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quickspinner · 5 years

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The Best Laid Plans

TW hospitals, operating room, mention of a needle, surgery, childbirth, NICU. Nothing graphic as to actual body stuff, but the whole thing does kinda take place in a hospital and there will be hospitally things, so if that freaks you out, be prepared to click away.

I set out to write fluffy Dad!Luka stuff and...I got this instead. I’m not even sure angst is the right word for this. And it doesn’t really go with any of my other stuff so I haven’t figured out what to do with it yet. I was originally planning a collection, which I might still do? But I might wait until I have a nice fluffy part 2 to go with this before I put it on AO3. But yeah, not my normal fare, so I’ll understand if you nope out.

Summary: The birth of Marinette and Luka’s first child doesn’t go exactly according to plan. Or at all according to plan, actually.

This isn’t how they planned it. And oh, did they plan. Because his wife is Marinette and Marinette is Ladybug and Ladybug always has a plan.

But that was before the phone call and the what do you mean you’re bleeding and no no no it’s too early this can’t be happening now.

Luka can hear her suppress the panic for his sake as she reminds them that it’s only four weeks early, they’ve passed the real danger zone and everything will probably (probably) be fine. He quickly puts a lid on his freak out (he is supposed to be her safe place, not yet another person she has to pretend for) and tells her as steadily as he can that he’ll meet her at the hospital, and no, he’s not waiting until she gets through triage, he doesn’t care if it might be nothing, it might be something and he wants to be there.

He gets to the hospital in less time than it takes to jump through all the hospital’s hoops to verify that he is who he says he is and that Marinette signed all the right forms to let them tell him that yes, she is here, and where to go.

Finally he peeks cautiously into the right room.

“Luka,” Marinette says, relieved as she reaches for him.

“I’m here,” he says, catching her hand in his own. This is a song they’ve sung a thousand times, a dance they know by heart. She calls, and he responds. They’ve done it over and over again, since the first time she let herself fall apart in his arms, when she’s worn to pieces, when she’s lonely, when she has nightmares.

When she’s scared.

They’re both scared now. They sit in anxious silence as a stream of people who are paid to be calm and reassuring come and go, until the doctor comes in with a grave face and the proverbial good news, bad news.

The good news is, their baby is fine—for now.

The bad news is, she won’t be if they don’t act now. Marinette and Luka exchange one stricken look and agree to everything the doctor recommends.

They had a plan and it didn’t include any of this. They make her take off her earrings. She and Tikki exchange a stricken look, but there’s nothing to be done. Luka quickly wraps them into a tissue so they won’t poke, and tucks them in his pocket with Sass. The blanket Marinette made herself for this moment is not allowed in the sterile operating room. She’s got on an awful hospital gown instead of the labor dress she planned and slaved over with such care. Luka is wearing a stiff paper suit over his clothes and a surgical cap over his blue hair and a surgical mask across his mouth that makes him feel like he can’t breathe, and the whole outfit is hot as hell. Her mother is not here. There is no soothing music. There is no counting or breathing or walking it out or any of the things they practiced. There’s no cursing and crushed fingers and no powering through. They are helpless. There is only a white room and a table shaped like a cross (seriously, what the hell), wires and IVs and a needle in her spine that takes away the pain but not the fear.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, Luka accepts this unwanted reality, takes a deep breath, and lets go of the plan. Marinette is a creature of order and detail, but Luka was born and raised in chaos. He can do this. Marinette needs him to.

So he sits on a stool by Marinette’s head, strokes her forehead below her own surgical cap and speaks soothingly to her as tears leak out of her terrified eyes. She’s out of control here and she hates it, he knows. “Luka,” she whispers desperately.

“I’m here,” he promises, covering her hand that they’ve strapped to the table, careful not to dislodge the oxygen monitor on her finger. “We’re gonna be okay. Just a few more minutes and we’ll meet our little girl. It doesn’t matter how she got here. All that matters is that she’s coming and she’s gonna be okay.”

The doctors are formal and preoccupied but the nurses are sympathetic. Neither of them can see past the curtain erected below Marinette’s chest, but at Luka’s quiet request the anesthesiologist at her head keeps her updated on what’s going on. Luka can’t do anything about the lack of control but at least she can know what’s happening.

“Here she comes,” murmurs the anesthesiologist soothingly. “One, two, three—and here she is.”

Luka can’t resist standing up to see over the curtain, and his breath leaves him as he sees his child in the doctor’s hands. He doesn’t want to see anything else though so he sits down quickly, and a heartbeat later the nurse comes to show them the baby.

It’s only a quick glimpse and then Luka has to leave Marinette for a moment, to cross the room and cut the cord and marvel at the impossibly small number on the scale. His daughter (his daughter) is cleaned up and wrapped up and then she’s in his arms at last, and maybe the first thing she saw wasn’t his face and maybe the first thing she felt wasn’t his hands and maybe the first thing she heard wasn’t his guitar, meticulously composed and recorded and prepared and played on loop just for that moment when she entered the world...but she is beautiful, and she will have his hands and his voice and his love every day from now on.

The nurses allow him a quiet moment, and then he carries her carefully to Marinette. They take the restraints off Marinette so that she can touch and caress the tiny face, and Luka leans close so she can press a kiss in soft black hair. It’s one moment of peace before the chaos descends again, and the nurses gently insist that the tiny newborn must come to the NICU for tests and observation.

Luka looks at Marinette, his face stone, but she presses her lips together and says, “Go with her.”

Luka kisses her and promises he will be back as soon as he can. It feels like his heart tears in two and he leaves half behind as he follows the nurses out of the room.

The NICU nurses that take over as soon as they cross the ward threshold are competent and caring but bossy in a manner that rubs Luka the wrong way. Part of him can appreciate their dedication and the need to protect their tiny charges, but that doesn’t stop the swell of righteousness indignation. A growl of “I’m her father,” passes his lips when the nurses suggest that he should leave the baby to them. She’s tiny in the plastic bin they’re calling a bassinet, with a pink sign above it that has two tiny ink footprints next to the name written in black marker: Couffaine, Erika, with her birth time and weight underneath it, and a space that reads “Mother: Couffaine, Marinette.”

Luka stares at that little piece of pink cardstock, trying to take it all in. The nurses bring a bottle of formula and he feels another pang—this is not the way we planned it—before he insists on taking the bottle and feeding his daughter himself.

God, his daughter.

The nurses object but seat him in a chair next to the bassinet and allow him to give her the bottle (he is her father and they can’t stop him). He is heavily supervised, which annoys him, but Luka genuinely doesn’t want to screw this up, so he listens to their advice. He outright refuses to put Erika down afterwards, instead holding her close to his chest and singing softly to her, the same songs he sang every night with his head as close to Marinette’s belly as she would let him get. He remembers their childbirth classes and puts her down long enough to strip off his shirt. Then he picks her up, unwraps her from the blanket, and cradles her against his chest again, skin to skin. Marinette was supposed to do it, that was what they planned, but she can’t, so he will. Reduces stress, helps with heartbeat and breathing—Luka can’t even remember half of what they said but he knows it’s important, it was important to Marinette too and she would want him to do this, even if the nurses are giving him weird looks and some of the other parents glance wide-eyed at the shirtless man with the snake tattoos holding a tiny baby in the middle of the NICU.

An older lady in a volunteer uniform approaches him and he eyes her warily until she taps his shoulder, motions for him to lean forward, and puts a warmed blanket around his shoulders. Luka thanks her. She pats him approvingly, and says something he doesn’t understand but does appreciate before shuffling on.

Luka has time to notice the other babies, many even smaller than Erika, in their own little plastic bassinets, and he takes a moment to be grateful that though she seems tiny to him, she is strong and healthy. Sass sneaks up from his pocket under the blanket to peep at the baby. He gives Luka a fanged smile and makes himself scarce again. There are two many people here to take risks.

Only when Luka gets a text from Juleka letting him know that she has arrived does he reluctantly put little Erika back in the bassinet. She looks small and cold in nothing but her striped cap and impossibly tiny diaper, wires on her chest and wrapped around her foot, a tiny cannula in her nose. The NICU is warm and Luka knows the little bed is heated and she is totally fine, but he hates it. There is tape on his baby holding everything in place and Luka doesn’t care if it’s special baby tape or whatever, he hates it. This is not the way they planned it.

But it’s the way it is. He breathes away the frustration. He doesn’t know how to swaddle her (they have a book, but it’s at home) and the nosy nurses have left him for the moment, but he tucks the blanket around her as best he can. Luka glances up at her pulse and oxygen levels on the screen. The numbers themselves mean nothing to him, but they are green so he thinks that means she’s all right. He puts his shirt back on and goes to the ward entrance to fetch his sister.

The nurses object again when he wants to bring Juleka in, but Luka is firm: Erika will have a family member with her at all times, and he needs to see his wife. She’s been alone in the recovery room all this time, without even Tikki, and he has her phone in his pocket so she can’t even check on anything. Luka knows what her state of mind must be.

He tries to keep in mind that they mean well, that they have tiny, delicate patients to care for, and so he manages to stay mostly polite as they urge him not to ‘bother’ the baby with a constant rotation of relatives.

They compromise; Juleka stays, but won’t pick up Erika or disturb her sleep until her next feeding. Someone escorts Luka to Marinette. It scares him when he sees her; she is pale and shivering uncontrollably. “Luka,” she whispers.

“I’m here,” he says immediately, moving to her side and taking her hand. It feels like ice in his. “She’s cold,” he says, looking at the nurse.

The nurse tending to her brings another heated blanket, but tells him this is normal and the shaking is a side effect of the spinal block. Marinette will be fine.

Luka presses Marinette’s fingers to his lips and gives back her phone. “The baby?” she asks.

“She’s fine, sweetheart, she’s doing really well,” he told her. “They have her on oxygen and they said something about her blood sugar, but they said she should only have to stay in the NICU a day or two, and then if she’s doing okay she can come stay in the room with us.” He pulls out his phone as he speaks, showing her the thirty or so pictures he’s already managed to take. “Jules is with her now and your mom is on her way.”

“I want to see her,” Marinette said tearfully. “I’m her mother.” Her face crumples and Luka’s heart breaks. “This isn’t the way we planned it.”

“I know,” Luka says, kissing her forehead. “I know it’s not, but you’re okay and she’s okay and that’s what matters. We’re gonna get through the next couple of days while you heal up a bit and they make sure she’s stable, and then we’ll go home and it’ll be fine. We’ll do everything the same way we would have if the plan had gone off without a hitch. We’ll be okay. We can be flexible.” He winks. “Some of us, anyway.”

Marinette huffs a laugh and then winces. Luka squeezes her hand and pulls her earrings from his pocket. She visibly relaxes once they are back in her ears and Tikki zips to cover under her blankets. Luka sits down to wait with her. When her two hours in recovery are finally up, they put her in a wheelchair and push her straight to the NICU. Juleka looks up and smiles and immediately surrenders both the bottle and now-swaddled baby to Marinette. They’re politely reminded that no more than two visitors at a time are permitted in the NICU, and Luka sends Jules down to the lobby to bring Sabine up to what will be Marinette’s room. Sabine has stopped to pick up all the things Marinette either forgot or couldn’t carry in the rush to the hospital, and Luka knows that by the time Marinette gets to her hospital room, Sabine will have her blanket on the bed and her gown laid out, and the little baby caps Marinette knitted set out for use. Just like they planned.

As he watches Marinette whisper and smile and kiss their little girl, the tension leaves his shoulders, and he knows that everything will be okay. He believes what he told Marinette earlier. Maybe it didn’t happen the way they planned, but it doesn’t matter. Later they will probably laugh and call Erika a true Couffaine for coming into the world in chaos instead of by the book. For now, they have each other and Erika and a horde of loved ones ready to descend on them at a moment’s notice. Marinette will heal and Erika will grow and Luka will never stop loving either of them.

“Luka,” Marinette breathes, looking up at him with a beaming smile as she cuddles their daughter (their daughter) close.

Her hands are full so Luka reaches out and lays his hand on Erika’s soft black hair instead. “I’m here.”

#lukanette #mominette #dad!luka #fics #miraculous ladybug #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng #tw hospital #tw surgery #tw needles #tw childbirth #tw NICU #quickspins #all in the family

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not-close-to-straight · 7 years

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Show Me (Part Three)

This is looks like a long update, but it's less than 3000 words, but with them “texting” it takes up a lot of room lol. Mind the cut! If you missed Part One and Two, catch up on the MASTERLIST Bucky is the cutest flirting, and Steve is already in love with him! Tiny bit NSFW at the end!

Enjoy this update! *********************

~~Monday~~~

<From:Steve> -- back to school man

<To: Steve> -- how many weeks left?

<From: Steve> -- about six till Christmas break, but I'm not taking the whole month off. Really hitting it hard so I can finish up before the holidays.

<To:Steve> --what classes?

<From: Steve> -- stupid ones I missed while playing ball. Political science. An extra math class. Accounting. And like a beginner business course that fell through the cracks somehow. Math is fine but political science is just stupid. Why do I need to know this? I barely passed high school civics

<To: Steve> -- barely passed? I got your all American ass a solid b

<From: Steve> --my bad.

~~Tuesday~~

<From:Steve> -- girl in my class just asked if women could be successful politicians or if that is a glass ceiling that has yet to be broken

<To: Steve> -- Condoleeza Rice? Senator Clinton? Barbara Mikulski? And if we are reaching… that girl from Alaska. Palin. She really asked that?

<From: Steve> -- the teacher didn't even have an answer. Just kind of looked at her and kept right on lecturing. -- I forgot how smart you are. Why did you go after art again?

<To: Steve> -- because I'm a free spirit, didn't want the man to keep me down --that wasn't a gay joke. I'm a total bottom. Definitely want the man to keep me down.

<From: Steve> --I'm dying man, don't send me that when I'm in class!

<From: Steve> --bottom huh?

~~Thursday~~~

<From:Steve> -- sorry about that man. Yesterday was killer. So busy. I hate these classes. I'm so close to being done but it still seems like far away

<To: Steve> -- why are you sorry? It's not like we have to talk every day.

Bucky hit send and chewed his thumbnail nervously. Less than a week of Steve texting him and he was already all butterflies and nervous every time his phone rang. He hadn't heard from the blonde all day yesterday and had been too stubborn to text him first. And had hated every second of it.

<From: Steve> --.... does it bug you? We used to text all the time I guess old habits die hard. It's nice to talk again right?

<To: Steve> --literally couldn't bug me less. Text all you want

Steve grinned when he read the message, and refused to think too hard about why it made him so happy.

******************* ******************* “James, darling.” Natasha called from the front of the shop, and Bucky stood quickly, wiping his hands on his pants and tucking his phone into his back pocket. He had been texting Steve all day in between clients, trying to help him with a paper that was due that weekend.

“What's up?” Bucky stepped next to Natasha at the counter, resting a hand easily on her lower back. She moved closer to him, curvy hips resting against his, and he sent the man in front of him a glare, until the guy backed away a few steps.

“No harm.” The guy said, putting his hands up and Bucky snorted. Most of their customers knew Natasha was a badass who didn't take crap from anyone. A select few however, mostly first time customers, just saw a pretty redhead showing too much skin and assumed the girl could be intimidated. That was never the case, but Natasha made a point of calling Bucky, who sat at six foot, or Clint, who looked like he was fresh out of prison, anytime she was uncomfortable.

“Thank you.” Natasha turned and rubbed his chest gently once the man had left. “He was an asshole.”

“S’no problem.” Bucky smiled down at her.

“So tell me about your golden boy.” She bent back over the counter, trying to make a list for their next shipment of gear and ink.

“Not much to tell.” Bucky settled his lean frame on the counter next to her, propping his back against the wall.

“Well…” the redhead drew the word out, the cap of her pen tracing her lips suggestively. “You've been texting him non stop for almost two weeks now. Has it progressed past political science questions and the occasional joke?”

“Not really. But what else would we talk about? And stop that, that's distracting.” Bucky knocked the cap out of her fingers and she gave him a wicked smile.

“Oh I feel like there's so much you and the Captain could talk about.”

“It weirds me out when you call him that.” But Bucky smiled. “He's pretty straight, Natasha. Trying to hit on him would make things weird. I mean we've joked and maybe flirted a little I guess, but really it's just nice to be talking again. He was a pretty big part of my life for a while.”

“Right. Until the infamous blowjob.” Natasha over enunciated the word, her pouty lips catching on the ‘b’s.

“Thanks for the reminder.” Bucky rolled his eyes, and then nearly jumped out of his skin when Natasha put her hand very high on his thigh. “Easy Tasha. I know we are touchy feely but come on.”

“James, darling.” She nearly purred, moving in close. “Just because he claims he is straight doesn't mean he doesn't want you. You're gorgeous. Long black hair,” she brushed it off his shoulders with one hand, squeezing his thigh with the other. “Pale blue eyes. The way your accent comes through whenever you're anything but perfectly calm.”

“Hey.” He interjected, then blushed, since he had just proved her point.

“See?” She actually giggled, and Bucky blushed harder. “Even the way you blush. So delicious. I am perfectly wonderfully happy with Clint. And I know you are perfectly wonderfully attracted to only boys, but darling even I want to take you for a drive. I can't imagine your Captain America feels any differently, whether he thinks he's straight or not. Those kind of labels don't really apply when it comes to being attracted to someone like you.”

She tapped her nails, which were damn near on his crotch, lightly on his thigh and turned and walked away.

Bucky slumped against the wall in relief, raking his hand through his hair. He might not be into women but dammit she wound him up.

“Hey man.” Clint’s voice made him jump and he shook his head quickly, started to panic. “Nope. Don't do that.” Clint shook his head. “She's just like that. Fucking man-eater. Doesn't matter if you're into the d or not. You've lived with us long enough to know how she is.” Bucky choked out a laugh and Clint smirked at him.

“Come on. Let's go get some pizza.” He let his hand rest on Bucky's waist as they walked out, and Bucky just smiled.

***************

~~Thursday~~~

<From: Bucky> -- ugh man nearly tore my arm out of it's socket trying to lift a box. Some days it's like I will never get my whole strength back

<To: Bucky> -- lift with your knees, not your back. Or jacked up shoulder in your case.

<From: Bucky> -- thanks for that. My god you're helpful.

Steve laughed out loud reading the texts. The girl next to him in class sent him a dark look and he shrugged in apology.

<To: Bucky> -- show me

<From: Bucky> -- show you what? My fucked up shoulder?

<To: Bucky> -- yeah. I'm sitting in math class, so humor me. And watch your language

Steve waited a few minutes.

<To: Bucky> -- or not. Just do something to entertain me man I'm dying here.

His phone buzzed before he even finished sending the second text and he flipped over the message quickly.

It was a picture message, a side shot of Bucky’s arm and shoulder. Completely covered by a sweater.

Steve hid a grin behind his hand when the next text came through.

<From: Bucky> -- nice boys don't send skin pics Steve. What are you trying to pull here? Asking me to show you like you think this is a peep show.

<To: Bucky> -- sorry. Polite boys like me don't actually know how to ask nicely for skin pics or whatever you degenerates call them

<From: Bucky> -- say please you all American twat, and maybe I'll send you something good.

< To: Bucky> -- twat? Seriously? --please. Show me

Almost instantly a second picture message appeared, one of Bucky shirtless, still twisted to the side to show his bruised and swollen shoulder, but not far enough that it hid his muscled torso. Steve’s mouth went dry, and before he even realized what he was going, he was tapping his phone screen, zooming in.

<From: Bucky> -- I got the tattoos to cover the puncture wounds and scars. Natasha did most of them for me

Steve zoomed out, to look again at Bucky's shoulder instead of trying to drool over all that skin.

Bucky had a red star on his left shoulder, that was several inches across, and then several smaller, darker red and black stars made to look like they were falling from the big one. It was interesting work, and covered most of the messed up skin but Steve could still see a few scars branching out, looking red and angry from the strain of whatever he had been lifting.

<To: Bucky> -- I like them. The tattoos. The muscles. Whatever. It all looks good.

<From: Bucky> -- yeah they hide the ugly at least. --Hows class? --Are you hitting on me?

<To: Bucky> -- does it count on “hitting on you” if it's over text? --class is the worst.

<From: Bucky> -- show me

Steve raised an eyebrow, then angled his phone and took a selfie with finger guns raised to his temple and eyes rolled wide.

<From: Bucky> -- don't get brains on that shirt I like it

<To:Bucky> --k I'll take it off first

**************** ****************

~~ Sunday~~

<From: Steve> --college was a terrible idea. The idea of a weekend is a totally foreign concept these days. Can't tell you the last time I just chilled out on a Saturday

<To: Steve> -- yeah should have stuck with the modeling. Pays better. More days off

<From: Steve> -- I never modeled Bucky

<To: Steve> -- maybe you should have. You would have made a killing

<From: Steve> -- modeling huh what like GQ?

<To: Steve> -- nah. Cowboy Quarterly maybe. You're big and brawny. Slap a cowboy hat on and no one would know you're terrified of horses

<From: Steve> -- they are giant, Bucky. And I can't believe you remember that, it was like one time I screamed. Horses are giants, you would have been scared on top of it too.

<To: Steve> -- big ol corn fed mother fucker like you scared of riding a pony? Come on steve.

<From: Steve> -- language man

<To: Steve> -- tell you what. You go wrangle yourself a mustang and I'll stop swearing for a month. Go on. Hop on something and ride it big boy.

<From: Steve> --i feel like that was sexual

<To: Steve> --it was absolutely sexual. Look at you, getting my gay jokes. You’re coming along nicely captain. --what are you doing today? I'm working on a new back piece for Natasha

<From: Steve> -- show me

Bucky took a shot of Natasha, who was laid out topless on his table, face down because Bucky had been working on just the outline of a Gothic Cross on her ribs. He angled the camera to show off her red hair, the dips and curves of her back, and just barely the rise of her ass. Steve would appreciate that. He sent it, and sat back down to finish her outline.

“Did you just snap a picture of my ass and send it to your lover?” Natasha asked, sighing when Bucky rubbed her lower back comfortingly.

“No. He wanted to see your tattoo.”

“I bet he'd rather see yours.” Clint commented from where he was eating a sandwich near be door.

“Mmm that's a good idea.” Natasha agreed and Bucky rolled his eyes. ”Send him a picture, James, I bet he would love it.”

<From: Steve> -- looks good man. They both must trust you to do all their work.

<To:Steve> -- yeah we all work on each other. Natasha did mine, i'm working on hers and Clint’s, and Clint is doing one of hers on her front.

<From: Steve> --show me?

<To: Steve> -- I feel like as open minded as Natasha is she would frown on me taking pics of her chest and sending it to a high school friend.

<From: Steve> -- no. Yours. -- not interested in seeing hers. --show me yours.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. That was definitely new. Steve not interested in a woman.

Steve thought for a minute after sending the text. It was true. He didn't really have any interest in seeing Natasha's chest tattoo, even if the shape he had seen in the first pic would have made him drool six months ago. No, he would much rather see Bucky’s tattoo.

And he was starting not to care that he preferred it like that.

It took a few hours to hear from Bucky again, but it was worth it.

An unknown number sent most of a body shot of Bucky first, and Steve raised his eyes. He was up against a wall, shirtless, arms braced above his head, and every lean muscle in his back and shoulders was in display. Even from that position he knew without a doubt it was Bucky. All long limbs and dark hair and perfect shape. Steve couldn't tear his eyes away, staring at the small screen. This was…good. Too good. So good.

A second picture showed up, this one actually from Bucky, a close up of the tattoo on his lower back. In script that looked like it had been done in a thin paintbrush was a string of Russian letters and Steve tipped his head in thought. He had forgotten Bucky spoke Russian.

<From: Unknown> -- hey man this is Clint. I work with Bucky. You're welcome for the first picture. He doesn't know I took it! He was like, take a picture of my tattoo and i was like, stick your ass out a little more it looks better that way. --he’s pretty, but gullible so he believed me. -- enjoy the hell out of that pic --you’re welcome

Steve laughed out loud. Bucky had talked a lot about his roommates, and this seemed right in line with what he'd heard about Clint.

<To: Bucky> -- I forgot you spoke Russian. What does it mean?

<From: Bucky> -- loosely translated it means ‘hindsight is 20/20.’

Steve went back to the picture, admiring the unique strokes, and trying not to feel guilty for admiring the strong lines of Bucky's lower back, the dimples visible just above his pant line.

<To: Bucky> -- hindsight? is that another one of your gay jokes? Haha

<From: Bucky> -- what just because it's right over my ass it can't be some deep thought provoking phrase?

<To: Bucky> --is it?

<From: Bucky> --I guess you’ll have to wait and see, huh? -- especially since to even see the tat my shirts gotta be off and you've gotta be pretty up close and personal in my space.

Steve knew that Bucky was joking. He knew he was. But that didn't stop a soft groan, as he pictured it. Up close and personal with Bucky. *********** Steve woke up at nine pm when his neighbor's shitty car started up with a rumble and bang, as he headed off to his night shift. He groaned and hauled himself off the sofe. Class came way too early to be sleeping on such an uncomfortable couch.

Of course he couldn't sleep right away, because that's just how life was, so he tossed and turned for almost half an hour before giving up and reaching for his phone. Scrolling through his messages, he started typing a text to Bucky. He'd always been a night owl in high school, maybe the habit had carried over.

Before he hit send though, Steve hesitated, then swiped to the picture of Bucky from earlier, from his roommate.

He tapped the picture, pulling it to full screen, and let himself stare.

“You're so beautiful.” A memory flashed through his head and he groaned a little, hips moving restlessly on the bed. “I want you. Let me make you feel good.”

“Bucky.” Steve slid a hand slowly into his jeans, pushing them farther down his thighs, ghosting over his hardening erection.

“You taste so good.” Blue eyes. Red lips. Dark hair. “Steve you taste so good.”

“Shit.” Steve squeezed the base of his cock, stroking up and over the tip, hissing at the pressure and he kicked his jeans off all the way, spreading his legs.

“Come on, baby, you're going to make me feel like I'm not doing a good job.”

He could almost hear Bucky's soft voice, hear that adorable accent that had been so strong that night.

Holding himself firmly, Steve reached down with his other hand to cradle his balls, just the right amount of pressure to make his eyes roll back. Quickly stroking now, from base to tip, dragging his calloused thumb over his slit, and tugging gently on his sac, Steve pictured Bucky up against the wall. Arms raised above his head, hips cocked out. Steve could feel it. Those wiry muscles twisting against him, how Bucky's hair would feel slipping through his fingers. “God.” Heat built at the base of his spine, and Steve took a deep breath. Scrambling for the bottle of lotion on his nightstand, he poured it over his hand and cock, and leaned further back, sighing in relief at the slickness. Warm. Wet. Bucky. Steven jerked his cock frantically, his orgasm approaching too quickly, but he was too worked up to slow down. How would Bucky feel under him. Around him. Crying out for him. Hearing his name roll off Bucky's tongue, pushing that soft voice to screaming. “Bucky!” Steve came with a howl, his cock spurting white and hot across his fist and stomach. “God. Goddamnit.”

He came down from it slowly, panting, wanting to curse, wanting to scream.

Fuck. Bucky I want you.

*******************

@catpuppy1 @sharkcougarhawksnakescorpion @dare-me-to-give-up @sepiawren @hausoffro @my-gift-isyou @chrys-1029 @junostarkromanoff @saint-vincent-victory @kaitlynnjbell @kalexalove @mikaklik @cookiesandpinot @lunasage96 @romanianmalfoy @foreverforgotten101 @buckys-soldier @ilovethings-somuch @whathappensat3amstaysat3am @hellowhatthehellisgoingonhere @that-random-psycho @no1subject @cristaliscris

#Steve rogers/Bucky Barnes #stucky #steve rogers #james bucky barnes #clint barton #Natasha #college au #flirting #texting

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