FIC: "Handle With Care" 1/1 (Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov/Steve Rogers) NC-17
Title: "Handle With Care" 1/1
Author: Brenda (azewewish)
Fandom: The Avengers/Captain America
Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/Steve Rogers
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Marvel, not me.
Summary: What she has with Steve - with James - it's not love. But, whatever it is - by whatever definition - it works for them. It's a choice they've made together, when so many of their choices have been made for them.
Notes: Written for carolinga for the 2014 Not Prime Time Fic Exchange.
Thanks to melle for the advice and leelust for the Russian help. All translations are at the end of the fic.
There's a certain unexpected - and very much welcome - aggression to the way Steve fucks Natasha, like he's not afraid to dig in and get his hands a little dirty. Like he's not afraid to get dirty with her. There's a sensual sort of arrogance in the way he never asks if what he's doing is too much, if he's too much, if she needs a break or to catch her breath. There's an unerring accuracy in how he touches her, like he was born knowing what places on her body to trace with his fingers and tongue to make her writhe and sigh and tremble.
It's in the way he reacts every time she touches him, a tacit agreement that she has permission to do whatever she wants to him, a quiet assurance in the way he moves with her. Like nothing she could do or suggest would be off-limits. Like everything she does is enough to make him beg for more, like every inch of skin where they connect burns bright-hot and painfully perfect.
He's not gentle with her, never that, but it never tips into carelessness. Instead, he treats her body like the weapon it is, like he respects her strength and is daring her to match his strength with her own. Whenever they get together - not as often as most assume, but far too often for strictly casual - there's a reckless abandon to Steve's movements, a loose-limbed certainty in the way he uses his hands and his mouth on her, that demands an immediate reaction and allows zero time for coherent thought.
Every time, he leaves her bruised and strung out and boneless. Every time, he fucks her until the clamoring voices in her head are blissfully, blessedly silent.
***
"Dorogaya, I could have told you he wasn't gonna treat you like a china doll." James runs light fingers along the purpling bruises on her hips like he's trying to memorize them by touch. His gaze, fiercely possessive, follows the path of his fingers, a brand she willingly accepts. "Steve's a good man, sure, but gentle ain't exactly his style."
She wants to ask what that makes James - James, who fucks her with even less gentleness, who takes everything she has to give with a scorchingly hot, toe-curling smirk that seems to ask if that's all she's got - but his lips are firm and insistent on hers the next moment and his fists are tight in her hair and the moment is lost.
She thinks she already knows the answer anyway.
***
There are demons lurking in Steve's all-American blue eyes, a darkness that bubbles just under the surface of the sunny blond locks and the sculpted perfection of his form. An anger - deep-rooted and all-encompassing - that slithers like a serpent under his flawless golden skin. She can taste it on him when they kiss, can feel it with every thrust of his cock inside her, smells it in the air after he's laid her out and spread her legs and gotten her off so many times it feels like he'd keeping score in his head. Like every hard-punched orgasm, her every breathless moan, every satisfied flush of her skin in the afterglow, is a counterpoint to the impotency of his rage, a triumph to be savored in a war that he's never stopped fighting.
Maybe it's his way of reckoning his ledger. She doesn't ask and he doesn't tell. Words don't mean much in this space they've created for each other. But if they both maybe sleep a little better after they've wrung each other out, it's enough of a balance for her.
***
"How is he different when he's with you?" she asks, propping her chin on her joined hands to look down at the man sprawled redolently on messy sheets. James is as dark as Steve is fair, a perfect chiaroscuro in every way except for temperament. There, the two of them are so alike they could be twins. It amazes her still that the world doesn't seem to see it as clearly as she does.
(The world never seems to see the truth as clearly as she does. She's not sure if it's a blessing or a curse.)
"Who says he is?" James replies, and grins, silver metal glinting when he brings his arm around her to pull her fully on top of him. He's hard all over, a warrior to his bones, and the warrior in her responds even as she realizes he'd never really answered her question.
When she calls him on it later - much later, after the sweat has cooled and the bed has been more or less restored to order - he gives her a slow, half-lidded look and tells her he answered her the only way he knew how.
***
The first time she and Steve have sex - after a mission that's left both of them spent and sore and high on the rush of the kill - she assumes he'll be gentle, courteous, a perfect gentleman in bed. She's done the recon, has made subtle inquiries on his preferences and likes, thinks maybe they could give each other comfort, a release.
(She doesn't know everything, but she rarely miscalculates people.)
So it's a shock, visceral and raw, when, within five minutes of undressing her, he's flipped her on her hands and knees with two strong fingers in her cunt and his very talented tongue deep inside her ass. And it's only after he's made her come three times just like that, when she's shaking and quivering, a mess of raw need and want, that he finally fills her with his cock, fucks her until she swears she see stars behind her eyes and can't feel her fingers or toes.
An hour later, she returns the favor by handcuffing his wrists to the headboard (a symbolic gesture, but they both understand and appreciate the power in symbols) and takes him apart inch by inch with her mouth and hands until the only word that spills from his lips is her name and every part of him, body and mind, is attuned to her and only her.
An hour after that, she's already plotting a time for them to do it all over again.
(Steve, for all of his aggression and assurance once the clothes start flying off, never initiates their encounters. But he never turns her down and he never turns her away.)
***
"The first time he fucked me, I had rug burns on my ass and thighs for a week," James laughs, his breath ruffling her hair. Already she can see the imprints of her teeth along his collarbones, and wonders how soon she can add to the collection. "Skinny thing, all elbows and knees, but he could go like a Greek god even back then."
It's not often James shares his past with her. She knows there are times when he doesn't quite trust the memories he has are real, when he doesn't trust himself. She treats the memories he chooses to tell her like the victories they are, cherishes and keeps every one of them in a secret place only she can reach.
"I can see that," she replies, and feels a slight regret that she never knew Steve before the serum. They would have had much in common.
"Now, when I fucked you the first time, all I remember thinking is, even if you were going to kill me after, it wouldn't be such a bad way to go."
She doesn't need to glance up at him to know he's smiling. And she knows he doesn't need to see her face to know she's smiling as well. Not a bad way to go, indeed, she thinks.
***
Steve doesn't mark easily, but she'll sometimes see faint yellow and green mottling the skin around his inner thighs and wrists, can sometimes see the finger-shaped marks around his throat and shoulders where metal has dug into still vulnerable flesh. Steve never volunteers an explanation and she never offers her own for the marks she carries. But she's always careful to touch every one of Steve's when she sees them, to place her own marks right on top of his with the scrape of her teeth and the drag of her nails.
In turn, Steve treats every scar on her body like it's a badge of honor. Like he's paying homage and tribute. Even when he's got her pinned under him and is fucking her with sure, deep strokes, his hands are reverent along the faded, raised welts on her ribs and sides.
And if he spends extra time and care on the two scars James gave her, she doesn't ask if it's in sympathy or envy. Either way, it would mean the same thing.
***
"You could always join us, if you're so curious," James tells her one night. He tucks a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear and leans back against the mountain of pillows stacked behind him. It's well after midnight (and well after two rounds that had turned into a lazy third), but he shows no sign of wanting to leave her bed and she's not in the mood just yet to ask him to leave. She already knows he'll be gone well before dawn, back to the house he and Steve share. Neither James nor Steve can truly sleep unless the other is within range.
"If I did, it would change things." She's always prided herself on her pragmatism and adaptability, but this? This would be something altogether different. A gamble where she doesn't know the odds or how to stack them in her favor.
There's a rare kindness in his eyes when he looks at her - a kindness no amount of reprogramming and memory-wiping had been able to fully erase. A kindness she'll never deserve but would annihilate entire cities to protect. (In that way, she and Steve are perfectly in sync.)
"Who says it wouldn't be a change for the better?" he asks and, for once, she doesn't have an answer.
***
It's not love - not by her definition. Love is more than trust, more than a bond forged by fire and battle, more than the heat of lust or the frenzy of passion. Love is knowing the story behind every wound and every nightmare, love is a promise and a terrible burden, a red etched under the skin that will never wash out. It's the necklace she never takes off, a choice she makes daily without reservation or regret, it's knowing that what others would label weaknesses doesn't make her weak.
It's a lesson hard-fought and hard-won, a lesson she knows James and Steve have learned all too well, far too many times.
What she has with Steve - with James - it's not love. Not yet, maybe not ever. Not by her reckoning or theirs. And they've always been smart enough not to try to label it. But, whatever it is - by whatever definition - it works for them. It's a choice they've made together, when so many of their choices have been made for them. They've been at the mercy of others far too long not to recognize what this is. What they are.
***
She leans against the doorjamb of the bedroom, silent, inquisitive, watching. She'd been careful not to make a sound, had bypassed their considerable security and moved through the house like the ghost she still sometimes is, just to give herself a moment. Time to observe, to collect data, to assess the lay of the land. Time to give herself an out, if needed.
James and Steve move seamlessly together on the decadently big bed, every touch assured, assuring, the two of them blending together so perfectly it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. There's history here and tenderness and violence and decades old grief and affection that's spanned centuries. She can see echoes of the way Steve touches her, the way James touches her, in the way they move around each other - and it's familiar and foreign and private and an invitation. She can hear James' hitched breaths, Steve's hitched moans, smells their arousal, thick and heady, can practically taste their need, palpable and raw, on her tongue.
They kiss again, languid and slow, a gift they give each other, and when James sighs 'Ya lublyu tebya, ya khochu tebya, ty mnie neobhodim' against Steve's lips, Steve answers with his own heartfelt declaration immediately - 'Ya lublyu tebya, Bucky, ya ne mogu bez tebya' - unflinching, unfaltering. His Russian is flawless. And the ache between her legs turns into a deeper ache in her chest.
Watching them together is like nothing she's ever witnessed and everything she could ever imagine.
And when she makes her choice, when she finally crosses the room and kneels on the bed, they draw her into their circle as one, no hesitation, no doubts. There are soft lips against her hair, chapped lips against her neck, murmured words in a language even she doesn't know, but is fluent in all the same, and the hands on her are also familiar and foreign, a gift for her alone, but one she shares willingly.
Things may not be the same after this - but she already knows she won't regret a moment of it.
***
Ya lublyu tebya, ya khochu tebya, ty mnie neobhodim - I love you, I want you, I need you
Ya lublyu tebya, Bucky, ya ne mogu bez tebya - I love you, Bucky, I can't live without you
Author: Brenda (azewewish)
Fandom: The Avengers/Captain America
Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/Steve Rogers
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Marvel, not me.
Summary: What she has with Steve - with James - it's not love. But, whatever it is - by whatever definition - it works for them. It's a choice they've made together, when so many of their choices have been made for them.
Notes: Written for carolinga for the 2014 Not Prime Time Fic Exchange.
Thanks to melle for the advice and leelust for the Russian help. All translations are at the end of the fic.
There's a certain unexpected - and very much welcome - aggression to the way Steve fucks Natasha, like he's not afraid to dig in and get his hands a little dirty. Like he's not afraid to get dirty with her. There's a sensual sort of arrogance in the way he never asks if what he's doing is too much, if he's too much, if she needs a break or to catch her breath. There's an unerring accuracy in how he touches her, like he was born knowing what places on her body to trace with his fingers and tongue to make her writhe and sigh and tremble.
It's in the way he reacts every time she touches him, a tacit agreement that she has permission to do whatever she wants to him, a quiet assurance in the way he moves with her. Like nothing she could do or suggest would be off-limits. Like everything she does is enough to make him beg for more, like every inch of skin where they connect burns bright-hot and painfully perfect.
He's not gentle with her, never that, but it never tips into carelessness. Instead, he treats her body like the weapon it is, like he respects her strength and is daring her to match his strength with her own. Whenever they get together - not as often as most assume, but far too often for strictly casual - there's a reckless abandon to Steve's movements, a loose-limbed certainty in the way he uses his hands and his mouth on her, that demands an immediate reaction and allows zero time for coherent thought.
Every time, he leaves her bruised and strung out and boneless. Every time, he fucks her until the clamoring voices in her head are blissfully, blessedly silent.
***
"Dorogaya, I could have told you he wasn't gonna treat you like a china doll." James runs light fingers along the purpling bruises on her hips like he's trying to memorize them by touch. His gaze, fiercely possessive, follows the path of his fingers, a brand she willingly accepts. "Steve's a good man, sure, but gentle ain't exactly his style."
She wants to ask what that makes James - James, who fucks her with even less gentleness, who takes everything she has to give with a scorchingly hot, toe-curling smirk that seems to ask if that's all she's got - but his lips are firm and insistent on hers the next moment and his fists are tight in her hair and the moment is lost.
She thinks she already knows the answer anyway.
***
There are demons lurking in Steve's all-American blue eyes, a darkness that bubbles just under the surface of the sunny blond locks and the sculpted perfection of his form. An anger - deep-rooted and all-encompassing - that slithers like a serpent under his flawless golden skin. She can taste it on him when they kiss, can feel it with every thrust of his cock inside her, smells it in the air after he's laid her out and spread her legs and gotten her off so many times it feels like he'd keeping score in his head. Like every hard-punched orgasm, her every breathless moan, every satisfied flush of her skin in the afterglow, is a counterpoint to the impotency of his rage, a triumph to be savored in a war that he's never stopped fighting.
Maybe it's his way of reckoning his ledger. She doesn't ask and he doesn't tell. Words don't mean much in this space they've created for each other. But if they both maybe sleep a little better after they've wrung each other out, it's enough of a balance for her.
***
"How is he different when he's with you?" she asks, propping her chin on her joined hands to look down at the man sprawled redolently on messy sheets. James is as dark as Steve is fair, a perfect chiaroscuro in every way except for temperament. There, the two of them are so alike they could be twins. It amazes her still that the world doesn't seem to see it as clearly as she does.
(The world never seems to see the truth as clearly as she does. She's not sure if it's a blessing or a curse.)
"Who says he is?" James replies, and grins, silver metal glinting when he brings his arm around her to pull her fully on top of him. He's hard all over, a warrior to his bones, and the warrior in her responds even as she realizes he'd never really answered her question.
When she calls him on it later - much later, after the sweat has cooled and the bed has been more or less restored to order - he gives her a slow, half-lidded look and tells her he answered her the only way he knew how.
***
The first time she and Steve have sex - after a mission that's left both of them spent and sore and high on the rush of the kill - she assumes he'll be gentle, courteous, a perfect gentleman in bed. She's done the recon, has made subtle inquiries on his preferences and likes, thinks maybe they could give each other comfort, a release.
(She doesn't know everything, but she rarely miscalculates people.)
So it's a shock, visceral and raw, when, within five minutes of undressing her, he's flipped her on her hands and knees with two strong fingers in her cunt and his very talented tongue deep inside her ass. And it's only after he's made her come three times just like that, when she's shaking and quivering, a mess of raw need and want, that he finally fills her with his cock, fucks her until she swears she see stars behind her eyes and can't feel her fingers or toes.
An hour later, she returns the favor by handcuffing his wrists to the headboard (a symbolic gesture, but they both understand and appreciate the power in symbols) and takes him apart inch by inch with her mouth and hands until the only word that spills from his lips is her name and every part of him, body and mind, is attuned to her and only her.
An hour after that, she's already plotting a time for them to do it all over again.
(Steve, for all of his aggression and assurance once the clothes start flying off, never initiates their encounters. But he never turns her down and he never turns her away.)
***
"The first time he fucked me, I had rug burns on my ass and thighs for a week," James laughs, his breath ruffling her hair. Already she can see the imprints of her teeth along his collarbones, and wonders how soon she can add to the collection. "Skinny thing, all elbows and knees, but he could go like a Greek god even back then."
It's not often James shares his past with her. She knows there are times when he doesn't quite trust the memories he has are real, when he doesn't trust himself. She treats the memories he chooses to tell her like the victories they are, cherishes and keeps every one of them in a secret place only she can reach.
"I can see that," she replies, and feels a slight regret that she never knew Steve before the serum. They would have had much in common.
"Now, when I fucked you the first time, all I remember thinking is, even if you were going to kill me after, it wouldn't be such a bad way to go."
She doesn't need to glance up at him to know he's smiling. And she knows he doesn't need to see her face to know she's smiling as well. Not a bad way to go, indeed, she thinks.
***
Steve doesn't mark easily, but she'll sometimes see faint yellow and green mottling the skin around his inner thighs and wrists, can sometimes see the finger-shaped marks around his throat and shoulders where metal has dug into still vulnerable flesh. Steve never volunteers an explanation and she never offers her own for the marks she carries. But she's always careful to touch every one of Steve's when she sees them, to place her own marks right on top of his with the scrape of her teeth and the drag of her nails.
In turn, Steve treats every scar on her body like it's a badge of honor. Like he's paying homage and tribute. Even when he's got her pinned under him and is fucking her with sure, deep strokes, his hands are reverent along the faded, raised welts on her ribs and sides.
And if he spends extra time and care on the two scars James gave her, she doesn't ask if it's in sympathy or envy. Either way, it would mean the same thing.
***
"You could always join us, if you're so curious," James tells her one night. He tucks a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear and leans back against the mountain of pillows stacked behind him. It's well after midnight (and well after two rounds that had turned into a lazy third), but he shows no sign of wanting to leave her bed and she's not in the mood just yet to ask him to leave. She already knows he'll be gone well before dawn, back to the house he and Steve share. Neither James nor Steve can truly sleep unless the other is within range.
"If I did, it would change things." She's always prided herself on her pragmatism and adaptability, but this? This would be something altogether different. A gamble where she doesn't know the odds or how to stack them in her favor.
There's a rare kindness in his eyes when he looks at her - a kindness no amount of reprogramming and memory-wiping had been able to fully erase. A kindness she'll never deserve but would annihilate entire cities to protect. (In that way, she and Steve are perfectly in sync.)
"Who says it wouldn't be a change for the better?" he asks and, for once, she doesn't have an answer.
***
It's not love - not by her definition. Love is more than trust, more than a bond forged by fire and battle, more than the heat of lust or the frenzy of passion. Love is knowing the story behind every wound and every nightmare, love is a promise and a terrible burden, a red etched under the skin that will never wash out. It's the necklace she never takes off, a choice she makes daily without reservation or regret, it's knowing that what others would label weaknesses doesn't make her weak.
It's a lesson hard-fought and hard-won, a lesson she knows James and Steve have learned all too well, far too many times.
What she has with Steve - with James - it's not love. Not yet, maybe not ever. Not by her reckoning or theirs. And they've always been smart enough not to try to label it. But, whatever it is - by whatever definition - it works for them. It's a choice they've made together, when so many of their choices have been made for them. They've been at the mercy of others far too long not to recognize what this is. What they are.
***
She leans against the doorjamb of the bedroom, silent, inquisitive, watching. She'd been careful not to make a sound, had bypassed their considerable security and moved through the house like the ghost she still sometimes is, just to give herself a moment. Time to observe, to collect data, to assess the lay of the land. Time to give herself an out, if needed.
James and Steve move seamlessly together on the decadently big bed, every touch assured, assuring, the two of them blending together so perfectly it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. There's history here and tenderness and violence and decades old grief and affection that's spanned centuries. She can see echoes of the way Steve touches her, the way James touches her, in the way they move around each other - and it's familiar and foreign and private and an invitation. She can hear James' hitched breaths, Steve's hitched moans, smells their arousal, thick and heady, can practically taste their need, palpable and raw, on her tongue.
They kiss again, languid and slow, a gift they give each other, and when James sighs 'Ya lublyu tebya, ya khochu tebya, ty mnie neobhodim' against Steve's lips, Steve answers with his own heartfelt declaration immediately - 'Ya lublyu tebya, Bucky, ya ne mogu bez tebya' - unflinching, unfaltering. His Russian is flawless. And the ache between her legs turns into a deeper ache in her chest.
Watching them together is like nothing she's ever witnessed and everything she could ever imagine.
And when she makes her choice, when she finally crosses the room and kneels on the bed, they draw her into their circle as one, no hesitation, no doubts. There are soft lips against her hair, chapped lips against her neck, murmured words in a language even she doesn't know, but is fluent in all the same, and the hands on her are also familiar and foreign, a gift for her alone, but one she shares willingly.
Things may not be the same after this - but she already knows she won't regret a moment of it.
***
Ya lublyu tebya, ya khochu tebya, ty mnie neobhodim - I love you, I want you, I need you
Ya lublyu tebya, Bucky, ya ne mogu bez tebya - I love you, Bucky, I can't live without you