bakerstreet | In Heat/In Rut Meme

In Heat/In Rut Meme

THE IN HEAT/IN RUT AU MEME
not an alpha/beta/omega meme

There's no need for elaborate backstories for this AU. You go into heat, rut, whatever you'd like to call it. You've always done so since you were of age to do so. It's a socially accepted norm, and people have gotten used to the difficulties that come with the mating seasons. Life goes on.

Isn't this alpha/beta/omega, then? No, not at all. In this meme, there are no gender-variant genitalia unless your character comes prepackaged with those. No giant cocks - again, unless your character is already packing - or self-lubricating assholes or anal wombs, and no knotting. Unless that's your thing. There's also no set in stone roles with regards to dominance and submission, and some people do not even feel the inclination towards either. Still, there are a few similarities, mainly being that the pheromones of others can put someone into heat that was not in it before and the bond between mates. In addition, some humans/human-stand-ins have created packlike dynamics in response, but this is not universal.

In this meme, it's just regular old human...oids feeling the urge for sex. And by "urge," we of course mean all-consuming drive. If characters choose to ignore that urge, it will backfire on them. The more they put it off, the more they will lose their control, becoming more irritable and aggressive, and eventually be nothing but a rutting animal until the need to mate is satisfied. Not all heats call for mating, of course, and most people can just relieve themselves, but when you do mate, you feel the urge to stay by their side and essentially "nest." These desires don't always pan out into offspring, and mating isn't forever unless it's mutually decided upon. However, impregnating your mate is said to be one of the most euphoric experiences a person can have, even if some people only mate because they want to utterly possess someone, as mates are bonded for a while.

If there's anything that's to your fancy that's been left out, go ahead and add it in. Play it how you'd like!

HOW TO PLAY

Comment with your character and preferences.

Include what you're interested and not interested in.

Respond to others!

PROMPTS

first heat: Baby's first heat. YOU'RE A TEENAGER/LATE BLOOMER AND WHAT IS THIS?

old hand: You've done this a million times, but it never gets any easier.

happen to be here: You're not picky. You can't afford to be. You'll take anybody who's nearby.

old faithful: You're going to the person you always go to in order to relieve your problem.

worked something out: The two of you aren't involved. You just help each other out.

unexpected: You never expected to rut with this person, but here you are.

forbidden: AKA the obligatory incest or age difference option.

volunteer: You've offered yourself up out of the kindness of your heart.

tribute: This isn't your offer. You're the offer from others, a gift for someone powerful to sate their appetite.

mating: You've decided to go one step further and make your relationship deeper.

nesting: Aaah, (temporary) domestic bliss. And lots of fucking. Lots and lots of fucking. Like, you'll barely be able to stand.

bonding: The bond, which is mildly psychic and intensely physical, makes sex even more intense.

the natural conclusion: Heat calls for pregnancy. Get someone pregnant.

already pregnant: Unfortunately, being knocked up doesn't abate your partner's desires. Or yours.

mates for life: Now you're absolutely certain that you want to be with no one else. Of course, this means you'll be in synch with their heat for the rest of forever.

save you: You've been saved from the advances of an undesired mate by someone who may be much more suited. Show your gratitude?

cockfight: Two people want the same mate. That won't do. There are ways to figure that out, not always involving fists.

increase in dominance: Exactly what it says.

increase in submission: Again, exactly what it says.

unexpected dominance: No one expects you to ever be dominant. Prove them wrong.

protect: You want to protect your mate from others, and that means putting your scent all over them.

set off by someone else: You were doing fine until you got a whiff of someone else's pheromones.

resisting temptation: Your heart belongs to someone. You want to stay out of this "heat" thing. You want to rise above it. Whatever it may be, you just have to not take the bait. Easier said than done.

all worked up: You're beginning to lose control and yourself. Quick, do something before you're jumping anything that moves.

pack: As mentioned prior, some people, especially those far out from civilization proper, have formed packs that hold to the more traditional alpha structure. Of course, these packs come with their own rules when it comes to heat and mating.

suitable partner: The desire for certain mates can come from a subconscious level, and you can find yourself aroused by someone showing how strong they are (they can protect you), how curvaceous they look (that must mean they're fertile), or any other number of traits that can benefit you.

desperation: You'll take anyone! Anything!

final release: You've reached your breaking point and your mindless. At least you'll get relief.

fighter: Part of your process is seeing who's worthy of you by testing their mettle. That, or you want to fight anything.

off your meds: It's fairly rare, but some can get blockers for their heat. What if those blockers run out? Why, it makes your heat ten times worse!

noncon: They don't want this. You don't want to stop this.

dubcon: You say no, but your body says yes and you can't stop loving it.

calm you down: Whether it's to fuck or to fight, you're going mad, and they have to bring you back down to Earth.

territorial: How dare someone look at what belongs to you? You'll have to make things right.

odd man out: For some reason, you don't go into heat. Never have. Being with you is pretty relaxing, and some find it appealing to not have to deal with pheromones that aren't theirs. You do have to learn how to appreciate their problems, though.

WILDCARD

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

When Steve had been a skinny, sickly little thing, heats were a irregular thing that came on once every few months, maybe two or three times a year. It never lasted anything more than a few days and he'd just hole up in his room, his apartment and ride it out. It was more of an inconvenience than anything else, even if he sometimes wondered what it was like to be normal, to have company, to enjoy his heats rather than have it be something to be endured. The idea of a mate (even if Bucky kept trying to set him up with dates) wasn't something he entertained seriously because who would want a mate that will probably expire in the middle of a heat?

After the war started, everyone was given suppressants in the army, no exceptions. No army can work with heats disrupting the ranks at any time. Not to mention they were all too busy fighting Hydra and Nazis to give much thought about heats other than to remember to take their blockers on time. Occasionally someone would forget or there will be situation where a guy wouldn't be able to take the blocker on time but on the whole it was easily handled. Steve was glad of it. There might be increased interest in him and he'd certainly gotten offers to share a heat but it'd never felt right to take up those offers.

Fast forward seventy plus years, and a now de-frosted Captain America hasn't changed his stance regarding offers to share heats. SHIELD had offered him modern suppressants which he'd gladly taken and he'd considered himself too busy to date around, despite Natasha's attempts. Then Sam had gone into his own heat and had offered but he'd shaken his head with a smile and gotten out of the way. A few hours later, he'd started feeling tetchy and out of sorts and decided to go out on a run to work it out. Halfway through his run, he realized what it was he was actually feeling and the cause.

He said a bad word, followed by a second one, then a third one. He'd stopped with suppressants soon after SHIELD fell and with Sam going into his heat, it must have set off his own. "Wonderful..." He grumbled to himself. Time to get a hotel room or something and ride it out. It couldn't be any worse than seventy years ago, right?

Ever since the Captain's cleared to leave the hospital, the Winter Soldier haunts Steve Rogers' footsteps like a shade that doesn't know it's meant to have moved on, much less that it died in the first place. Rogers is the only mission he's ever let walk away. The only one who wouldn't fight him in the end.

He doesn't know what to make of him them. Months later, he's frustrated with the fact that he still doesn't know what to make of him, no matter how much he's bugged his apartment or kept tabs on him; without talking to Rogers or revealing himself, the Winter Soldier tries to dissect his life and understand the man as he would any assignment's parameters and for once, he's found his results lacking.

But right now, watching from the shadows at street level, there's something off. Something that has Rogers deviating from his normal routine. The normal run is cut short halfway through, and even from here, he can catch the swears drifting along, tinged with annoyance. With it is something else, this scent that has his head lifting, nostrils flaring a little. He's not sure what to make of it. The asset inhales, trying to hold it, study it. What he doesn't expect is that sharp smell that hits like a sudden slap going up his nose, this scent that has a strange tingling spice tinge to it; it's strong, heady. This equally foreign longing goes through him, twists sudden and darkly past his stomach that has him shifting uncomfortable.

The last time he'd into heat had been a month into his captivity during the War. It's long forgotten by the asset, burned out by the chair, but the files mark it down in clinical detail. They had let him go mindless with it for days as a means to break Barnes initially, but found that even then, he couldn't be controlled. It made him erratic and more rebellious when he recovered.

He hasn't been allowed a heat in decades; the suppressants the Russian faction used were stop gap measures at best, and so, HYDRA set aside a section for researched dedicated to keeping the asset's heats as a non-factor in the field. The first line of defense is the mask with the filters built in. The second is the next round of injections every time he comes off the ice, and then before goes in. Even with the mask off, the smell of anyone in heat barely registers.

It's hitting like a truck now.

The Soldier slips up; from around one of the alleys across the street from Rogers, a figure steps out, hands jammed into the pockets of the worn hoodie he'd stolen weeks ago, and the hood pulled up all the way, taking that one step as if he can't help himself. It only takes one moment, one mistake where his curiosity gets the better of him, and he's exposed for the first time in months since HYDRA took that devastating blow.

Occasionally on his morning or evening runs, out to the farmer's markets for groceries, or just anywhere around the city, he'd feel like there was a shadow at the outer reaches of his senses trailing him, but every time he turned around to look, there was nothing there. Steve had hoped it was Bucky but told himself it was just his imagination working over time. He would have been out there, looking for his best friend but Natasha had told him to stay put, that the best way is to let the Soldier come to him.

Right now, he was almost glad he was in his home city and not out in a foreign town where he doesn't know the language and has to spend time searching for a safe place to ride it out. He might not have had a heat in decades if he was counting the time he spent in ice but he knows (and it was one of the first things he checked out soon after de-frosting, just in case) which hotels/motels are good for spending heats in, which one will make sure you're not disturbed, will provide for everything you need.

Steve was heading for once of those places now, moving along as fast as he could, glad it was still early and there wasn't many people out on the streets. He almost didn't notice the figure stepping out from the alley across the streets. He wasn't Natasha or Clint, trained to spot anomalies in the people around them. In fact, it was the smell of the person that hit him first, distinctive and familiar.

He knows this scent and Steve's body was moving even before he mind had caught up and he found himself crossing the street towards the hooded figure.

"Bucky...?"

It's what he would consider a fatal mistake had this been an actual mission; all it takes is one moment of exposure and the entire assignment can be blown, and a second happens almost on the heels of the first. Rogers spots him. That scent winds up his nose, clouds his senses for this fraction of a second where he struggles to sort it out, make any sense of it. It gives Rogers enough time to make a beeline on him.

The second fatal mistake is where he freezes in place, and then for once in his life, doesn't know which way to go. All he remembers it that he wasn't ready (if ever) for Rogers to be aware that he did have a second shadow. He starts up the street, stumbles a step to the side with a clumsiness that has never happened to him, with the same aimless indecisiveness a trapped animal has in its panic when running up with nowhere left to go at first.

He remembers the alleyway a second too late, and immediately turns, ducking into the shadows as he prepares to evade him. He takes off at a running start for the alley wall, using the momentum to carry him up several feet so that he can bound off it and catch one of the emergency ladders. He begins to climb.

A part of him was screaming at him this was wrong as his eyes track Bucky's movements into the alley as he takes the last few steps off the road onto the sidewalk. The Sergeant Bucky Barnes he remembers from the war would never freeze like that if someone was bearing down on him in the middle of the street, especially if that person was someone Bucky had been trying to avoid. The Winter Soldier from what he's read in the files Natasha gave him and who he remembers fighting would never be this clumsy. Steve immediately follows after Bucky into the alley; heat no heat, he can't lose sight of Bucky now.

Steve, unlike Bucky still has (most) of his wits about him despite his heat. The Howling Commandos after the war would tell stories of Captain America's ability to adapt plans made at command to fit the situation in the field or to make something entirely new up on the fly when anything else would have gotten them killed. A few seconds were all that Steve needs to see what Bucky was doing and he was dashing back out the alleyway right into the building that held the emergency ladder Bucky was climbing on. It was an old building, not very high (only five stories tall in total) and Steve took the stairs, two or three steps at a time until he reached the roof.

If he was lucky, he'll make it before Bucky gets to the top and disappears.

He scales the building five seconds slower than he would have, placing him well below his normal efficiency out in the field; it's harder to concentrate on finding an optimal path up the building - most gain for least energy expended- when he has that twisting, sharp, intoxicating scent up his nose. It sends this tingling through his veins, coiling down past his stomach and he's gasping a little for breath. He stumbles a little on one his landings, just the tiniest misstep that he has to correct by steadying himself on a brick wall.

The asset's outrun Steve Rogers before. He thinks, as he sinks the metal fingers of his left hand into the ledge and begins to pull himself up, that whatever is wrong with Rogers now will slow him down.

He pulls himself up all the way, still half crouched when he looks up, eyes flicking through shaggy hair that's come lose from the hair tie. The hood's just barely stayed on. He goes very still. Rogers is there already, and with it that unknown need drifting off him that the asset sucks a breath in again, even as he's thinking he needs to block it, hand lifting up to cover his nose. His eyes flick back over his shoulder, considering the neighboring building. The jump's easy enough to make, but his limbs seem reluctant, frozen in the face of whatever's drifting off of the Captain.

Adrenaline, the desire to just SEE Bucky again properly or even just the heat telling his body that here was a compatible person to spend your heat with, it spurred Steve on, allowing him to move faster than he had before. It helped that there was no need to think too much about optimal routes to get to the top of the roof, the quickest and most direct way as the stairs which didn't need much navigating. He burst through the rooftop exit door, just in time to watch Bucky pull himself up on the ledge.

"Bucky..." Steve groaned out and held out one hand towards his (former?) best friend, palm up, showing it open and empty. He had no weapons on him, not even the shield. He had been out on a run and wasn't in the habit of taking the shield with him for that. Nor as he in the habit of carrying any other weapons; he's not fond of guns and only tolerated them on missions as a necessity.

"Please...Bucky." Please don't run. Please come with me. Don't make me... Steve's entire body shuddered, all he wants to do run forward and pounce and never let go again.

He doesn't have enough space right on where he's perched to get enough of a running start to land neatly on the other side. He's more likely to leap out into space and land against the wall and slide down, but it's an escape; the asset's thighs and arms tense, ready to do just that. He's not ready to talk to Rogers right now. It was safer when he could monitor him, keep an eye from afar and have the time and space to try and pick apart what Steve Rogers was, who he was, and who he was to him. He doesn't have enough information to engage him in the field right now.

That groan fills his ears, throaty, needy, mesmerizing as the way Rog-Steve's looking at him. The asset's eyes flick up to look at that outstretched hand. He already knows he's likely not armed; it's part of his routine that he's been watching. He doesn't arm himself for jogging, and against a standard mugger stupid enough to try and take on Captain America, Steve's body is more than enough of a weapon itself.

He doesn't realize he's swung a leg down over onto the roof until he's putting his weight on it, towards Steve. Please. Please what?

The asset's taking another step, then another longer one, as if drawn towards the other man, senses consumed with the smell, with the sound of his voice, the hunger in Steve's eyes.

If Bucky runs at this point, Steve would follow immediately. Instinct and biology would not let him do any less, no matter what his rational mind would say. He could the way Bucky's form tenses, like an animal about to bolt and his own muscles follow suit, ready to move the moment Bucky does.

His nostrils flared as Bucky took one step closer, than another. Now that there wasn't a street between and the were higher up and away from the scents of other people he could smell Bucky's scent so much more clearly, a scent he'd long missed. He forced himself to stay where he was, hand still outstretched towards the other man, keeping his body utterly open, knowing it was too early to pounce no matter how much he wanted to. If he jumped out at the other man now, Bucky would turn away from him immediately.

Bucky, unlike him, was most likely armed, at least with a knife. This could still end up with a knife in him but in Steve's opinion it would all have been entirely worth it.

'Wait for him to come to you' Natasha had said. Doubtless she hadn't meant for him to apply her advice in this situation, but Steve knows it's the right decision, that if he wants Bucky near again, Bucky must take the first step. He had been prepared to wait as long as needed until biology decided differently.

"Please...I need you." He finally voiced it out loud.

The asset can't seem to stop himself from closing the distance, something that makes him deeply suspicious of how good it feels to do so. He knows pain. He knows order. He knows the missions, all of them except for this one he fails, and that sits foggy and out of the edge of his vision. But pleasure is something that is for people, not for him. So he closes in weaving zig zags, slowly, cautiously coming closer and closer towards that out-stretched hand, towards the man kneeling behind it, as the scent of Rogers floods his senses like a strong vodka.

He feels like he should be armed. The movement's sluggish as he goes for the knife, as unacceptable as his time scaling the wall as he drifts closer to a man that had nearly fought him to a standstill. Every instinct driven in by years of training is balking at the idea of putting himself this close to a man with that much combat capability in the worsening condition the asset is in.

It's belated too, but the Soldier suddenly stops, several feet from Rogers.He wavers a little on his feet, eyes drifting shut a little as this quiver goes through him when Rogers speaks. All he registers at first is only the word need. Rogers needs, he needs him, he needs to go to him. His lips twist.

"What's wrong with you?" The asset croaks out, his voice raw and ugly then. "What's wrong with me?"

With every step that Bucky took towards him Steve could feel that tight ball of tension that's been inside of him since the heat started loosen ever so slightly. When the other man stops just out of grabbing range, he had to force himself not to take the last few steps forward and concentrated on answering Bucky's question instead.

He noted the knife being taken out and showed no sigh of even seeing it in Bucky's hand. There wasn't much Steve could do to stop Bucky from attacking right now with his body like this. Neither does he want to. If Bucky wants to slice his throat open, he can. Steve didn't stop him that day on the hellicarriers, he's not going to stop him now.

"Nothing's...wrong, Bucky. This is biology. It happens to everyone regularly. I'm in heat." Of course...he should have known Hydra would keep their valuable asset on suppressors. Like SHIELD kept him on his, though at least he knew of the reasons and accepted it. But to take away that knowledge entire, to take away that choice...he gave a sharp shake of his head and turned his thoughts back to the more urgent matter in front of him. "And so are you."

Steve's outstretched hand trembled violently and he swayed ever so slightly in Bucky's direction. "Come with me? We can share our heat together. Safe that way, I promise. And then...and afterwards, you can do as you like. " And he swore to himself he'll make it good for Bucky. See to Bucky's needs before his own. If afterwards Bucky still wanted to go at him with the knife, he could.

There's nothing he can see that he can defend himself against. Rogers, he thinks, won't be the threat, not when he refused to fight him before, but he finds himself, for once, having a wish of his own, and that's to wish that maybe Rogers would. he knows how to fight. He doesn't know how to deal with this. He shifts restlessly from one ball of the feet to the other, as if aching to burst into motion and only keeping himself there by years of ingrained discipline. He wants to run. He wants to attack. He wants to move towards Rogers. The grip on the knife's made clumsy by his proximity to the other man, fingers just slightly off and a little limp as that heady, sharp smell floods his senses, darkening the Soldier's eyes with need. His lips part around an uneven draw of air as Roger's voice sends this shiver an electric thrill down in his gut.

'Heat'. He's only heard of it a few times from the technicians or agents, as they talked around him, but before, filed it away as unimportant, just like the idea of friendship or having a lover. A human had those. A weapon didn't. When he listened to the complaints, sometimes, he thought himself lucky to be only a weapon. He's never seen a heat up close however.

The asset shakes his head, stubbornly, "That is for people. It can't happen to me." He stumbles a little, desperate for an explanation. He must have been drugged, they both must have been drugged by a third party, or maybe he's malfunctioning right now. The error must be fixed. He's wavering on his feet, eyes locked on Roger's outstretched hand. Rogers...Rogers will help. They will have an easier change of defense if they're together, if this is an attack. He will repair him. He doesn't realize that he's darted a tongue out, licking at dry lips.

Clumsily sheathing the knife, the asset staggers a little forward and right into Roger's personal space, though he's not sure what to do with Roger's out stretched hand.

"Repair me," and that's the first demand he's made in decades.

Steve gave a full body shudder as Bucky spoke, his voice sending shivers up his spine. If Bucky was fidgety then Steve wasn't much better, holding himself back from throwing himself at Bucky through sheer force of will, betrayed only by the constant tremors that can be seen from his hands. Every breath of air he takes in was tinged with the heady smell of Bucky's heat, leaving him with pupils blown wide with lust and cheeks flushed pink with arousal.

He feels a familiar dark flash of anger as Bucky referred to himself as a thing rather than a person. He had read the files all referring to Bucky as 'Asset' or 'Soldier' and knew that was how Hydra had seen his friend but it was another to hear Bucky referring to himself like that, to know how deep the damage Hydra has done. "No." Steve answers forcibly before taking a another shuddering breath and moderating his tone. "No. You ARE people. Heat, heat is proof that you're a person. That you're alive. Nobody can take that away from you, not even Hydra, though I'm sure they tried damn hard to get rid of it." Scientists have been trying to find a way to stall off heat since the beginning of time and has never come up with anything that will stall it off for a few months. Even with modern day suppressors it was recommended you come off of the pills once every year or so to let your bodies recover, or so he's heard.

Steve stares for a long moment at Bucky, eyes fixed on Bucky's lips where a pink tongue had just so recently touched. He can almost see himself sucking on that tongue, covering those lips with his own. It was only when Bucky stumbles close enough for him to touch that he shakes himself out of that vision and he steps forward unsteadily to draw Bucky into a one-armed hug using the formerly outstretched hand. He pressed his face into Bucky's shoulder, breathing in deeply before turning his head to murmur his reply into Bucky's ear.

"You're not broken...there's nothing to repair. But we can get release WITH each other, together. " Steve pulled just a half step away towards the doorway leading back down to the street but kept a hand on one arm. "C'mon...not here. It's too open...we need a motel...a bed and...supplies."

Steve's reply comes out forceful, a little aggressive. The effect is immediate. Part of the asset goes very still and on instinct, in response to the displeasure of a handler, he starts to lower his head, eyes averting in submission to await either a reprimand or punishment before he remembers himself with a start. He knows deep down that Rogers, at least, never was his handler. He was his enemy. He said he was his friend. His spine straightens, confusion then a little anger starting to rear its head. Rogers isn't a handler. He is (was?) his mission(?). The Soldier shakes his head, unaware yet that he's started to waver on his feet a little towards Rogers, as if drawn to the feel and smell of a warm body now. Heat is only a sign that he is damaged. His mouth twists, eyes flicking up to Rogers. There's something dangerous in his voice when he does speak; he's latching onto this point with the tenacity of a bull dog. "They should've gotten rid of the flaw."

He is flawed, he has errors. There is plenty to repair. Rogers will help him because he thinks the asset is his friend.

The Soldier suddenly stiffens for a moment as he's drawn close to Rogers, half-expecting Rogers to take advantage of the opening (any opening) and take him down. It's what he would have done. So it surprises the asset, one of the rare times as far back as his memory goes- to find that he doesn't. Rogers' proximity, the heat radiating off him and his touch might as well have done him in as well as any well-placed knife slide. The need that surges up crackles as strong and biting as the frost gathering suddenly on glass of the cryochamber, drawing a ragged gasp as Rogers' face presses into his shoulder.

As if blindly searching, the Soldier tilts his face against his neck. Warm lips mouth messily up along Rogers' throat, working on instinct to worry and nip at his pulse point. His length between his legs gives this throb that has his hips jolting against Steve's, a strange, eager shiver going through every part of him as Roger's warm breath skates across his ear.

It feels....it feels good. Really good. Pleasure is something he doesn't know much of. He knows the mission. He knows order. He knows pain. Pleasure is something others are allowed to have, but even if this isn't allowed, he latches onto it greedily.

Rogers pulls away, parting them that draws out a needy groan from the asset that he almost doesn't recognize. His hips pulse a little at the air, trying to get some friction, but Rogers is gone and stepped away, back towards where he'd come bursting out from. The asset's arm darts out, the cybernetic one, fingers latching onto Roger's wrist in a cruel grip as he tugs, backwards, digging his heels in a way he wouldn't have months ago. His mouth opens, about to demand that they fix the error right now, right here, but the demand dies before it gets to his mouth. The asset instead obeys, all but greedily plastering himself up against Rogers' side.

Steve can tell when Bucky goes passive and obedient, waiting for something that never going to happen again if he could help it and he feels another flash of anger. The Bucky he remembers has never been submissive, has always stood tall and straight, even a bit cocky. Steve is glad to see when it doesn't last long, at most a few seconds before Bucky snaps out of it, happy to see anger replace it. Anger at least, is more normal. He hears the danger in Bucky's voice as the man spoke, hears the underlying stubbornness behind it (and THAT was totally Bucky as well in his mind, another part that Hydra could not erase, or maybe it's finally coming back).

Steve however, is just as stubborn as Bucky, if not more. "Not flawed. Never flawed. You'll see." And he'll do everything he can to convince Bucky of that.

Bucky is warm, warmer than he remembers. Heat, he knows, it was probably heat that is elevating both their temperatures. But it isn't unwelcome. He groans, eyes going glassy for a moment with pleasure as he feels a combination of warm lips and sharp teeth worry at the soft skin at his neck and he tilts his head back and to the side in response to give Bucky room to work. The sensation zings through his nerves up his spine and he presses back against the hips rocking against his instinctively, groaning again at the pleasure it causes.

It is almost painful forcing himself to step away from Bucky but he did it anyway, still holding on to the rational part of his mind by a thin thread. The rooftop of some random building is no place to spend their heat. The iron grip on his wrist, no doubt leaving bruises, helps remind of this. Bucky's open mouth in that instant is too good a chance for Steve to pass up however, and he lets himself be tugged back in order to steal a quick kiss from dry pink lips, Steve tongue dipping inside fleetingly before he backs away that half step again, only to feel Bucky press himself close right after. Their pace down the stairs of the building is slow, Steve often distracted with the warmth of the body pressed close to his, with the act of running his hands up and down the sides of Bucky's torso or dropping nuzzles and kisses on Bucky's shoulder, jaw and cheek.

The motel Steve has in mind is thankfully close and the lady minding the front desk takes one look at them all but threw a keycard at them, hastily calling out a room number before backing away, eyes wide. Steve tosses an ID card and credit card in return and couldn't be bothered to do anything more but herd Bucky in the direction of the room.

Rogers can insist all he wants that he's not flawed, but Rogers is alive, so is the Widow, and Project Insight's still sitting at the bottom of the Potomac River where they're still dredging up the pieces. It's all the proof that he's malfunctioning, even without the heat coursing through him as if he's a human and not a tool. He can't even take Rogers out right now, even though the mission still hangs around, and there's no handler to tell him new orders. The asset knows that he can't even put it all down to the heat. He's had more than enough time, had plenty of opportunity, to kill Rogers in over a hundred ways so far. He hasn't made good on any single one.

He's not even sure he can kill Rogers right now, not with this urgent hunger blazing through him, hitting like white noise, because there's nothing else but the other man and his touch, the way the warm tongue dips too briefly past his lips and has the Soldier's face twisting in frustration (he wants more, so much more). This rough, guttural sound rumbles up, sitting somewhere between a snarl and a moan. He doesn't care about a motel or comfort. Here is as good as anywhere, he thinks. Only Rogers backs off half a step. The asset doesn't wait for orders; he follows eagerly, greedily, like a stray that's gotten a first taste of fresh, good scraps.

The way down the stairs takes much longer. Rogers can't seem to keep his hands off anymore than the Soldier can, a hand ghosting down his torso, and at one of the landings, the asset tries to shove him into the wall. He manages to drags himself against the front of the other man, trying to tempt him - convince him- into taking care of this right there. Any longer and the pressure and coiled tightness all over, the way the excitement has every limb trembling with how badly he needs for this to be over might consume him.

He's barely aware of making it to the motel. It worries him a little. He's never been this disoriented, but he can't remember even threat-assessing the person at the counter before Rogers guides him to a room. The asset's patience, by then, just about runs out the moment Rogers opens the door. The Soldier pushes in, the door hitting the wa with a slam that adds another few centimeters to the dent that others before them have put in, and turning, the moment the other man is in the door, he's reaching out with his left hand. He turns the bolt in. Then he shifts his grip lower. Metals fingers wrap around the door handle, and squeeze. It's effortless. The door handle's destroyed in that grip, a misshapen lump of metal in it's place. There's going to be no interruptions.

The assassin's already reaching for Steve's waist, as if drawn. His pale skin's flushed, eye dark with the heat.

"Fix me," he demands.

Edited 2014-10-14 10:02 (UTC)

Steve Rogers has no mission these days other than Bucky, has told certain people specifically he wasn't to be called in unless it was for another potential world ruining disaster like the Chiaturi invasion. No matter that he has nothing but a vague, semi-formed plan (and a good friends in Sam and Natasha) for his self-ordained quest for his best friend. His first priority was Bucky now and he knows it's too little, too late, that he should have searched harder and longer for Bucky after the other man fell off the train that cold winter's day, should have done something to prevent what Bucky has been turned into.

It was with superhuman effort that Steve keeps both of them moving along the route to the motel, not allowing himself anything more than a few lingering touches of hands and brushes of lips here and there. He was so very tempted to just give in and push Bucky into an empty stairwell or a dark alley along the way and just rut against each other until they were spent. Especially when Bucky attempts a demonstration of mutual willingness in this on one of the landings. He had gotten so far as to starting to drag Bucky against him before remembering himself and staggering back on track, pulling the other man with him.

It was a relief to reach the motel and even better, a private room. It was normal enough room that one might find in motels pretty much everywhere, a heavily curtained window, a tv, mini-fridge and an open doorway leading to the bathroom and the one piece of furniture that draws Steve's attention immediately, a queen sized bed wide enough even for two men of their size. A part of Steve winced at the impact of the door against the wall and again at the way the door handle was thoroughly destroyed; he'll have to apologize and pay for the damages later. He can't complain though, not when he understands the underlying reason why Bucky did it and agrees with it. All that was pushed to the back of his mind when he hears a repeat of Bucky's demand to be fixed.

Steve barks out a rough laugh at the demand. "Stubborn aren't you." Behind the arousal in his voice was fondness too and he allows himself to be pulled in by the hands grabbing too hard at his waist and reaches out with one of his own hands to cup the back of Bucky's head, just the right angle for him to press his mouth of Bucky's in a deep, open mouthed kiss. His tongue swipes across across the seam of Steve’s mouth to beg for entrance, the quick taste he had earlier not near close enough for him. His other hand in the mean time, reached around to grip and kneed at a firm ass, groaning into the kiss at the feeling of it.

The Soldier stiffens a little when that laugh rumbles out, startled a little by the reaction, eyes flicking towards Roger's this brief moment as if questioning, then sliding away because a weapon wasn't to make sustained eye contact with a handler. It's not enough to deter him; if anything, the asset focuses on Rogers with the same single-minded determination as all his other missions. So the asset pulls him close, as flush as he can with this greediness that makes his grip tight and bruising. Their hips slot against each other, the asset's hard length nestled against the answering bulge that sends this sudden shiver of pure pleasure through him. He shifts his hips forward, pulls him back against, produces another clumsy, but earnest grind that has him throbbing as the canvas of his pants rubs against his cock.

He knows he wants more, because this isn't enough. Getting more and more seems simple, but Rogers, of course, doesn't hold still. A strong hand reaches out, palm cupping the back of his head in this way that has the asset's instincts belatedly going red all over; it's trapping him, it's leaving him vulnerable, and the only thing that stops his left arm from shifting his grip upwards, maybe to break bone, is the press of lips against his again.

The Soldier holds very still, even though something deep inside him knows this on a level that's deeper than taking apart another human being bone by bone, as Roger's mouth opens against his, as if coaxing at him. It's when the Captain's tongue skids across his, traces a hot line towards the corner of his mouth that brings this flush of heat so sharp that it has him gasping, mouth parting for him eagerly with this low whimper for more. His hips have jolted forwards at the same time, hard when that other hand squeezes at him, forcing them deeper into the room.

He pries his own grip free of Roger's waist, cold metal fingers going to the hem of his pants. He's not gentle; he begins to pull roughly at the fabric, tearing if he has to to get it off.

There isn't much that can bruise him these days, at least not for long. Thanks to the serum, minor cuts and bruises heal within hours, at most a day. The tight grip Bucky has on him will definitely leave him with a set of finger marks on his pale skin but he can't find it in himself to mind at all. Minor pains and aches like that were easily discarded in their heat. Steve was at that moment much too preoccupied with feel of hard cock grinding against his. Even if they were both still clothed, it felt amazing and even without Bucky urging him along with his hands he was already pressing back hard.

When Bucky's mouth opens for him underneath his own, he was immediately dipping his tongue inside for a second taste like he's been wanting to do since that brief first taste on the rooftop. The hand cradling Bucky's head cards through the shorter hair at the back of the neck even as he takes a half step into the v of Bucky's legs, herding him backwards. There was a nice big bed further into the room, no need to remain standing here close to the door for the rest of their heat.

"Shhhhh...it's okay. There's no rush at all." Steve reluctantly breaks the kiss with one last flick of his tongue across the roof of Bucky's mouth, hoping his words can coax the other man to slow down, his hand reluctantly leaving the firm muscle he's been groping earlier to fold over one of Bucky's loosely for a a moment. He attempted to be slow to show by example what he meant but the idea of being able to feel bare skin against his was too great to resist. Still, he was patient enough not to tear his own clothes, throwing them into a corner of the room. Then his hands were reaching for Bucky again, eager to touch all that he could, to pull the other man back close.

It's a deep-seated instinct that has him sucking on Roger's tongue the moment it slides past his lips, before sliding his tongue along his in a searing glide; in his state, it's enough to distract the asset from how he has given ground to a potential hostile as he's walked backwards towards the bed step by step. He stumbles a little, rights himself smoothly, and lets his hips jolt forwards and upwards, trying to catch anything that will give him more friction, more pleasure.

Steve's voice takes him a little by surprise with the deep, earthy quality. That, coupled with the gentle reassurance, goes straight to his cock. He needs. he needs so badly, he needs the Captain, he needs to feel him. The sensation is so consuming, so heady, that he even dares to think that it might over-ride any order his past handlers might have given him now, if they could, especially as he tries to messily catches Rogers' mouth with a needy groan when the man breaks the kiss.

The Soldier has his mouth pressed into the side of his chin, twisted a little, teeth gritted to keep down more of the sounds that keep getting dragged out of him, when Rogers' hand covers his. Even with the blazing hunger going through him, he responds to the grip as if he'd ordered him stop. He removes his hands from Rogers' clothes, and steps back even. He manages a good few inches - success, maybe the heat can be controlled, he has been honed of flaws, he has suffered through things that would have killed anyone else out in the field and completed his assignments, he can control this- before the pressing need comes flooding back on him with the absence.

He can't stand it, being away from that touch. With a defeated moan of frustration, he goes eagerly into that touch, allowing himself to be pulled in close. He doesn't touch Rogers against, not when he wanted him to stop; what he does instead is to start removing his clothes; there's no real finesse, and what doesn't come off easily on the first one or two tugs, gets shredded. It doesn't take long for him to finally, finally press against him, bare skin to bare skin. He plasters himself in a full body drape against him and nearly sighs with sheer relief when that seems to do the trick. It's like a balm. He can think again.

That lasts for all of two seconds. Then it comes flooding back; more, this isn't enough. Then he's writhing against him, a silent plea (help, repair needed).

"Burning up," the Soldier gasps. "Burning."

Steve moans at the sensation of Bucky's tongue sliding aside his and of Bucky sucking on it. He can imagine that same mouth and tongue doing the same to his fingers, or better yet, his cock. At the thought of that his hips presses forwards even more eagerly than before catching at just the right moment against Bucky's upwards grind, and he moans again at the pleasure that spreads through him from that one action.

If Bucky was too silent, Steve more than makes enough noises to make up for it. He doesn't want to stop kissing Bucky either; it was a necessary evil he had to break the kiss to get his clothes off and when Bucky tries to catch his mouth again he doesn't object, merely slides his lips sloppily against Bucky's until he remembers that he was in the middle of undressing and the sooner he gets them off the better for them both.

A pained noise escapes him as Bucky steps away from him, that was not what he meant when he told Bucky to slow down. Even a few inches of space was too much space between them and he was grateful when Bucky's draped up against him again sans clothing, sighing in relief and pleasure at the feeling of all that bare skin against his. Steve leaned his head down to drop open mouth kisses against Bucky's neck down to his shoulders, groaning when Bucky writhes against him.

"It's alright. I've got you." He promised in between desperate kisses. "I've got you." Never mind that he himself was burning up just as much as Bucky was and he wants Bucky to touch him as much as he wants to feel Bucky all over with his hands himself. So he takes Bucky's hands with his own again, pressing them against his waist. He barely registers the feel of metal of one of those hands. "Touch me. I need you too." He gasps out, one hand braced against one of Bucky's hips for balance and the other one sliding down hot skin from the back to his buttocks before tipping them both sideways to fall against the bed.

Lying horizontal like this, they can touch as much as they want without worrying about balance. Steve slides one of his legs over one of Bucky's thighs and this new position allows him to almost perfectly align his cock against Bucky's. It was just right for him to hold their cocks together in one fist, to start jerking them both off at the same time.

His fingers spasm against his feverish skin, almost sinking the tips painfully into Rogers before he stops himself in time; it's enough to leave bruises later. The Soldier doesn't notice, other than to keep himself from seriously injuring the one who will fix him - bruises are nothing, not to them, and what's more important is that he's been given permission, orders to touch him, and it's such a relief, the same kind of relief that came with being denied water after so long. A mismatched touch greedily, inexpertly runs down his ribs, his hips, stomach, any amount of skin or dip of muscles he can find. It's desperate, sloppy, sometimes a little too rough as metal scrapes against him suddenly in a pinch of seams as his throat works around a shaking gasp for air as a hot mouth traces a moist path down his throat (it works suddenly, he knows he's vulnerable, he knows you can do a lot of damage with just your teeth because he's tried) and then against his shoulder.

He doesn't know for sure what's better; touching Rogers finally, without him flinching away, the man's touch and lips all over him, or the promise. No one's ever spoken to him like that, but it washes over him, wraps around him, and for a moment he almost believes him, that there's no danger if the Captain is next to him. The asset thinks that, even if the Captain is an (enemy?) (was) a mission objective, he might follow him to the very end if any of it's true.

The Soldier just registers the clasp of a slightly damp sweaty palm cupping him before they're knocked off balance. Normally, it would have sent him in a scramble to right himself, get himself out of such a vulnerable position, but those soft whispers against his lips and the heat blazing through all his nerves are almost as effective as any restraint, because the Soldier doesn't try to take Rogers' head off just then. Instead he curls up against Rogers as he slides a thigh over one of the asset's, nudging his shaft against his. The brush of hot, hard flesh against his sends this shivering, intense thrill through him that steals the air from his lungs. Almost breathless for how badly he needs this touch, how badly he needs Rogers, he squirms into the grip, and then fingers sinking into his biceps, he gives in. There's no real, smooth rhythm any more. It's been long forgotten. What the Captain gets instead is the Soldier clumsily and hurriedly trying to rut against his cock and into his hand with a grunt, trying to get more friction, more pleasure, more, more, more/

It doesn't matter that every touch Bucky offers him is rough or inexpertly done (he was hardly an expert on this anyway) but that Bucky WAS touching him now and every pass of Bucky's hands were leaving trails of burning heat underneath his skin. The unexpected scrapes and pinches from the metal arm at different points only adds to the overall sensations. His own hands were hardly idle; they were running across the chest, pausing for a bit to linger over the nipples before moving to trace the ribs down to the hips.

Steve's mouth works its way down from the throat to the shoulders, then down to the clavicle. There was a metallic tang to the way Bucky's skin tastes and as he sucks and mouths at any sensitive points he could find, he repeats his earlier promises of 'I've got you' against Bucky's skin. He wasn't about to let anyone else close to them at this moment until the heat ran its course; this too was instinct, and instinct will tell him to to strike hard and fast against anyone who would even try. Their combined scents were themselves a warning as well, a signal to the people around them that this was a pair in heat and to interfere at their own risk.

Steve groans loudly as their cocks starts to press and grind together even as he began to jerk them both off. If Bucky was clumsy in his movement in his eagerness and impatience then Steve was not much better, the fingers digging painfully into his biceps hardly registering in Steve's mind in his chase for their pleasure. His hand moved hard and fast, his grip just a tad too tight on the painful side. "Yeah...just like that...you can let go now. Trust me." He was only holding on by the thinnest thread; as soon as Bucky came he'll be following almost immediately. Once was hardly going to be enough to sate them in any case; not with both of them having suppressed their heats for so long.

His nipples have peaked into taut nubs under the lingering pass of each finger, a warm flush spreading down the Soldier's neck as he sucks in a gulp for air; Steve's scent swirls thick and heady like a drug, and his legs fall open for him in reply.

Roger's mouth leaves a hot trail down his throat, down to the his collarbones; it's like he's branding him, and oh that has him arching his neck up into his touch, unconsciously offering, even though there's that instinct at the back of his mind that flinches at the thought of making himself so damn vulnerable. Even though he is stronger than people, even he won't survive if someone where to tear his throat out. But Rogers doesn't do that, he's painting a path everywhere he can with lips and tongue and sucking; there's no stopping the desperate whine wheezing up his throat, no more than he can stop the way his cock drools precum into Steve's hand and onto his cock as he bucks up hard. The asset is so distracted with the fire coursing through every vein and nerve that it takes him a moment to realize Rogers is murmuring words - promises- along his skin.

I've got you. I've got you

No one has ever reassured him and meant it. The last he can remember is Pierce, and that wasn't like this; something in him knows Rogers means every word. And that maybe it isn't just about keeping a very good weapon at hand and in good working condition, though he thinks he means that to. That if someone were to try and interrupt them, Rogers might tear them apart - or the asset will, because Rogers may just drive them off. No one interferes.

The asset remembers - barely- to let his grip up before he cracks bone, but it's to curl upwards into the grip that's just shy of hurting. It's fast, it's so good, it's dragging these low, feral moans as this pressure builds and builds, Rogers wants him to leg go, the asset should trust him, so he will- he's--

He snaps upwards, teeth bared in a hitched snarl as he starts to spurt into his fingers and along his cock, oh yes, oh thank you, thank you. He's not even done coming before he's surging upwards as much as he can to latch his lips onto the side of Roger's neck, sucking and biting.

If his head wasn't so completely gone with with the heat scent he would have paid far more attention to the dark brown nipples that peaked so attractively with just just a few passes of fingers. He would lavish them with plenty of attention using lips, tongue and teeth. It feels like his head was stuck in a constant fog with the way Bucky's scent clogs his nose and when Bucky's legs spreads open for him he moves into place between them without hesitation.

The first instinct Steve has on seeing the arched necked offered to him was to bite down and suck on it, to leave his mark on Bucky. And he wants to, he wants to so much, he wants to leave tangible visible marks there,even as temporary as the marks will be given Bucky's apparent healing abilities, as proof that that they are both still alive, both still here, despite everything that has happened. He forces it back down however, he does not have permission and it means nothing if he doesn't have permission, instead keeping to light sweeps of tongue and mouth. He meant every word of what he said however, he's got Bucky and will always have Bucky's back, for this and for anything and everything else.

Until the end of the line.

Bucky's whine is met with a low moan of pleasure as Steve's hand continues to move over their cocks, helped along by the precome from both of their cocks. There was no real technique in it, Steve was too far gone into heat for that, not to mention he wasn't the most experienced anyway, simply doing what feels good. When he feels the warm liquid splashing onto his fingers he continues stroke with the same intensity and pace through Bucky's orgasm, chasing desperately after his own pleasure. The feeling of lips latching on the his neck, sucking and biting, marking him, was the last straw and Steve comes with a shout over their stomachs, his vision whiting out for a moment. He collapses and lets go, with only enough presence of mind left to make sure not to drop his entire weight directly on Bucky.

In Heat/In Rut Meme

tell me if this doesn't work, 22 + 30, post TWS

(works for me!)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Sorry! Accidentally pressed submit before I finished

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)