Chapter 10: Unraveling
The raw, slapping rhythm of skin against skin was the only sound for several brutal, exquisite seconds. Tripp’s moans were muffled against his own arm, his body shuddering with each deep, driving thrust.
Dante leaned over him, his voice a hot, ragged breath against Tripp’s ear. “This what you want? To be fucked out?”
Tripp could only manage a strangled groan, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick wood of the desk. He was nodding, a frantic, helpless motion. Dante was hitting something inside him with perfect, devastating accuracy, a spot that sent electric jolts of pure pleasure radiating through his core with every plunge.
Dante realized it. He pulled his head back slightly, his hips never faltering in their punishing pace. “I asked you a question, Captain.”
“Y-yes,” Tripp managed to gasp, the word torn from him. “Fuck, yes.”
Dante took it, a low rumble of satisfaction in his chest. His thrusts became more focused, a precise, brutal targeting. “Hitting that spot for you, huh?”
“Mhm,” Tripp whined, a high, desperate sound. He was melting, dissolving into the sensation.
Bucky was stunned. The heat in his own gut was a live wire, his arousal a painful, pressing reality confined by his uniform trousers. He’d never seen anything so graphically, unapologetically hot. The sheer amount of pleasure contorting Tripp’s face, the way his body willingly took every ounce of Dante’s ruthless strength—it was terrifying and mesmerizing. Dante was a machine, a sexual predator, and it was the sexiest thing Bucky had ever witnessed. Nobody saw him. Not Dante, lost in the sweat-slicked expanse of Tripp’s back. Not Tripp, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. Nobody.
And Dante’s sounds—those were even hotter. The guttural groans that escaped his clenched teeth, the sharp, hissed curses. They were unvarnished and real, a symphony of need that Bucky felt in his own bones.
Abruptly, Dante slowed. He didn’t pull out, but the deep, rocking drives became a slow, almost teasing grind. Tripp whined in protest, a pathetic, needy sound. “Fuck yourself on it,” Dante commanded, his voice dark and rough.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Tripp obeyed. He pushed back, fucking himself on Dante’s still-deeply buried cock, taking him in with eager, rolling motions of his hips. He didn’t hold back. He chased his own pleasure with a shameless desperation that made Bucky’s mouth go dry.
“Fuck,” Dante moaned, his head thrown back slightly, the cords of his neck standing taut. He let Tripp use him, his big hands gripping Tripp’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, his own control visibly fraying as he watched.
After a while of this, of Tripp’s frantic, sloppy motions, Dante took over again. He snapped his hips forward, resuming that deep, perfect angle. He started fucking him again, hitting that same spot with unerring force.
“Jesu—“ Tripp started, his voice breaking into a sob. “Oh my fucking god, don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”
A wicked smile touched Dante’s lips, visible even in profile to Bucky. His voice was low, breathless, and impossibly sexy. “That the spot, Cap? Feels really good, doesn’t it?”
“F-f-fuck,” Tripp stuttered out, trembling violently. “Fucking, god, yes,” he spat out, drool slick on the desk.
Dante kept going. His pace became relentless, a final, sustained assault. Tripp’s cries pitched higher, lost to sense, just animal sounds of impending release. His body tightened, coiled, and then he came with a shattered yell, his spend striping the floorboards beneath the desk. The intense, rhythmic clenching of his body around Dante’s cock was the final trigger.
Dante drove into him one last, deep time and held there, his own roar muffled against Tripp’s shoulder. Bucky watched, breathless, as Dante finished, his whole massive frame shuddering through the orgasm, his knuckles white where they gripped Tripp.
Bucky was even more turned on, painfully so, his mind blank of everything but the image. Dante’s sound when he finished—a deep, gut-level surrender. The way he stood afterwards, hips still pressed flush, head bowed, trying to catch his breath. The sweat glistening on the scars of his back. It was so fucking hot.
Nobody saw him.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing in the quiet room. Dante finally pulled out, a soft, wet sound. He straightened up with a wince, running a hand through his disheveled hair. Tripp stayed slumped over the desk, spent.
“Christ, Marcus,” Tripp panted, a laugh in his voice. “You trying to kill me?”
“You asked for it,” Dante said, his voice already regaining some of its usual gravelly composure. He grabbed a towel from his footlocker, tossing it to Tripp. “Clean up. You’re a mess.”
It was the casual domesticity of it that finally broke the spell for Bucky. The intimacy of the aftermath was worse than the act itself. This was routine. This was known. This was what Dante did, who he was, with someone else.
A cold dread washed over the heat, leaving him hollow and shaking. He had to move. Now.
He stepped back from the door, his boot scraping faintly on the gravel path.
Inside the room, Dante went rigid. His head snapped up, his eyes, still dark with aftermath, laser-focused on the door. “You hear that?” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Tripp, wiping himself with the towel, frowned. “Hear what?”
Dante was already moving, pulling his trousers up with swift, efficient motions. He didn’t bother with his shirt. He strode to the door and yanked it open.
The path was empty. The afternoon sun dappled through the trees. But Dante’s eyes swept the ground, the line of shrubs, the side of the depot. He saw the fresh scuff in the gravel by the doorframe. He saw the depressions in the soft earth behind the oak tree—boot prints, too fresh to be anything but minutes old.
His blood went cold. Then it ignited into a quiet, furious fire.
He turned back to the room. “Get dressed. Get out.”
Tripp, sensing the seismic shift in the atmosphere, didn’t argue. He dressed in silence, giving Dante a wide berth. Dante stood by the door, shirtless, his chest still rising and falling just a bit too fast, his mind working with a cold, tactical clarity. He knew those boot prints. He knew the size, the make. He’d inspected them on the obstacle course a dozen times.
Barnes.
Bucky ran. Not toward the barracks, but blindly, his lungs burning, the image of Dante’s climax and the subsequent cold fury on his face warring in his mind. He ended up in the supply corridor near the motor pool, a dim, narrow passage smelling of grease and old canvas. He slid down the wall, hiding behind a stack of oil drums, drawing his knees up to his chest. He was trembling. He’d done something irrevocable. He’d seen the Colonel’s naked truth, and it was a truth that could end Dante’s career, his life. And Dante knew.
The heavy, deliberate tread of boots echoed in the corridor.
Bucky froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. He didn’t dare peek.
The footsteps stopped. A shadow fell across him.
He looked up.
Dante Marcus stood there, fully dressed now, his shirt buttoned, his hair hastily pushed back. His expression was unreadable, a mask of granite. But his icy blue eyes were alive with a storm—anger, betrayal, and something else, something dangerous and hot.
He didn’t say a word. He just stared down at Bucky, who was curled like a child against the drums.
Bucky’s mouth worked. No sound came out. The confession, the apology, the desperate explanation, all died in his throat.
Dante took one step closer. The proximity was overwhelming. Bucky could smell him—sex, sweat, gun oil, and that unique, sharp scent that was just Dante.
“Colonel, I—” Bucky finally choked out.
“Shut up.” Dante’s voice was low, perfectly controlled, and it cut through the air like a knife. He crouched down, bringing them to eye level. The move was not gentle. It was predatory. “What did you see?”
Bucky’s breath hitched. He couldn’t lie.
He couldn’t lie. The truth was a physical pressure behind his eyes, in the tight coil of his stomach. He opened his mouth, a silent confession shaping itself on his tongue.
“Get up,” Dante said.
The voice was flat, devoid of the heat from the barracks or the ragged need from minutes before. It was pure command. Bucky hesitated, his limbs locked with fear and a shameful, lingering thrill.
“Barnes, get up,” Dante said again, each word a chisel strike.
Bucky moved. His muscles protested, stiff and cold from crouching. He pushed himself up the oil-drum, his uniform gritty against the metal. Dante didn’t wait. The moment Bucky was vertical, Dante’s hand shot out and closed like a steel manacle around his wrist. The grip was crushing. He dragged Bucky forward, not toward the barracks, but back down the path, away from prying eyes.
Bucky stumbled, his boots skidding on the gravel. Dante didn’t slow. He marched him past the empty obstacle course, past the silent depot, straight to the officers’ station. The same building. The same door. Dante shoved it open and thrust Bucky inside, following him in and kicking the door shut with a final, echoing crack.
The room was empty. Tripp was already gone. The only evidence was the faint, musky scent in the air and the disturbed papers on the desk.
Dante released his wrist, and Bucky stumbled a step, cradling the aching joint. The Colonel positioned himself between Bucky and the door, a barrier of furious intent. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Barnes. What the fuck did you see?”
Bucky’s mouth was desert-dry. He tried to speak, but his vocal cords refused to obey. He felt even worse because he wasn’t scared of Dante right now. Not in the way he should be. The image that flooded his mind wasn’t of punishment or court-martial. It was of Dante, sweat-slicked and powerful, fucking him over that same desk with the same brutal, focused intensity. The thought was a lightning bolt of pure, wanton heat.
“Barnes, if you fucking saw that, you can’t say a fucking word,” Dante pressed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. He took a step closer. Bucky was looking at him, really looking, at the furious line of his jaw, the pulse beating in his throat.
“I-I won’t,” Bucky whispered. He felt his face turn red, a hot, betraying flush that crept from his neck to his hairline.
Dante examined him for the lie, his icy eyes scanning every micro-expression. To Dante’s surprise, something else caught his attention. His gaze, trained to notice the slightest detail in a recruit’s posture, flicked down. Bucky’s uniform trousers, tight across the front, tented obscenely. He was hard. The bulge was unmistakable, a blatant, physical confession.
Then every piece clicked for Dante. The nervous energy Bucky radiated around him, a frequency Dante had mistaken for standard recruit anxiety. The way Bucky’s hands would shake when handing him a report. The stutter that invaded his voice only when he responded to a direct question. The perpetual redness in his face, that wasn’t just sun or exertion. Bucky liked him. He’d just now fully seen it.
Bucky noticed Dante notice. His eyes went wide with horror. “I-I,” he started, the words tangling. “Fuck, Colonel—“ He was struggling to speak, drowning in humiliation. “I-I’m sorry.”
Dante stared at him, the storm in his eyes shifting, calcifying into something new and calculating. The outright fury banked, replaced by a predatory curiosity. “Something else on your mind, Barnes?” he asked, and that low, rough timbre was partially back, the one he’d used with Tripp.
Bucky felt hotter, his skin prickling. “N-no, sir.”
Dante moved closer, not fully closing the distance, but shrinking the world to just the two of them in the humid, sex-scented room. “You sure?” The question was a soft probe. “The red face? Nothing, right? Or the way you get shaky? Or the stutter when you speak to me?”
Bucky shook his head, a weak, denying motion. He couldn’t look away from Dante’s mouth.
“What about that?” Dante said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. He nodded, a slight jerk of his chin, toward the undeniable erection straining against Bucky’s trousers.
Bucky couldn’t respond. A strangled sound died in his throat.
A slow, knowing smile touched Dante’s lips. It wasn’t friendly. It was discovery. It was advantage. “You got a crush on me, Barnes?”
Bucky didn’t even look him in the eyes. He stared at the hollow of Dante’s throat. “N-no, sir.”
Dante closed the final step. He put his hand under Bucky’s jaw, his calloused fingers rough against the smooth skin. He lifted Bucky’s face, forcing eye contact. The touch was electric, sending a jolt straight through Bucky’s core. “No?”
Bucky swallowed. The denial crumbled under the physical contact, under the weight of that knowing gaze. “No… I don’t know… I’ve never… It’s different with you… I don’t know why…” The admission tumbled out, raw and unpolished.
Dante was still holding his face, his thumb brushing the line of Bucky’s jaw. The anger was gone, fully transformed now into something else entirely. His eyes were dark, intent. “Need help figuring it out?”
Bucky looked stunned. His mind went blank, wiped clean by the implication. He just shook his head yes, a tiny, desperate motion, praying that meant what he thought it meant.
Dante leaned in and kissed him.
It was nothing like Bucky imagined. It wasn’t gentle or questioning. It was firm, possessive, a searing brand of a kiss that stole his breath. Dante’s lips were surprisingly soft, but the intent behind them was absolute. He pulled back after a few seconds, searching Bucky’s face. “Thoughts?” he asked, his voice a gravelly murmur.
Bucky’s lips tingled. The world had narrowed to that point of contact. “I liked it,” he admitted, the truth simpler than anything else he could say.
Dante smiled again, a real one this time, a flash of white in his stern face. He kissed him again, deeper. He parted Bucky’s lips with his own, his tongue sweeping in to claim his mouth. At the same time, his free hand slid down Bucky’s side, over his hip, and palmed the hard curve of his ass through the rough fabric, pulling him flush. Bucky groaned into the kiss, his hands coming up to clutch desperately at Dante’s shirt. Dante pulled back, breathing a little harder. “That?”
“Mhm,” Bucky managed, a delirious hum of affirmation.
Dante didn’t ask again. He kissed him a third time, and this time, it grew hungry quick. There was no more hesitation, no more analysis. It was all heat and need. Bucky kissed him back, his inexperience lost in a surge of instinct, his tongue tangling with Dante’s. Their hands moved over each other, learning the terrain. Bucky fumbled with the buttons of Dante’s shirt, his fingers clumsy. Dante’s own hands were everywhere—mapping the planes of Bucky’s back, sliding up under his uniform shirt to feel the hot skin of his waist, gripping the nape of his neck to angle his head for a deeper, wetter kiss.
They stumbled back against the wall beside the desk, the same wall Tripp had braced against. The impact shook a loose paper to the floor. Dante pinned him there, his big body crowding Bucky’s, his thigh sliding between Bucky’s legs to press against his aching erection. Bucky cried out, a broken, shameless sound, and ground down against the hard muscle, his head falling back against the wood with a thud.
The friction was exquisite, a rough, desperate grind that made Bucky’s vision blur. Dante’s mouth was on his throat, biting and licking a path to his collarbone. Bucky’s fingers finally found purchase, tearing the last buttons of Dante’s shirt open to reveal the scarred, tattooed expanse of his chest. He dug his nails in, dragging them over the dark ink, and Dante growled approval into his skin.
Dante pulled back for a second, his breathing ragged. “Safe to say you haven’t been with a man before, right?”
Bucky, dazed and burning, shook his head. The motion felt clumsy, too big for his body.
“You want this?” Dante asked, his voice that low, breathless, sexy tone Bucky had enjoyed moments ago. It wasn’t a command. It was a dark, thrilling offer.
“Y-yes, sir,” Bucky managed, the honorific slipping out, laden with a new, filthy weight.
Dante smiled, a flash of pure heat, then crashed his mouth into Bucky’s again. This kiss was consuming, all tongue and teeth and shared, panting breaths. Bucky moaned into it, his hips still working against Dante’s thigh, chasing the sensation mindlessly. Dante’s hands were on his belt, the brass buckle clinking as it came undone with practiced ease.
A little while later Dante broke the kiss. He went down on his knees, the sight so profoundly shocking Bucky almost forgot how to breathe. He pulled Bucky’s pants and boxers down in one rough yank, exposing him fully to the cool, dusty air of the room.
“You want me to stop, any time, I stop,” Dante said, looking up at him. His blue eyes were dark, his expression intense but open, waiting.
Bucky, his cock aching and exposed, just nodded. Words were beyond him.
Dante examined him one final time, a slow, appreciative look that made Bucky’s skin flush hotter. Then he took Bucky’s dick into his mouth.
Bucky was big. Dante was skilled.
He swallowed him down to the root in one smooth, breathtaking motion, his throat working around the head. Bucky shouted, a raw, startled sound that echoed off the barracks walls. Dante’s mouth was a wet, tight, impossible heat. He worked Bucky phenomenally, with a ruthless, knowing expertise. He used his tongue, his lips, the perfect suction of his cheeks. He pulled back to lick and nibble at the sensitive underside, then dove deep again, setting a relentless rhythm.
Bucky never had head this good. He’d never imagined it could feel like this—like his nerves were being stripped bare and set on fire. He tangled one hand in Dante’s dark, disheveled hair, not guiding, just holding on as his knees threatened to buckle. “Oh, fuck… Christ, sir…”
Dante hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight up his spine. He picked up the pace, one hand cupping and gently squeezing Bucky’s balls, the other gripping his hip hard enough to leave marks. Bucky’s breath came in ragged gasps. The coil in his gut wound tighter, a screaming pressure. He was already close, too close, humiliatingly fast.
Dante pulled back and stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Bucky whimpered at the loss. “You want me to fuck you?” he asked Bucky, his voice wrecked and gorgeous.
“Please,” Bucky begged, his own voice a broken thing. “Fucking, oh my god, please.”
Dante guided him to the cot, his hands firm. He bent Bucky over the thin mattress, the rough wool blanket scratching his forearms. Dante got behind him. Bucky heard the rustle of clothing, the sound of a cap twisting open. Cold, slick fingers probed him, one pressing inside without preamble. Bucky tensed, a sharp gasp caught in his throat.
“Breathe out,” Dante commanded softly. Bucky obeyed, and the finger slid deeper, a strange, full intrusion. Dante worked him open with a clinical efficiency that was somehow tender, adding a second finger, scissoring them, stretching him. The burn was sharp, then it faded into a dull, insistent pressure. Then Dante’s thumb brushed a spot inside him that made his whole body jerk.
“Any time, I stop. Slower, I’ll slow down. Harder, I’ll be harder. Anything you want, just tell me,” Dante said, his voice a low rumble close to Bucky’s ear.
Then he fucked him.
The blunt, immense pressure of Dante’s cock pushing into him stole the air from Bucky’s lungs. It was a slow, inexorable invasion, a breathtaking fullness that bordered on pain. Dante didn’t stop until he was fully seated, his hips flush against Bucky’s ass, his body a solid, trembling weight atop him.
“Jesus,” Bucky choked out, his fingers clawing at the blanket.
“Okay?” Dante gritted out, holding perfectly still.
Bucky nodded, his face pressed into the cot. “Yeah. Just… fuck.”
Dante pulled back and pushed in again, a slow, deep slide that made Bucky see stars. It was just as good as with Tripp. Maybe better, because the sounds Dante made were closer, hotter, whispered directly into the sweat-damp skin of Bucky’s shoulder. Dante checked on him here and there, his voice a rough scrape. “Too much?”
“No,” Bucky panted. “More.”
Dante gave him more, his thrusts gaining speed, finding a rhythm that made the cot frame squeak in protest. He asked him things like he did to Tripp. “You like this, recruit? Taking my cock?”
Bucky loved it. The filthy words, the ownership in them, made his own neglected dick jerk between his legs. When Bucky didn’t answer, lost in the sensation, Dante pulled his hair or slowed down, a punishing tease. Bucky loved that, too. The control. The certainty.
“Tell me,” Dante demanded, snapping his hips.
“I like it,” Bucky gasped. “Fuck, I like it, sir.”
“Beg for it.”
“Please. Please, fuck me harder. Please.”
Dante did. His pace became punishing, a brutal, driving piston that shoved Bucky up the cot with every thrust. The sounds were obscene—wet, slapping flesh, the creak of the bed, their mingled grunts and moans. Then Dante shifted his angle, just slightly.
He started hitting Bucky’s G-spot.
Bucky didn’t even know it existed. It was amazing. A bolt of pure, electric pleasure exploded from that deep, internal point with every drive. He moaned differently than he had this entire time, a higher, shattered sound he didn’t recognize as his own.
Dante noticed. He leaned over, blanketing Bucky’s back, his voice hot and smug against his ear. “That the right spot, soldier? You like that?”
“Fuck, yes,” Bucky sobbed, pushing back frantically to meet each thrust. “Yes, sir!”
Dante kept going, nailing that perfect place with unerring accuracy. The pleasure was a tidal wave, building, cresting, threatening to drown him. Bucky’s own cock was leaking, slapping against his stomach with each impact. He’d never felt so full, so owned, so completely wrecked and remade.
“Gonna come,” he warned, the words slurred.
“Come on my cock,” Dante ordered, his rhythm becoming frantic, losing its military precision. “Do it.”
The command, the relentless assault on that sweet spot, the sheer overwhelming reality of Dante Marcus fucking him—it was all too much. Bucky’s orgasm tore through him with violent, silent intensity. He came in hot, pulsing stripes across the blanket beneath him, his body clamping down on Dante’s cock in rhythmic, milking spasms.
The tight, fluttering clutch was all Dante needed. With a final, deep plunge and a raw, guttural shout that was all Bucky’s name, Dante followed him over, his own release flooding hot inside him. He collapsed his full weight onto Bucky for a moment, both of them slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, shattered unison.
The world slowly seeped back in: the smell of sex and dust, the rough wool against Bucky’s cheek, the heavy, satisfying weight on his back. Dante softened inside him and slowly pulled out. The loss felt profound. Bucky didn’t move, afraid to break whatever this was.
Dante rolled off and lay beside him on the narrow cot, staring at the ceiling. His breathing gradually evened. For a long minute, there was only silence, thick and loaded.
Then Dante spoke, his voice flat, all the heat gone. “This never happened.”