Chapter 11: Rough Inventory
The week stretched like barbed wire. Every dawn inspection, every drill, every choked-down meal in the mess hall was a study in agonizing proximity. Bucky moved through the routines in a daze, his body performing the motions while his mind replayed the same filthy, glorious reel on a loop: the sound of the cot protesting, the bite of Dante’s fingers on his hip, the searing fullness, the way Dante’s command had unraveled into that raw, surrendering shout.
It was all he could think about. It was a sinkhole in the center of his world, swallowing every other thought. He’d catch the sharp, clean scent of bay oil and his knees would go weak. He’d see Dante’s broad back across the parade ground and his mouth would go dry. He was fucking useless, a liability, and he didn’t even care. The memory was a live wire in his gut, sparking and dangerous.
Dante saw it. Of course he saw it.
He watched Barnes move through the obstacle course on Thursday, his usual fluid grace replaced by a clumsy, distracted hesitation. He saw him stare blankly at his mess kit during dinner on Friday, pushing food around with his fork, untouched. On Saturday, during close-order drill, Bucky turned left when the order was right, causing a minor collision that earned him a venomous glare from Sergeant Hodge.
Dante’s own thoughts were no cleaner. The kid’s taste, the shocked, open-mouthed sounds he’d made, the desperate way he’d pushed back onto him—it invaded Dante’s discipline like a weed through cracks in concrete. He’d fucked recruits before. It was a transaction, a release of pressure, a secret understood in glances and the silent language of barracks after dark. He controlled it. He ended it.
This felt different. The memory had teeth. It gnawed at him during briefings, in the quiet of his quarters, in the slow minutes before sleep. Barnes’s stunned, reverent face hovered behind his eyelids. The kid hadn’t just taken it; he’d worshipped it, with a raw hunger that was entirely new and utterly disarming. It was a vulnerability, a loose thread Dante couldn’t stop pulling.
On Monday, after a particularly sloppy exhibition on the rifle range where Bucky’s grouping looked like buckshot, Dante had enough.
“Barnes,” his voice cut through the post-drill chatter like a blade. The unit was dispersing, heading for the showers. Bucky froze, his back rigid. “My office. Now.”
A few of the other recruits shot Bucky looks of pity. Hodge smirked, the expression saying clear as day: Finally caught up to you, pretty boy.
Bucky’s heart wasn’t just pounding; it was trying to escape his ribcage. This was it. The reckoning. The ‘this never happened’ was about to become a court-martial. He followed Dante’s retreating back across the compound, the weight of his own dread like a sandbag on his shoulders.
But Dante didn’t go to the officer’s station. He veered left, towards the low-slung utility buildings. The supply depot. He didn’t look back, assuming obedience. Bucky followed, confusion tangling with his fear.
Dante unlocked a side door marked ‘CUSTODIAL – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY’ and shoved it open, gesturing Bucky inside with a sharp jerk of his chin. The door shut behind them with a heavy, final clang, plunging them into near-darkness.
It was a different closet than before. Smaller. Cramped. The air was thick with the smell of old mops, mildew, and the coppery scent of pipes. A single, fly-specked fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, casting jumpy shadows on walls lined with metal shelves crammed with brooms, buckets, and cans of solvent. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic thud of boots on concrete from a distant drill yard, a ghostly heartbeat through the walls.
Dante didn’t turn on another light. He just leaned against a shelf, arms crossed, his face half in shadow. The flickering light carved the planes of his face into something severe and ancient.
“You’re a fucking wreck, Barnes.”
Bucky stood at attention, eyes fixed on a rust stain on the wall behind Dante’s head. “Sir. I apologize for my performance, sir.”
“Cut the shit.” Dante’s voice was low, flat, devoid of its usual parade-ground bark. It was more dangerous for it. “This isn’t about your performance. It’s about you walking around here like a ghost who just got his dick sucked. Which, incidentally, you did.”
Bucky flinched. The crudity, spoken here in this dank closet, was a shock. He said nothing.
Dante pushed off the shelf, his bulk making the small space feel microscopic. He took a step closer.
He took a step closer. The shelf bit into Bucky’s spine. Dante’s scent—starch, gun metal, and that underlying, uniquely sharp sweat—flooded Bucky’s senses, wiping his mind blank.
“You look at me during drills like I’m a glass of water in hell.” Dante’s voice was a gravelly whisper, his icy eyes tracing the frantic jump in Bucky’s throat. “You think I don’t see it? That fucking hungry look?”
“I don’t—" Bucky started, the denial automatic, brittle.
It died in his throat. Dante was so close now Bucky could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the dark fringe of his lashes, the pale scar bisecting his left eyebrow. His mouth watered. His cock, already half-hard from a week of torturous memory, thickened painfully against his uniform trousers. He tried to form another word, a defense, anything.
Nothing came out. A helpless, wanting noise escaped him instead. He wanted Dante’s hands on him again, wanted that brutal ownership, wanted to feel split open and claimed. It was a terrifying, single-minded craving that burned through every ounce of his pride.
“You want more, don’t you?” Dante said. It wasn’t a question. It was a diagnosis.
Bucky just nodded, a sharp, ashamed jerk of his chin. His cheeks burned.
Dante’s smile was a cold, victorious slash. Then he moved.
He closed the gap in a blur of controlled violence. His hand fisted in Bucky’s hair, yanking his head back, and he slammed him into the metal shelving with a crash that sent a bucket clattering to the floor. Before Bucky could gasp, Dante’s mouth was on his neck, not a kiss but a savage bite, teeth breaking skin. A sharp, bright pain lanced through Bucky, mixing with the dizzying rush of submission.
“Fuck,” Bucky choked out.
Dante’s other hand wrenched at his uniform trousers, the buttons giving way with sharp pops. Cool air hit Bucky’s skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of Dante’s palm roughly shoving his shorts down. His hard cock sprang free, aching and flushed.
“You’ve been begging for this all week, recruit,” Dante growled against his throat, the vibration buzzing in Bucky’s bones. He released Bucky’s hair and dropped to his knees.
Bucky’s vision swam. He looked down to see Dante, a Colonel in the United States Army, on his knees in a filthy closet. The surreal image shattered as Dante’s mouth, wet and impossibly hot, swallowed him down to the root in one brutal, expert motion.
“Christ!” Bucky shouted, his head cracking back against the shelf. The sensation was overwhelming—slick, tight, consuming heat. Dante worked him without hesitation, a ruthless, rhythmic suction that pulled a litany of filth from Bucky’s lips. “Oh, fuck, sir… just like that… your mouth is so fucking good.”
Dante pulled off with a wet sound, looking up. His lips were slick, his eyes dark. “You’re desperate for it.” He spat onto his own fingers, the sound crude and obscene in the quiet. Then his hand slid down, past Bucky’s balls, and pressed.
The first finger pushed inside, a blunt, burning intrusion. Bucky gasped, his muscles clamping down. “Tight,” Dante muttered, working it in to the knuckle, a slow, relentless corkscrew. He didn’t wait, adding a second, the stretch burning gloriously. Bucky was panting, sweat beading on his temples, each rough thrust of Dante’s fingers sparking a confused riot of pleasure-pain.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Bucky heard himself moan, pushing back onto the invading digits. He was cursing constantly now, a whispered, filthy stream. “Yeah, fuck, right there… you’re gonna ruin me…”
Dante scissored his fingers, the burn sharpening, then added a third. The stretch was immense, a filling, aching pressure. Dante twisted them, searching, and then—
“There!” Bucky cried out, his whole body jolting as Dante’s fingers jammed against that perfect, electric spot deep inside him. Pleasure, white-hot and devastating, shot up his spine. Dante didn’t relent, pounding his prostate with ruthless precision, his other hand still working Bucky’s leaking cock.
The double assault was too much. Bucky’s hips stuttered. A torn, ragged sound was ripped from his chest. “I’m gonna… Colonel, I’m—”
Dante took him back into his mouth, swallowing him down just as the orgasm exploded. Bucky came with a shattered cry, pulsing hard down Dante’s throat, his vision whiting out at the edges as Dante milked him through it, sucking hard, swallowing every drop.
Bucky slumped, boneless and spent, against the shelves. Dante stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked utterly composed, except for the wild hunger in his eyes and the formidable bulge straining his own trousers.
“We’re not done, Barnes.”
He manhandled Bucky around, spinning him to face the shelves. Bucky’s cheek pressed against cold metal, his spent body thrumming with oversensitivity. He heard the rasp of Dante’s zipper, the rustle of fabric.
Dante’s cock, thick and heavy, pressed against him. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and guided the head to Bucky’s loosened, trembling entrance. He didn’t ask. He just pushed.
The breach was smoother this time, but deeper, fuller. Dante was bigger than his fingers. Much bigger. Bucky whimpered as he was filled, an inch at a time, the incredible stretch burning away the last remnants of his coherence.
“Yeah,” Dante grunted, his hands clenching Bucky’s hips, his body flush against Bucky’s back. “Take it.”
Then he fucked him. Harder than before. There was no finesse, no gentle rhythm. It was pure, driving piston-strokes, each one hammering into that devastating spot with brutal accuracy. The shelves rattled with every thrust. Bucky’s moans were punched out of him, loud and unabashed.
“Fuck! Harder! God, yes, right there, fucking ruin me, sir!” Bucky babbled, the words slurry with pleasure. He was hard again, achingly so, his cock slapping against his stomach with each brutal impact. He loved it. He loved the pain, the possession, the sheer animal fucking of it. He loved the smell of their sweat, the sound of skin slapping skin, the guttural sounds torn from Dante’s throat above him.
He loved the smell of their sweat, the sound of skin slapping skin, the guttural sounds torn from Dante’s throat above him.
“You like this, kid?” Dante’s voice was a ragged thing, torn between a command and a groan. He didn’t slow, each deep drive punching the air from Bucky’s lungs. “This what you’ve been thinking about? Humping your bunk at night, pretending it’s this?”
“Yes!” Bucky gasped, the admission ripped from him. His forehead slid against the cold metal. “Yes, god, fuck, I thought about… I thought about your cock.”
“You thought about my cock.” Dante repeated, the words thick with a dark, approving pleasure. He shifted his angle, grinding deeper, and Bucky saw stars. “Say it clearer. What did you want it to do?”
Bucky’s mind fragmented. “Wanted it in me,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “Just like this. Wanted you to fuck me stupid again, make me feel… owned.”
“Owned.” Dante breathed the word like a prayer. One hand snaked around Bucky’s torso, calloused fingers digging into the muscle of his chest, pinning him. The other hand gripped his jaw, forcing his head to the side. Dante’s breath was hot against his ear. “You are. Look at you. My good little wreck.”
The praise, filthy and possessive, detonated something low in Bucky’s gut. A fresh, desperate heat coiled tight. His cock, trapped between his stomach and the shelf, leaked steadily. “Please,” he whimpered, the word mangled by the hand on his face.
“Please what?” Dante’s hips snapped forward, a particularly vicious thrust that made Bucky cry out. “You gotta ask for it, Barnes. You gotta beg for what you need.”
Bucky was so close. The pressure was a live wire, sparking from the relentless assault inside him to the tip of his aching cock. He was trembling, sweat stinging his eyes. He was nothing but a vessel for this feeling, reduced to a single, screaming need.
“Make me come,” Bucky begged, the words slick and shameless. “Please, Colonel, sir… Dante… fuck, just make me come on your cock. I need it. Need to come for you.”
Dante’s rhythm broke into something faster, messier, perfectly brutal. The hand on Bucky’s chest slid down, rough fingers wrapping around his slick length. He didn’t stroke with finesse. He just matched the pounding pace of his hips, a tight, ruthless fist.
It was too much. The dual sensation of being filled and gripped short-circuited everything.
Bucky’s orgasm slammed into him without warning. It wasn’t a wave; it was a detonation. A raw, silent scream locked in his throat as his body seized. Thick stripes of cum shot from him, painting the metal shelf in front of him, his muscles clamping down viscously around Dante’s shaft in erratic, milking pulses.
Dante groaned, a deep, shattered sound. “Fuck. That’s it. Squeeze me just like that.”
He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow. As Bucky shuddered through the last waves, oversensitive and blissed-out, Dante kept fucking him. The thrusts changed, losing some of their punishing force but gaining a deeper, more possessive rhythm. He was sheathed fully, grinding into the clenching heat.
“You feel that?” Dante muttered, his own control fraying. His voice was thick, almost conversational. “Feel how deep I am? I’m not done.”
Bucky could only whimper, oversensation blurring into a new, dazed pleasure. Dante was still rock-hard inside him, moving with a deliberate, rolling cadence. He gave him a dozen more thrusts, maybe fifteen, each one a languid, complete possession. The wet sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet closet.
Then Dante’s rhythm fractured. His whole body stiffened, a tremor running through him. A low, torn growl escaped his lips as he pushed in one final, deep time and held. Bucky felt the hot, sudden flood inside him, a pulsing release that seemed to go on and on. Dante’s hips gave tiny, involuntary jerks, emptying himself completely.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the drip of something from the shelf.
Dante’s weight settled against him, heavy and real. He was still inside him, softening now. His forehead dropped to Bucky’s sweat-damp shoulder. His breathing slowed from a gallop to a labored walk.
The world, with all its rules and consequences, began to bleed back in at the edges of Bucky’s awareness. The metal was cold. His knees ached. The smell of sex and mildew was overwhelming. Dante’s dog tags were a cold brand against his spine.
Slowly, Dante pulled out. The sensation was intimate, leaving Bucky feeling hollow and marked. Dante fastened his own trousers with efficient, taciturn movements. He didn’t look at Bucky.
He tossed a rag from a nearby shelf at him. It smelled of solvent.
“Clean yourself up,” Dante said, his voice now flat, the command returning. It was the Colonel’s voice again. The one from the parade ground. “You have five minutes. Then you report to the mess. You will look normal.”
Bucky caught the rag, his hands unsteady. He nodded, unable to speak. He could feel Dante’s spend leaking down the inside of his thigh.
Dante paused at the door, his hand on the knob. He didn’t turn around. “And Barnes?”
“Sir?”
“Next time you walk around here looking at me like that,” Dante said, the words quiet and final, “I won’t wait a week.” He opened the door. A slash of harsh, real-world light cut into the dim closet, and then he was gone.
The door clicked shut, leaving Bucky alone with the smell and the silence and the profound, terrifying understanding that nothing would ever be normal again.