” 

“He saw,” Bucky says softly, finally pulling his hand away. “Thanks, doll.” 

He stands from the stool and turns to his desk, and before you can come up with something else to prolong your time together, he returns with a small white gift bag, something not from here at the store. 

“Got you something,” he says gruffly, avoiding your eye as he shoves it in your direction. 

Your mouth spreads into a slow smile. “Yeah?” 

He grunts his affirmative. “Here.” 

There’s no brand name plastered all over the bag, so you know it must be on the more expensive side. Your mind buzzes with what it could possibly be—you’re allowed to change the piercing out after today’s appointment; maybe it’s a new one? Something else he’d seen and thought of you? 

The same way you’d been thinking about him since you left? 

Your suspicions are proved correct when you reach past the gift paper and pull out a small flat box with a see-through covering, two brand new barbells nestled into the divots in the display. These ones still have a base of regular silver, but they’re balls instead of hearts on either side, and there’s a tiny chain attached on the inside of each one, connecting to a small pink bow that dangles in the center. 

It’s almost exactly like the one that’d been on your bra the day you came in for the consultation. 

“You remembered,” you grin, swiping a thumb over the front of the box. Bucky still looks sheepish, but he straightens up when you hold it out and ask him, “Help me put them on?” 

He takes the bag and the box from you easily, and you lay back for him again as he leans in to carefully start loosening the current barbell. He puts the studded hearts back in the bag so you’ll have them to keep if you want to switch back at some point. 

The slightest difference in weight catches your attention, the balls a little heavier than the hearts had been. It makes the piercings feel obvious in the way they had those first few weeks all over again, and you already know they’re going to feel hyper sensitive and heavy against the material of your thin t-shirt. It’s your favorite one to wear around the house now, to stop in the mirrors and admire the way they poke through and hint at what’s underneath. 

And these are different anyway because of the dangling pieces, the little bows that hang down underneath. You wonder how the sensations will change, if the chain will make them even more tender. 

“All done,” Bucky says, voice gone low and rough. 

You glance down at your chest, cupping your breasts and lifting them a little so you can get a better view without a mirror. They’re cute just like he said, even upside down from this angle, and Bucky shifts on his stool when you run a fingertip over them, your nipple and the jewelry all at once. 

“You found anybody to appreciate ‘em yet?” he asks. 

“No,” you admit. “I’ve been waiting on them to heal.” 

Bucky’s shoulders rise and fall with a full, slow breath, and he nods stiffly, dragging his eyes off of them to offer you a tight smile. 

“Seems like you’re a free woman then now.” 

He starts to roll the stool away, and you reach a hand out, catching him on the arm. “Bucky.” 

He swallows, but doesn’t look up. “Yeah?” 

“I haven’t, with anyone—since before I was last here,” you tell him quietly. “For the healing, yeah, but also ‘cause—” 

Bucky lifts his head then, and your words dry up at the intensity of his gaze. You’re transparently aware now of your position, your half-naked body laid out on the chair, his head level with your bare breasts. 

“‘Cause why,” Bucky presses, his head tilting. “You savin’ ‘em for me?” 

He rolls the stool back where it was, right at the edge of the chair, until his nose is inches from the steep valley between your breasts. One of the chains swings gently with the shift in the air, threatening to brush his cheek if it went any further. 

When his mouth parts, all you can think about it getting it on you. 

“Asked you a question, doll. S’that it?” 

“Yeah,” you confess, quiet as a whisper. “Wanted you to see them first.” 

Bucky’s eyes flutter shut as if in reaction to your words, and he inhales deeply, no doubt picking up your scent of body wash, lotion, and a little sweat from being out this afternoon. You take in a shaky breath of your own, the first lick of hesitation slipping in like an old wound. 

“Unless, I mean—I know it’s been six months. So if you’ve found somebody else, then—” 

“I haven’t,” Bucky says, his eyes snapping open. 

“Okay,” you exhale, trying to keep your voice even. “Then I’m—I’m all yours. If you want me.” 

It’s not quite the plan. You were supposed to play the confident vixen you’d practiced in the mirror at home, somebody as unshakeable and blasé as Bucky is so he’d believe you could handle him. But this is better, you think—because this was the whole point. 

From now on, no changing yourself for anyone else. If they want you, it’ll be because it’s you, not some veneer you slip on to please them. 

Bucky seems to want you like that. 

“No fuckin’ clue what you do to me,” he shakes his head, pushing up from the stool so that he’s standing over you now, your face in his hands. “C’mere.” 

He pulls you forward against him into a kiss, and you moan when you feel the cold press of his lip ring between your mouths. It’s distracting, enough that Bucky has to pull back a few seconds later to check on you. 

“Sorry,” you tell him, sheepish. You thumb over the little black hoop. “I’ve never kissed someone with one of these before.” 

It stretches with his mouth when he smiles. “You can tug on it, princess. Ain’t gonna come loose.” 

“Doesn’t it hurt?” you ask, tugging it gently with your finger. Your eyes flick up to his when he doesn’t answer, and your body heats at his dark look that says yes - that’s the whole point. “Oh.” 

“You’ll learn to like the way these feel too,” Bucky rasps, flicking one end of the barbell on your nipple, and you jerk against him, a whimper caught between your teeth. 

Desperate to make him feel the exhilarating rush of pleasure-pain he’d just elicited in you, you grab his face and lean up, closing your mouth over his lower lip and taking the piercing between your teeth. You tug, only lightly for now, and suck on it with your tongue. 

“Yeah, s’it. Suck on it, baby. get it nice n’wet,” he murmurs as well as he can against you, a hand settling loosely around the back of your neck as his tongue flicks out against yours. “Gonna need it to be when I push it up against that sweet little clit, huh?” 

You moan again and he kisses you proper, a messy smear of your mouths that’s slow and rough and fast and sweet all at once. 

This—this is what you’d wanted coming here today, taking the last appointment on his schedule. You’d intended to invite Bucky out for drinks, and then maybe back to your place if things went well. But you’re not opposed to skipping straight to the good parts. It’s been six long months of nothing but you, your hand, your vibrator, and thoughts of him—it’s not desperation, it’s a need. 

“Bucky,” you break apart from his mouth to gasp, “please.” 

It takes little maneuvering to shift your legs on the chair to hang over the side instead of reclining, Bucky’s thick body spreading them out wide when he steps between them. He slips his hands underneath your thighs and lifts, and you make a startled noise, clinging to him as he moves you from the chair over to his desk. 

Even when he sets you down your breasts are pressed up against him through his black t-shirt, the twin piercings hard between soft flesh. He buries a noise against your mouth when he feels them, leaning into you until your shoulders are pressed to the wall behind his desk, your hips pulled forward into his strong hands. 

His kisses slant sideways over your jaw and down your neck, grazing your pulse with his teeth before he makes his way down to your collarbone. He pulls back then, gazing down at you with open hunger as he cups your heavy breasts in both of his palms. 

“Got the best pair of tits I’ve ever seen, I swear,” he marvels, thumbing over your sensitive nipples. 

You arch up into him, chasing the feeling. “Really?” 

He cocks a brow. “I not make it obvious enough?” 

“Well, no,” you admit. “The first time I showed them to you, you just looked…bored.” 

“Bored,” Bucky scoffs, hands moving down to squeeze both sides of your waist. “Babydoll. You ever seen the look on a man’s face when he’s seconds away from throwin’ you on the table and devouring you and tryin’ desperately to be professional about it?” he asks rhetorically. “That was it.”  

“I’m already naked, you know,” you tease, shifting. “You don’t need to flatter me, Bucky.” 

“Still don’t believe me,” he sighs, his head dipping toward your chest. “Guess I’ll just have to show you then.” 

When his hot mouth closes over one of your nipples, you only narrowly manage to stuff your own knuckles in your mouth before you make a noise that most definitely would have been heard in the lobby. Bucky breathes a chuckle against you and then doubles his efforts, sucking on the skin to make it all sensitive, clinking his teeth teasingly against the metal, flicking his tongue against the hardened peak of your nipple while you slip a hand into his hair to hold him there. 

The other gets his fingers, deft and calloused, expertly rolling and massaging it between his grip. He pinches a little, rubs out the sting, starts all over until you can’t decide which sensation you like the most, only that you need him to keep touching you. 

He lifts off of your breast with a wet pop to give the same attention to the other, switching sides with his tongue and fingers, eyes flicking up to you when his hand finds your wandering digits already there, pressing right where his mouth had been moments before. He guides your fingers on it the way he would do it, pinching and tugging, rougher than you’ve dared yet so far but exactly what you’ve been craving. 

His mouth moves up and over then, centering itself between your breasts. He kisses down the valley of them, sucking marks into your skin as he goes, his lip ring dragging up the rear and leaving a subtle, stinging line behind that blends easily with the rough drag of his stubble against your sensitive skin. 

When he drifts lower, chin pushing at the band of your high waisted pants, he glances up at you, and you nod. 

He leans up and over you again to meet your mouth as his hands drop to your hips, slipping toward the inside to get to the center. He pops the button and drags the zipper down, then hooks his fingers into the sides to start working the denim over your hips and down your thighs. 

They fall off your ankles once Bucky gets them there, discarded in the vague direction of your other clothes while he kisses you. You feel his palms on your thighs next, sliding up the outside and appreciating the smoothness you’d gone to great lengths for this morning, then turning his wrist a little to slip it right up against your underwear, feeling out the seam of you with two of his fingers. 

He groans against your mouth when he feels how wet you are, and you take his lip ring between your teeth in retaliation, eager to show off how quick you can learn. 

“Can’t believe you thought I didn’t want this,” Bucky says. 

He pulls away to yank the stool over between your legs, sits down on it, wraps his biceps around your thighs and pulls you right up to his mouth. His lips press to your inner thighs first, that lip ring still somehow cool against your hot skin and his hotter tongue, until he makes his way toward your cunt. 

You lean back on his desk on your palms, glancing down your body toward where it meets his. It’s not a position you’d ordinarily be a fan of; you’re bent over enough that your breasts are well and truly covering your ribs now, and the soft, fleshy skin of your stomach that your high waisted jeans had been smoothing out can’t do you any favors now. Even your thighs, littered with translucent stretch marks on the inside, are right there on his shoulders. On your back or from behind is one thing, but if Bucky looks up at you now, he’ll have a direct view of just about every one of your insecurities. 

His tongue yanks your attention back to the present, the pointed tip of it tracing up the seam where your thigh meets your vulva. His thumb teases at the edge of your underwear, tugging it over slightly, his nose nudging through the small gap until the slick, wandering appendage finally dips over into the well of wetness that’s been building since you first got ready for him this morning. 

“Fuck,” Bucky exhales heavily, dragging the word out low and long against you. He noses in a little harder, shoving your panties further out of the way, and inhales. “Fuck, princess.” 

You whimper at the barrage of sensation—the slick softness of his tongue and your tense muscles, the wet give of your cunt and the sharp lines of his nose, his jaw, the jut of the lip ring pressing in. 

The noise catches his attention, and you tense further when he looks up at you. You’d been trying to keep quiet because you’re in public, technically, sure. But also because if Bucky could just focus between your legs and nowhere else, maybe he’d move on before his gaze could roam too far. 

He stares openly at your face anyway though as his thumb peels back the fabric even further, letting him settle his mouth fully over the seam of your cunt that parts easily under his touch. He groans, eyes fluttering closed before he forces them open again, jaw working gently against you at first, then harder as he licks into you in broad, bottom-to-top strokes of his tongue. 

Your mouth falls open, one hand slipping to hold your thigh back and the other dropping to rest in his hair as you find yourself torn between worrying about how you look and feeling the full weight of what Bucky’s giving you. 

He’s making it a little difficult to focus. 

Your head thunks back against the wall when he finally settles on your clit as promised, the blunt edge of the lip ring rolling against it in pulsing waves with his tongue. He presses it into you, suctions around it, pulls back enough to lap at you again like he’s thirsty for it. 

“Awfully quiet up there,” he says, voice muffled against your cunt. You shiver at the feeling of him talking, the vibration. “Gotta let me know you’re feelin’ good, baby.” 

“Don’t stop,” you choke out in a whisper, not trusting yourself to be any louder. “Please, Bucky, don’t—” 

Your toes curl over his shoulder when he pushes his entire face against you, underwear yanked out of the way to make room. His stubble is sure to leave a burn afterward and you can’t wait for it, his hair soft between your fingers and his hand big and hot where it’s gripping your thigh. 

The other sneaks around over your stomach and you stop breathing for a moment as it rests there, harmless and unaware of the implications. Bucky’s not even doing anything with it, just holding you steady, keeping your squirming hips still for his mouth. His gaze is unflinching and open on yours, not dropping to the place where his fingertips make dents in the skin, not once flickering with anything that might suggest he’s changed his mind. 

Slowly, tentatively, you let yourself relax into it. The more you do, the more he does, eyes going half-lidded, head tilting as he licks into you deeper, rubs his nose against your clit, fingers twitching as if he wants you even closer. 

Just as your own eyes threaten to shut with pleasure, Bucky’s hands move again. They reach up to gather your breasts in his palms again, squeezing them appreciatively before he pushes them up. 

And up, and up—until your pierced nipples hover inches from your own mouth. 

You glance down at him over them, wide eyed, and he thumbs over your nipples as he lifts his mouth off your cunt for a moment. 

“Taste, doll,” he says, throat raw and jaw glistening with you. “I can’t have my mouth two places at once. You gotta help me out.” 

With an audible swallow, you lower your gaze right under your chin, where your breasts have been pushed up to meet the downward tilt of your chin toward your chest. You probably couldn’t naturally get your mouth on them but in this position you definitely could, and—

And you’re a little curious. 

Under Bucky’s encouraging attention, you let your mouth part enough to tease your tongue against your lower lip, leaning forward just enough to graze it against your own nipple. 

Bucky curses up against your cunt, spreading his mouth wide and flicking his tongue against your clit in short, sharp passes. It takes you a moment to realize that he’s showing you what to do, and arousal coils tight in your gut as you let your mouth drop open further and follow instruction. 

It definitely doesn’t feel as exciting as when it’s Bucky’s mouth, but you have to admit that the warm pressure against a sensitive part of your body feels nice. You drag the flat of your tongue along your breast in the same pattern Bucky’s using on your cunt, the rigidness of your nipple and the metallic tang of the piercings lingering behind. When you’re feeling a little bolder you hollow your cheeks and test out the feeling of taking our own nipple between your teeth, moaning a little at the jolt of pain that mixes with the pleasure. 

Bucky makes a depraved noise and rips himself away from your cunt with a growl, slipping back up your body to join you. You hold one of your breasts to your mouth while Bucky devours the other, spreading your fragrant wetness all over your chest with his eagerness. He sucks another mark into the top curve of your breast and then reaches for your face, sliding your mouths together in a slick tangle of spit, teeth, and your own wetness. 

“You’re somethin’ else. You know that?” he mutters into your mouth, kissing you hard once more before he wraps your legs around his waist and carries you back over to the chair. 

He sits you on the end of it and steps between your legs again, his hand lowering to the button on his own pants. He pauses, tilting your head up toward him. 

“This okay?” 

“Definitely okay,” you nod. You’d be more than happy to have some of the metaphorical spotlight off of you at the moment. 

Your hands drop to his to help him and he chuckles, obligingly moving his out of the way so you can unzip them and push them down his hips. His black boxers don’t give much away visually but when you curve your hand and press a palm against him, you can feel how hot he is, how big he is in your hand. 

He hisses through his teeth, hips giving a little buck against you before he reigns himself in. You glance up at his face as you move your fingers along his generous length experimentally, tracing one of the more prominent veins you can feel from the thick base all the way up to the slightly damp tip. 

Your pause abruptly when your knuckles drag over something hard, recognizing it as the same feeling as the barbells in your nipples. You look down at it, up at his face, then down again, and Bucky laughs as he places a hand over yours, helping you move the fabric out of the way to answer your question. 

He steps out of his boxers and jeans and returns to you, his cock standing proudly between his legs. The dense hair at the base of it is well kept and almost as dark as the t-shirt he’s still wearing, but all of that’s background noise to the glint of silver that catches your eye when Bucky grips himself, stroking idly. 

There’s a piercing here too, another sideways barbell, thicker than yours but similar in shape, nestled just underneath the head of his cock on the bottom. It looks like it probably hurt like hell going in, but all you can think about is how good it’d probably feel in your cunt, in your mouth—hell, anywhere Bucky wanted to put it. 

“Think I should get a little bow to match yours?” he asks, a crooked smirk stretching his mouth as he strokes himself. 

“Can I—?” you gesture, far past humor at this point. 

Bucky lifts a shoulder. “Whatever you want, doll.” 

Clearly he’d been expecting something else though, because his eyes widen comically when you shove him back and drop to your knees in front of him. 

You’re undeterred. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen a cock this big in real life, let alone one that’s pierced. Bucky’s dick sways toward your face when he lets it go but he takes your wrist in his hand before you can pick up the slack, lifting it high as he bends to meet it. He keeps his eyes on yours as he spits carefully into your palm, gentle and undeniably filthy, and you squeeze your thighs together as you lower it again to wrap around him. 

He’s hot and soft as velvet in your palm, achingly hard and curving up toward your mouth. There’s a smear of ivory excitement at his tip and you figure that’s as good a place to start as any, eagerly leaning forward to taste him for the first time. 

Your moan is easily dwarfed by his much louder one, the soft pressure of your mouth opening for the thick head as it slips onto your tongue. You keep anticipating Bucky to be like the others, to grab your head and shove himself down your throat, but it never comes. He lets you set your own pace even when it’s obvious he’s straining to hold himself back, his thighs tense under your palm as you take more and more of him into your mouth. 

The piercing clinks against your bottom teeth when you sink down, but doesn’t catch. It settles unfamiliar but comfortable against the back of your tongue when his tip is poking against your throat, and his hips give an aborted thrust forward before he catches himself and strokes a hand over your head, whispering strained apologies. 

You pull off of him slowly, letting your tongue flick against the piercing as you do and reveling in the way he shudders. 

“You can, if you want,” you tell him, pleased with how your voice is already a little rougher. “I’ll stop you if I need to.” 

Bucky looks down at you open mouthed and wild eyed for a moment, before he eventually seems to shake himself out of it. He grabs your hand and brings it up a little higher on his thigh, splaying out your fingers and pressing. 

“Y’want me to stop, you hit me right here. Okay? I’ll pull out.” 

You nod and give him a small slap there when he makes you test it first, then settle in and open your mouth for him when he’s satisfied. He moans under his breath, low and long, and traces the wet stretch of your lower lip with his thumb before he feeds his cock back into the slick heat of your mouth. 

You focus mostly on keeping your teeth covered as he gives a first few tentative thrusts, working himself just slightly deeper each time. He curses each time the piercing catches somewhere or when your tongue presses up against it, and you’d smile at making him lose control if your mouth weren’t full. 

As his pace begins to pick up, he tilts your chin back and looks down at you, using his hands to gather your hair out of the way and hold it loosely behind your head. You can feel his nails scratching against your scalp, that secret sensitive spot behind your ear, and you make an appreciative sound as you nuzzle further onto his dick in approval. 

When he gently hits the back of your throat again, your eyes stinging and not far from gagging, he tightens his grip in your hair, steels his jaw, and starts fucking your mouth for real. 

You keep your hand on his thigh but you don’t feel any need to use it, the thrill of him using your mouth to make himself feel good too heady of a thought to dare put a stop to. You like watching the pinch of his eyes when his mouth falls open, the filthy things he keeps muttering, the obscene lines of his throat when his head tips back, fighting a groan. 

When he’s established a steady rhythm, you decide to push him a little further. You can’t move your head but you can move your mouth—can tighten the suction of your lips, hollow your cheeks, curl your tongue right up against where the piercing makes him the most sensitive. You moan around him when another taste of salty excitement hits your taste buds, and Bucky pulls you off of him with a shaky curse, hand shaking a little in your hair. 

“No more,” he shakes his head, reaching down to hook his hands underneath your arms. “Not finishin’ in your mouth. Not today.” 

Your body flushes hot at the implications of his words, and you cling to him, your legs unsteady, as he tosses his jacket haphazardly over the top of the client chair and lifts you onto it. 

You’re kneeling on it with your knees while he stands at the side, your face in his hands and his mouth on yours. Your hands span his shoulders, his arms, slipping down to tug at the hem of his shirt so he’ll take it off. When your underwear finally joins the pile of discarded clothing and leaves you bare, he grabs your jaw with his hand and catches your eye. 

“C’n I fuck you, princess?” he asks. “Prove that it’s all I’ve been thinking about for six months?” 

You’re nodding so fast you go dizzy. “Please. Bucky.” 

He leaves you on the chair while he rifles through his discarded jeans for his wallet, pulling out a condom and then tossing the leather back carelessly to the ground. He holds the square between his teeth as he swings a leg up onto the fully reclined chair behind you and then the other, until he’s kneeling and pulling you flush against his chest in between his thick, folded thighs. 

Curving his bicep around your throat from your left, Bucky reaches around to where his mouth is hovering above your shoulder at your right, using his fingers to rip the condom open that’s between his teeth. You lean your head back against his shoulder as he lowers his hand briefly in between his front and your back, rolling the latex onto his pierced length with a subtle, slick pop. 

His arm returns to your front afterward, both hands grasping your hips. He urges you up just a little until you’ve hovering, then mouths a kiss against your shoulder. 

“Help me out, doll.” 

Reaching down between your own folded thighs, you wrap your fingers around his cock and bring it forward underneath you, rubbing the tip of it and the studded dent of the piercing over your cunt indulgently. When Bucky’s teeth are digging into your shoulder and his grip has gone white-knuckled on your waist, you tilt him up the slightest bit and sit back, and he slips inside of you with an overdue, familiar ease. 

“Fuck, Bucky,” you breathe, trying to remember to keep quiet as he stretches you open. It really has been a while, and Bucky’s thick. 

He lets you go as slow as you need to, which is probably why, you realize, he wanted you to be on top. 

“Easy,” he exhales against your shoulder, one hand braced on your hip, the other splayed across your lower stomach. He huffs a small, strained laugh. “Really has been a while, huh? Christ, baby. Tight as a vice.” 

You press back against him further, your mouth frozen open on a gasp and eyes threatening to close. Every inch feels monumental, that little rigid piercing rubbing up against spots inside of you that haven’t been touched in ages. It’s almost a shock when you finally run out of leeway, your ass completely seated on his lap, his cock heavy and full and inescapable in between your legs. 

Your breath leaves you in one go, all the tension you’d been holding evaporating once you can lean back against him again. He’s bigger than you, his chin hooked easily over your shoulder and thick arm draped around your waist. You hadn’t thought you’d much enjoy being on top, but Bucky still manages to make you feel held, safe. Brave. 

“Y’okay?” he asks, hot against your ear. 

You nod. “Yeah. M’good. Feels good.”  

“I’m glad, doll.” He grabs one of your wrists, pressing his mouth to the inner part of it before guiding it onto the back of his neck behind you. “Hang onto me, yeah?” 

You grab on and then scramble for his forearm with your other hand when he leans back on one arm and takes you with him, grinding up into you and lifting your knees a couple of inches off the chair. You gasp at the feeling of his cock shoving even deeper, and a moan punches out of your chest when he nudges your spot. 

Bucky laughs quietly as he reaches up to slip a hand over your mouth. “Gotta be quiet, princess.” 

You’re trying, honestly, but every angle with Bucky is so intense, his hands and his dick and his mouth, and you’re caught suspended between them all, helpless as he bends back until you’re nearly laying down with your back against his chest. 

And then he fucks you. 

The shiver you’d had when he first settled inside you breaks into a full tremble as he plants his knees and ruts up into you in a filthy grind. He doesn’t even need to pull out fully to make it thorough, each stroke deep and deliberate. 

His hand falls from your mouth to your breast again, cupping the bottom of it and feeling the weight in his palm. It tightens his grip on you, lets his pace pick up a bit more. Once the last of your whimpers have turned into poorly repressed moans, he bucks up into you steady and quick, bouncing you a little on his lap. 

Even with you quiet, the noise of his cock is obscene with how wet you are. It echoes around the room, louder the faster he moves, obvious even with the low hum of music coming from the lobby speakers. But when you give an experimental swivel of your hips jut as he grinds up into you, you can’t help the breathless grin on your face when he groans. 

He lowers you back just enough that your knees hit his jacket again, his braced behind you. His hand slips up between your breasts to your throat, grabbing your chin and tilting it down. 

“Look,” he says. 

You let his fingers guide your face toward the hanging mirror directly on the wall in front of you, and your eyes widen when you catch sight of the two of you in the reflection. 

You have a full, unrestricted view of yourself more than anything; bent thighs and angled hips, your torso stretched and arched parallel with your spine so that you can keep one hand hooked behind Bucky’s head. The stretched arm elongates you further, raising your breasts in a tantalizing lift that sways with each thrust of Bucky’s cock into your body. Your face is transparently open, pleasure woven into the furrow of your brow and the reds and pinks of your swollen mouth. 

The contrast of Bucky up against you is stark and satisfying. His piercing gaze over your shoulder, the tan, taut skin of his arm keeping you strapped to his front. He keeps his eyes on yours as his fingers trail down from your throat, over your breasts, down your stomach and in between your legs. 

He tips you forward a little just as his rough fingers descend on your clit, and you sob once, overwhelmed, as his cock settles right up against your spot. 

“Shh, shh, baby. Don’t want Stevie thinkin’ I’m in here makin’ you cry,” he croons, dipping his fingers down to get them more wet and then sliding them back up to rub you again in tight circles. 

You work up to a rhythm between his cock and his fingers, your hips grinding back against one and forward into the other. It only heightens the sensation of him inside of you, both of you moving as one now instead of just him fucking you. 

It’s hard to look at anything other than your reflection, especially when Bucky’s other hand starts roaming again. Over your waist, squeezing your thigh appreciatively, dragging across your ribs and back up to your studded breasts. 

“You were such a good girl when I gave you these,” Bucky laments, giving a hard flick against one of your piercings that makes you shudder. “Sat so still. Did just what I asked. But you get my cock in you and suddenly y’can’t keep from fallin’ apart.” 

As much as you’d like to keep up the repertoire of flirtatious teasing, you don’t dare open your mouth more than it takes to breathe. You don’t even care if it gives him the upper hand; in fact, you sort of like it. 

His fingers dance over your nipple again, tweaking the tip, tugging at the barbell just enough to earn him a noise from you, and you just barely catch his crooked grin in the mirror before he buries it against the side of your neck. 

“Yeah? That feel good?” he asks, pumping his hips up into you in deep, punctuated strokes. His hand drops to your stomach again, pressing down. “Feels even better when I’m fuckin’ you bare, sweetheart. That little piercing pushing right up against your sweet spot. Right where you need it, huh?” 

“Bucky,” you whine, lowering a hand to press over his at the thought of it. The latex dulls it just a little now, but you can readily picture how it might feel if it weren’t in between you. 

You can picture doing this with Bucky again. And again and again and…

“Yeah. Hang on, doll,” he murmurs against your shoulder, slowing down. “Gonna get you more comfortable. Then I’m gonna fuck you nice n’hard ‘til you come for me. Sound good?” 

He grabs your hips and lifts you enough to slip out once you nod, and you take one last long glance at yourself in the mirror before he’s helping you unfold your legs, rubbing at the tensed muscles and turning you around. 

He readjusts his jacket across the bulk of the chair that’s reclined back as far as it’ll go, and sits you up on it so you can lay back. The leather is warm under you and smells like Bucky, and you like it so much that the dig of the zipper against your side is practically nonexistent. Especially once he climbs on top of you and you’re finally face to face, his thighs spreading yours apart and your legs hitched up on his hips. 

Bending down to close the distance, Bucky kisses you again as he nudges his still-covered dick against your clit. He swallows the moans right from your mouth as he rubs against it, dipping to tease the head into your cunt before he does it all over again. 

You sigh in relief when he finally slips back inside of you, and Bucky’s head drops to your collarbone with a low noise of his own. For a long moment you just lie there, your arms bracketing his shoulders and him mouthing lazily at the curve of your breast, enjoying the closeness. 

But soon enough the need for release finds both of you, and without being sure which one of you made the first move, he’s jackrabbiting his hips into you and you’re clinging to his biceps and pushing up to meet him, both of you frantic and close. 

The chair is fixed to the ground so there’s no risk of it collapsing under your combined weight, but it’s still old. The mechanism that controls the recline creaks with each thrust of Bucky’s hips, his hands gripping the sides of the leather hard enough that the sweat on his palm makes a squeaking noise each time they readjust. 

His black hair hangs around his face in a curtain as he looks down at you with the same pointed concentration he’d had when he did your piercings, only this time with blown open, unabashed want. You can taste it in his teeth, on his tongue when he leans down to press it to yours, in the sounds that get stuck in his throat. 

“Bucky, I’m—” you tell him, the heat coiling tighter in your gut. 

There’s a rustle of beads out on the other side of Bucky’s office door, and both of you freeze. Your wide eyes find Bucky’s, and he looks so simultaneously protective and dangerously mischievous that it takes your breath away. He grinds forward pointedly, right up to the hilt, and stills. 

“Buck?” Steve’s voice echoes from the hallway outside. 

Easing in a breath, Bucky holds your eye as he leans up, propping a hand on the top of the chair above your head and clearing his throat. 

“Yeah?” he calls. 

“I’m heading out, man. You good to lock up?” 

Bucky smirks down at you squirming on his cock, spits on his fingers and lowers them to rub your clit until you’re clutching around him and trying desperately not to make any noise. 

“We’ll be just fine,” he tells Steve. 

There’s a snort from the hallway, and a convivial rap of knuckles on the wall as Steve walks away. “Uh-huh. Have a good night, you two!” 

Cocking a brow at you, Bucky flashes his teeth and slips a hand under your back to tilt your hips, and then he makes good on his promise to fuck you hard until you come. 

You’re crying out Bucky’s name before you’re even totally certain that Steve’s gone, one hand clutching the seat above you for leverage as your hips jump up to chase the pressure of his fingers and ride his cock. Bucky’s dark head is a blur as it dips to take a nipple into the unforgiving hold of his teeth, and the pinch of pain against sweet, inescapable pleasure tips you over the edge. 

“Fuck yeah,” Bucky grits, rubbing you harder as you start to shake around him. “That’s it, baby. That’s it. Give it to me, c’mon.” 

His mouth crashes against yours through the last of it, and you can feel it when his pace falters and he shoves in deep, spilling into the condom and making the feeling of him between your legs even hotter, even heavier. 

You reach up and move some of his hair behind his ear as he groans against you, whispering your name into your cheek, your temple, your jaw. 

You’re spent in the aftermath, your body exhausted from an exercise you haven’t done in months. Pushing your face up for Bucky’s kisses and rubbing against each other through the last of the aftershocks is about all you can manage, but luckily Bucky seems to be on the same page. 

He’s nice about it when he pulls out, warning you first and going slow. The condom gets tied and tossed into the bin to be taken out when you get up. For now, Bucky slumps over beside you, and you have to roll into him with your leg and an arm slung over his chest and thigh so you both can fit on the chair. 

“Bucky,” you whine as your wits begin to return, hiding your face in his shoulder. “Steve’s gonna know.” 

He gives a tired snort. “Steve doesn’t give a shit about who you choose to sleep with, sweetheart. Promise.” 

“But he’s gonna know that we—” you rephrase, gesturing between you. 

His face tilts down toward yours on his chest, his teasing smile fading into something smaller. His fingers press into your hip. 

“S’that such a bad thing?” 

You swallow, pleased at the fact that the naked want hasn’t disappeared from his expression even once the sex is finished. You’re not used to that. 

But you have a feeling Bucky’s different from a lot of what you’re used to. 

“No,” you admit, loudly quiet in the room now that there’s no noise left to drown it out. “It’s not.” 

You leave the shop that night wearing Bucky’s shirt and sporting a limp you didn’t have going in, with a grin that won’t leave and plans to see each other again next week. 

“That was some five star treatment,” you tell him in the dark parking lot at your car. “Might have to leave another review.” 

“You do that,” Bucky smirks, pulling his phone from his pocket and unlocking it. “In fact, I’ve got the page pulled up right here. You can leave as many pictures of the piercings as you want.” 

You take the phone from him with a furrowed brow, but it breaks into a grin when you see the screen. You shove it back at his chest. 

“This is your camera roll, asshole.” 

“Is it?” he snickers. “Huh.” 

You look up at him under the flickering glow of the streetlight, soft at the edges and so far from your first impression of him that it’s laughable, and think, strikingly calmly, oh no. 

You think you’ll wait for the third date before you start cracking jokes about him piercing your heart. There’s gotta be a little mystery left. 

+

Bars aren’t really your scene anymore, but you have to admit that the corner booth at the place down from the shop is nice. 

The music’s not blaring and there’s a game no one’s really paying attention to on the screens behind the bar, the beer you’re sharing with Bucky isn’t too strong and the company is nice. You get to be a part of the Friday night ritual now apparently, which is really just Bucky, Steve, and their friend and other piercer Natasha ordering every appetizer on the menu and dishing about the week before. 

It’s just you and Steve in the booth now when Bucky and Nat go for refills, and you’re endlessly grateful that he hasn’t ever brought up what he must’ve heard that night in the shop between you and Bucky. You’re both adults and you don’t owe him an explanation, but it is their place of business, and it’s been nagging at you for a few weeks now. 

While it’s still only the two of you, you tug Bucky’s leather jacket tighter on your shoulders and lean forward. “I’ve been meaning to apologize for the other night, Steve. It’s not—none of that was planned. Not—not for the office specifically, anyway.” 

Steve smiles, dragging his eyes up from where he’s been sketching a woman’s face on the bar napkin with a pen, his eyes kind. “Don’t sweat it. Bucky’s office is his business,” he says with a fond sigh. “He disinfected afterward, which is all I can really ask of him at this point.” 

Your stomach drops a little as Steve returns to his sketching, wondering just how often it happens. You glance over at Bucky by the bar, who’s already staring when you turn. He gives you a sheepish smile, then swats at Nat’s hand when she goes to pinch his flushing cheek. 

“Yeah,” you say belatedly. “I guess it’s—routine, at this point.” 

“The disinfecting, yeah, ‘cause he’s a germaphobe who gets pissy about anybody’s mess that isn’t his own. But not you,” Steve clarifies firmly.  “Bucky’s got a no clients rule. Started it when we first bought the business. He hasn’t broken it until—well, until you.” 

Oh. Well. That’s nicer to hear than you were expecting. 

“Scoot,” Natasha says to Steve, slipping into his side of the booth while Bucky reclaims his seat on yours. You glance up at him wordlessly for a second until his head tilts in concern, but you only smile and shake your head. 

The refills are set on the table in front of you, but neither you or Bucky reach for one. He tugs you back against him and narrows his eyes suspiciously at the grin you suddenly can’t keep down. 

“We don’t have to stay all night, y’know,” he says, soft enough for only you to hear over the noise of the bar. 

“Maybe we can head out after this round?” you suggest. 

He pulls your hand up to his mouth, drags his lips against the inside of your wrist. “Sure, doll. Whatever you want.” 

(And if you only make it to the bathroom instead, it’s nobody’s business but yours and Bucky’s.) 

(...And maybe Steve’s a little, again, by accident. You’re going to have to send him an apology fruit basket or something.)