Rhys would love fucking you on the throne in the court of nightmares, or even cock warming while kier is droning on about something irrelevant
Maybe he takes you down to the court of nightmares before your first big appearance as high lady and helps you get comfortable sitting on the throne by bending you over the arm rest or kneeling before you and eating you out while you sit on the throne
Anon I wanna kiss your perfect brain because ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY !!!!
He’d forsure take you down to the court of nightmares before the first appearance as high lady of the night court. His hand skimming against the arm of the throne, a devilish smirk growing wide on his face. “Sit- get comfortable, darling”
Rhys would kneel in front of you, those violet specs of his swirling with a darkness of desire. Slapping your thighs apart so he could bury his thick tongue between your folds. Making sure that you’d cum a minimum of 3 times from his mouth alone before he’d absolutely destroy your perfect body on that throne.
Only you two knowing the amount of misbehaving you both had done on it.
And cockwarming??? Ohmygoddd—
Kier would be spitting out the most random nonsense while you’re sitting perched on Rhysands lap. Practically feeling the high lord rolling his eyes from annoyance and boredom. But one thing he knew was that he had specifically told you not to wear panties.
Your skimpy dress would be enough to hide the fact he was teasing his throbbing cock at your entrance. Slipping in, a whimper of a noise escaping your lips. Keir would cock a brow for a split second. Confused. But Rhys? He’d just smirk. Feeling your walls clench around his length. Knowing that when you two were done here he’d completely ravish you.
pairing: dark trucker!ari levinson x female reader
summary: you wake up alone for the first time since meeting your trucker, and it leads to an unexpected revelation about your relationship.
warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), brief dubcon, smut, piv sex, brief painful sex, unprotected sex, creampie, anal sex (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), sex toy, double penetration with a sex toy, rough sex, sadism/masochism, choking, breathplay, dacryphilia, painplay, face slapping, spitting/spit swallowing, finger sucking, biting, rough body play, rough breast/nipple play, brief food play, multiple orgasms, cock warming, pillow humping, scent kink, dirty talk, daddy kink, heavy degradation, some praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby, kiddo), possessive sex, possessive behavior, aftercare, controlling behavior, referenced abduction, referenced sex as payment, stockholm syndrome, a mean hot man—please please please let me know if i forgot to tag something!!!
word count: 14.2k
a/n: its been so long since i started writing this installment that i don't remember where the idea came from, but i think i wanted at least one more chapter about Ari and reader's relationship before the big finale where he takes her to see his friends. truthfully, i just don't want to finish this series because i love them so much, but i do think they needed to take this step before the ending. and i SWEAR the next update will be the finale (and the one where reader gets used by Lloyd and Curtis 🤭). anyway, i hope you enjoy this filth—with some surprisingly emotional relationship development!!
trucker king masterlist
Warm, dappled, late morning sunlight fell across your bare legs, which were twisted in well-worn sheets that felt like butter against your body. A deep, satisfied ache throbbed in your core while the rest of your limbs were loose and relaxed.
It was the perfect way to wake up, in your opinion, drifting lazily into the real world from the depths of sleep with a smile on your face, and a bone-deep knowledge that you were right where you belonged.
But, somewhere between sleeping and waking, you realized something: Something wasn’t right in your near-perfect world. Something was…missing.
Heaving a disgruntled little sigh, your hands went searching through the soft, tangled sheets and mussed blankets of the oversized bed, looking for the familiar warmth and weight of your trucker. But your seeking fingers came up empty, and the corners of your mouth tipped down into an unhappy frown when you realized what that meant.
Ari Levinson wasn’t where he was supposed to be—he wasn’t in bed with you.
You huffed a frustrated sound as you rolled onto Ari’s side of the bed, burying your face in one of his pillows and inhaled the musky, masculine scent that was all him. Your hands were still searching in vain for your trucker, because you had to be sure he wasn’t there, but refused to open your eyes just yet.
Another discontented noise slipped from your lips, muffled by the pillow, as you reached for him only to find nothing but cold sheets and empty air. The bed you shared with Ari at his cozy bungalow by the sea was large, especially compared to the bunk in his truck, but you knew before you raised your head and cracked an eye open that he wasn’t there.
For a moment, you were overwhelmed with yearning to be back in the cab of his truck, where there wasn’t as much space and Ari was always within reach. You’d taken it for granted that your trucker was always so afraid of you leaving that he never left you alone for long.
If there was one major difference about being in Ari’s home after he’d completed the long-haul route where he’d found you, it was the sheer amount of space the bungalow afforded. Even glancing around the modest-sized bedroom, which the two of you kept relatively neat despite all the clothes and things you’d begun to acquire since Ari brought you home, it seemed like more space than either of you really needed.
Closing your eyes again, sleep still tugging at the edges of your consciousness, you strained your ears for any sign of your trucker moving around in the bathroom attached to the bedroom, or the living room or kitchen beyond. But there was only silence, nothing to indicate where Ari was.
All of a sudden, a terrifying thought occurred to you: Was Ari…gone? Had he left you?
An inexplicable fear clenched in your stomach as you turned over, rolling toward the windows that overlooked the small backyard attached to Ari’s house. His pickup truck—the one he drove when he wasn’t steering a big rig around the country—wasn’t in the driveway or the detached garage.
The lazy weight of sleep cleared from your mind and body, quickly being replaced by panic and anxiety. Instinctively, your fingers lifted to your neck, and you breathed a sigh of relief when you felt one of your collars still circling your neck.
The chain was thin and delicate against your skin, but deceptively strong, unable to be broken without serious strength or tools. The heart-shaped pendant engraved with ‘Baby’ on the front, and ‘Property of Ari Levinson’ on the back, still rested in the hollow of your throat.
The collar looked like a normal necklace, but it had a locking mechanism that only Ari could unfasten. No one else could take it off—including you—and it was still on, which you took as a good sign.
Surely, if Ari had decided to leave you, he would’ve unlocked your collar first. Right?
Despite the reassurance you felt from the collar around your neck, a sense of unease still settled low in your stomach, making it churn. Something was off.
Ari very rarely left you alone, and when he did, he always chained you up first. In fact, the only time he’d gone out without you was when he’d taken the cab of his rig to be inspected by the company he worked for.
Before he’d left, Ari had looped your thick black leather collar around your throat and attached it to a chain tied to his bed, with enough slack for you to go to the bathroom if you needed. He’d left you with food and water and made the trek to the company’s inspection location on his own, since bringing you would’ve raised too many questions.
It was the longest the two of you had been apart since he’d picked you up off the side of the road—and you’d missed your trucker while he’d been gone. You’d happily accepted the collar and the chain and waited for him to return, because you’d known he would.
You knew how it would sound to someone else if you ever told anyone—you knew it was more than a little messed up, the lengths to which Ari went to make sure you stayed with him. But you’d asked for the collar, you’d consented to being locked up and chained to his bed while he was gone.
After a lifetime spent begging people to love you—even people like your parents, who were supposed to love you unconditionally—and clinging on to men who barely tolerated your existence until they finally got sick of you and dumped you from their lives (literally, in the case of your most recent ex), being with Ari was exactly what you needed.
It was what you wanted—a man who didn’t notice how needy or clingy you were because he was too busy clinging to you. He needed you just as much as you needed him, and he was so afraid of you leaving him that you never had to worry about him leaving you.
Even after all your time together, Ari was still worried you’d run. He was trying to get better about trusting you, and believing you actually wanted to stay with him, but it was taking time. Thankfully, you had plenty of patience, and a deep desire to prove you were nothing like the people who’d left you—or the ones who’d left him.
As far as you could tell, it had been going well. Since he’d brought you home, Ari had been getting better about letting you out of his sight. Sometimes he’d leave you to read in bed while he watched TV in the living room, or let you shower on your own while he cooked in the kitchen.
But those were small steps. Leaving you home alone without a chain keeping you there… You had to wonder if Ari had forgotten to chain you up.
But it was hard to believe Ari would forget such a thing. He wasn’t the type of man who’d care about waking you up to put your leather collar on, and he was possessive enough that it bordered on obsession. You couldn’t wrap your mind around the thought of your trucker forgetting to chain you up before leaving you on your own.
There was only one other explanation you could think of: It must’ve been a test. And if it was a test, it meant you could ace it—and you could show Ari that he could trust you enough to be there when he got back.
Still, you were curious about how much freedom he’d given you. You didn’t think your trucker would actually let you leave, and you were half-convinced he was hiding just outside the front door or around the corner in his truck, waiting for you to run.
You decided to poke around and find the limits of the false freedom Ari had given you.
Throwing on one of Ari’s flannel shirts, you padded through the bedroom door into the open plan living room and kitchen at the front of the house. Biting back a smile, you darted to the front door and quietly undid the bolt, then grabbed the handle.
Yanking the door open, you half expected Ari to be on the other side, waiting to pounce and haul you back inside. But when you whipped it open, prepared to surprise him and jump into your trucker’s thick arms, there was no one. Just the front porch of the bungalow, with its swinging bench and the many plants you’d accumulated since Ari brought you home.
A fissure of disappointment wormed through your gut, and your heart panged with longing—not for the world outside the bungalow, but for your trucker. It had been a long while since you’d woken up alone, since before he’d picked you up off the side of the road and didn’t let you go, and you decided, right then, you didn’t care for it.
Tentatively, still sure Ari was lying in wait for you, you stepped outside into the warm, spring sunlight. The chill of morning was still clinging to the smooth wooden boards beneath your bare feet, but the sun and the sultry breeze off the sea were ensuring it would be a beautiful day.
You took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of salt wafting in from the ocean, and let a smile settle on your lips. You really loved the place Ari called home, and you were glad you got to be there with him—that he’d let you make it your home as well.
Stooping down, you checked on some of your plants, still thinking Ari was probably watching you and waiting for you to run. But when he didn’t show, you shrugged to yourself. With one last look around the neighborhood, which had long since woken and settled into their day, you headed back inside.
You locked the front door behind you and skipped back to the bedroom, more than happy to wait for your trucker to return from the comfort of his bed. There was still a fissure of unease in your gut, telling you something was off, but you chalked it up to the unfamiliarity of waking up without Ari.
Shedding the flannel shirt you’d donned to go outside, you dove back into bed naked, the soft sheets tangling around your bare body. Your face found Ari’s pillow instinctively, and you breathed in deeply, inhaling the delicious, familiar scent of his musk. The thick smell went straight to your head, making your thoughts a little fuzzy while desire bloomed in your core.
Ari was, generally, cleaner while you’d been at his house and he could avail himself of his private bathroom, as opposed to when you were on the road and he didn’t get a chance to shower as often. But frankly, you missed the pungent, spicy scent of his sweat, the way his smell permeated every inch of the truck cab, surrounding you and seeping into your skin until you smelled like him, too.
You took another deep whiff of his pillow, where his scent was embedded deep into the fabric. A heavenly warmth flooded your body, settling between your bare thighs, wetness gathering at your slit. All from the mere scent of your trucker. It was pathetic, how turned on you were from Ari’s smell, but you couldn’t help it—and you needed more.
You whimpered into his pillow, your lips parting and drool beginning to drip from the corner of your mouth as you inhaled his smell again and again. Need rolled through you like a freight train, your body reacting instinctively to Ari’s scent and preparing yourself for his cock in your cunt.
But he was gone, and you didn’t know when he was coming back. You didn’t know how long his test would last, how long he’d give you to run away only for him to catch you. But you were determined to be ready and waiting for your reward when he inevitably returned and found you still in his bed.
Your pitiful whimpers devolved into needy whines the more you huffed Ari’s scent. It wasn’t long before your hips were rocking in a humping motion, though there was only air and the thin bedsheets for you thrust against. Neither were the thick cock of your trucker, and it made your mind even fuzzier with a desperate yearning for him.
Needing more friction, you rolled onto your front and dug your knees into the mattress. You shoved a pillow between your thighs that also smelled like Ari, and pressed your dripping slit down on the seam. You didn’t care if you made a mess of the pillow, it was the closest you could get to what you really needed.
You squeezed the pillow between your thighs and humped helplessly against it, grinding your greedy pussy on its softness so that every thrust of your hips rubbed your clit against the seam along the side. All the while, you kept your face shoved into Ari’s other pillow, inhaling his scent like you were getting high off it.
The delicious friction of humping Ari’s pillow was enough to keep you turned on, but the plush softness was too yielding for you to get off. So all you could do was chase your pleasure even as it remained constantly out of reach. You were writhing like a mindless thing while you waited for your trucker to return.
That was how Ari found you—with your ass in the air, hips humping his pillow, your face planted his other pillow while you moaned and drooled over the scent of his musk.
You didn’t notice your trucker at first, and you didn’t know how long he stood at the edge of the bed watching you, but when he spoke, his rumbling, familiar voice brought you out of the delicious daze you’d fallen into.
“Well, what do we have here?” Ari asked, a predatory grin in his deep voice.
You turned your head toward the sound of him, finding your trucker towering over your naked body, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a bulge already standing proudly in the front of his pants. He looked like a king—a god—and you were more than happy to be on your knees in front of him.
“I couldn’t leave you for an hour without you humping my pillow like a bitch in heat, huh, cock whore?” Ari teased, a cruel kind of mischief glinting sharply in his blue eyes.
That look sent a shiver of need racing down your spine, but you barely had a chance to let out a pitiful whine before Ari’s hand was wrapping around the front of your throat, just below your chin, and he was lifting your head from his pillow.
He manhandled your body into the position he wanted, sitting you up on your haunches, wringing a moan from your throat when the seam of the pillow rubbed against your sensitive clit. You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, noticing the moment his gaze fell to your neck.
Something like panic flashed in Ari’s eyes before they filled with rage, his gaze narrowing on the hollow of your throat.
“Baby, where’s your leather collar?” he asked in a growl, his voice lower and more dangerous than you’d ever heard it. “Where’s your chain?”
It was taking every single one of your braincells to resist the urge to paw at his cock through his jeans and beg him to fuck you, so all you could do was blink innocently up at your trucker, your lust-filled mind unable to understand why he was asking those questions. Surely, he knew where your collar and chain were.
“What d’you mean, daddy?” you asked. “I woke up like this.”
Emotions flitted across Ari’s face, almost too fast for you to understand them, but you recognized suspicion and anger. Then there was something that looked a lot like a tentative kind of hope—before it bled back into fury.
“You woke up like this,” Ari echoed, each word bitten off like he was using his teeth to tear through stone.
It was only then that his expression—stormier than you’d seen it in all your time with your trucker—and the tenor of his voice finally broke through the haze of desire that had still been filling your head.
You blinked rapidly, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Absentmindedly, your fingers brushed the pendant in the hollow of your throat, beneath where Ari’s hand still circled your neck.
“I thought…” you trailed off, coming to the realization that it hadn’t been intentional. Ari hadn’t been testing you. He’d genuinely forgotten to chain you up before he’d left.
But that didn’t make sense. He was terrified of you leaving him, of that you were absolutely sure. He’d never forget to make sure you couldn’t leave him. Unless…
Your breath caught in your throat and you hardly dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, Ari had begun to trust you. That somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he’d known he could leave you at home without chaining you up because he could trust you to still be there when he got back.
“It wasn’t a test?” you asked, your voice so full of hope it threatened to burst like a bubble in your face.
Ari’s jaw ticked with the force of him grinding his teeth, and he used the hand around your throat to tow you closer, his gaze unreadable as it roved over your face. His fingers dug into the sides of your neck, and for a moment, you saw something wild in Ari’s blue eyes, something that made excitement zip up your spine.
“Did you go outside, baby?” Ari rumbled, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice, a slight tremor in his words. “Be honest—be honest with me right now.”
It spoke to how unsteady your trucker must’ve been feeling that he needed to urge you to be honest. But he didn’t have to worry, you’d never even considered lying to him, especially not when you were so sure you were so close to earning a shred of his trust.
“Just to the porch,” you said, staring deep into Ari’s eyes. “Just to see if you were there.” You paused, remembering the disappointment you’d felt when he hadn’t been there, waiting for you. “I didn’t like waking up alone.”
Ari stared at you for a long, long moment. You held yourself perfectly still, your heart beating a quick, steady rhythm in your chest while you let him look his fill. You had nothing to hide from your trucker—he was your man, your king. Yours. And you were his.
And you were certain, down to your very bones, that he was right on the precipice of finally believing you weren’t going to leave him. You held that hope close to your heart and held your breath, imploring him silently to trust you.
“You didn’t run,” Ari forced out finally, his voice rough and gravelly as an unpaved road. “You coulda run, but you didn’t.” For the first time since he’d noticed your collar and the lack of a chain affixing you to the bed, Ari let his eyes wander down the rest of your body.
His gaze flared and heated as it roved over your naked form, lingering on the way your plush thighs were straddling one of his pillows. The corner of his mouth tipped up in a small smirk when he focused in on your pussy, pressed against the seam of the pillow, an obscene wet spot visible between your thighs.
“You didn’t leave—you got back into my bed and started humping my pillow,” Ari rumbled, a strange tenor in his tone, like he wasn’t sure if he believed the words he was speaking, even as he saw the truth of them right before his eyes. “Did you…miss me, baby?”
Ari’s gaze flicked back up to yours, and the smile he gave you was devastating. Not just because he was so handsome—it was, after all, the same smile that had lured into into his truck all those weeks ago—but because you knew him well enough to see the insecurity buried deep in the depths of his blue eyes. He didn’t believe you could miss him.
It occurred to you then that you’d never told Ari you missed him. Granted, he didn’t often give you an opportunity to miss him, but even after the trip he’d taken to get his rig inspected, you’d been too distracted by his return to tell him how you’d felt while he’d been gone.
You softened at his question, a sweet smile tugging at the edges of your lips. Your hands reached for him, not out of habit but because you wanted to touch him, your fingers curling in the cotton of his well-worn t-shirt. You pulled him even closer to the edge of the bed, his thighs pressing against the mattress.
It was all too easy and enjoyable to kiss your trucker, to press your lips against his and smile as his thick beard tickled your cheeks. Ari’s mouth was soft and yielding beneath yours, and you took the opportunity to flick your tongue teasingly against the seam of his lips, grinning when he rumbled a hungry growl deep in his chest.
“I like you, Ari,” you murmured against his mouth before pulling back and staring deep into his eyes, willing him to hear you—to believe you. “And yes, I missed you. I didn’t like waking up alone,” you repeated what you’d said earlier, your fingers tangling tighter in his shirt. “I didn’t like waking up without you.”
For the first time since you’d met him, Ari seemed at a loss for words. He was quiet, watching you while his mind worked, and you were close enough that you could see the emotions flitting across his gaze—anger and disbelief giving way to something tentative and fragile.
Ari’s hand flexed around your throat, fingers digging into the sides of your neck so deeply, you went a little lightheaded, swaying closer to your trucker’s broad body. He used your closeness to sweep a palm down your spine and grab your ass hard enough to make you yelp, your tits pressing against his firm chest as he hauled you closer.
Then his mouth descended on yours and he was claiming you with a kiss. There was a feral kind of possessiveness in the way Ari’s lips devoured yours, the way his teeth sank into the soft, plump flesh or your lower lip, and the way his tongue swept into your mouth, plunging deep like he was determined to lick your soul out from your throat.
Ari’s kiss was an assault on your senses, immediately overwhelming, and it was all you could do to let your body succumb to the sensations, giving your body to your trucker just as much as you’d already given him your heart.
He claimed and he claimed and he claimed your mouth until your head was dizzy from a lack of air, and even then, Ari didn’t stop until you were squirming desperately in his arms. Finally, he wrenched his lips from yours, leaving you both gasping for air, your trucker’s broad chest heaving in time with yours where you were crushed against his body.
“You missed getting woken up with my cock in your cunt, didn’t you, you filthy little slut?” Ari cooed meanly, pushing you back so he could grin at the kiss-drunk look on your face while he slapped your ass. “Show me how much you missed me, cock whore. Show me with that depraved little mouth of yours.”
His command was your only warning before Ari shoved you down to the bed, tipping your face up so it was level with his groin. Your nose nudged the bulge in his jeans, and you felt his cock twitch in response, making you smile and nuzzle deeper into his lap.
You weren’t surprised by the shift in your trucker’s mood, or by the fact that he was steering you both back to much more familiar territory rather than confronting the implications of what you’d said—or what he’d done by forgetting to chain you up before he’d gone out. Ari wasn’t the type of man to talk about his feelings, but that didn’t mean something wasn’t shifting between you two.
Ari was finally starting to trust you, to believe that you weren’t going to leave him. You were sure of it. You just had to be patient while he came to terms with it. And if that meant sucking his cock instead of talking more? Well, it wasn’t like you didn’t love having Ari’s cock down your throat.
You let the conversation go and pressed your face against Ari’s bulge, kissing and licking his hardness through his jeans, moaning when you inhaled the familiar scent of him straight from the source. Your fingers fumbled with the button and fly of his jeans, not bothering to pull your face away because you couldn’t bear to move.
Besides, you knew Ari would give you a hand when he was good and ready. So you focused most of your attention on worshipping his cock through his jeans, running your tongue along the thick length of him through the rough denim, mouthing and sucking on the tip until the fabric was drenched in your spit.
Eventually, Ari grew tired of you whining for his cock and fumbling with his fly, and he took over. He made quick work of undoing his jeans for you, shoving them down his thick thighs until his massive cock bounced free—right into your face.
The long, girthy length bumped your nose and you purred happily, kissing the base of his cock and flicking your tongue out to lap at his balls. Then you craned your neck up to look at your trucker, his cock laying across your cheek as a sultry smile spread across your face.
“I missed your cock sooo much, daddy,” you purred, giving Ari what he wanted—what he needed. You pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses along the line of his shaft while smiling up at your trucker. “Missed waking up to your fat cock splitting open my tight cunt, missed creaming all over your big dick first thing in the morning.”
You cut off your own gushing words by taking Ari’s flushed tip into your mouth and sucking him deep into your throat. The tension that had begun to bleed from his body while you spoke drained entirely as you bobbed your mouth on his cock. You gave him a sloppy blowjob, drool filling your mouth and leaking from the corners to make a mess of your chin.
Ari’s broad shoulders were relaxed and his big hands were holding your face while his head dropped back, a pleased groan tumbling from his lips as his hips shunted forward, forcing his cock deeper into your throat. You gagged, making wet gluk-gluk-gluk sounds as he fucked your throat, trying to loosen and let him deeper as your hips humped idly against the pillow still stuck between your thighs.
“Such a hungry little cock whore,” Ari rumbled, his voice rolling over you like the crashing waves of the near-distant ocean, sending pleasure down your spine and making you moan around his big cock. “Good slut, take daddy’s cock deep into that filthy mouth—lemme fuck your throat like it’s a pussy.”
Your trucker’s hips thrust forward and he buried his cock all the way to the base in your mouth, using his grip to hold you down while you choked and gagged and tried to get used to the thick girth of him. All the while, Ari groaned his pleasure, enjoying the way your throat clenched around his cock, until finally you managed to relax your muscles.
When you blinked tears from your eyes, you looked up and found your trucker grinning almost affectionately down at you, his eyes glittering like the bright sunshine off the blue water of the sea. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, then pushed it into the corner of your mouth beside his thick cock, feeding you your salty tears while he chuckled at the way his thumb distorted your face.
“Are you thirsty, too, kiddo?” Ari cooed condescendingly, barely waiting for you to even think about nodding before he was moving.
Pulling his cock from your mouth with an obscene wet sound, Ari lifted your head away from his groin, giving you a half-hearted glare when you whimpered pathetically at the loss of his heavy weight on your tongue. His hand wrapped around the underside of your chin, fingers digging into your cheeks as a slow, cruel grin curled his mouth.
“Open up, baby, and stick out your tongue for daddy.”
Obediently, you did as Ari commanded, opening your mouth wide and pushing your tongue out eagerly, waiting for what you knew was to come. You watched as Ari gathered saliva on his tongue, your hips wiggling excitedly while he pursed his lips. You stared up at your trucker with pleading eyes.
Ari’s warm spit hit your tongue and you swallowed it with a pleased smile and a happy humming sound. “Thank you, daddy,” you murmured, your voice husky from how roughly he’d fucked your throat. Then you opened your mouth again and stuck out your tongue, just like your trucker had trained you.
It made Ari chuckle, and the delicious rumble of it sent a shower of pleasure cascading down your body to settle heavily between your thighs, where your pussy clenched around nothing. A whine worked its way up your throat, and you squirmed in Ari’s hold, not able to ask for what you wanted with your mouth open and tongue out.
“Still thirsty, sweetheart?” he asked in that patronizing tone you loved so much.
You nodded your head as best you could with his hand still gripping your chin, but it was enough to make him grin and chuckle condescendingly at your eagerness. “That’s my good slut,” he purred, shifting his hand and pursing his lips, spitting on you again.
Instead of landing on your tongue, though, the glob of spit landed on your cheek, making you flinch a little. Blinking in surprise, opened your mouth wider and stared up at Ari, holding your pose even with his spit on your cheek.
“Oops, baby, I missed,” Ari cooed, his tone so unrepentant that you knew it hadn’t been a mistake. When he gathered more saliva on his tongue and spit on you again, you managed not to flinch even as he missed for a second time. “Fuck, I keep missing—guess I’ll just have to feed it to you, huh?”
Ari held your throat firmly in his grip while using the fingers of his other hand to gather up the spit on your cheek. Without warning, he shoved two of his fingers deep into your mouth, feeding you his spit while you choked and gagged on him.
More tears sprang to your eyes as he pushed the tips of his thick fingers against the back of your throat, making you struggle and squirm in his grip. But Ari was unrelenting, his blue eyes sparkling with humor as he pulled his fingers free, scooped up the rest of his spit and thrust back into your mouth.
“That’s it, kiddo, take daddy’s fingers deep in that pretty little throat,” Ari muttered, his gaze bright and intense as he watched you try hard to take his fingers. “Choke on them just like you gag on my big daddy dick.”
Warmth rushed through your body at his filthy, degrading words, and you loved it. You loved the way he treated, you the way he talked to you, and you wanted to be good for him, to do as he said. So you steeled yourself, learning Ari’s rhythm and starting to meet his thrusting fingers with a forward bob of your head.
Ari laughed when he realized what you were doing, the pleased sound washing over you as deliciously as any praise, and the corners of your mouth tipped up in a smile while drool and spit and tears streamed down your face.
You were a mess, but you knew your trucker loved defiling your face and body, so you didn’t make any move to wipe yourself clean. Your hands stayed curled in his t-shirt, clinging to your trucker while he had his fun with you.
“That’s my girl,” Ari purred, pulling his fingers from your mouth and laughing huskily as you sucked in air. His hand squeezed around your throat until your gaze met his. “I take such good care of you, don’t I, kiddo?” he asked, a wolfish smile spreading across his handsome face.
For some reason, Ari’s question struck a chord deep in your heart, and your breath caught in your throat. You weren’t sure if there was a deeper meaning to his question, or if you were just reading into it too much, but it didn’t feel like simple dirty talk anymore. Without thinking, you let the truth spill from your lips.
“Yes, you do, daddy. You know exactly how to take care of me,” you said in a rush, the words nearly tripping over themselves in their eagerness to tumble off your tongue. “You’re everything I need, you’re everything I want—you’re everything to me, Ari.”
It was the closest you’d ever come to saying how you truly felt about your trucker, and as soon as the words were out of your mouth, you went completely still, horror washing through your heart that you might’ve read the situation and his mood wrong. Your eyes went wide, like you couldn’t believe what you’d just admitted, and waited for Ari to react.
Everything in your gut told you he was going to dump you, that you’d pushed him too far and he was going to retreat into himself and do what everyone had always done to you—leave. As the seconds ticked on, with Ari’s unreadable blue eyes raking over your face, you were more and more certain he was going to pull away and leave you all alone.
“Fuck, I need to be inside you,” Ari muttered, something deep inside your trucker snapping.
Between one breath and the next, he was using his hand around your neck to shove you backward onto the bed, his big body chasing you down and climbing onto the mattress to cover you.
It wasn’t graceful, the way Ari bullied his hips between your thighs, and it wasn’t gentle, the way he shoved his cock into your cunt without preparation. A startled cry burst from your lips, but your trucker didn’t stop, pulling his hips back and plunging into your pussy again.
It felt like he was splitting you open with his thick girth, but you relished the sting because it meant Ari wasn’t leaving. Instead, he was pushing deeper and deeper into your body, like he planned to stake his claim on your heart, and build a home between your ribs.
“Ari, please,” you whined, clawing at the t-shirt he still wore until he paused long enough to tear it off over his head. Then you pulled him back down on top of you, so his big body was crushing yours into the mussed blankets of the bed. “I need more—I need it all, daddy. I need you, please.”
You pressed your face into Ari’s beard just under his jaw so you could whimper your desperate pleas and keening sounds straight into the pulse thrumming beneath his skin. Your ankles hooked around the backs of his thighs, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to your trucker for dear life as he worked his cock deeper into your body.
“That’s fucking right,” Ari growled, pulling his hips back until only the tip of his cock remained inside you, then his hips drove forward, impaling you completely with one brutal thrust on his final word.
You screamed your pleasure into Ari’s beard, the cry feeling like it was torn from your throat. Already, you were shaking and overwhelmed with the delicious mix of pleasure and pain only your trucker offered, but he didn’t give you even a moment to acclimate before he started fucking you, words spilling from his lips.
“You fucking need me, don’t you, baby?” Ari seethed, biting his words out through gritted teeth while he fucked you in hard, merciless strokes, making you feel every inch of his thick length as it pounded into your helpless, greedy pussy. “You need me and only me—and you’ll never fucking leave me, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Ari’s words were a condescending sneer, but you knew your trucker well enough to hear the need beneath his tone. He was just as scared of you leaving him as you were of him leaving you. He needed reassurance that you weren’t going to abandon him, and you were more than happy to give it.
“Yes, yes, Ari, I’ll never leave you—I need you,” you cried, tears streaming from your eyes as emotion and pleasure swirled dangerously in your belly. “I need you, daddy, I need you. Oh god, I need…”
You trailed off as a wailing sob of pleasure worked its way up your throat, spilling from your parted lips. You buried your face deeper into Ari’s beard, trying to muffle your pathetic sounds, even as they spurred your trucker on, his hips snapping furiously between your thighs.
“Come, cock whore,” Ari commanded, fucking you hard into the mattress. “Show daddy what a perfect little slut you are, kiddo, and come all over my big, fat dick.”
He was everywhere—his broad body covering yours, hips snapping between your thighs to bury his thick cock deep in your pussy, hitting a spot that had your breath hitching on a scream. He wrapped himself around you, his biceps bulging deliciously next to your head as he held you in the cage of his arms.
Ari pounded into you harder, one of his hands finding your throat and squeezing the sides until you could barely breathe. His teeth nipped at your neck, the sting of pain adding a delicious edge to the pleasure, before he was growling words in your ear that would ruin you.
“Come for me, baby,” Ari cooed meanly. “While I split this cunt open in the way only I can, so you’ll never forget that you fucking need me.”
With a strangled scream, you came undone, your very being unravelling at the unguarded emotion in Ari’s words and the perfect way his cock filled you, fucked you. Pleasure washed over you and through you, shaking you down to your soul while you came apart on Ari’s cock.
Black crept into your vision, and you didn’t even care, your mind too focused on the bliss spiralling through your body. But before you could pass out, Ari relented, a grunt spilling from his lips as he buried his face in your neck, sucking on your pulse point hard enough that your pussy clasped weakly around his cock.
Ari’s hips stuttered in their rhythm before he pressed himself deep in your cunt, but you didn’t feel the twitching throb of his release filling you. He squeezed you tight in his arms, a slight tremble wracking his body like he was exerting a great deal of effort.
As you came back to yourself, you noticed your trucker was still obscenely hard inside you. You felt strangely hollow without his come leaking out around his cock. A thread of unease worked down your spine, and you lifted shaking fingers to tangle in his hair.
“Ari…?” you asked, your voice small and anxious in a way you hadn’t heard it since you’d gotten into his truck. You hated how uncertain and vulnerable you sounded, but in all your time with your trucker, you couldn’t think of any time when he hadn’t come inside you.
Before you could wonder what you’d done wrong, Ari lifted up enough so he could meet your gaze with his dark blue eyes. He shot you a depraved little smirk, something almost affectionate in the way his eyes crinkled at the edges.
“You did good, baby,” he murmured charmingly, even as a little bit of condescension crept into his tone. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
His praise soothed the anxiety curdling in your belly, and you were so preoccupied by your relief, it took you a moment to understand his words. You didn’t think you imagined the perverted glint in his gaze, and an echoing smile tugged at the edges of your mouth.
Ari pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “I got something for you while I was out,” he explained, still remaining vague. “Something to prepare you for when I take you to meet my friends.”
That statement piqued your curiosity, and you brightened at the idea of a present. While living with Ari, he’d made sure you wanted for nothing important, and got you little gifts sometimes. But it was rare for him to get you something for a reason so mysterious, and it made you excited to see what it could be.
“What is it?” you asked, your voice still a little breathless from your release—and from your eagerness to see what he’d gotten you.
Extricating himself from your body, and ignoring the low moan that slipped from your lips when he pulled his still-hard cock from your sensitive pussy, Ari stood from the bed. He shed what remained of his clothes, and grabbed a paper bag from where he’d dropped it just inside the bedroom door.
You lifted your head, but couldn’t make out what was in the bag. To your surprise, Ari didn’t immediately rejoin you on the bed. Instead, he stalked into the bathroom, as if on a mission, leaving you to wonder what on Earth he was doing.
For a moment, you were distracted by the sight of Ari’s naked body.
After so much time on the road, when you only got to see bits and parts of his body—his bare chest with its thick coat of hair that felt delicious against your tightened nipples, or his tree-trunk thighs with their muscles flexing beneath your fingertips when he fucked your throat—it still felt like a treat to see his whole bare form so often.
And you were positively gluttonous for it. Your gaze raked down Ari’s body, appreciating the broad cut of his shoulders, every golden inch of his skin, every thick thatch of hair, every ridge and vein of his fat cock as it bobbed between his thighs, every sinew and muscle moving as he walked to the bathroom.
As he disappeared through the doorway, you got a good look at Ari’s ass, and you nearly whimpered at the sight of it. Wildly, you had the impulse to bite it, your core clenching and a sultry smile spreading across your face at the idea of what your trucker might do in retaliation. Whatever it was, you knew it’d be deliciously depraved…
Those thoughts kept you occupied while Ari busied himself in the bathroom, doing whatever it was he was doing. Distantly, you heard plastic tearing open and running water, but couldn’t fathom what it meant, not when you were imagining your trucker marking your ass in his own, filthy way.
You were so distracted by your fantasies, you almost missed Ari emerging from the bathroom. Once you noticed his appearance, you smiled at your trucker, your gaze sliding curiously to his hands. When you saw what Ari was holding, your eyes widened in surprise and your breath caught in your throat on a soft gasp.
“Don’t worry, kiddo,” Ari rumbled in response to the expression on your face, a sadistic smirk tugging at his mouth. “It’ll fit.”
Your gaze flicked between Ari’s ruthlessly handsome face and the positively massive dildo in his hands, not so sure he was right about that. Sure, your trucker had a big cock, and you’d even taken his fist before, but the silicone cock he was holding looked even more intimidating.
“On your knees.”
It didn’t surprise you that Ari wasn’t giving you a chance to wrap your mind around the idea of taking such a large toy for him, but still, you were too distracted to follow his command immediately. Impatient for your obedience, your trucker stepped closer to the bed, grabbed your ankles and flipped you onto your stomach.
You let Ari manhandle you into position while your thoughts remained caught on the huge dildo he held. Even without your eyes on it, you could still picture it. It was the thickest, fatest cock you’d ever seen—almost unnaturally so.
It was the kind of cock that could split you open, stretch you beyond belief, ruin you for anyone but Ari…
Somehow, that thought made your pussy pulse with renewed desire, more wetness gathering in your already messy slit and coating your already drenched folds. Your thighs were sticky from your earlier release, but already your body craved more.
Suddenly, you didn’t care if that included the fake dick Ari had gotten you, even if it was going to take some work to take it into your body. Your inner muscles clenched around nothing, begging to be filled—begging to be ruined by Ari’s cock and the toy he’d gotten for you.
As he arranged your body so that you were head down, ass up on the mussed sheets of the bed, you wondered which of your holes he intended to use the dildo on. Your body squirmed a little in excitement, your hips swaying slightly side to side as your heart beat excitedly in your chest.
Once you were in position, you heard the sheets rustling behind you, the slight creak of the mattress’s bedsprings, and craned your head to look over your shoulder to see what Ari was doing. You watched his large body climb onto the bed, moving as swiftly and gracefully as a predator as he got behind you.
Your trucker was wearing an evil smirk on his handsome face, which only deepened when he caught you looking. He laid the thick shaft of the sex toy in the valley of your ass cheeks, letting you feel the weight and girth of it while he grabbed your hips and positioned himself.
His knees dug into the mattress on the outside of yours, forcing you to press your thighs together. You knew the position would make you feel tighter for him, and make his cock and the dildo feel even bigger inside your body. Your belly swooped with another surge of excitement, your desire dripping from your slit and making a mess of your thighs.
“What’s the occasion for the present, daddy?” you asked breathlessly, trying to distract yourself so you didn’t whine for Ari to fuck you already. “It’s not my birthday,” you said saucily, lowering your upper body down to the bed, arching your spine and presenting your ass for your trucker.
“There’s no occasion, sweetheart, it’s to prepare you,” Ari reminded you, a depraved kind of humor in his tone. He gave your ass an affectionate smack, nearly dislodging the dildo from where it lay.
You only had time to giggle at the feel of your ass jiggling before Ari swiped the toy cock and shoved it deep into your pussy. Your laugh cut off in a scream, the thick intrusion of the dildo filling you up so suddenly, it punched the sound from your lungs.
In all your time with your trucker, you’d gotten used to Ari thrusting his big cock into your tight hole, but it felt different with the dildo. The feeling wasn’t necessarily unpleasant—you were plenty wet enough to take the thick toy, and it felt good to be stretched—but you still would’ve preferred to have your trucker’s cock inside you than the silicone dildo.
“Hnghh, daddy,” you gasped when you were able to suck in some air and breathe around the fake cock filling your cunt.
It wasn’t like Ari to give you time to adjust, and sure enough, your trucker began fucking you in short, deep thrusts with the toy. But you were still curious about why he was using the dildo and not his own cock—why he hadn’t come inside you.
“Prepare me for what?” you asked, dredging the words from the depths of your mind as you tried to continue the conversation.
Ari didn’t answer you right away, focusing instead on fucking you harder and faster with the silicone cock. You melted into the bed, basking in the pleasure the toy offered and letting loud moans spill uninhibited from your lips. You were halfway to mindless when he finally spoke, ignoring your question.
“Look at you, cock whore, you really were made for this—made for taking cock and enjoying it,” he rumbled, something close to awe in his tone. He pounded into you with the dildo, and you were so wet, your pussy was making obscene squelching sounds that had Ari chuckling. “Tell me, baby, d’you like this toy cock better than mine?”
There was a low, dangerous warning in the teasing way Ari asked the question, and your cunt clasped reflexively around the dildo, trying to suck it deeper into your body. Ari obliged, pushing the fake cock into your hole until it hit the end of you, then he bullied your cervix with it, adding a delicious edge of pain to your pleasure.
“No, never,” you cried into the sheets, drool dripping from your parted lips and tears leaking from your eyes. “Yours is the best dick I’ll ever have,” you gushed, the truth spilling easily from your mouth while your body took everything your trucker had to give. “I love your cock, daddy, I love it so much—nothing will ever compare. It’s all I ever want for the rest of my life.”
Ari laughed, the sound mocking and a little bit affectionate, sending pulses of warmth straight to your pussy and heart. He slowed the pounding of the toy cock, changing the pace to deep, long thrusts that had you gasping and making the most pornographic sounds that had ever come from your lips.
“There’s something wrong with you, baby, if you love my dirty, filthy trucker cock that much,” he teased in a patronizing tone that made you clench even harder around the fake cock.
Without warning, Ari brought his hand down on your ass in a sharp spank, but it wasn’t punishing—it was a reward, one that he repeated on the other cheek, slapping you hard enough for the sound to reverberate around the room. It made you moan so loud, you almost didn’t hear his next words.
“There’s something wrong with you if I’m what you want.”
Your heart squeezed in your chest and you whipped your head around to look at Ari over your shoulder. His dark blue eyes were fathomless as he stared into your face, a challenge in his expression. You realized, suddenly, that he expected you to fight him, to tell him there wasn’t anything wrong with either of you—and you knew that he knew it would be lie.
Instead, you told him the truth.
“There is something wrong with me, Ari,” you told him seriously, no hint of a joke in your tone. “And you’re a sick, perverted man for taking advantage of it—but I’m exactly where I want to be.” You folded your hands on top of each other and lay your cheek on them, giving Ari your most wicked smirk. “So do your worst, daddy. I can take it.”
With a feral sound, Ari fell on top of you, grabbing your face and pulling you into a wild, unrestrained kiss, his tongue plunging into your mouth and taking possession.
He kissed you as violently as he fucked you, pouring so much emotion into your mouth that it made your head spin. He was hungry, ravenous, and it was all you could do to meet him with your own desire and passion.
Finally, Ari pulled away and sucked in a deep breath, leaving you gasping. He patted your cheek patronizingly, more than a little fondness in the gesture.
“That’s my girl,” he growled against your mouth, nipping at your kiss-swollen lower lip before finally sitting back on his haunches. “Now, let’s hope you got this toy cock nice and slick, sweetheart, because I forgot to grab some lube while I was out.”
You knew your trucker well enough to know when he wasn’t telling the truth, and in that moment, you knew he hadn’t forgotten anything. He’d planned to use the dildo on your ass no matter how slick it was, and that depraved realization had you moaning low in your throat, the sound ratcheting higher into a whine when Ari pulled the toy cock from your pussy.
You barely had time to mourn the thick fullness in your cunt before the rounded head of the fake cock was pressing against the tight rosebud of your ass. You were no stranger to having Ari fuck your ass, and your body relaxed on instinct to make his entrance easier on both of you.
“Be a good slut and let me in, cock whore,” Ari urged, pushing the dildo into your ass. When the tip popped past the ring of muscle, you groaned obscenely, your body twitching at the thick intrusion. “Good girl, relax—I wanna see your ass take your new toy to the root.”
Little by little, your body yielded to the dildo. You let out a long, loud moan as Ari filled you with inch after thick, rigid inch of the fake cock. You panted while it slipped deeper and deeper, until the flared base finally pressed to your asscheeks.
When the dildo was fully buried in your ass, you let out an exhale of relief, feeling proud of yourself for taking everything Ari had given you. You felt so full, even as your pussy clenched weakly, your desire dripping down your thighs and making them sticky with your lust.
But still, you knew Ari wasn’t done. If he’d wanted to fuck your ass, he could’ve used his own cock. Your mind flicked back to what he’d told you earlier, about how he was trying to prepare you for something.
Suddenly, you had an inkling of what might be coming—especially with your trip to visit his friends looming so close on the horizon. Your theory was confirmed when Ari sat up on his knees and lined up his cock with your pussy. You only had time to suck in an excited breath and angle your hips higher before he began pushing inside.
“Fuck, kiddo, you feel so fucking tight like this,” Ari growled, his palms grabbing big handfuls of your ass, his thumbs holding the dildo deep in your hole. “Your cunt’s choking my cock—it’s fucking heaven,” he said, his words almost slurred with pleasure.
Ari used his grip on your body to pull you further onto his hard, thick length, wringing a pathetic whine from your lips while he groaned his pleasure loudly. It was right on the edge of too much, your ass stuffed full and his fat cock pushing deeper and deeper, filling you beyond what you thought possible.
“Maybe I should always fuck you like this, cock whore,” Ari rumbled, a hint of teasing in his tone. “Fake cock buried in one hole to make you tighter for me—or maybe I’ll fuck you with both in one hole and fucking ruin you. Gape you so wide you won’t be able to feel a single cock anymore.”
A desperate, helpless whine caught in your throat at his words, at the unbelievable stretch of being filled with two cocks and trying to imagine both in one hole. “Ari—oh my god, Ari,” was all you could manage as your mind was overwhelmed with sensation.
You felt your trucker everywhere—his cock drilling deeper into your cunt, his hands holding your hips like he never planned to let go, his scent invading your lungs from the sheets pressed against your cheek. It felt like he was damn near imprinted on your soul with how thoroughly he was possessing you. You’d never felt such exquisite ecstasy.
When Ari was finally fully buried to the root inside your pussy, he dug one of his arms underneath your chest, his palm skimming up the valley between your tits to wrap around your throat. Using his grip on your neck, Ari hauled you up, sitting back on his haunches so you were seated on his cock.
The position had his hard length and the dildo thrusting another inch deeper into your cunt and ass, his pelvis holding the toy plugged in your hole. You cried out, the pain-edged pleasure almost too much, making you squirm between Ari’s thick thighs at the impossible fullness you felt.
But your trucker simply banded his other arm around your waist, holding you pinned right where he wanted you, impaled on his cock and the toy he’d gotten for this exact reason. All you could do was pant through the mind-boggling sensation of being stuffed so full, your cunt dripping indecently as pleasure burned through your blood.
“Look at you, taking two cocks in your holes,” Ari cooed in your ear, his big hand wrapped around your throat like a collar. “You’re such a dirty, slutty cock whore, baby,” he hummed, rolling his hips and fucking you in one, long, languid movement that made it feel like he was thrusting impossibly deeper into your body.
“Ari, it’s t-too much,” you cried. You’d lost control of yourself under the onslaught of pleasure, your hips wiggling, body writhing, fighting to get away from the overwhelmingly fullness between your thighs. You were in serious danger of blacking out from the devastating euphoria.
A deep, rumbling chuckle sounded in Ari’s chest, teasing down your spine. Then, your trucker slapped your tits meanly, his fingers catching cruelly on your nipples.
Vicious zaps of pain joined the storm of pleasure raging in your body and you screamed, your shoulders pitching forward only for you to be forced back against Ari’s unyielding chest. The ruthless pain brought you crashing back down to earth and you were more aware than ever of Ari, of his cock and the toy inside you, and you succumbed to him.
“Nothing’s too much for you, cock whore,” Ari growled in your ear, a glimmer of pride in his words that was almost hidden beneath the roughness of his tone. “Besides, this is a fucking kindness.” He rolled his hips again, his fingers squeezing around your throat and choking you savagely while he used his other hand to abuse your tits.
You were helpless in Ari’s arms, and it felt glorious giving the entirety of yourself over to your trucker. You were his toy to use, and it made you feel good to be used, to be the filthy, depraved cock whore he called you. You were never happier than when your trucker let loose and truly did as he pleased with you, just like he was in that moment.
So overcome by your pleasure, you nearly missed Ari’s next words, but somehow they penetrated the lustful haze in your head.
“Next week, we’ll be paying my friends a visit, and I’ll pay them for their services by letting them do damn near anything they want to you,” Ari rumbled, punctuating his words with rough thrusts of his hips, fucking you deeper with his cock and pushing the dildo in your ass. “And if I know my friends, they’re going to get creative about how they fuck you.”
Your mouth was open, helpless whines and desperate moans spilling from your lips uninhibited. You couldn’t control the sounds coming from your mouth, just like you couldn’t control the way your body shivered and your cunt clenched hard at Ari’s threatening words. And he wasn’t done.
“They might split your cunt and ass open on their cocks, sweetheart, and they’ll care even less than I do about whether it’s too much for you,” Ari ground out, using his hand around your throat to tip your head back so he could meet your gaze out of the corner of your eye. “You should thank me, baby, for preparing you with my cock and your new toy so they don’t tear you apart.”
“Thank you, daddy. Thank you, daddy. Thank you, daddy,” you babbled, sobbing your pleasure, your tongue loosened by the sheer amount of delicious delirium surging through your body. “You’re so good to me, daddy, making me feel soooo good—I’ll do anything for you. I’ll do anything you say, Ari. Anything.”
That declaration, wrenched from deepest part of your heart, seemed to surprise Ari.
He slowed his brutal thrusts and pressed a finger to your jaw so he could look at your face more fully. He searched your expression, and you knew your devotion to him was plain as day by the way his eyes darkened in response. Depraved possessiveness twisted his features into something even more devilishly attractive.
“Anything?” Ari asked mockingly, a new edge in his voice. “What if I told you to leave, baby? What if I told you to leave me and never come back?”
You felt those questions like a punch to the sternum, stealing the breath from your lungs as your heart cracked in half. Panic like you’d never known before flooded your chest, tears springing to your eyes, and you couldn’t help the way your body fought against his hold.
But Ari’s arms tightened around you, nearly crushing you with his strength, and it finally calmed you enough to realize your trucker wasn’t trying to poke at your insecurities. He was laying his own vulnerabilities bare for you to see, and you knew your answer would make or break your relationship.
Reaching up, you cupped your handsome trucker’s face in your hand, your fingers threading through his beard until your nails could scratch lightly at his jaw. Normally, he might’ve leaned into your touch, but his eyes were fixed too intensely on your face, waiting too anxiously for your answer.
“If you told me to leave,” you said slowly, picking your words carefully, “I’d leave, and you’d never see me again, Ari.” You smiled sadly at your trucker, showing him the tenderest, most scarred part of your heart. “I’ve been with men who didn’t want me before—I’ve clung to them until they forced me to leave them.”
Your heart thumped heavily in your chest, remembering the man who’d tossed you out of his car on the side of the road. He hadn’t cared about you. He’d thrown you away like trash. And even though it had led to you meeting Ari, it still stung to know you would’ve given everything to a man who never would’ve appreciated you.
“I won’t make that mistake again, I can’t,” you murmured, your voice breaking on your last word as tears streaked down your cheeks. Ari didn’t wipe them away, instead he looked at them hungrily, like they fed something deep and dark in his soul. “I won’t ever leave you—unless you tell me to.”
Ari’s chest was heaving like he’d run a marathon, his breaths sawing in and out of his mouth and brushing against your cheek. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked too stunned for words. You took the opportunity of his silence to drive your point home.
“I am yours,” you vowed, pulling your fingers from his beard and trailing down to the pendant around your neck, the one that listed your name as Baby and defined you as property of Ari Levinson on the back. “For the rest of my life, I belong to you, Ari—or until you don’t want me anymore.”
That final comment seemed to snap Ari from the daze he’d been trapped in, and his hand shifted from your throat to wrap under your chin, gripping you ferociously as his eyes bored into yours with their intensity.
“I’ll never stop wanting you.” The words felt ripped from the very depths of Ari’s soul, his voice almost animalistic in its rawness. “You’re in my head, you’re in my fucking skin—baby, you live in the black hole where my heart used to be.”
Ari pressed his forehead to yours, and though the angle was awkward, you’d never felt more connected to your trucker. Your breathing synchronized, and it felt like even your hearts began beating in tune with each other. For a moment, Ari simply held you, like he was gathering himself, and you were struck speechless by how undone he was.
“You are mine, and I’m never fucking letting you go,” Ari rumbled, his voice sounding like the roar of the ocean during a storm. “I’ll never tell you to leave me. Do you understand me, baby?”
“Yes, Ari,” you said on a sigh of relief.
It was on the tip of your tongue to tell your trucker you loved him, but in your heart of hearts, you knew he wasn’t ready to hear it yet. So you held the words behind your lips and dragged Ari’s mouth to yours, giving him a filthy, messy kiss, conveying all the emotions that were too big for words.
When you broke the kiss, you pressed your forehead to his and, for a moment, the two of you held each other as tight as possible. You couldn’t tell Ari you loved him yet, but you knew it was true, and you were certain he’d love you as well, if he didn’t already. The thought made you smile.
Then, Ari was shoving you forward onto the bed, one of his hands curling around your throat while the other palm slid over your face, two fingers thrusting into your mouth and making you gag on them. He choked you and fucked you, making a mess of your face while you drooled around his fingers, muffled moans spilling from your mouth.
It wasn’t long before you could feel Ari’s cock twitching in your cunt, a sign that he was getting close. You were stretched so tight around him and the dildo, you could feel every throb of his hard length, could imagine every drop of his precum leaking into your hole.
“Rub your clit for me, cock whore,” Ari rasped meanly in your ear, shoving his fingers deeper into your mouth and making you gag loudly, only to squeeze his other hand tighter around your throat, wringing the dumbest, most obscene sounds from your lips. “Come on your daddy’s cock, kiddo.”
With how Ari had your head bent back, his hand gripping your face, the position was awkward for you, but the command from your trucker was one you especially wanted to follow. So you braced yourself on one arm and reached under your body, straining until your fingers found the puffy little bundle of nerves.
You rubbed your clit just the way Ari would—harshly, mercilessly—and even though your fingers weren’t as big or as rough as his, the delicious torture had you clenching even tighter around your trucker’s cock and the dildo in your ass.
He groaned, changing the pace of his thrusts to be long and hard, hitting that spot deep inside you that had your moans hitching higher into helpless whimpers. He drilled into you, chasing his release, and it was all you could do to rub your clit and chase it with him.
“That’s it, baby,” Ari growled roughly, bringing his head close to your ear so he could nip at the lobe before spilling even more filth into your head. “Come on the cock that made you into the dirty, perfect slut you’ve become since meeting me.”
With a choked, muffled scream, you shattered apart into a thousand glittering pieces of pleasure, nearly blacking out from the lack of air and overwhelming euphoria. You hung suspended in the endless moment of bliss, pleasure pusling through every nerve in your body.
Your muscles clenched down hard on the toy in your ass, and your cunt strangled Ari’s cock, dragging him over the edge after you. He came with a rough shout, burying his face in your shoulder, his teeth sinking into your skin as he bit his mark into you, no doubt leaving bruises in the shape of his mouth behind on your body.
Together, you writhed through your releases, wanton moans and whines spilling from your lips while Ari growled a litany of mean praise into your skin, telling you what a perfect cock whore you were for him, doing such a good job milking the seed from his balls while your ass was stuffed full of your new toy.
Finally, when you felt entirely wrung out, Ari let you slump to the bed, a boneless heap of sated pleasure. Your trucker was surprisingly gentle as he pulled the silicone dick from your ass, and somewhat less careful when he slipped his own softening cock from your cunt.
He ambled to the bathroom, giving you a perfect view of his broad back, thick thighs and perfect ass, making you smile dazedly at the delicious picture he painted.
Once he was out of view, you heard the sink running and assumed he was washing the dildo. When he returned, Ari deposited the fake cock on the bedside table, then flopped down beside you, his chest still heaving slightly as he caught his breath.
Instinctively, you scooted closer, curling into his side, throwing one leg over his thigh, neither of you caring about the mess when you pressed your well-used pussy to his hip. If anything, it made Ari rumble a happy sound, his arms curling around your body, and grabbing a possessive handful of your ass while he held you close.
“Tell me something,” you began, amusement and exhaustion clear in your voice. “Did you really want to prepare me for your friends, or did you just hate the idea that they might get to DP me first?”
Ari grumbled for a moment, and you thought he wouldn’t respond, though you were reasonably sure you knew what his answer would be. But your trucker surprised you by hauling you closer, until the entire length of your body was pressed against the side of his larger, stronger form.
“You’re mine, baby,” he growled against your temple, determination clear in his tone. “I’m gonna have fun watching those fuckers I call friends use you, but they don’t get to do anything to you I haven’t done already.”
A delighted shiver raced down your spine at the perverted kind of possessiveness in you trucker’s voice and you lifted your head enough to meet his gaze. A smirk curled the edge of your mouth, a depraved challenge in your expression.
“Didn’t you say something about how creative they are?” you asked, a teasing lilt to your words. As you watched your trucker’s face, his expression darkened. “You might need to work a little harder to make sure they don’t come up with something you haven’t thought of.”
In a second, Ari rolled you onto your back and pinned you to the bed with his massive form. He wrapped one big hand around your neck, catching on the delicate collar still circling the base of your throat. He paused, his blue eyes flaring, and an obsessive, possessive emotion flitting across his gaze.
The fingers of his other hand slipped beneath the pendant on your collar, touch the words there—‘Property of Ari Levinson’. He traced the letters like he needed the reminder that you were his, that you weren’t going anywhere.
A soft, affectionate smile curled the corners of your lips as you stared up adoringly at your trucker, patiently watching him work through whatever he needed to work through. Your fingers curled around his ribs, your thighs bracketing his hips and urging him closer, until his hardening cock pressed against your damp, swollen pussy.
After another moment, Ari’s eyes refocused on you and his mouth spread into a wicked smirk. He let go of the chain around your neck and reached for the dildo on the bedside table.
“If you think I can’t get creative, cock whore,” he began, pressing the tip of silicone dick to your lips until you opened and let him shove it into your mouth. It was so big, you gagged immediately, making Ari laugh meanly. “Then you don’t know me very well.”
Even though his words were a taunt, there was an underlying insecurity in Ari’s voice that you couldn’t let go unaddressed. Turning your head, you managed to spit the dildo out of your mouth and you reached for Ari, your fingers curling in his beard and bringing him close so you could look him dead in your eyes.
“I know exactly who you are, Ari Levinson,” you told him, conviction ringing true in your words. “I know who you are, and I’m happy to belong to you.”
You paused for a moment, letting what you’d said sink in. Ari’s eyes were almost unreadable, his expression a mask of stone, but the longer your words hung in the air between you, the more you saw that stone crack. There was a glimmer of something in your trucker’s eyes, something bone-deep and steady, something close to belief or trust.
It made your heart soar, thumping happily against your ribs, and you offered your trucker a soft smile. Your fingers threaded through his beard, nails raking lightly at the skin beneath. You brought him down for a gentle kiss—gentler than any kiss you’d ever shared—before your mouth curved into a small, devious smirk.
“And I know you’re going to fuck my holes every which way with that dildo and your cock,” you murmured into his mouth, bringing you back to safer territory. You didn’t need a response to your declaration, just for him to hear you. “And I can’t fucking wait for you to ruin me before taking me to see your friends.”
At that, Ari chuckled, the deep, delicious sound rolling over your lips and down your spine, making your pussy clench weakly around nothing. His cock gave an answering twitch and he pushed his shaft deeper into your slick folds, right against your puffy, swollen clit and dripping hole.
“You’re right, baby, you know me so well,” Ari purred, a pleased tone in his voice, as he grabbed the dildo and shoved it back into your mouth, fucking you shallowly with the silicone length. “I’m gonna demolish all your holes with my cock and your new toy so you’ll be ready to take good care of Lloyd and Curtis.”
Your trucker’s eyes sparkled with something dark and possessive as he watched your mouth take the fake dick. He pushed it deeper with every stroke, enjoying the way you struggled and gagged around it. Tears streamed from your eyes down your temples, and drool coated your chin, but you finally took the dildo deep into your throat.
“Good slut,” Ari cooed, brushing a kiss to your messy cheek before rumbling in your ear. “You’re gonna be a good toy for my friends next week, and you’re gonna make sure it’s worth their while to help us out, isn’t that right, cock whore?”
Ari lifted up so he could look you in the eye while you nodded awkwardly, and mumbled your sweetest, “Yes, daddy,” around the silicone dick in your mouth. Ari patted your cheek patronizingly, like you were nothing more than an obedient child and not a grown woman who adored him like he was your king—which only made your pussy leak more between your thighs.
“That’s a good girl, baby,” Ari rumbled, only a little bit of condescension in his tone. He wrapped his hand around your throat, squeezing it so you could feel your muscles clenching harder around the dildo. “Keep that dick in your mouth, sweetheart, while I destroy your pussy with my cock.”
With an eager nod, you pressed your fingers to the base of the dildo, keeping it buried in your mouth and throat while Ari focused on lining up his cock with your pussy. He pushed in with one ruthless thrust, making you scream as he filled your oversensitive hole.
The sound of your pain-edged pleasure was muffled around the toy in your mouth, but it only spurred your trucker on to wring even more noises out of you. Ari laughed at your silly, helpless sounds, fucking you harder and rougher while you choked on the fake cock, his grip around your throat making sure you never forgot it was there.
For the rest of the afternoon, Ari’s cock and the fake dick filled your holes in every combination your trucker could think of, devastating your ass, mouth and pussy until he was satisfied.
When the two of you finally gave in to exhaustion, it was with Ari’s cock wedged deep in your pussy, the dildo pressed between your tits and snuggled to your chest like a stuffie. His palm pressed the pendant on your collar into the hollow of your throat, and you knew you’d wake up with the words on the back—‘Property of Ari Levinson’—imprinted into your skin.
Even in sleep, your trucker staked his claim on your body, possessing you in every way possible—and you couldn’t have been happier. He was finally starting to trust you, and you held tight to that knowledge, falling asleep with a contented smile on your lips.
The next evening, after recovering from your afternoon marathon of fucking, the two of you were in the living room watching TV. You were curled up in Ari’s lap while he sat in the recliner, his hand gripping your bare thigh possessively beneath the hem of the sundress you wore. Ari’s other hand played idly with the delicate chain of the collar around your neck.
Even after accidentally forgetting to chain you up when he’d gone out to get the dildo, he hadn’t swapped the collar out for one of the others, which you took as a good sign. In fact, he seemed to take great pleasure in tracing the edges of the engraving on the back, the one that read ‘Property of Ari Levinson’, which was what he was doing.
For the moment, you were content.
You were still a little sore, but Ari had been feeding you well to help you recover, and you were still mostly full from dinner. But when you heard the song of an ice cream truck driving slowly down the street, your head perked up from Ari’s shoulder and you glanced outside.
The setting sun cast the oceanside neighborhood in golden yellows and warm oranges, and you could already see some of the other residents poking their heads out, responding to the call of the ice cream truck on the spring evening. A child ran toward the sidewalk, happy parents trailing behind, a couple dollar bills clenched tight in his fist.
“Ooh, ice cream,” you said, looking to Ari with your eyes wide and eager. “Can we get some ice cream, daddy?” you asked sweetly, only a little bit of mischief in your happy smile.
Ari huffed a sigh like he was put out, but you saw the corner of his mouth flicker and knew he was amused by your antics. He patted your thigh before grabbing your hips and helping you to stand.
“My wallet’s in the bedroom,” he said, giving your ass a little smack through your sundress. “Go grab it, kiddo.”
With a nod and a giggle, you scampered off to do as he said, plucking the leather wallet off the bedside table beside where Ari normally slept, and returned to your trucker. He grabbed a twenty dollar bill from inside and handed it to you before crowding you toward the door.
At the front door, you paused and looked over your shoulder, checking with Ari before opening it. When gave a quick nod, you turned back and undid the locks on the door before opening it and stepping out onto the porch.
Ari had been following you so closely, you’d assumed he was right behind you as you padded barefoot across the porch and began to descend the steps. But your shoulders were cold, Ari’s warmth nowhere to be found, and you froze, looking back.
Your trucker lingered in the door, arms crossed over his broad, bare chest as he leaned against the frame. His eyes were dark in the dimming light of sunset, and though you thought his mouth looked a little tight, he didn’t look angry or worried you might run.
When you stopped and waited for him, he gestured for you to go ahead without him.
Your heart thudded happily in your chest when you realized what Ari was doing—he was trusting you to go outside alone. Granted, he was watching you from the porch, and with the ice cream truck parked by the sidewalk in front of his house, you’d never leave Ari’s sight.
But it was still a big deal. In all the time you’d been with Ari, he’d never let you go outside unaccompanied. He’d always been with you, his hand holding yours, or his palm pressed against your lower back, or the back of your neck. And if he had to leave you alone, it was only because you were collared and chained up in his truck or to his bed—except, of course, the time he forgot.
So you knew it was a huge step for Ari to intentionally let you go to the ice cream truck by yourself, and you were more than eager to show your trucker he could trust you.
A smile flickered around the edges of your mouth and you turned, walking determinedly down the rest of the porch steps and across the grass front lawn toward the crowd swarming the ice cream truck. You were intent on showing Ari that he could always trust you to come back.
You waited in line behind a few kids and their parents, glancing back every few seconds to make sure Ari was still there—and he was, standing sentinel, watching you. It warmed your heart to know he was close by, none of the unease you’d felt that morning in your gut. You felt safe under your trucker’s watch, and you were happy to have him in your life.
Finally, it was your turn to order and you got two ice cream cones, paying with Ari’s money, then skipped back to the house, a bounce in your step. You launched yourself at Ari as soon as you hit the top step of the porch, and he caught you easily while you giggled triumphantly.
Your mouth found his in a bruising, possessive kiss, both of you claiming each other. It was apparently filthy enough for one of the older kids still waiting in line at the ice cream truck to shout, “Get a room!”
A surprised laugh burst from your lips while Ari shot the kid one of his darkest glares. Some of the other kids screamed and laughed, high on sugar, as they played in the lingering light. The warmth of the spring day was slowly slipping away, but everyone was happy—including you and your trucker.
Ari tugged you into the house and once you were safely out of view of the neighborhood, he tossed the change you’d given him on the kitchen island. Then he pulled off your dress, undid the fly of his jeans, and pulled you down to straddle him in his recliner chair. He settled his hands on your hips and impaled you on his cock while you held onto the cones in your hands.
The two of you ate your ice cream like that, not caring if it dripped down your chest or down his, taking turns cleaning each other up. When your ice cream cones were gone, Ari captured your mouth in a delicious, devastating kiss, and began to fuck you, bouncing your hips on his lap and dragging the most obscene sounds from your lips.
Your trucker’s hand wrapped around the front of your throat, just above the collar that designated you as his property, and he held you close while he filled you with his cock, and eventually his come.
Once you both came, you collapsed against Ari’s chest and let him use your body to keep his cock warm, reveling in feeling of being your trucker’s perfect little fuck toy. You were his cock whore, his baby, and he was your trucker, your king.
Even if your relationship didn’t have the most conventional of beginnings, with Ari finally starting to trust that you weren’t going to leave him, you were beginning to build the foundation of something real, something that would last for the rest of your lives.
You only needed to go see his friends—Lloyd Hansen and Curtis Everett—to get what you needed for the rest of your new life with Ari Levinson to truly begin.
trucker king masterlist
thank you for reading! reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!! ♡
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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Warnings: Bucky Barnes (yup!), established relationship, explicit sexual content, smut, unprotected sex (be safe, lovelies!), oral sex, mention: breeding kink, anal, cockwarming and other kinks, neediness, fluff if you squint really hard (hard like Bucky’s cock)
Banner by the talented @cafekitsune
Horny!Bucky who has needs but isn’t interested in random flings. He’s content to use his hand to get off.
Horny!Bucky who wanted you the second he saw you. The beast inside him clawed to get out and take you.
Horny!Bucky who did everything the “right” way. He courted you, treated you well, and waited a reasonable amount of time before he slept with you the first time.
Horny!Bucky who got hard just from kissing you. It was like all the blood in his body went south because of your lips.
Horny!Bucky who spent a generous amount of time worshipping your breasts, alternating between pinching and sucking on your nipples. How could he not when you’re so responsive.
Horny!Bucky who wondered if you’d like him fuck your tits one day. He’s always wanted to try that with the right person.
Horny!Bucky who went down on you because real men appreciate the delicacy of eating pussy. Real men also put their partner’s pleasure above their own.
Horny!Bucky who humped the bed in time with his tongue because you tasted so good. Your sounds made you taste even sweeter.
Horny!Bucky who came in his pants when you came on his tongue, both of you moaning. And he didn’t stop tongue-fucking you until you begged for him to fuck you.
Horny!Bucky who felt a surge of pride when he fisted himself and your eyes went wide. He’d fit, even if he had to make it fit.
Horny!Bucky who was thankful you didn’t want him to use a condom because he didn’t want anything between you two. If by any chance he did knock you up, he’d be happy to have a family with you.
Horny!Bucky didn’t realize he had a breeding kink until that moment. Or maybe it was just you.
Horny!Bucky who had to grit his teeth when he pushed inside you, willing himself not to come from how wet and tight you were. He did anyway.
Horny!Bucky who swore he died when he painted your walls since his soul left his body. He’d happily spend the rest of his life deep inside you if he could manage it.
Horny!Bucky who then felt embarrassed for finishing so quickly until you shushed him with a kiss. Your perfect pussy gripped his throbbing cock like a vice until he thrust again.
Horny!Bucky who held your chin gently so he could see your pretty eyes. He wanted to see how much you loved being fucked by him
Horny!Bucky who thinks you’re perfect, but even more so when you’re taking his cock. Parted mouth and tears in your eyes, you’re ruined and beautiful
Horny!Bucky who suddenly felt possessive and vowed that no one else would ever have you like this again. You were his and only his.
Horny!Bucky who almost blurted out that he loved you when you came with his name tumbling from your lips. He does love you, but the middle of sex may not be the best time to say so.
Horny!Bucky who kissed you when he came again and knew he was addicted. You had a hold on him that would never be released.
Horny!Bucky who wanted to make love to and fuck you. He wanted to watch you shatter so he could put you back together.
Horny!Bucky who fucked you into the early hours of the morning and only stopped because you needed rest. He cleaned you off and praised you.
Horny!Bucky who held you while he slept and couldn’t sleep himself because he wanted you again. But it would be wrong to wake you after he wore you out.
Horny!Bucky who cancelled his plans for the weekend so he could fuck you on every surface of the apartment. He made sure you stayed fed and hydrated.
Horny!Bucky who tries to calculate how long he can be away from you on a mission because he craves you that much. Does absence make the heart grow fonder or will it make him snap?
Horny!Bucky who leaves marks all over you. You joke that he’s marking his territory, and you leave little marks on him in return.
Horny!Bucky who can’t have you in the kitchen without putting you on the counter. You’re basically a pre-meal before the food.
Horny!Bucky who humps you in his sleep and holds your breast like a security blanket. Cockwarming happens often, too, right before you fall asleep.
Horny!Bucky who thinks your mouth is just as perfect as your pussy. He knows your ass will be the same.
Horny!Bucky who has a list of things he wants to try with you. He has the order listed alphabetically.
Horny!Bucky who eventually has photos, videos, and audio so he can jerk off when he’s alone. He doesn’t need to fantasize about anyone else since he has you.
Horny!Bucky who constantly touches or kisses you because he needs the connection. It makes him feel needy, but you don’t seem to mind.
Horny!Bucky who loves when you tease him and grind on his lap or shove your chest in his face. You look so innocent when you do it, but you both know better.
Horny!Bucky who loves when you initiate sex. He’s yours just as much as you’re his.
Horny!Bucky who follows you around like a puppy because he adores you and doesn’t care if the gang teases him. They’d do the same if they had you, which they never will.
Horny!Bucky who isn’t afraid to beg for it. He’ll get on his knees for you any day of the week.
Horny!Bucky who will have you anytime, any place. He doesn’t need a reason.
Horny!Bucky who doesn’t stop even if someone walks in. He’ll shield you for your dignity, but he isn’t stopping unless you say so.
Horny!Bucky who is all about consent. You each have safewords and make sure to communicate.
Horny!Bucky who worries he’s too much and doesn’t want to push you away. But you’re just as crazy for him as he is for you.
Horny!Bucky who loves you and can’t get enough of you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Nothing to see here, lovelies. Go about your business. ❤️
pairing: roommate!bucky barnes x fem!reader | word count: 1.9k
warnings: weed, high sex, smut, finger sucking, thigh-riding, oral (f. receiving), fingering, slight foodplay but not really, bucky is a munch
prompt: strawberries and chocolate - day 5 of @pinksplace & @wildflowersandvibranium galentine's event
summary: bucky can't get high and you're too high — needy and hot and clinging to him until he's buried between your thighs, moaning into you like it's the only high he'll ever need.
"Can I try some of that?" Bucky gestures towards the joint you'd been smoking, leaning against the frame of the window you were sitting on.
You're sitting comfortably on the window seat, in a pair of sleep shorts and one of Bucky's sweaters. You'd become accustomed to stealing his clothes slowly —asking to "borrow" a t-shirt or a sweater — before they slowly ended up in your laundry.
There had been a cold breeze coming in from where you had the window cracked open to let out the smoke.
"I thought you can't get high? Because of the serum?" You're passing the joint over to him anyway, a little absentminded.
"I can't get drunk. It's probably the same with this but I just want to see." Bucky takes a drag, exhaling slowly.
You're already high out of your mind, muscles relaxed and body loose. Everything feels heightened. You're too warm. Too needy. The sight of his lips wrapped around the joint, exhaling soft and slow sends heat curling low in your stomach.
You shake off the thought, jumping down from the window.
You go over to the kitchen, picking up the bowl of strawberries and melted chocolate you had put there earlier — settling onto the couch as Bucky takes a few more drags, before putting the joint out.
"Feel anything?"
"Nothing." Bucky groans before flopping onto the couch next to you, letting his head fall to your shoulder.
He's close. Too close.
God, he smells so good.
He's so warm and big and right there. Your skin tingles with desire so strong, it hurts.
You dip a strawberry into the melted chocolate before bringing it to your mouth.
You let out an exaggerated moan, eyes rolling back.
"Fuck these are so good, they taste even better when you're high."
Bucky gives you a look that says thanks for rubbing it in my face and you laugh before eating another.
The chocolate coats the inside of your mouth, the sweetness mixed with the freshness of the berries.
"Mm, I could eat these forever. Like can I eat strawberries and chocolate forever?"
Bucky looks over at you, eyes going dark as you let out another moan. He hates the way his dick twitches. Hates himself for being turned on simply by the sound of your voice. God, here you were, trying to have a relaxing evening, eating your strawberries and he's getting hard at the sounds you're making like a fucking pervert.
Little does he know the way your pussy is already throbbing for him — you're too high, it's too much. And he's so big.
Your heart is beating unbearably fast.
Yeah, you may have smoked a tad too much. Okay, more than a tad.
You need something to hold onto, to ground you.
You climb into Bucky's lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. He inhales sharply, arm already wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer.
"Bucky, I'm too— I think I smoked too much—"
"S'okay doll, m'here, what do you need?" His hand pushes the hair out of your face and you lean into his touch like it's the only keeping you tethered to the earth — because it is.
"Need pressure. Need you." Your voice is muffled against his neck as you shift on his lap to be closer to him. Bucky's heart stutters at the way you lean into him, the way you trust him.
"And more strawberries." You pull back from his neck, reaching for the bowl.
Bucky laughs softly, shaking his head before passing it to you.
You eat a few more, head resting against his chest as he draws soothing circles into your hip. Or, it should be soothing but anything he does just makes you need him more —makes the desire crawl down your spine and settle at the base. You feel as though you can hear your pussy throbbing. As though he can hear it.
The air is thick with tension, every breath he takes brushing over the skin of your neck, every touch making you light up, your fingers itching to wrap around him, lips tingling like you can already taste him.
You shift on his lap again and—
Oh. Oh.
Your clit catches just right on the hem of your shorts and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from moaning.
Bucky hears the short gasp, feels the way your fingers tighten in his shirt and tries to think about anything but the way you'd grip his hair while he fucked you.
"Want to try some?" You're holding a strawberry out to him, dipped in chocolate.
Bucky nods slowly, eyes never leaving yours.
You should pass it to him. Should get off his lap and go to your room.
Instead, you slowly inch your hand closer to his mouth, watching as his lips wrap around it, taking a bite and closing his eyes.
"Good?"
"Mhm." Bucky can't think. Your face is so close to his. You're so warm and soft and trusting. And you're sitting on his lap.
Your thumb comes to the corner of his mouth, wiping off a bit of chocolate that had escaped. You bring your thumb to your mouth — slow, sinful.
Bucky's hands tighten on your waist. He unknowingly pushes you down onto his lap harder. You gasp as pleasure rushes through you.
"What was that?" Bucky's eyes are dark, pupils dilated as he watches you intently, hands dropping to your hips without realizing.
You can't help it now, can't hold back, pushing your hips down onto his lap to chase friction.
"Bucky I— I need you, please. Everything's too much. I need— "
Your words are cut off by a loud moan when Bucky pushes his thigh up between your legs, guiding your hips down onto him.
"Fuck doll, you have no idea what you do to me." He kisses you then, hard and hot — all tongue and teeth and pure desperation.
He moves you so you're straddling his thigh, pulling your sweater off to find you bare underneath.
"You walking around naked under my sweater, all wet and needy for me?" His fingers come to play with your nipples as you grind yourself against his thigh.
You're gasping already — pleasure rolling through you as you grind down harder.
"Need you Bucky— can't— can't stop." Your hips roll over him again and again and again.
"Fuck baby, don't need to stop, just use me, use me, ride my thigh all pretty. That's it. Good girl."
Bucky's never been this hard — hand coming to palm at himself as the metal one grips your hip, pushing you down onto him.
Bucky shifts his weight and his thigh flexes in the process. It hits you right where you need it, your head falling forward onto his shoulder.
"Fuck Buckyy, mmph-"
"You like that baby?"
You nod against his shoulder, moaning uncontrollably at the feel of your clit rubbing against his leg. You're soaked, dripping through your shorts until you're sure he can feel it too.
He does it again and again and again.
Until you're clenching and whining, mouth open against his throat as you soak his thigh.
You pull back to look at him, smiling as you ride out your high.
The way Bucky's looking at you tells you he's not done with you yet.
He's on the floor, kneeling between your legs as you lie back on the couch, completely naked. You writhe against the couch, head moving back and forth until you're moaning stupid into a cushion. Bucky pulls it away from your face, throwing it to the side.
"Mm-mm, need to hear you pretty girl." His mouth is back on you so fast — your body jerking forward as his tongue fucks into you.
The taste of you mixed with the remnants of chocolate has him dizzy. He moans into your pussy like he can't get enough.
If he couldn't get high before, this here — head buried between your thighs, would do it.
God, the taste of you.
Bucky moans into you, pulling you against his mouth harder, hands squeezing your thighs. The smell of you couldn't compare to the best high there is. Bucky feels his head go fuzzy when you pull at his hair, rutting against his face and letting out the most beautiful sound he's heard all night.
Bucky wants to hear that sound again. He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks — hard.
It's too much. Too good.
"Oh fuck, Bucky please— I—nghhh—"
Your hips start rolling against his face, chasing the friction, chasing the feeling of Bucky's tongue licking you from the inside. You pull at his hair again, pushing his face impossibly further into your pussy as your other hand reaches for another strawberry, lips wrapping around it, moans muffled as you eat.
Bucky could die right here. He doesn't care that he's being suffocated. He wants you to suffocate him — if it means getting you off, wanting nothing more than to see you coming so pretty against his face.
His nose nudges your clit as his tongue pushes into you and you come.
Hard.
"Bucky! Bucky— oh god yessss— fuck Buckyy," you mewl into his neck as you slowly ride out your orgasm against his hand.
"Fuck, I want to live in your pussy. Better than the chocolate, better than any high."
His hand is palming at your tits, pinching your nipple between his fingers, mouthing at the other between words. You're arching into his touch, legs wrapped around him as you grind yourself against the bulge in his sweatpants.
Bucky glances down at where your bodies meet and lets out a groan at the sight of the wet patch you're leaving on his pants. He grinds into you — once, twice, before dropping back to his knees, lips sucking your clit into his mouth again, this time sliding two fingers deep inside you, looking up at you and—
curls his fingers.
"Bucky— oh god— please, s'too much—"
"You can take it baby. Lemme eat doll, please. Lemme have my dessert."
He's on his knees, looking up at you like you're something holy — begging to taste you, to worship you.
Bucky's fingers are relentless, hitting that soft spot inside you that has your vision going white, babbling nonsense as Bucky's mouth makes out with your pussy.
"Your fingers don't get you there like mine do, do they sweetheart?"
He pulls back for a second, curling his fingers just right and you could come just at the sight of him — mouth wet, chin dripping with your arousal and eyes dazed like you're giving him something.
"Mm-mm." You give an exaggerated shake of your head.
"I know baby I know, needed mine, didn't you?"
You nod your head, eyes looking down at him — teary, worshipful. Your lips open over a soft gasp as he curls his fingers again.
"Fuck Bucky— needed you," you moan his name like it's worship.
"I know, I know pretty girl. I've heard you, moaning my name late at night, using your fingers like they can do the job. Moaning my name like you've already had me."
Your eyes shoot open before quickly falling shut, moaning loud and sinful as his fingers fuck into you — deeper, harder. His palm slaps against your clit each time before replacing it with his tongue, licking into you like he can't get enough.
Your orgasm hits fast and hot and overwhelming — your body convulsing against Bucky's mouth as you moan his name like it's the only word you know.
You're smirking at him, looking up through your lashes like you don't know exactly what that does to him.
"Wanna fuck me in the shower?"
And how can he say no? When you're wet and dripping and beautiful for him; bare chest pressed to his and lips wrapped around another strawberry — feeding him the excess chocolate with your finger in his mouth.
a/n: just quickly wrote this on my phone in between writing the most gut-wrenching devastating angst hahaha and yes i was eating strawberries and chocolate while writing this
taglist: @quantumbarnes @daydreamgoddess14 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes (let me know if you'd like to be added!)
HEY QUEEN so i had an angst idea. mob!bucky with a sweetheart!reader, and arranged marriage. bucky is a busy man, constantly at meetings or dealing with business. reader is left home, trying to acclimate to her new way of life. what better way than cooking his favorite meal? reader takes the whole day crafting the food PERFECTLY and capturing the home cooked taste, and tells bucky to be home sharp for dinner… he forgets, goes out to drinks with buddies. reader realizes he doesnt care after minutes turned to hours after the usual time he gets home. tears are shed, reader is hurt. you can end it however you want!
synopsis:
One arranged marriage, one homemade dinner, two cold plates... and a husband who showed up three hours late, drunk, and heartless.
If someone had told your twelve-year-old self that you’d end up married to the most notorious mob boss in Brooklyn, little you would have laughed and said, “That’s not Prince Charming!”
Fast forward through a blur of over the top celebrations, wedding gowns, and rings that cost more than your entire life. Now, past the hollow vows you were certain he would never keep, you find yourself sitting in a vast and lonely house.
All by yourself. Yet again.
With no Prince Charming.
The framed engagement photo hanging in the center of the living room felt like a taunt. In the portrait, you and Bucky are smiling, wrapped in each other's arms, looking every bit the perfect couple. You’re fairly certain the photoshoot and the wedding day were the only times you ever saw him smile. After that, you hardly saw him at all.
Bucky was always out, occupied by business, meetings, and who knows what else. You remember one night when he stumbled in bloodied and bruised, heading straight for the fridge to grab a water bottle as if he weren’t half dead.
“What’s wrong, dear?” you had stammered, heart racing. “You’re covered in blood. Are you hurt?”
He didn’t even look at you, merely shrugging as he took a long drink. “I’m fine. And it’s not my blood. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
He said it constantly, yet the nickname felt more like an insult than an endearment. He and his associates had meticulously arranged this marriage—plucking an innocent, upstanding citizen like you to give him the facade of a ‘regular’ man with a ‘regular’ wife.
And refusal wasn’t an option.
You don’t say no to the King of Brooklyn unless you have a death wish.
Despite the loveless nature of the arrangement, Bucky was kind enough to spoil you with riches you never asked for. He flooded the house with custom made dresses, jewelry, and shoes. He gave you security. He gave you silence.
You were less of a wife and more of an expensive accessory, polished and kept on a shelf.
Lately, however, the silence has been heavier and longer.
Bucky has been more on edge than usual, returning home in the gray hours of the morning looking utterly spent. On the rare occasions he actually climbed into bed, he tossed and turned, mumbling painfully in his sleep.
Despite everything, he was a decent husband by… mob standards, and your nature was too kind to remain indifferent to his exhaustion. You wanted to do something, anything, to help him ease that tension, even just a little bit.
So, for one night, you decided to do something you hadn’t done since he slipped that heavy diamond onto your finger. You were going to cook. No five star catering this time, no maids, no pretense. Just a homemade dinner, crafted by your own hands, in the hopes of showing him that someone in this cold and lonely house actually cared for him.
You spent the entire afternoon grocery shopping alone—no security, no chaperones, and no servants to carry the bags. You bought everything necessary for a steak and pasta dinner, including a bottle of wine. You weren’t exactly a sommelier, but you picked the most expensive bottle on the shelf, figuring that high price was a safe bet for quality.
You were already a bit disheveled, trying to organize the chaos of ingredients across the large marble counters, when you heard Bucky jogging down the stairs, phone pressed to his ear. He gave you the usual side glance—a quick acknowledgment before returning his focus to his business.
But the sight of the groceries sprawled messily across his usually sterile, pristine kitchen made him do a double take.
Bucky pulled the phone slightly away from his ear, his brow furrowed as he nodded toward the counter. “What’s all this?”
You nearly bumped your head against the cabinet as you looked down at him from the stepping stool— a necessity because he insisted on oversized cabinetry around the house despite never actually using it.
“Bucky!” you beamed, carefully stepping down. You were slightly out of breath, but you offered him a bright, friendly smile. “Good. You haven’t left yet.”
He blinked at you, not used to your sudden energy. “I’m sorry?”
“I want you to come home early tonight,” you repeated firmly. “I have something special planned for us. I want you back here no later than eight.”
Bucky just stood there, the phone still in his hand, looking a bit confused.
You narrowed your eyes, adding more bite to your tone.
“Bucky,” you said firmly. “As your wife, I am telling you to be home by eight.”
His shoulders eased just a little once your words finally registered in his already busy brain of his. You had never been this… firm with him, so you had no idea how he was going to react, or even comply.
To your surprise, he gave you a short and casual nod.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Sure. eight o’clock.”
Now, it was your turn to blink. You had never demanded anything of him before, and you certainly hadn’t expected him to be so… compliant. Almost submissive.
The tension left your body in a long, shaky exhale. “Okay, great. Well—”
Before you could finish, he held up a finger to silence you, snapping the phone back to his ear.
“Sam?” Bucky spoke into the receiver, already moving towards the door to snag his coat. “Yeah, you heard me. Settle the deal with Stark. I’m on my way.”
You watched as the doorman pulled the heavy front door open for him, and just like that, he was gone.
It had been a brief interaction, but he had actually agreed. You’d take the win. The plan had gone so smoothly that it felt almost too good to be true.
And, as you were about to find out, it was.
You spent the rest of the day elbows deep in the kitchen, juggling half a dozen video tutorials on how to properly sear a steak and season pasta water. At one point, you nearly overboiled the noodles into a mushy disaster, and the temptation to call the private chef and beg him to take over was almost overwhelming.
Since marrying Bucky, you hadn’t been required to lift a finger. But tonight, you were determined.
You wanted all of this to be a gift from you to him.
By half past seven, the heavy lifting was done. Bucky was due in thirty minutes. With the food warming and the table glowing under soft candlelight, all that remained was for you to go upstairs and make yourself presentable. You sent him a quick text.
Remember: be home at eight!
… He didn’t respond, but you didn’t let that dampen your spirits. He was a busy man, but he was also a man of his word. If the mob boss of Brooklyn told you he’d be home by eight, you simply had to trust him.
It was 8:05.
You were already seated at the table, your hands folded primly in your lap to keep them from fidgeting. Every few seconds, your head turned towards the front door, straining for the sound of a key in the lock or a car in the driveway.
Nothing.
No Bucky.
By 8:30, the house had grown suffocatingly quiet. No call. No text. Not even a ‘running late!’ notice from one of his men.
You remained in your seat, hands still resting in your lap until your fingers began to go numb. You tried to wage a war of logic against the rising lump in your throat.
It’s fine, you told yourself. He was likely stuck in traffic or tied up in an emergency meeting. After overhearing that intense phone call with Sam earlier, you knew the stakes were high. It was unrealistic, or maybe even naive, to expect the mob boss of Brooklyn to keep a strict dinner date as if he were the average man.
He was busy. He was important. That was all.
By 10:15, the pasta had become a cold, congealed mess, and the steak had lost its luster, the fat hardening into a dull white film. Still, you didn’t eat. You didn’t even move, except to reach for your phone.
You called him twice, and both times the line cut straight to voicemail.
By 11:00, the mental battle was lost.
You had spent the entire day preparing for this. He had looked you in the eye and given you his word, yet here you sat—unimportant and completely invisible to the man who had sworn his life to you when you exchanged vows. A single tear tracked through your makeup, and when you finally lost the strength to hold your head up high, a choked sob escaped your lips.
You felt utterly foolish—sitting in a thousand-dollar dress in an empty mansion, crying over a plate of cold noodles that probably tasted mediocre at best.
Deep down, a part of you knew you should have expected this. It had felt too good to be true from the start. But Bucky was a man defined by his word—a man who never missed a meeting, never abandoned a colleague, and never failed a mission.
He was always there for everyone else. Yet, he couldn’t return the favor to the woman he married? Not even for a single night?
Your eyes were puffy, your throat dry from crying, and your spirit completely spent. You reached out to blow out the last flickering candle, the smoke of burnt wax filling the air as you prepared to retreat once more to your cold and empty bed.
As you pushed back your chair, the heavy front doors swung open. You froze, the sound you had been praying for all night had finally arrived—five hours too late and all in the ways you never expected.
Bucky didn’t walk in with his head held high nor with straight shoulders like he usually did. He stumbled, bumping into the doorframe as he entered.
As a gush of the outside night air rushed into the foyer, it carried the suffocating aroma of expensive scotch and stale smoke.
He fumbled with his keys, tossing them onto the marble console table with a loud clatter that echoed in the foyer, making you flinch. His tie was yanked loose, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his hair—usually slicked back or kept—was a chaotic mess.
He let out a low, breathy groan, leaning his forehead against the cool wall for a moment of stability. You frowned, taking a single, cautious step closer to him.
“Bucky?”
Slowly, his head rolled toward you. His glassy, bloodshot eyes drifted over you, taking in your elegant dress before drifting past you and to the dining table—a graveyard of cold, congealed plates and full, expensive wine bottles
“Oh,” he let out a shaky breath, slurring on his words. “Hi, sweetheart.”
You furrowed your brows, frown deepening as you took in his drunken state. “Where have you been?”
Bucky forced himself to stand up straight, or at least a messy approximation of it, as he ran a lazy hand through his ruffled hair. He blinked repeatedly, his gaze blurry as he struggled to lock his focus on you.
“Was out… with t’boys…” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “The usual.”
You crossed your arms, the silk of your sleeves crinkling against your skin. You had been patient all night—torturing yourself with worry and excuses while he was out throwing back drinks.
Now that he was finally standing in front of you, smelling of a bar and completely inebriated, you felt the last already thin thread of your patience snap.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hissed, your face getting hot.
You took a step toward him, your stiletto clicking against the floor.
“I’ve been waiting for you all night! And you were out there slinging back shots? I told you to be home by eight! And now it’s…” you glanced at the large clock hanging on the wall behind him, “It’s nearly midnight!”
Bucky blinked, the same way he had earlier that morning when you first asked for his time. He looked at you with a dull, dumbfounded confusion. He had never heard you swear, let alone seen you stand your ground like this.
Then, his face suddenly hardened, the drunken haze replaced by a cold, familiar look. The look he’d give to disobeying subordinates.
He took a swaying step closer, forcing his glassy eyes to lock onto yours, his presence suddenly filling the room in a way that felt threatening and suffocating.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me!” you snapped, your voice trembling with fury and exhaustion. “I spent the entire day in this kitchen. I went out and bought everything myself. I followed tutorials, I watched the stove for hours—I… I tried to cook for you for the first time since we met because I thought it might actually mean something to you! I waited and I waited. I texted you. I called you. And I got nothing!”
You choked back a sob, your chest aching.
“I am tired, Bucky… I am so incredibly tired of being invisible in my own home!”
Bucky scoffed, a cold, dismissive sound that only made the knife inside your heart twist even more. He took another step closer, the smell of scotch making your nose scrunch up in disdain.
“What do you think this is?” he growled. His words were slurred, yet the edge in his voice was undeniable. “Do you think I married you for some domestic fantasy?”
He stepped into your personal space until his polished dress shoes were toe-to-toe with your heels. He loomed over you, using his height to make you feel small, his shadow swallowing yours.
“For intimate, candlelit dinners and homemade pasta? I don’t need you to cook for me. We have staff for that. If you’re so exhausted, then go to bed. I’ll have the servants come in and clean up this mess in the morning.”
The anger drained out of you, replaced by a hollow, crushing pain.
Your brow unfurled, your expression softening from rage into pure, raw pain.
You were hurt.
“… This mess?”
You looked at the table—the meal you had labored over, the domestic evening you were trying to build—and all he saw was a mess to be cleared away. The tears started again, hot and stinging, blurring your vision as you looked at the stranger who wore a wedding band that matched your own.
You couldn’t even look him in the eye anymore. You looked down at your expensive shoes, to your dress, which you now fiddled with as a sad coping mechanism for any semblance of comfort.
“Then what did you marry me for, Bucky?” you whispered.
Bucky opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat. The cold steel in his gaze flickered, extinguished by a hollow look. He just stood there, swaying slightly, staring at you as if he had forgotten the answer himself—if an answer even existed.
You didn’t wait for him to find it.
You turned and retreated up the stairs, the sharp click of your heels against the marble being the only sound left in the house.
Behind you, Bucky was left standing alone in the foyer, the silence of the house feeling even emptier than it had before he walked through the door.
Later that night, Bucky sat alone in the dark of the living room. The expensive scotch and whiskey were finally losing their grip on him, leaving a dull, throbbing ache and a bitter clarity in their wake.
For two hours, he stared at the dying embers of the fireplace, the oppressive silence of the mansion closing in on him like a suffocating cage.
With a low, ragged groan, he dropped his face into his palms. “Fuck.”
He had killed, tortured, and ruined countless lives without a single ounce of remorse. He was a man built for violence, leading a world that didn't allow for mercy. Yet, he felt a visceral revulsion towards himself for hurting you—his own wife. The one person who asked for nothing but his presence.
This mess.
The memory of his own words made him physically shiver in disgust.
God, he thought, realizing his own cruelty. I’m a monster.
Finally, he forced himself to stand, his body feeling heavy and exhausted. He climbed the stairs, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt as he pushed the master bedroom door just barely to allow himself to slip inside.
The room was bathed in the pale, silver glow of the moon. You were asleep, but your breathing was hitched and uneven. Even in the dim light, he could see your puffy eyes and the tear stains on your cheeks—the map of a night spent in misery… because of him.
He slid into bed beside you, the mattress creaking slightly. He didn’t deserve to be near you, he knew that—yet he couldn’t resist.
He shifted closer, hesitantly curling his body around yours until your back was flush against his chest. When you didn’t stir, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. It was floral and soft, a contrast to the stench of smoke and stale alcohol clinging to his own skin.
Bucky remained there, holding you with a grip that was both protective and desperately selfish.
You had never raised your voice before. You had never sounded so broken, so small. He hated it. He was a terrible husband, an even worse partner, and though he couldn’t yet say with certainty that he loved you, he knew he cared.
He knew that if anything ever happened to you, he would lose his mind. He’d set the entire city on fire just to see your vengeance through.
He would burn the world for you.. yet he couldn’t give you a single evening of his time.
He knew he had to make it up to you, but his only language was money and power. He knew how to swipe a card and drown you in riches, but he realized now that diamonds couldn’t fix the look of defeat he’d seen in your eyes.
He didn’t know where to start, but he knew one thing for certain; he had to find a way to make you smile again.
By the time the sun was fully up, the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee began to drift toward the master bedroom.
When you finally blinked your eyes open, the bed beside you was cold.
You weren’t surprised. The hollow space where Bucky should have been was a familiar sight, and you let out a long, weary sigh as you sat up. The house was quiet as always, except for the sound of sizzlling of bacon and the rich, roasted aroma of coffee drifting up the stairs.
The maids were a bit earlier than usual. They usually didn’t make breakfast until eight, yet you couldn’t complain. You hadn’t ate a single thing last night and you were starving.
You didn’t bother with makeup or styling your hair; there was no one to impress in an empty house filled with servants who kept to themselves. You simply threw on a silk robe, tied it loosely around your waist, and began the slow descent downstairs.
As you turned the corner into the dining room, you stopped short, your breath hitching in your throat at what you saw.
The servants were nowhere to be found. Instead, it was Bucky.
He was still wearing his dress slacks from the night before, though his white shirt was rumpled and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was hunched over the table, meticulously and… if a bit awkwardly, arranging a plate of eggs and bacon. He looked completely out of place, a broody man surrounded by orange juice and colorful fruits.
You stood by the entrance, motionless, watching a man who commanded the streets of Brooklyn struggle against a floral centerpiece. The bouquet hadn’t been there yesterday; the colors were too vibrant, the scent too fresh—he must have gone out at dawn to get them himself.
His large, calloused hands hovered tentatively over the arrangement. He nudged the vase an inch to the left, stepped back to inspect it with a cold, narrowed gaze, then stepped forward to nudge it back.
You had to bite back a smile.
There was one particular pink petal that refused to cooperate. Every time Bucky tucked it into the arrangement, it would wait exactly three seconds before drooping back down, mocking his need for order.
“Dammit,” he mumbled to himself, thinking he was alone.
He tried again, his jaw clenched and eyes focused. The petal drooped. He tried a third time, holding his breath as he took a cautious step back, willing it to stay. “Come on,” he whispered. “Just stay.”
When the petal slumped for the fourth time, Bucky’s shoulders tensed, his hands curling into frustrated fists at his sides. He looked like a man on the verge of a tantrum, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassed red. It was ridiculous. Here was a man used to getting everything he wanted, and he was being bested by a single flower.
An involuntary giggle bubbled up in your throat and escaped your lips.
He jumped at the sound, looking like a child caught red handed. He immediately unclenched his fists, his jaw dropping slightly as he shifted his stance, trying his best to look casual.
Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze darting away. He was deliberately avoiding staring at your messy hair—the strands he wanted to tangle his fingers in— or the way your silk robe hung against your body in a way that could be deemed as inappropriate.
“I—uh,” he stammered, catching himself in a rare moment of sheer embarrassment. He cleared his throat, regaining a fragment of his dignity.
“These flowers—they’re no good. The florist on 37th Street is no good. I’ll have someone handle it.”
Still giggling, you took a step closer, your bare feet quiet against the cold marble. You hugged yourself, pulling your robe a little tighter as you gestured toward the spread.
“Noted,” you said softly, your voice still a little raspy from sleep. “And... what’s all this? Breakfast you ordered from that place in Greenwich?”
As you drew nearer, however, the details of the food began to catch your eye. You saw the stack of pancakes—some a bit too pale, others charred a deep, smoky black around the edges. You noticed the fruit, which hadn’t been artfully sliced by a chef, but hacked into lopsided and uneven chunks.
There was a plate with sunny-side-up eggs and bacon meticulously arranged into a smiley face.
You tried to ignore how one of the yolks had burst, leaking yellow across the plate so that it looked more like a crying happy face, but the effort was undeniable.
Bucky followed your gaze to the plates, his ears turning a darker shade of crimson.
“No. Uh,” he muttered, waving his hand to the table dismissively as if there was nothing to show. He let out a short, self-deprecating huff of air. “I made it. All of it.”
You frowned, looking around the suspiciously quiet room. “The staff wasn’t around to help?”
He looked up then, his blue eyes searching yours with a vulnerability that was almost too painful to witness.
“The staff? I sent them home for the morning,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t want anyone else here. Just us.”
You looked back down at the table, avoiding his eyes as you mentally pieced everything together. “Bucky, if this is about last night—”
“It is,” he interrupted, his voice rough and urgent. He took a step toward you, his hands reaching out hesitantly before settling awkwardly on your shoulders. “It’s about… everything. The way I’ve been acting. The things I said to you. Me forgetting our dinner...”
“It’s nothing,” you whispered, still avoiding his gaze.
You looked down at your silk robe, fidgeting with the fabric just as you had with your dress the night before.
“It was unfair of me to expect you to always be available—”
“No,” he cut you off, his grip firming.
He turned your body so you were forced to face him. He took a deep breath, searching for words he didn’t even know how to use.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered finally. “I was a prick. I should’ve made time for you. I should have kept the promise I made. I shouldn’t have dismissed you like that.”
He sighed, his hands sliding up to cup your jaw. His palms were warm and calloused, tilting your head up so you had to look at him, despite how much your eyes still stung every time you faced him.
“I’m sorry for being a terrible husband, and I’m sorry for not being there for the dinner you worked so hard on.” His voice was shaky, his shoulders tense as if he were fighting back his own emotions. “Seeing you cry like that... I never want to see it again. I hated it. I hated that I was the reason for those tears.”
He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. “I’m going to be better to you—for you. I’ll make sure of it.”
Bucky let out a short, nervous breath, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheekbones. “I didn’t even know where to start,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen. “But I figured a homemade meal might help... right? Even if it’s a disaster.”
You looked at the charred pancakes, the messily cut fruit, and the drooping yolk of the egg.
“It looks good, Bucky.” You smiled
He snorted, a lopsided, boyish grin breaking through his usual stoic features.
“You don’t have to lie to me. I don’t know how to cook, so lower your expectations significantly.”
You laughed, the sound light and clear. It was a sound that made Bucky’s heart jump in his chest—a sign of life in a house that had been silent for too long.
“It’s okay,” you admitted, “I don’t really know how to cook either.”
Bucky chuckled softly in return, the two of you standing in the quiet of the morning as the laughter eventually died away. You expected him to pull away and start the meal, but he remained close.
He leaned in, and you watched as his gaze dropped to your lips. The air grew thick, and you subconsciously held your breath. It looked like he was actually going to kiss you—like, really kiss you.
You could almost feel the phantom pressure of his lips against yours, a gesture that you’ve always dreamed of since the day you two got married. The only time he had ever kissed you was during the wedding, but that wasn’t a real one.
If he kissed you right here, right now—this would be real.
But at the last second, he caught himself.
He pulled back just an inch, exhaling the breath he had been holding himself. He stepped over to the table and pulled out your chair, bowing his head slightly as he caught your gaze with a sheepish, strained smile.
“Let’s have a real breakfast, sweetheart,” he said. “As husband and wife.”
The title felt different this time. Sweetheart finally felt soft, intimate, and sincere.
It sounded like an actual endearment a loving husband would give his wife rather than an insult, his way of trying to show you the man he was trying to become.
You let out a shaky breath, mentally collecting yourself and offering him a soft smile of your own as you sat down.
“Okay.”
thank you so much for this request! it's not often that i write them, but i enjoyed writing this one. i hope you like it!
pairing: brother's best friend!steve rogers x female reader
summary: when your brother's best friend interrupts your quiet moment in the hot tub, the tension between you two reaches a boiling point.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, possessive sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, cockwarming, choking, biting, bit of dacryphilia, brief chase kink, bdsm undertones, bratting/brat taming, check-ins, sir kink, dirty talk, very possessive dirty talk, praise kink, light degradation, pet names (sunshine, baby), teasing, begging, referenced marathon sex, aftercare, emotions, sort of enemies to lovers, happy ending. Steve is a fucking menace in this—you've been warned.
word count: 6.6k
a/n: ahhh Eva, thank you for sending in this prompt!!! it sparked an idea that got away from me a little bit and i ended up writing a much longer fic than i was planning for this event 😅 but i had so so so much fun writing these two, especially reader's bratty antagonism and how Steve meets her challenging provocations. i hope you enjoy what i came up with, thanks for playing my blizzard bacchanal game ♡
The midnight mountain air was chilly, serving as a delightful contrast to the deliciously heated water of the hot tub you were submerged in up to your shoulders. Leaning your head back on the edge, you reveled in feeling snowflakes alight on your face before quickly melting into your warm skin.
It was peaceful, and a rare moment alone, everyone else having gone to bed while you’d decided to soak in the chalet’s outdoor hot tub. It was so nice, in fact, that you should've known your brother's best friend, Steve Rogers, would ruin it.
"Mind if I join you?"
His voice was made all the more irritating by how pleasing you found it—so deep and steady in the silence of the wintry night. It had only gotten under your skin more and more as each day passed while you were at the mountain chalet with your brother and both your friends for a week-long ski trip. After almost the full week, you were over it.
You lifted your head briefly, intent on giving Steve a disinterested look that would hopefully be cold enough to send him packing back to his room. But then you got a look at your brother’s best friend wearing nothing but a pair of swim trunks and the sight of so much bare, golden skin on display had your belly clenching and your mind short-circuiting.
As quick as you could, you let your head fall back to the lip of the hot tub, arranging your face in an expressionless mask as you stared up into the dark night sky. Your mind raced with only one thought—it was indecent how good Steve looked in a pair of simple black swim trunks.
"If you must," you said, barely paying attention to the words as you offered him a careless wave of your hand.
You tried not to notice the way the water swished and swirled as Steve climbed gracefully into the hot tub. And you refused to acknowledge the way your body warmed further with his presence. The water was simply hotter because there was another person in the hot tub. That was all.
But in the deepest corners of your own mind, even you had to admit it was growing increasingly difficult to ignore the crush you had on Steve Rogers. Especially after so many days in such close proximity to the man.
Your crush had taken such deep root in your heart so long ago that it felt like a part of you. And no matter how many years you’d spent denying it, acting out against Steve to make sure no one—especially not him—knew your true feelings, you couldn’t hide the truth from yourself.
All you could do was bury it deep in your heart and hope no one ever discovered the truth of how you really felt about your brother’s best friend.
"Fuck, that feels good," Steve groaned as he relaxed into the opposite corner of the hot tub from where you sat.
The sound of his pleasure did obscene things to your body. Your skin tingled with sparks of lust as heat gathered low in your belly, while a thrumming ache bloomed in your core that had you pressing your thighs together. It was all you could do to bite back a needy whimper and stop yourself from squirming beneath the water.
To distract yourself, you lifted your head again and glanced at Steve. For the briefest of moments, you were both relieved and disappointed to find so much of his glorious chest obscured by water, the surface of which bubbled and foamed from the jets in the hot tub.
"I don't think I've ever heard the golden boy swear before," you taunted, using the mocking nickname you’d given him a long time ago. You were trying to needle him, to get under his skin in the way that his mere presence did to you, so you shot him your most infuriating smirk.
But Steve didn't rise to the bait. He only chuckled good-naturedly, though there was a slight edge to it that had you holding your breath and waiting for what he'd say next.
"Y'know, I'm not as much of a goody two-shoes as you might think."
It was damn near traitorous the way your body reacted to Steve's declaration, every part of you sitting up at attention—your nipples perking up so much, you were thankful they were hidden beneath the water. Even your pussy gave a dull throb like she thought she might be getting some prime dick that night, and you had squeeze your thighs to stave off the ache.
While your body rioted in response, outwardly you did your best to give Steve the coolest look you could muster, making a show of rolling your eyes.
"Sure you're not, golden boy," you drawled, sarcasm dripping from your voice like icicles melting in the bright sun.
You were rewarded by a flash of emotion in Steve's eyes—something like glee, but darker—but you were quickly distracted when he stood up, water sluicing obscenely down his chiseled chest. You tracked its descent like it was the most riveting thing you'd ever seen, and you only realized your mistake when Steve gave an amused snort.
"Have you had sex in a hot tub, sunshine?" Steve asked, prowling slowly toward you, an evil, knowing smirk on his stupid, handsome face.
You hated the way your body lit up at the way the mocking pet name rolled off his tongue—the one he'd given you because you had such a sunny disposition around him. You hated how much you loved that Steve had a special nickname for you, but you stuffed those feelings down deep and tilted your chin at him in a challenge.
"Because I have."
Your brain short-circuited at that declaration, not noticing that Steve had gotten close enough to plant his hands on the edge of the hot tub on either side of your body. He leaned over you, caging you in with his body, but his closeness barely registered.
You were too consumed by the jealousy blooming hot and bright, lodging deep in your ribcage like a burning knife, to notice his proximity. Your mind raced as you thought through all the other girls on the trip who Steve could've had sex with in the hot tub, and you saw red.
"Who did you fuck in a hot tub, Steve?" you demanded, glaring up at the man who occupied so much of your heart and mind, your voice little more than a possessive snarl.
He had the audacity to chuckle, looming over you with a smirk twisting his perfect mouth. "Are you jealous, sunshine?" he asked lightly, the tone of his voice daring you to deny it even though you both knew you were.
His question finally slapped some sense into you and you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to regain some of your emotional distance by sniffing haughtily and looking away. Steve’s eyes were too sharp, they saw too much, and you were suddenly terrified that not only did they see right through you, he’d been seeing right through you for years.
"Of course not," you snapped, refusing to look at him as you scrambled for some other explanation for your question. "I'm just curious,” you said, giving a one-shouldered shrug like you couldn’t care less. “Whoever they are, they must lead a pretty boring life if they think fucking a golden boy like you in a hot tub is a good time."
At that, Steve growled, sounding furious as he leaned down, making the cage of his body smaller as he crowded you into the corner of the hot tub. Inexplicably, you weren’t scared of him. No matter how much you riled him up, you knew Steve would never hurt you. You…trusted him.
So you weren’t worried by his posturing. In fact, you were practically tickled by it, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning triumphantly at getting a rise out of him.
"I assure you, sunshine,” Steve bit out through gritted teeth. “Fucking me would be anything but boring, no matter where we do it."
Steve was trying to provoke you, and you knew you shouldn’t rise to the bait, but you couldn’t pretend you were unaffected by his words, by the way he made it sound like fucking him wasn’t just a possibility, but an inevitability. And, for a brief moment, you wanted it so badly, you could practically taste your desire in the cold, wintry night.
“Prove it, golden boy,” you snarled, trying to keep up the front that you didn’t want him, but it was a losing battle.
Despite your best efforts to remain calm, a shiver skated down your spine as you imagined Steve fucking you right there in that hot tub. You knew it would be good—if you knew nothing else, you knew that—and you couldn’t help but tremble at the thought, your body weak under the weight of your lust.
A rough, pleased sound came from Steve's throat, startling you out of your thoughts. Before you could figure out what it meant, he was grabbing your chin and turning you to face him, your head craned back while he loomed over you, still caging you in with his broad form and delicious heat.
Suddenly, his nearness wasn’t enough. You wanted him closer, you wanted every inch of his hard body pressed against your softer one. You wanted your paltry swimsuits to dissolve so you could feel his bare skin against yours, so there’d be nothing hindering him from lining himself up with your body and sinking inside until you begged for relief.
In that charged moment, your need was so exquisite, you nearly whined, but you bit it back at the last second, refusing to give Steve the satisfaction of knowing how much he’d gotten to you. Still, his blue eyes flashed like he knew exactly what he was doing to you—that your challenge for him to prove he could fuck you good was more than a furious rejoinder.
But before he could get to that, his expression softened, and his grip on your face became more affectionate. There was something he wanted to clear up before you continued your conversation, and it derailed you entirely.
“Don't worry, baby, I haven't fucked anyone else on this trip," Steve said, stroking his thumb along your lower lip. His voice was gentler than it had been, and you hated how his words soothed the jagged edges of your jealousy. "I was talking about a trip I took with Sharon back when we were together."
A snarl gathered at the base of your throat. You hated being reminded of Steve's ex-girlfriend, the one he’d been dating when you first met him and was a big reason why you didn’t want him knowing how you truly felt.
But it was only you and Steve in that hot tub, and you felt laid bare beneath the intensity of his gaze. Before you could think better of it, a question fell from your lips.
"Was she good?" you asked, hating how small your voice sounded.
It became immediately clear that you weren’t fooling Steve with your question—he knew what you were really asking: Was she better than you? It was a ridiculous question, since you and Steve had never fucked, but it revealed too much of your insecurity when it came to him.
You tried to pull away from Steve's grip and turn your cheek to him as tears threatened to fall, but he gathered your face in both hands, his thumbs stroking softly over your cheeks. He held you reverently, grounding you back in the moment, and you found the strength to roll your eyes in an attempt to save face.
"The hot tub sex, I mean,” you clarified, your voice only wavering a little. “Was it fun?"
Steve closed more of the meager space between your bodies, until his stomach was nearly brushing your chest, and tipped your head all the way back. He leaned down over you so there was no possible escape from the way his shoulders were bunched like a predator ready to pounce, his eyes darkened with desire.
"If you promise to be a good girl, sunshine, I could show you just how good it can be to fuck in a hot tub."
It was on the tip of your tongue to say yes, your answer spurred by the way your pulse was throbbing insistently between your thighs. But at the last second, you remembered yourself, and you remembered you couldn't give in so easily to your brother's best friend.
Somewhere deep inside your heart, you wanted Steve to earn you—and he could only do that if you continued pushing him. So that’s what you did.
"Why don't you show me what ya got, golden boy, and then I'll be the judge of how good it is," you taunted, hoping you weren’t pushing Steve too far.
You got a brief glimpse of bright delight and deeply buried affection flashing in Steve's eyes before he was moving. His mouth crashed down on yours in a kiss that was blisteringly hot from the moment it began, stealing all the air from your lungs and making you gasp from the sheer heat of it.
Steve kissed you like a feral beast that had finally been unleashed on the prey he'd been stalking for years, and you met his fervor with all the pent-up lust you'd been hiding since you'd first started crushing on your brother's best friend.
The kiss was brutal, all clashing lips and nipping teeth, your desire finally unbound and untethered. Steve’s teeth sank deep into your lower lip, biting you hard enough to nearly draw blood, and in retaliation, you grabbed his face, pulling him closer and licking into his mouth like you were daring him to consume you.
With a bitten off growl, Steve crouched down and hooked an arm around your waist, spinning you around with him as he turned and sat down heavily on the bench of the hot tub. He manhandled your body so easily into the position he wanted, with you straddling his lap, it made you dizzy with desire.
Once you were settled on his lap, you kept right on kissing him, your hands braced on his shoulders. Steve let out a muffled moan, his hand cupping the back of your head and kissing you deeper until you went wild.
When he plunged his tongue into your mouth, seeking to claim the air straight from your lungs, you wrapped your lips around it and sucked on him obscenely, pulling him deeper into your hot mouth. You were rewarded by Steve’s low, tortured groan, and his hips kicking up between your thighs like he was overcome.
In answer, you spread your knees wide on the bench seat, grinding your pussy down on the hard ridge of his cock through your thin bathing suits. It felt so good—the hot, hard length of him pressing between your folds and rubbing so perfectly against your clit—that you finally pulled away from his kiss with a reckless moan.
"Oh, does that feel good, sunshine?" Steve asked, his voice teasing and mocking even through the huskiness of his own lust. While you gasped for air, he pressed heated kisses to the underside of your jaw and down the line of your neck. "Do you think my cock will feel even better when it's inside you?"
A needy, ravenous shiver skated down your spine and you let out an impatient snarl as you carded your fingers in the hair at the back of Steve's head, pulling him back from your neck so you could glare directly into his infuriating, gorgeous eyes.
"Shut up and fuck me already, golden boy," you bit out through snapping teeth, refusing to acknowledge just how desperate you were for him already, your pussy slippery and throbbing with need. "Or are you gonna make me do all the work myself?"
Something dangerous and hot flashed in Steve's eyes, his mouth twisting into a feral smirk, but he didn't move right away like you expected him to after your vicious provocation. Instead, he let you languish in the breathless moment, waiting to see what he would do.
"Oh sunshine, you really have no idea what you do to me, do you?" he rumbled, but didn't stop to let you answer before continuing, his eyes growing impossibly dark as his pupils blew wide, eclipsing the blue of his irises. "If you did, you wouldn't keep pushing me the way you do."
You didn’t know what he was talking about, so you resorted to taunting him. Rolling your eyes, you only had enough time to scoff out an "Oh please," before, suddenly, Steve was moving.
You let out a startled little yelp as he stood, maneuvering your body deftly as he pried you away from his chest and spun you around beneath the churning water of the hot tub.
In a matter of seconds, Steve had you bent over, your knees planted on the bench, upper body hanging over the edge. It felt like you were about to topple out of the warm water entirely, and you were so off-balance that you might’ve, if not for the tight way Steve held onto your hips.
You pushed yourself up, not fighting against Steve’s hold but wanting to sink further into him. Your shoulders collided with Steve’s chest, and he held you tightly against him, one arm banding around your waist. His other hand trailed up the center of your body, tugging the top of your bathing suit down until your tits popped free.
You gasped as the cold air and icy snowflakes brushed over your heated skin. It was such a contrast from the warm water swirling around your thighs that your nipples peaked immediately. Throwing your head back against his shoulder, you arched your spine, offering yourself up to Steve’s touch—and he happily took everything you had to give.
He groped you brazenly on the deck of the chalet, and you were thankful that there wasn't any chance of the two of you being caught. You both faced the mountains, only the snow and darkness a witness to the obscene way your body shuddered beneath Steve’s rough handling of your tits.
His big hands kneaded your soft flesh, deft fingers pinching and plucking your nipples until you were moaning wantonly and grinding your ass back against his cock. As much as you enjoyed feeling him play with your tits, you hoped to urge him along until he was sliding himself inside you.
"God, I've dreamed of these tits for years, sunshine," Steve groaned in your ear, hanging his head over your shoulder so he could watch himself play with your nipples. "Knew I shouldn’t…You're my best friend's little sister, you should be off limits, but I couldn't fucking help myself."
"Steve," you cried, as much from his confession as the zings of pleasure tingling down your spine at the way he teased your tightened peaks so ruthlessly.
The possibility that Steve had yearned for you just as long as you’d ached for him was too much to comprehend in that moment. It hurt just as much as it made you happy, and you didn’t have the capacity for the conflicting emotions. You just wanted more sensation—you wanted more of him.
"Please, Steve,” you whimpered, squirming more insistently against his cock. You tried to reach between your bodies, to skate your palm down the firm line of his cock, but he batted your hand away and laughed as he redoubled his efforts on torturing your tits.
"Do you need something, baby?" he cooed mockingly against your cheek, his laugh ghosting over your skin and making you shudder hard in his arms. "Do you need my cock, huh? Need me to pound your tight, hot pussy like you’re my own personal fuck toy and make you cum all over my dick?"
Something in your brain broke hearing your brother’s best friend murmur such filthy things in your ear, and you let out a low, helpless moan as you melted into his strong arms and hard body. It was too fucking hot hearing Steve talk to you like that, and you finally gave in to him, unable to make it difficult for him any longer.
"Yes!" you cried, driven to desperation by your need for him. Your pussy was throbbing insistently between your thighs, and your nipples ached from his attention—and you still needed more. You needed him inside you so badly, you couldn’t think, could only beg. "Please, Steve,” you sobbed. “Please fuck me."
Gentler than you expected, Steve kissed the tears spilling onto your cheeks, one hand collaring your throat just beneath your jaw so he could keep your face turned to the side for him. With the other, he shoved his swim trunks down and pulled the gusset of your bathing suit to the side.
Before he could slide inside and put you out of your misery, though, Steve paused. Staring deep into your eyes, his voice turned serious as he spoke.
"I've been tested, I'm all good—are you on birth control, baby?"
Steve's question swam in your mind for a moment before you could make sense of the words. When you did, a glimmer of gratefulness took root in your ribs, but you were too far gone to appreciate his thoughtfulness. Not when you were so close to getting what you most desperately wanted. So all you did was nod frantically.
"I'm on birth control, I got tested, I’m clear. I want to feel you bare, Steve, please," you babbled, your words tripping over each other in your haste to get them out, making you sound almost incoherent. "Fuck me raw, please, please, please, please.”
“That’s my good girl,” Steve groaned, his praise washing over you and warming you from the inside out. “Such a good fuck toy, telling me what you want and that you’re safe.” He pressed a kiss to your ravaged lips and you took it as the reward it was.
A pleased smile bloomed on your face even as your pussy clenched at the degrading name he called you. You never would’ve expected Steve to have such a filthy mouth, but you fucking loved it. And you were about to tease him for it, but then he was notching the head of his cock at your entrance and starting to push inside.
"Oh fuck, baby,” he swore when your tight heat enveloped the tip of his cock. Burying his face against your neck, his hot mouth pressed to your thrumming pulse so you could feel his words burrow beneath your skin and fizzle through your bloodstream. “You feel better than I ever imagined. So tight you’re choking my dick, and so fucking warm—”
Steve cut himself off on a strangled grunt as he pushed deeper, your slick cunt clasping his hard shaft, enticing him further into your body. You sucked in a sharp breath, reveling in the way his hot, hard length was stretching you open, making room for himself in the most intimate part of your body.
“Ya like that, sunshine?” Steve rumbled against your ear, pausing long enough to bite the corner of your jaw and drag another pleasured cry from your lips. “You like the feel of my dick splitting you open, huh? Claiming this cunt like I fucking own it?”
Steve’s voice was so rough and furious, you barely recognized it, but it was so hot—what he was saying and the tenor of his lust reverberating through your chest—that you never wanted him to stop. You didn’t have the breath to tell him to keep going, but somehow he knew, and he even upped the ante of the filthy things he was saying.
“Tell me how good it feels, sunshine,” Steve growled in your ear. “Tell me my cock feels better than anything you’ve ever had—tell me this pussy is all mine because no one’ll ever feel as good as I do inside you.”
If it weren’t for the fact that your brain was broken from how good Steve’s dick felt inside you, pushing deeper and deeper into your tight heat, until your entire being was focused on the feel of him, you might’ve bitten out some scathing reply about his possessiveness. But instead, it just ratcheted your need higher than you’d ever felt.
"Yuh huh, yuh huh," you babbled, your lips forming words before you could think them through—because Steve had already fucked you dumb on his cock and he hadn’t even started fucking you yet. “Feels sooo good, Steve. Feels like I was made for you—I was made to be fucked by you.”
“That’s fucking right,” Steve seethed, surging forward until he was almost entirely buried in your body. “You were made to be mine. My good girl, my fuck toy, mine—all fucking mine. Fuck, oh god, fuck."
A litany of curses and obscene sounds of pleasure poured from Steve's mouth unbidden, and it was all you could do to join him, even as the air was knocked from your lungs by the exquisite feeling of his cock shoving into your cunt. He was almost there…just a little more.
When Steve finally bottomed out, his hips pressing flush against your ass, you felt overcome with relief, like you’d been waiting for years and finally—finally—you were right where you were supposed to be. You sucked in a deep breath of air and melted into Steve’s embrace as you exhaled.
Your body sagged forward until you were hanging over the lip of the hot tub, and Steve followed you down. His hand stayed collared around your throat and his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as his chest heaved and heavy breaths puffed against your spine.
For a moment, the two of you stayed like that, basking in the feeling of being joined together so intimately and wrapped up in each other. Then Steve’s hand gripped your neck firmly, his other palm skimming down your side to anchor in the curve of your waist.
"You ready, baby?" he asked in a voice so rough, it sounded like the growl of a snow plow on an icy road.
"Just fuck me already, Steve," you whined weakly, putting up a fight with words even as your body fully submitted to Steve’s domination. But you weren’t paying as close attention to what you were saying as you should’ve, letting your true feelings for him slip through. "How many times do I have to beg—I want this, I've wanted you for years. Please!”
Steve’s reaction to your confession was instantaneous, his fingers digging into the sides of your throat, holding you tight enough to cut off any other provoking words you might utter. He growled a wordless, desperate vibration in your ear, sounding like he was unraveling—and yet he still held you like you were something precious.
Then, Steve's strong arms and powerful body shoved you forward, so your hips were pinned against the lip of the hot tub. The movement pushed your ass up out of the water and Steve lifted one of his feet onto the bench, giving him the leverage he needed to fuck you.
"You've done it now, sunshine," Steve rumbled in your ear, pulling back until only the tip of him remained inside your grasping channel before surging forward and pounding into you hard.
All you could do was sit there and take it, a sound of pleasure bursting from your lips as your hot breath puffed into the midnight mountain air. You were pinned completely by Steve, unable to move—and you’d never been happier. You clung to the arm wedged between your tits, holding him tight while he lightly choked you and thrust into you again.
"I'm gonna fuck you so hard and so deep, you'll be feeling me in your cunt for fucking days, sunshine,” Steve seethed, his bared teeth pressed to your cheek so you could feel his feverish lust and desire on your skin. “And you're gonna take everything I give you with a smile and a 'thank you, sir.' Do you hear me?"
He punctuated his question with another rough slam of his hips, the sharp smacking sound of his skin against yours sounding loud in the quiet night. Thankfully, the snow blanketing the chalet muffled the obscene sounds of your fucking, swallowing them up in the darkness.
So you didn’t worry about staying quiet when your mouth fell open, intending to respond, only to discover you couldn't. Your breath was stolen by the delicious ruination Steve was delivering unto your body, and all the words you might've said fled from your lips.
"I said, ‘Do you fucking hear me,’ baby?” Steve demanded, slowing his thrusts and loosening the tight grip he held on your throat enough for you to answer. You’d never been more eager to give him what he wanted.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir—thank you so much, sir," you babbled, unable to say anything else.
Steve huffed an all-too-self-satisfied chuckle, murmuring a patronizing, "Good girl," before his fingers tightened around your throat again and he resumed his brutal, punishing strokes.
He choked you tenderly as he fucked you hard and fast, pounding into you until you were nothing but sensation—pleasure and pain riding you so hard you went cross-eyed staring out into the snowy mountain night. His cock was thick and hot, thrusting so deep it felt like he reached the very end of you, claiming your body as his territory.
And your body was only too happy to be his, your pussy making the most indecent sounds as your inner walls gripped tight around his hardness. You could hear the obscene wet slaps of Steve’s cock hammering your cunt, and it only made you hotter, made you gush with more desire, until the sounds of your sopping pussy being fucked were loud in your ears.
Your pleasure ratcheted higher, until it was almost too much. Then, when you were teetering on the edge, Steve’s hand slipped from your hip to between your thighs. He rubbed your clit with a merciless determination you didn't know he possessed, shoving you right over the cliff of your pleasure.
You let out a shattered, muffled scream as you came apart at the seams. Your entire vision went white and your throat went dry as all your muscles seized. All you knew, all you were, was blistering pleasure. And you came harder than you ever had in your entire life.
"That's it, baby, cum all over my cock,” Steve rumbled in your ear, tethering you back to earth as he fucked you through your release. “Be a good girl and give it to me, milk my dick with that tight cunt, suck my cock deeper into that greedy pussy.”
All you could do was exactly as he said, your body shaking, your pussy pulsing around his hard length. You were so far gone, it took you a moment to realize you were letting out desperate little gasps and whines, his hand having loosened on your throat so your sounds of pleasure could spill freely from your lips.
Steve pressed his feral grin against your cheek, thrusts falling out of rhythm as he chased his release in your body. “You want my cum, sunshine?” he muttered against your skin. “Want me to fill you up so deep that you'll be dripping my cum down your thighs for days, huh?"
"Yes, please, sir," you rasped, your voice ragged from pleasure. You didn’t think, just answered him honestly, baring your soul for him in a way you never would have before. "Mark me, claim me—my pussy is yours, Steve. I’m all yours.”
"Oh fuck—fuck, baby," Steve groaned like he was overcome by your admission. He thrust hard into your cunt and began grinding deep, enjoying the way your inner walls rippled and sucked his hard length like your body was trying to pull him deeper. "Who do you belong to—say it again, sunshine."
"You, sir," you gasped, and when he bit out an unhappy sound through clenched teeth, you went on, babbling, "My body, my heart, my soul belongs to Steven Grant Rogers."
"Fucking right—that’s my fucking girl,” Steve growled, the words so righteous and satisfied that your heart thumped in your chest. “You’re all mine, just like I’m all yours, sunshine,” he rumbled right before sinking his teeth into the skin of your shoulder and exploding inside you.
Steve's big body shuddered and pinned you hard to the edge of the hot tub, his hand around your throat bracing you against his chest while he fucked you full of his cum, his hips grinding so deep in your cunt that it set off another, smaller release in your body.
You moaned as you came right along with him, dizzy from his confession that had so quickly followed yours. You were his—a truth you’d known a long time—but he was yours too. It almost seemed too good to be true, but then Steve repeated it.
“You own me, body and soul, baby,” Steve murmured, pressing kisses to your cheek, your chin, the corner of your mouth, anywhere he could reach. “You hold my heart in the palm of your hands, sunshine. Be gentle with me.”
The weight of his words settled deep in your heart and you smiled, a true, joyful smile before turning your head and capturing Steve’s mouth in a kiss. It was so much softer and sweeter than the first one you’d shared.
The battle between you was over. You’d laid yourselves bare and been accepted, flaws and all, and all that was left was to rejoice. So you reveled in Steve’s kiss, in the simple pleasure of being open and honest together.
For long, languid moments, you hung suspended in time, your body so disgustingly sated that all you could do was let out a contented sigh and keep kissing Steve, the corners of your mouth curling up with a smile. He huffed a soft laugh against your lips, winding down the kiss until he pulled away.
Steve looked so deliciously wrecked, his blond hair mussed, his cheeks an adorable shade of pink and his mouth looking so plump from your kisses that it made you want to ruin him more. At that thought, your pussy throbbed with renewed lust around Steve’s softening cock, and you had to hide a smile in your shoulder when his dick gave an answering twitch.
"You gonna take me back to your room so we can do that again, golden boy?" you tried to snark at Steve, but your voice was too breathless for the comment to have much of heat. Instead, you came off sounding desperate, though it was worth it from the way his eyes sharpened on your face.
Steve captured your mouth in a searing, conquering kiss, only pulling away when you’d melted back into submission—though you both knew it wouldn't last for long. Even if you were done hiding your feelings from Steve, that didn’t mean you were going to stop provoking him, especially when it led to such delicious consequences.
"First, tell me one thing, sunshine—admit it was good."
Steve looked so serious, like your answer really meant something to him, that you knew you couldn’t lie. But you could still play with him, just a little bit, right?
So you heaved a beleaguered sigh, making a show of thinking about it, drawing out the moment to annoy him. But when you caught Steve's eye over your shoulder and found a little furrow of unease forming between his brows, you knocked it off and gave him a shy smile.
"It was better than good," you confessed in a whisper, so only Steve and the cold, mountain night were witness to your admission.
The uncertainty cleared from Steve’s face immediately, and his mouth broke out in a broad, self-satisfied grin. You couldn't help yourself, your smile turning impish, the only warning of what was to come out of your mouth.
"It was a spectacular performance, golden boy,” you teased, delight sparking in your belly when Steve’s eyes darkened with lust at the nickname. “But I think I need a repeat before I can determine whether it was a one-off or not."
Steve's laugh was loud and incredulous, bouncing off the mountains and filling your heart with joy. He shook his head at you as he helped you up off the lip of the hot tub.
“You’re a menace, sunshine,” he growled, but there was no heat to his words, only the warmth of affection.
With his arms wrapped around your waist to keep your bodies connected, his cock staying nice and warm in the heat of your cunt, Steve sat down on the bench of the hot tub, gathering you up in his lap and holding you close.
Before he could kiss you, you giggled, your hands cupping his handsome face. “But I’m your menace.”
“Damn, right,” Steve muttered moments before kissing you.
It was slower and sweeter than ever before and you let a soft moan slip from your lips as you melted into Steve’s arms, savoring his kiss and the warmth of the hot tub.
When he finally pulled away, Steve stared deep into your eyes, all his affection for you etched into every line of his face. You stared at him with your own expression open, so he could see how much you adored him right back.
"Don't you worry, sunshine,” Steve murmured, his thumb stroking reverently over the curves of your face, like he was committing it to memory. “I’ll give you as many repeat performances as it'll take for you to understand just how good I am for you.”
Although his words sounded like a dare, Steve said them so sweetly, they sounded like a promise—one that had your heart thudding harder in your chest. Unable to stop yourself, you beamed at him.
"Prove it, golden boy," you challenged, your voice husky with need, as you began grinding your ass on his lap and clenching your cunt around his cock.
Steve went a little cross-eyed and he let out a tortured groan. You used his distraction to give him one more kiss, then slipped off his cock—feeling more than a little bereft without the hot, hard length of him inside you—and clamored out of the hot tub.
On trembling legs, you darted toward the chalet, intent on your next time with Steve being in a bed. Just as you were flinging open the sliding door of the deck, you heard water sloshing as Steve launched himself into pursuit.
In seconds, Steve was hot on your heels, chasing you through the chalet and up to his room, where the two of you fell into bed. You were still slick with his cum and your renewed desire, and he buried his dick deep in your cunt with one stroke, setting a brutal pace as he murmured sweet words in your ear about how good you felt on his cock.
For the rest of the night, he proved to you just how perfect he was and by the time dawn broke over the mountains, you were utterly and irrevocably gone for him. You fell asleep entwined together, Steve’s cock still buried in your pussy, right where he was always meant to be.
From that night on, your heart belonged to the golden boy you’d antagonized for so many years, and he went to great lengths to keep it safe and prove he was deserving of your devotion. As if that wasn’t enough, he gave you his heart in return.
Steve Rogers was all yours—and you cherished him for the rest of your life.
thanks for reading!! reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡♡
pairing | pre-infinity!war!bucky x fem!reader
word count | 19.1k words
summary | it becomes your responsibility to help the winter soldier heal—not just his body, but the fractured remnants of his mind. what begins as stern guidance slowly grows into something deeper, as you teach him how to be a man again, not a weapon.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, canon-compliant post–civil war, inspired by Avatar, reader inspired by neytiri, piv sex, unprotected sex, riding, mating press, missionary, desperate touching, body appreciation, emotional sex, breast fixation, lowkey carnal sex, bucky goes primal, creampie, ONE-ARM!BUCKY, fierce!reader, cheeky/playful!reader, shy!reader, angst with comfort, slowburn, lotssss of yearning and longing, mutual pining, bucky healing, emotionally repressed idiots, shuri&t'challa cameos, death of an animal, mythical creatures, wakandan religious and culture practises, meditation, buckys literally whipped, very very emotional aftercare
a/n | kms if this flops, deadass
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
“…He is a grown man,” you said flatly, arms folded, gold rings catching the light. “Why must I look after him like an orphaned sheep?”
T’Challa exhaled through his nose, pacing slow, as if you were all still discussing this with grace. Shuri, on the other hand, already looked ten seconds from strangling you with her bare hands.
The courtyard was warm with sun, but the three of you had been at it so long the tea had gone cold.
“You’re not looking after him. You’re—”
“—babysitting him,” you cut in. “A man who has killed how many people? But no, let me put aside my entire life and move back to the outskirts so I can make sure he eats his vegetables.”
Shuri’s eyes rolled so hard you thought they might stay back there.
“It is not babysitting. It’s helping him adapt,” she bit back, flicking her fingers in the air like she could swat your sarcasm. “The recovery process is not just about breaking trigger words. He has to be among people. Real people. And you are the only one who will not try to fix him.”
You scoffed, looking between them.
“You two clearly do not value my life. You should say it plainly. You want me to die at the hands of a haunted white man with one arm.”
T’Challa sighed through his nose. “He is not haunted. You are someone who understands silence. Who moves with intention. Who—”
“Who can babysit the winter beast?” you snapped, pushing to your feet. “No. No, this is not fair.”
“You are being dramatic,” Shuri muttered.
“I am being honest,” you bit back, tone sharp but low. “You want me to drag a man out of his nightmares and into the sun like it’s my duty. Why me?”
“Because you can,” came the voice from the stone archway—regal, steady, commanding.
You all turned at once. Queen Ramonda stood framed in gold and violet, hands clasped neatly before her, face composed but clearly unimpressed.
“I could hear your arguing from the throne room, for Bast’s sake,” she said mildly. “Must you bicker like wild dogs every time a request is made?”
All three of you stilled. Like children caught misbehaving.
You spoke first, pointing a hand toward the siblings. “Queen Mother, you must listen to what outrageous things your children are asking of me. They wish to exile me to the outskirts with a half-frozen foreign soldier who wakes with blood on his breath.”
Ramonda gave you that look, the one she’d perfected over years of dealing with all three of you. Calm. Measuring. Ever so slightly amused. “Perhaps the soldier needs someone who will not flinch from the truth. And perhaps you need someone who reminds you the world is larger than your comfort.”
You stared at her, mouth parting, “Once again I say, that is not fair.”
She stepped closer, eyes softening, eyes softening, brushing a hand down your arm. “It would be good for him,” she added gently. “And it would be good for you.”
“Why must everything be good for me when it is inconvenient?”
Ramonda moved her hand, cupping your cheek like she was softening you for the kill.
“He is not the same man they froze,” she said quietly. “We have done much. And we will continue to do more. But he cannot learn peace if he is surrounded only by the memory of war.”
You let out a long, annoyed breath. “So you say, ‘Come do this, come do that. Come leave your bed and your garden and your spirit work to go look after the American white man who—reminder—is an infamous serial killer.’”
There was silence. Then Shuri muttered, “He’s not technically a serial killer, it’s more—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
“I’m just saying there is a legal distinction—”
“Shuri.”
“I’m just—”
You lifted a hand, silencing her.
Ramonda pressed a kiss to your cheek, knowing it meant you were already halfway convinced. “Let him learn from someone who still speaks to the land,” she murmured. “Someone who still knows how to listen.”
You didn’t answer, but you sighed loud enough for everyone to hear.
T’Challa smiled. Shuri leaned against the railing, victorious.
You walked away mid-eye-roll, calling over your shoulder, “If he so much as breathes wrong near me, I will send him back to the ancestors myself.”
The first thing he felt was air.
Cool, real air—not the sterile chill of cryo, not the chemical weight of lab filters—but air that moved. That breathed. There was birdsong in it. Dry earth. Smoke from a far-off fire. Something floral he couldn’t name.
Bucky blinked, slow and dry-eyed, the light too warm, too gold. His body felt sluggish, heavy with sleep. He was on something soft. No wires, no restraints. His chest rose unevenly, breath catching against the strangeness of… quiet.
And then he heard them. Giggling. Whispering.
He turned his head—sharp pain blooming at the base of his skull—and found three children crouched beside him, their faces painted with thick lines of white and yellow, watching him like he was some museum piece come to life.
The youngest one leaned closer, nose nearly touching his.
“Who—” His voice cracked like dry leaves.
The kids shrieked with delight and bolted for the doorway in a blur of bare feet and swinging beads. One lingered just long enough to poke his knee before running.
“Nakana! I told you not to touch him!”
The voice snapped across the room like a whip—sharp, feminine, unfamiliar.
Feet on packed earth. Cloth shifting. A figure moved past the curtain of the doorway—tall, confident, annoyed in that particular way adults were when children ran just fast enough to escape consequences. She stepped into the light, brushing the curtain aside with the back of her hand. And he saw you.
Painted wrap slung around your hips. A loose tunic tucked at one side. Earrings glinting like fireflies. You were barefoot, one brow raised like this was the mess you’d been warned about.
Bucky’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.
You didn’t introduce yourself. You didn’t ask how he felt. You just tilted your chin toward the door, where the last light of day was spilling gold across the dirt floor.
“Come watch the sunset,” you said, like it was the only thing worth doing.
Then you turned and walked out—as if he’d follow, like that choice was his to make. And he made it.
The ground felt strange beneath his feet. Coarse, sun-warmed dirt. Fine dust that clung to his soles as he stepped out of the hut, squinting into the light. The doorway yawned behind him like a throat he’d just crawled out of. No fences. No guards. Just wind and open air.
He hadn’t seen the sun in—
He didn’t know.
Ahead of him, a narrow path wound gently uphill, flanked by thatched roofs and smooth clay homes, smoke curling from chimneys, cloth lines dancing between poles. A child darted past with a kite made of paper and string. Somewhere a woman laughed, deep and unbothered. The village breathed in rhythm. It felt… alive.
He turned, slow and aimless, until he spotted her.
You.
At the far edge of the clearing, your back to him, already walking—effortless, upright, that same piece of bright cloth now pulled across your shoulders. Your earrings flashed once in the sun before you passed into shadow.
You didn’t look back.
Others were walking, too—small groups, elderly men, a mother with a sleeping baby slung across her back. All of them moving in the same direction. Toward the slope. Toward the horizon.
Bucky didn’t think. Didn’t ask.
He just followed. Barefoot, steps uneven, like the ground might swallow him if he hesitated. The air was too clean. His body felt foreign—stiff, lighter, missing something. His arm…
He glanced down. Still gone. Just skin and metal and a quiet absence where something used to be.
But you were still moving. Up ahead, you slipped between two trees, and he picked up his pace without meaning to. The wind tugged at your top. Your hands stayed loose at your sides, steady, sure.
You heard his footsteps before he spoke—uneven, a little slow, like he hadn’t used his legs in months. (He hadn’t.)
The slope had leveled out by the time he reached you. You were already seated on the flat rock at the ridge, legs folded beneath you, elbows resting on your knees. The view stretched wide below, the village glowing in the last of the sun, children chasing goats through the paths, smoke rising from cooking fires.
He hovered a few feet behind you, hesitant.
“Where... am I?” His voice was scratchy, like rusted hinges. You didn’t turn.
“A village on the outskirts of Wakanda,” you said simply.
There was a pause. He stepped a little closer, slow and careful. “How long was I out?”
“Six months.”
“Six—?” He let out a quiet breath, and you heard him shift his weight like the number knocked something loose in his ribs. “And the Avengers?”
You lifted a shoulder. “I don’t keep up with Western affairs.”
Another pause. He didn’t take offense. You weren’t offering any. “Right,” he muttered. “’Course.”
The wind picked up slightly, carrying the smell of stew and sun-warmed stone. You felt him settle into a crouch beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the tension still tucked into his posture—like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs now that they weren’t weapons.
“Can I get your name?” he asked after a moment.
You tilted your head, half-glancing at him, not quite meeting his eyes. You said it clear and even, shaped by your tongue the way it was meant to be. No pause. No simplification. You didn’t shrink it down for him.
He winced. “Could you—sorry—can you say that again?”
You sighed, “Listen closely this time.”
And you said it slower, more deliberate, each syllable resting in the air between you like a stone placed carefully on sacred ground.
He nodded, repeating it under his breath, not quite right—but trying.
You didn’t correct him. The two of you just watched as the sun dipped low behind the hills, casting the sky in molten gold, when the rest of the villagers began to arrive—a slow trickle of movement from behind, soft chatter and rustling feet.
Children in linen wraps. Old men with carved walking sticks. Women with bowls of roasted groundnuts, passing them between gentle hands. They settled across the slope in small clusters, all facing west, as if the sun itself had summoned them.
It did this time every month.
You scooted slightly to one side on the flat stone, patting the space beside you without looking at him.
“Sit.”
Bucky hesitated only a moment before lowering himself beside you, still stiff, still quiet, the kind of quiet that held years in its throat. You didn’t watch him. Just kept your gaze on the fading orange sky.
“You were taken out of cryostasis a few days ago,” you said, voice even. “Your body was... overwhelmed. Princess Shuri gave you a sedative to keep the transition gentle. Let your muscles wake slowly. Let your heart catch up.”
He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you. Listening.
“You’ve been asleep for three days. Not unconscious—just... resting. Floating.”
Another pause.
“Once a month, we will go into the city. Shuri is still working to untangle what they did to you. She wants to... what did she call it...” You squinted slightly, mimicking Shuri’s tone. “Rewire the synaptic trauma. Remove the trigger pathways.”
Bucky blinked slowly. “So... you’re here to babysit me.”
You didn’t smile, but something near it tugged at your mouth.
“Do not say that in front of King T’Challa. I said the same thing and he got very defensive.”
That got a sound out of him—a small huff. Almost a suprised laugh, if you squinted at it hard enough.
The sky shifted deeper into indigo, casting long shadows across the rocks. The villagers behind you fell quiet. It always did when the last light left the ridge.
You glanced at him then, properly.
He looked... tired. Older than the last time you'd seen him—which, technically, was when he was still asleep in Shuri’s lab. But now, in the open air, the hollows beneath his eyes spoke more clearly.
“You are safe here, Sargeant Barnes,” you said, steady. Not soft, not firm. Just true. “The outside world will not touch you while you are in Wakanda.”
He didn’t look at you. Just kept his gaze on the horizon, jaw tight. “It’s James,” he said, low. “But most people call me… Bucky.”
You nodded once, tucking the name into your chest like a small seed.
“Alright then, Bucky.”
Neither of you spoke again.
The sun disappeared, and the sky gave way to stars.
The spot was quiet—further out than most dared to walk alone. You liked that about it.
You sat beneath the same tree every morning, where the grass grew uneven and the air stayed cooler longer. The village lay behind you, just out of sight, and in the distance, birds called to one another in a rhythm older than memory.
He was supposed to be meditating.
You cracked one eye open.
He wasn’t.
The soldier sat across from you, legs folded, posture tight like someone was going to shoot at him any second. His expression was too still, jaw too tense. Eyes closed, yes—but not in the way they should be. Not present. Not breathing. Not with you.
You could see the truth in his mouth. A kind of practiced stillness—the kind you learned when the only time you closed your eyes was to pretend you were human. You exhaled through your nose and let the quiet drag a little longer.
Then, plainly, “You are faking.”
His eyes opened—guilty, but not surprised, “What?”
“You are faking,” you repeated, sharper now. “You are not in your body. You are just... sitting there, pretending.”
He rubbed his hand down his face—his only hand—and gave you a tired shrug, “I don’t see how this helps. I’m not exactly a breathe deeply and find your center kind of guy.”
You stared at him. “You don’t have to believe in anything,” you said. “It is not magic. It is awareness.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Your nervous system is still reacting to things that aren’t there. Your heart still jumps like someone else owns it. Your mind doesn’t know your body’s awake yet. That is what meditation is for.”
“I’m just—” he started, then stopped. “It feels pointless.”
“It is not,” you said, firmer now. “Because if you ever want to get those demon words out of your head, if you want Shuri to rewire the damage, you have to give her something to work with. Your brain is still running Hydra’s script, and if you’re not even willing to sit with your breath, how do you expect to undo any of it?”
His mouth opened slightly. Nothing came out.
“I cannot help you,” you said, quieter now, “if you don’t want to be helped.”
You looked away, letting your hands settle back into your lap. He was quiet for a while—long enough for the wind to shift, pulling a few dry leaves across the packed earth between you.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Uncertain. “Can we try again?”
You looked at him—properly this time.
His eyes weren’t guarded now. No walls. Just tiredness. Willingness, maybe. Something softer.
You gave him a long, unreadable look, then nodded once. “Alright.” You closed your eyes, slowly, and this time... you felt him do the same.
No pretending. Just breath.
He wasn’t sure when it changed.
At first, it was just meditation. Eyes closed, back straight, breathing in rhythms he didn’t believe in. But then it became more.
Sweeping the dirt path that led down to the well. Carrying baskets of grain. Hauling stones for someone’s new roof. Lifting crates with his one arm while the villagers watched in quiet silence, like they couldn’t decide if he was a guest or a tool.
You never told him it was for his benefit. You just handed him the rope and pointed. “Pull,” you’d said, tossing a bundle of dried grass at his chest one morning. “You are not made of glass.”
You never coddled him. Never flinched around him. You didn’t offer long-winded speeches or hold his hand through the work. Mostly, you barked instructions and walked away.
He liked that. More than he wanted to admit.
You snapped at him when he did something wrong—called him slow, unobservant, unfocused. Two days ago, he dropped one of the ceramic bowls from the communal kitchen, and you’d stared at him for five seconds before muttering, “Ignorant child.”
And then walked off.
He almost smiled. He hadn’t been called that in decades. Maybe ever.
But hey—at least it was better than being pitied. Better than being looked at like he was something shattered and fragile, waiting to cut whoever came too close.
You didn’t look at him like that. You looked at him like a chore. Like a reluctant task assigned to you by fate and family. And strangely, that made him try harder.
You didn’t ask about his past. You didn’t hover when he had nightmares. You didn’t whisper to the other villagers behind his back—or if you did, you never did it where he could hear.
What you did do was offer him work. Direction. Stillness. A quiet place to sit when the tremor in his fingers wouldn’t stop. And somehow, that mattered more than anything anyone had said in years.
He wasn’t sure what they were celebrating this time.
From inside his hut, the sound bled in slowly—the steady pulse of drums, laughter rising and falling like a tide, children yelling each other’s names across the courtyard. Someone sang near the firepit. A voice he didn’t recognize. Several hands clapping along, rhythm sharp and fast.
It wasn’t unpleasant. Just... too much.
He sat on the edge of his mat for a while, trying to breathe through the heat that settled behind his ribs. It wasn’t panic, not really. But it wasn’t comfort either. His skin felt too tight. The air too loud. His thoughts too sharp around the edges.
Eventually, he pushed to his feet and stepped outside.
The sky was dark—stars blinking through the smoke trails drifting from the fire. Lanterns hung from the wooden beams, casting soft yellow light across the center of the village, where people were gathered in loose clusters. Dancing. Eating. Singing. Moving like their bodies belonged to the moment.
And there you were—almost dead center.
Bright cloth wrapped around your waist. Dozens of tiny golden hoops hanging from your ears. Your hands clapped in time with the drumbeat, your mouth moving with the lyrics of a song he didn’t know. You weren’t the loudest or the most noticeable—but the way people naturally made room around you told him everything.
He crossed the space slowly, cutting through laughter and firelight, until he was just close enough to speak without being overheard.
“Think I’m gonna go for a walk,” he muttered, voice low, almost under his breath.
You didn’t turn your head. Didn’t stop clapping. Didn’t even miss a beat. “I am not your keeper,” you said easily. Not unkind. Just matter-of-fact.
He huffed softly—the closest thing he ever got to a laugh—and gave a small nod you probably didn’t see. And then he turned, slipping past the edge of the celebration like smoke, heading off into the night.
He didn’t know how far he ended up walking.
The ground changed gradually beneath him—the soft packed dirt near the village giving way to stretches of dry veld, low grass brushing against his ankles, warm and clean underfoot. The sky above was still wide, scattered with stars, but out here, the air tasted different. Earthier. Older.
Bucky exhaled through his nose, letting his shoulders drop for the first time all day. He kept walking. No path. Just instinct.
The veld slowly thickened—shrubs first, then low trees, then taller ones that curved toward the moonlight like they were reaching for something. The sounds changed too. The distant hum of the village faded behind him, replaced by the rustle of leaves, the call of some bird he didn’t recognize, the chirping of something small and fast darting through underbrush.
And beneath it all, steady and sure, the sound of running water. He moved toward it.
Every now and then, he’d slow—not because he was tired, but because something would catch his eye. A strange patterned insect climbing a tree trunk. A glowing flower the size of his hand. A lizard with golden eyes that watched him like it understood something he didn’t.
He didn’t touch anything. Just looked. It was quiet here. But not empty.
When he reached the water, it was shallower than he expected—a smooth stream cutting through the trees, tumbling over dark stone in gentle cascades. He crouched down by the edge, dipping his fingers into it. Cool. Clean. Real.
He sat there a while. Just listening. Not thinking. Not fighting anything. Just… being. No boots. No guns. No Winter Soldier. Just him, the wind, the pulse of water moving like a second heartbeat through the dark.
He didn’t hear it until it was too close.
At first, just the shuffle of leaves, the breaking of a branch—then the low, guttural snort that made every muscle in his body lock.
Bucky stood slowly, rising from the streambank, eyes scanning the trees. The light was dim out here, moonlight filtering through thick canopy, casting long shadows over the underbrush.
Another snort. Then another.
He turned.
A warthog stepped out of the trees—broad and low, tusks curling like ivory hooks. It stared at him, twitching its head slightly. Then another emerged beside it. And then two more. Snorting, circling. The ground vibrated faintly beneath their feet.
Shit.
He backed up a step.
One of them growled—an ugly, wheezing sound—and lunged.
Bucky reacted instantly, sidestepping as it charged past, kicking a loose stone at its flank. Another came from the side. He ducked, moving fast, breath short, arm raised.
He didn’t have his left arm. No weapon. No metal. Just instinct.
They weren’t mindless—they were testing him. Flanking. The kind of animals that learned how to bring down bigger things.
He moved toward the stream again, keeping it at his back, trying to funnel them. He landed a solid kick against one’s shoulder, stumbled, pivoted—
And then the big one came. It was almost silent, massive, barreling through the trees like it had been waiting for its moment. Bucky turned too slow.
The impact knocked the breath from his chest, sent him crashing backward into the dirt. His head hit the ground hard enough to blur his vision. He grunted, legs kicking, trying to push it off—its tusk caught his side, not piercing, but grinding hard into his ribs.
Then—
THWIP.
A sound cracked the air. The warthog stilled. Another second passed before it collapsed sideways, heavy and limp. Blood pooled quick and dark beneath its belly.
The others froze. And then, as if obeying some silent command, they scattered. Back into the underbrush. Vanished like ghosts.
Bucky lay there on his back, blinking up at the canopy, breathing hard. Then he turned his head.
You stood between the trees, bow still half-lowered, another arrow notched loosely between your fingers. The celebration wrap still clung to your waist. Your hair was mussed, cheeks flushed like you’d run here fast.
Bucky blinked up, dazed, ribs aching.
You didn’t rush toward him. You didn’t say anything. You just stood there, framed by the trees, breathing a little hard.
He looked back at you. Mud on his back. Shirt torn at the shoulder. Dirt on his face. One arm pressed to the ground.
And the two of you just... stared at each other.
His breathing hadn’t even steadied yet. He was still flat on his back, arm aching, ribs sore, heart drumming uneven against his spine. The warthog’s body slumped a few feet from him, blood pooling from its flank where your arrow had pierced through clean.
He looked at you again, still standing just beyond it. “Thanks,” he managed, voice rough.
You turned your head sharply toward him. “Don’t thank me.”
The words came fast. Not cruel, but firm. Your jaw was tight. “Do not thank me for this.”
You pointed to the dead creature between you, with weight, like you needed him to see it. To really look. “This is sad,” you said, kneeling slowly beside it. “Very sad only.”
He pushed himself upright, wincing a little as he leaned on his arm, dirt still stuck to the side of his face. “What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Let it maul me to death?”
You didn’t look at him right away. Your hands moved quietly, efficiently—fingers brushing through the coarse bristles of the warthog’s fur, your other hand gripping the arrow still lodged in its side.
You pulled it out in one motion. Clean. No hesitation. “Would you not protect your home,” you said softly, still not meeting his eyes, “if a stranger wandered in?”
He blinked, saying nothing.
“He wasn’t evil. He was defending what he knew.”
You laid your palm flat against the animal’s neck, eyes lowered. “We are not like your western people,” you said. “We do not kill for fun. Or pride. Or sport. All life has value in Wakanda.”
There was no judgment in your voice. Just truth. Plain and unmoving.
You lowered your head slightly and whispered something low under your breath—a few words in Xhosa, voice soft and unhurried, almost like a lullaby. A parting gesture.
Bucky watched you, lips pressed together, jaw tense with something that wasn’t quite shame, but lived near it.
You finally glanced at him—your eyes skimming his shoulder, then down his arm. The fabric was torn just above his bicep, and there, beneath the edge, blood. Not much. But enough to pull your mouth into a thin, unimpressed line.
You didn’t sigh. You didn’t roll your eyes. You just reached down, placed your palm gently over the warthog’s neck once more, a slow farewell, then stood.
“Come,” you said simply, brushing your fingers against your thigh to clear the dirt. “Let me help you.”
He didn’t argue. He rose behind you without a word, steps a little slower now, and fell in step as you turned back toward the path. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. The trees closed behind you like a curtain, muting the sounds of the forest—leaving only the soft rhythm of your feet in the grass, his breathing just behind yours, and the hum of crickets filling in the spaces where conversation might’ve gone.
By the time the village came back into view, the celebration had mostly fizzled out.
The fire still smoldered low in the pit, casting orange light across scattered baskets and half-finished plates. A few villagers moved quietly between the homes, collecting things in tired silence. Someone’s laughter drifted faintly from behind one of the larger huts, but even that was subdued. The pulse of the night had passed.
You didn’t slow as you reached the center, only shifted your path slightly—guiding him past his own hut, toward yours.
He followed.
You held the beaded curtain aside as you stepped through. The interior was warm, dimly lit by candles spread out. Neatly arranged baskets lined the shelves, bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling in fragrant clusters. There were folded cloths stacked in a corner. A clay bowl of water sat near a wooden stool.
You crossed the space, already moving with purpose. “Sit.”
He did.
The cloth was warm now—soaked in water and crushed herbs—when you pressed it to the scrape on his upper arm. Not deep, but messy. You didn’t flinch when he winced. Just kept working.
The paste came next—a thick mixture, greenish-brown, smelling faintly of aloe and dried mint. You scooped a bit with your fingers and began to smooth it over the broken skin, slow and deliberate.
He watched you. Didn’t speak at first. But then, softly, without looking up, “I’m sorry. For the warthog.”
You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers paused just slightly before you pressed a little more paste into the wound, careful. “It is finished now,” you said after a breath. “In the past.”
You met his eyes, steady but not sharp. “And… I doubt T’Challa would be pleased if you got killed under my care.”
That earned a small huff from him. You almost smiled. Almost. You set the bowl down.
“Still,” he said, quieter now, “you’ve done a lot. I haven’t exactly given back the same.”
You tilted your head, watching him.
His face was serious. Not guilty—not exactly. Just... honest. And unsure. Like he wasn’t used to naming these things out loud.
You wiped your fingers on a cloth, then folded it neatly. “I don’t need much,” you said. “You try. That is enough.”
He looked at you like he wasn’t sure how to respond.
You didn’t wait for one. You stood and moved to rinse your hands at the small bowl near the corner, shoulders relaxing slightly now that the adrenaline had passed. The room smelled like ash and herb oil, and you could feel the weight of the day starting to settle into your back.
The lab always smelled faintly metallic—polished, too clean, like it had never seen real dirt in its life.
Bucky sat on the edge of the diagnostic table while Shuri adjusted something near his temple, wires trailing from a slim headset and disappearing into the projection panel above him. His shirt was off. The room was cool. The back of his neck itched.
You were standing at the foot of the table, arms crossed, watching everything with narrowed eyes like you were trying to make sense of it through sheer observation alone.
A holographic projection hovered above him—a soft blue outline of his brain lit up in faint pulses, scattered red flickers trailing across certain regions.
“What does that do?” you asked, pointing at a blinking node near the center.
“It maps neural response patterns,” Shuri said, without looking up.
“But why is it glowing like that?”
“Because it is active.”
“What kind of activity?”
Shuri exhaled—not exasperated yet, but on the edge.
“It just is, alright? Can you please not do this right now—”
“Do what?” you asked. “Ask questions? I thought this was a lab. Are you not supposed to love curiosity?”
“I love informed curiosity,” Shuri muttered, moving to the display console. “You are just pointing at things and saying ‘what’s that?’ like a child.”
“If you were really that smart,” you said under your breath, “you’d be able to focus through a few questions.”
That did it.
“You are distracting me.”
“Then maybe you should be better at multitasking.”
“Maybe you should go sit down.”
“Maybe you should say please.”
Bucky lay back against the table, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t laughing—not really—but there was something easy about the way he exhaled. Something lighter.
He’d never seen you like this.
Not still. Not sharp. But familiar in a way he didn’t expect. Comfortable enough to annoy someone. To be annoying. There was a rhythm to it—not harsh, not for show.
Shuri flicked through a few data fields, ignoring you now. You were muttering under your breath about how you’d name the next hologram just to bother her.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” she asked.
“This is my better thing,” you said. “Watching you stress about brainwaves.”
You watched the blue projection pulse gently above Bucky’s head, those same red flickers darting across the map of his mind like warning signs. You didn’t understand all of it—the readings, the frequencies, the cortical tracking—but you understood what mattered. The shape of a wound. The parts that still lit up when they shouldn’t.
“When can you take them out?” you asked, eyes still on the light.
Shuri didn’t look up from the console.
“Take what out?”
“The demon words.”
That earned you a slow, deliberate blink from across the table. “They are called trigger words,” she said, enunciating each syllable like you were hard of hearing. “And you know that. Don’t act brand new.”
You rolled your eyes. “Demon words sounds more accurate.”
“That’s not how science works.”
“That’s not how trauma works either.”
Shuri gave you a flat look, but didn’t argue.
Behind you, Bucky shifted slightly on the table, adjusting the way his head rested against the padding. You hadn’t noticed how you’d leaned in—just a little closer to where he lay. Not hovering, not touching. Just there. Like your body had moved on its own. Like you were with him now, instead of just watching from a distance.
Bucky didn’t say anything. He just noticed.
The faint change in your voice when you asked the question. The crease between your brows when Shuri answered. The way your elbow nearly brushed the edge of the table now, when ten minutes ago, you were standing by the console.
Shuri sighed and ran a hand down her face.
“It’s been two months,” she said. “These things take time. I cannot erase conditioned trauma with a switch. I’m working on a way to reroute the neural spikes when the words are spoken, but his system is still adapting to being stable.”
You nodded slowly, absorbing the answer. You didn’t press further. You just looked back up at the display—not with confusion, but with focus. Like you were trying to memorize something that couldn’t be learned in words.
The lab went quiet again, save for the soft hum of the monitors and the occasional clack of Shuri’s fingers across the console.
A Few Weeks Later
The river water was warm beneath your hands. You wrung out the cloth and snapped it once, sharp, before folding it over your knee to scrub the next piece.
The women around you moved with easy rhythm—buckets sloshing, fabric slapping stone, idle conversation drifting between them in patches. One of the elders was humming, her voice low and tuneless, but steady. A child ran past the edge of the clearing barefoot, laughing at nothing.
You dipped your hands into the basin again, reached for another wrap, and glanced up without thinking.
He was further down the slope, maybe twenty or thirty steps away, near the bend in the river where the trees curved in tighter and the bank dipped. Not with the other men hauling baskets of cassava or arguing about whose turn it was to carry the grain. Just... there. A little separate. Like always.
He had one of the wide clay basins hoisted against his hip, arm hooked under it to steady the weight as he moved slowly across the uneven ground. One-armed. Careful. Determined. His shirt clung damp to his back, sweat darkening the fabric between his shoulder blades. His jaw was tight with focus, but not frustrated—just focused.
You didn’t mean to keep watching. But you did. Just for a second.
There was something about the way he moved now—less guarded than before. Still cautious, still scanning his surroundings like it was habit, but not shrinking from it. He wasn’t waiting for approval. He was just working. Sweating. Trying.
He looked up mid-step—maybe sensing your eyes on him—and met your gaze before you could shift it away.
It wasn’t a long look. No lingering. Just a beat. A pause. His expression didn’t change. Yours didn’t either. Then you looked back down, hands moving automatically over the fabric in your lap.
You didn’t smile. You just kept scrubbing.
But you were still thinking about it long after he passed out of your eyeline.
The air had cooled, but the stone beneath you was still warm.
You sat across from him again, legs folded, palms resting against your knees. The same tree overhead. The same quiet rhythm of crickets starting up for the night. The wind carried the faint smell of cooked grains and herbs from someone’s home nearby. A dog barked once. Then quiet again.
He had his eyes closed. Jaw relaxed. Shoulders looser than they used to be. Not completely still, but close. “The kids,” he said quietly, breaking the silence, “they keep calling me something.”
Your eyes stayed closed, but a faint crease touched your brow. “What do they say?”
“It's hard to say,” he murmured, a little sheepish. “It starts with... an 'N'? Ends with something like ‘lope’?”
You opened your eyes slowly. “Ingcuka emhlophe.”
He looked over at you, “What does it mean?”
“White wolf.”
He was quiet a second. Then, “Why?”
You shifted slightly, your fingertips brushing against the ground beside you as you spoke. “Because that is how they see you.”
He turned his head toward you more fully now, just enough to really listen.
“You are not a monster here,” you said, voice calm. “You are a wounded predator. One who was forced to kill. One who now needs healing. And structure.”
You let the words settle. Gave them space. “And,” you added, “because you are not one of us.”
His eyes dropped at that. Not sharply. Just a quiet motion—a flicker downward, like he’d already known, but it didn't mean he liked hearing it said aloud.
But you weren’t finished. You turned toward him more fully now, arms still resting loosely across your lap. “That does not mean you are alone,” you said. Softer. Measured. “You may not be of us. But you are ours to protect.”
His gaze lifted again, meeting yours.
You didn’t look away. You didn’t mean it as a comfort. Or a promise. It was just the truth. Offered, plainly. Without condition.
He didn’t respond right away. Just blinked once, slow. And let his shoulders drop a little more.
The silence had stretched comfortably now, not heavy but full. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once, low and rhythmic.
Bucky shifted where he sat, thumb tracing over the inside of his palm—a nervous habit you’d started to recognize when he was thinking about how to say something.
“They, uh…” he cleared his throat slightly. “The villagers. Some of them call you something too.”
You looked over at him, but didn’t interrupt.
“I… don’t know how to pronounce it.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Ooh—moy… ya?”
You blinked once, then ducked your head—not fast, but quiet, like you were hiding a smile before it got too visible.
For a second, Bucky wondered if you looked… shy? Not embarrassed. Just unguarded in a way he hadn’t seen before.
“Umoya,” you said, gently. “Almost.”
He watched you, carefully. “What does it mean?”
Your fingers brushed a leaf off your knee. You weren’t looking directly at him now, but your voice softened a little when you spoke.
“Windsister.”
The word sat in the space between you, light and deliberate.
“Why do they call you that?” he asked.
You glanced at him, smiling—a small, close-lipped smile. One that felt like it came from a private place. “I’ll tell you that in time.”
He didn’t push it. Instead, after a beat… “Will you teach me?”
“Teach you what?”
“Your language,” he said. “Xhosa.”
Except he said it wrong—"Kosa," too flat, no shape to it. You smiled again—this time openly—and shook your head a little. “Not ‘kosa.’ It’s Xhosa.” You made the click sound with ease, like it belonged to you. Which it did.
He tried to mimic it, but it came out awkward and slightly too sharp.
You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. “Better,” you said, almost kindly. “But not quite.”
“You’ll teach me,” he said again, like he meant it this time.
You tilted your head, thoughtful, but still smiling. “If you keep trying,” you said, “then yes.”
And then you both went quiet again—but it wasn’t like before. It was lighter now. Settled.
The stars overhead said nothing. But something between you had already shifted
He woke up with the taste of metal in his mouth.
His chest heaved once, twice—sharp, uneven. Like he’d surfaced too fast and the air hadn’t caught up yet. The room was dark, his mat damp beneath his back. The blanket stuck to him, sweat down his spine. His fingers dug into the fabric at his side.
The dream was already slipping.
Just flashes now—hands holding him down, voices in languages he didn’t speak, the jolt in his skull as something snapped in place. A cold room. A number instead of a name. Commands like teeth.
He sat up slowly, pressing his palm to the center of his chest, counting each inhale until the tightness started to loosen. His mouth stayed closed. No sound came out. The kind of panic that was practiced—not new, not rare, just managed.
The hut was still. The village beyond it quieter than usual. Even the dogs weren’t barking.
He stood, movements automatic. No shoes. No wrap over his shoulders. Just stepped outside into the cool night air, his arm curled close to his body like it still expected the other to be there. His breath steamed slightly, fading quick.
He didn’t think about where he was going. His feet knew before he did.
Past the firepit, long since burned out. Past the old tree with the hollow near its roots. Through the side path where the lanterns weren’t lit. The gravel shifted beneath him, cool under his soles. The beaded curtains on the doorway ahead barely moved in the breeze.
Your hut. The one with the low-burning lamp always left on near the far wall. The one that smelled like sage and something citrusy he hadn’t placed yet.
He didn’t pause.
Just stood outside for a beat, the beads brushing faintly against his chest as he breathed once—then lifted his hand to gently part them.
Inside, it was quiet. He knew you weren’t awake. But that wasn’t why he came.
The beaded curtain fell shut behind him with a soft rattle, barely louder than the candle burning low in the corner—its flame guttering in the draft, casting a faint, trembling glow across the walls. The room smelled familiar now. Like oil and wood smoke.
You were lying on your side, one arm curled beneath your cheek, your breathing slow and even. A woven blanket rested low on your hips, the edge of your shawl slipping slightly off your shoulder. Your face was relaxed in sleep in a way he hadn’t seen while you were awake.
Bucky hovered near the doorway for a beat too long. His breath still hadn’t fully leveled out. Sweat clung to his chest, cooled now, uncomfortable. He hadn’t brought anything with him—not a cloth, not even his sandals.
He should’ve left. He almost did.
But his legs carried him forward, slow and quiet. He lowered himself down beside where you lay, not close enough to wake you, but close enough to feel your warmth off the floor. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, not at first. Just let the silence hold him.
You stirred before he realized you were awake. Not startled—not fully. Your eyes blinked open, heavy with sleep, brow creasing faintly as you took in the shape beside you.
Him.
Your gaze moved over his face. His chest. His breathing. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t ask why he was there. You just saw him—flushed, sweaty, jaw tight like he hadn’t fully come down from whatever it was that woke him.
Your hand moved before you spoke. You reached out, resting your fingers gently against his upper arm. Your palm didn’t press or grip. It just touched, soft and grounding, like you were reminding him where he was.
You moved without saying a word, the beads at the entrance rustling faintly as a breeze crept in behind you. The candle in the corner had nearly drowned in its own wax, flickering low and dying out just as you lit another.
Bucky stayed crouched, watching as you crossed the room—still quiet, bare feet brushing over the cool mat as you retrieved a small carved bowl from a shelf near the wall. You reached for the small bundle of dried herbs beside it, crumbling some between your fingers.
He caught the scent even before you struck the match, sharp and earthy, almost bitter, like crushed bark and smoke and something floral buried deep.
“Lie down,” you said simply, nodding to the mat you’d been curled on. Your voice wasn’t soft, exactly. It just wasn’t up for debate.
He hesitated.
You glanced at him, already moving to light the herbs. “Where I was,” you added, as if that would help.
And strangely—it did.
He laid back slow, muscles tense, still shirtless. The mat was still warm from where your body had been. His eyes followed as you knelt beside him, with the bowl between your hands, smoke beginning to rise in soft ribbons.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged.
“I’m going to ease you,” you said simply.
He blinked. “Ease me?”
Your brow lifted faintly as you shifted closer, the bowl now resting just beside his chest. “Breathe it in.”
He gave you a look—wary, frozen. “… You tryin’ to get me high?”
That earned him a slow eye-roll, the first of the night. “Do I look like I have time to poison you?”
You reached out and tilted his head gently sideways, your palm warm against the back of his skull as you lowered him slightly toward the smoke. It curled around his face, slow and sweet, sinking into his lungs before he could second-guess it.
He didn’t resist. Didn’t speak again either.
Your thigh was firm beneath his head as you held him steady, a quiet rhythm to the way your thumb absently moved behind his ear. His eyes fluttered, the tension in his chest loosening incrementally with each inhale.
It didn’t feel like getting high. Not quite. But the weight in his limbs was shifting. His breathing evened. The pounding in his skull—that leftover echo from the dream—finally began to fade.
He felt it first in the weight of his limbs. Like gravity had changed its mind about him—pulled him lower, slowed everything down. Bucky blinked slowly as you guided him back, your hand pressing flat against the center of his chest. Not pushing, just steady. Coaxing.
He let himself fall flat.
The bowl still smoked somewhere nearby, but all he could see was you. Leaning over him now, your silhouette catching candlelight in your hair, your palm cupping the side of his face as your fingers moved to his temple in slow, circular strokes.
His eyes fluttered again. Lulled.
Your thumb skimmed along his brow. You were saying something—not to him exactly—a soft murmur in Xhosa that moved like song under your breath. He didn’t know the words, but the cadence alone sunk into him like warmth. A lullaby hummed in a language he didn’t speak.
He swallowed thickly.
You stayed close, your face just above his, eyes downcast in focus as you massaged around the edge of his skull, careful with the ridges of scar near the base of his hairline.
He sighed. Not because he meant to—it just… escaped. “This is nice,” he mumbled, voice heavy with haze.
Your hands didn’t stop moving.
His eyes cracked open again, barely. “…Your hands are warm.”
Still, you said nothing. Just kept tracing his temple, like drawing a map of him you already knew.
He let out a slow breath through his nose. “They used to tie me down,” he murmured. “Did you know that?”
The question wasn’t really a question.
He closed his eyes again. “They thought it was easier. When I was screamin’.”
You didn’t flinch. Not once. Instead, your fingers moved to the edge of his jaw. Gentle. Respectful.
“I hated that room,” he said faintly. “Hated how it smelled. Burnt wires and metal. Like blood and cold sweat.”
Another breath. This one caught a little. He didn’t open his eyes. “You’re the only thing that’s smelled… good. In a long time.”
It was so quiet, you almost thought he’d fallen asleep—except his eyes blinked open again, glassy and half-lidded. Staring straight at you.
“They told me I was a weapon. Like I wasn’t supposed to feel anything.”
You didn’t stop touching him.
“They lied,” he whispered.
His head turned into your palm just slightly. Seeking. Grounding.
“They fucking lied.”
You didn’t mean to linger. But something in his voice—low, cracked open, more confession than conversation—held you in place. Your thumb brushed just under the curve of his cheekbone, and you felt it then, the smallest shift in him.
A lean. A sigh. His body loosening under your hands like a knot coming undone thread by thread.
“I know,” you murmured, so softly you weren’t sure if he heard.
But your hand remained at his face, thumb tracing that same quiet path. His skin was warm now—flushed from the herbs, from the still-fading fear.
“You are not that anymore,” you whispered. “You are not theirs. Not here.” Your words felt like breath. Like they were meant to stay close to him.
He didn’t respond at first. Then, slowly—almost unsure—his right hand lifted. Calloused, scarred, rough. He hesitated before his palm settled lightly over yours. Not holding. Just touching. Covering your hand with a kind of care that startled you.
And then… his lashes lifted. And in that moment, the weight of his gaze hit you like a rush of wind—not cold or cutting, but steady. Deep.
Blue. Honest. Exhausted.
He looked at you like he didn’t know how not to.
You swallowed, suddenly too aware of how close you were, how the candles flickered against the curve of his jaw, how your knees were pressed into the woven mat beside his hip. But you didn’t move.
You couldn’t.
“I see you,” you said, and it slipped out before you could decide whether or not to say it at all.
His brow twitched—not a frown, not confusion—just a quiet ripple of emotion you didn’t have words for.
“You are not a weapon,” you added, a little firmer this time. “You are not lost. You are here.”
And he was still staring. Not blinking. Not speaking. Just looking at you like maybe—just maybe—he believed you.
Your heart beat quietly in your chest, a gentle rhythm you were sure he could hear.
He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. His fingers pressed ever so slightly tighter over yours—not to stop you, but to anchor himself.
You didn’t let go. Neither did he.
The curtain rustled before his eyes had even fully opened.
Morning light bled soft through the thatch walls, and there you were—standing in the entrance of his hut, framed by sunlight and fabric still shifting behind you in the breeze. You had a wrapped bundle in your arms, a satchel hanging over one shoulder, and a look on your face that made him blink.
Not your usual expression. Not the pointed sort you wore when telling him to focus or pull his weight or eat slower. No—this was different. You were… trying not to smile.
“You’re awake,” you said, like it wasn’t fully a question. “Good.”
Bucky sat up on one elbow, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. His shirt clung to him slightly—the nights were warmer now. “Didn’t expect visitors this early,” he muttered, voice still hoarse with sleep. “What’s going on?”
You hesitated for a second—a small pause, almost invisible, but he caught it.
“I want to show you something,” you said at last.
Your eyes flicked to the ground for just a heartbeat. You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. He could see the way your fingers fidgeted briefly around the bundle you were carrying, then stilled with intention.
“It is a little far,” you added. “We will be back before nightfall. Pack something light.”
He blinked again. “Where?”
You didn’t answer immediately. Just gave a small shrug and tilted your head toward the basin where he kept his things.
“Not telling?” he asked, still trying to gauge you—trying to figure out why you looked half-excited, half-nervous.
Your gaze finally landed on his, steady this time. “It is… something special,” you said simply. And then, just like that, you turned and stepped back into the morning sun.
The curtain swayed behind you, still fluttering when he stood up.
He packed slowly. His mind didn’t race, but it moved—steady and curious. It wasn’t like you to act unsure. Wasn’t like you to seek his company without a task or a lecture or Shuri’s requests behind it. Something about your voice—the soft lilt, the careful pause—sat low in his chest.
Something special.
He tightened the strap on his satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out into the day, where you were waiting at the edge of the path. Arms still full. Eyes on him now, expectant and quiet.
“Ready?” you asked.
He nodded.
It started with open veld; long grass brushing their legs, morning sun angling down warm and full, but the terrain shifted quickly. The trees grew thicker, their shadows stretching over soft ground as you moved ahead, light on your feet, sure in your steps.
Bucky followed, just a few paces behind. His satchel bumped gently against his side. He watched the way the earth darkened and softened the deeper you went—dry clay giving way to rich soil, winding roots and low, knotted branches marking a path that was clearly familiar to you.
“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” he asked, stepping over a ridge of rocks.
“No.”
You didn’t even look back when you said it—your voice playful, almost sing-song.
Bucky exhaled a small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Will you ever give me a straight answer?”
You turned your head just enough for him to glimpse your smile. “When I feel like it.”
He shook his head, but kept moving. Your pace wasn’t rushed, but it had that same unbothered ease he’d come to recognize in you—like the wind chose its own path and you simply followed.
Birds chattered high in the trees above. The air smelled green and damp and alive.
“You always do this?” he asked after a beat. “Wake people up at dawn, drag them into the jungle?”
“No,” you said over your shoulder, ducking beneath a low branch with fluid grace. “Just the ones I like.”
That earned a real breath of laughter from him—short, surprised, and involuntary.
And you caught it. You didn’t say anything, but he saw your shoulders shift a little. Not in smugness, but in something softer. Like you were pleased with yourself—with him, even—in a way that wasn’t sharp or teasing. Just light.
He realized then that he liked this version of you. This playful one. This confident, grounded energy without the sharp corners. The way you didn’t explain every step but still made it feel like there was nowhere else he was supposed to be.
And he didn’t even mind not knowing where the hell you were going.
They moved through the underbrush in companionable quiet now—his boots crunching lightly on fallen leaves, your bare feet moving soundlessly over earth you knew like breath.
You brushed aside a low-hanging vine, glancing back at him. “Do you know of Bast?”
Bucky blinked. “Your goddess?”
You smiled. “She is not just a goddess.”
The path curved inward, narrowing between thick trunks and flowering branches. As you walked, your fingers reached out absently to the trees—not brushing them, but acknowledging them, as if they’d notice.
“Bast is…” You took a breath, choosing your words carefully. “She is the protector. The first of us. The one who saw we needed help when the world was chaos. She gave the first king his vision. She gave him the heart-shaped herb. She gave him strength, and clarity. She still gives it.”
He didn’t speak, but you could hear his footfalls behind you—steady, quiet.
“She is not like your god,” you added after a moment. “She does not punish. She does not ask us to kneel.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. You didn’t see it, but you could feel the curiosity from him like heat.
“She is in the land,” you said softly. “In the wind. The soil. The water. She is breath. She is mercy.”
You stepped over a cluster of stones, your voice low but sure. “When a child is born, we whisper her name over their skin. When someone dies, we sing them back into her arms. That is how we know no one is ever truly gone.”
Bucky was quiet for a long stretch. He didn’t say he didn’t believe in that—didn’t scoff or question or turn away. He just kept following, gaze flicking between the trail and you.
You glanced back again, caught the way his face looked softer than usual. Not skeptical. Just… listening. Open in a way you hadn’t seen before.
“Sounds like a lot to believe in,” he said finally, but his voice was gentler than usual.
You shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s simple.”
The terrain shifted as you led him higher—from jungle undergrowth to uneven stone. The trees thinned, and the light changed with it. What had been filtered green was now brighter, sharper, streaking through cracks in the canopy above.
“Careful here,” you said, offering your hand without ceremony as he eyed the ridge ahead.
He took it without hesitation.
The incline wasn’t steep, but the rocks were slick with moss, and his footing was still off sometimes—one arm making balance harder than it should be. You watched the way his boots scraped and slipped, how his jaw tightened when he stumbled. But he didn’t complain. Not once.
You steadied him by the elbow once, and he let you. It wasn’t until the path leveled that he spoke again, a little breathless. “You Wakandans love hiding things on mountains.”
You snorted. “No one hides them. The world just forgets how to look.”
You moved ahead, parting the tall grass with your hands. It gave way to a clearing—and beyond that, the edge of the cliffs. The wind picked up, rolling over your skin in cool waves. “This is where they used to live,” you said quietly. “The Isisa.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed as he stepped beside you. “What’s that?”
Your lips tugged upward. “Once, they filled the sky.”
You pointed out over the horizon. The view stretched endlessly—ridges layered like waves, sky sweeping wide and untouched.
“They were winged creatures. Huge, the size of a small plane. Sleek like birds, but not quite. They used to fly in flocks above the cliffs, circling during spiritual rites. Watching. Guiding.”
He glanced at you, watching the way you stared out, like you were seeing more than what was there.
“They were Bast’s messengers,” you said. “People believed they carried souls. That when someone passed, an Isisa would come for them, guide them to the next realm.”
Bucky was quiet.
You didn’t look at him when you added, “They were also protectors. They flew during war. During coronations. During births. When Bashenga became king, and the tribes united… they began to disappear. People thought it was because they had done their part.”
He looked up again, scanning the empty blue sky. “And they haven’t been seen since?”
You hesitated, then gave a small smile. “Not exactly.”
He turned to you.
You looked at him then—really looked. The wind caught your hair, moving it gently. There was a softness to your features now, one he hadn’t seen before this day. You took a breath, grounding yourself.
“Most thought they were extinct,” you said, voice quieter. “But some believe they only return when truly needed. When something sacred is reborn.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than it should’ve. You felt it, and pretended not to. You turned your face to the wind instead, eyes closing briefly, before you continued onwards.
The path narrowed into a ledge carved into the cliffside, half-swallowed by roots and vines. You moved with ease, hands brushing the moss-damp bark, ducking under low-hanging branches. He followed carefully behind you, keeping his steps even, his eyes scanning everything.
The wind shifted as you climbed the last steps—stone smoothed by time and ritual. You turned, offering your hand as he reached the final ridge. He took it.
And then he heard it.
A sharp, high-pitched cry split through the air—haunting and strange, like a hunting eagle crossed with a lion’s growl. His whole body locked up, and his hand unconsciously went to his hip like he expected to find a weapon there.
You didn’t flinch. You only smiled softly and turned your head upward.
That’s when he saw it.
Wings spread wide above the trees, slicing through the sunlight. The creature was massive—its wingspan nearly the width of the cliff itself, casting a long shadow as it descended. Its body was sleek and long, somewhere between reptilian and avian, but graceful in a way that didn’t make sense for something that size. The skin shimmered teal when it caught the light, streaked with gold at the edges of its wings and lined with deep, black butterfly-like patterns.
It wasn’t just beautiful. It was divine.
Bucky’s mouth parted slightly. “Shit.”
You didn’t laugh. You just watched her circle above once, then land effortlessly on a thick branch extending from one of the ancient trees—her claws gripping bark, wings tucking in slowly with a low rumble of breath.
She turned her head toward you. Her eyes were wide and amber-gold, intelligent. Knowing.
You stepped forward, head bowed just slightly—not in fear, but something gentler. A quiet greeting. When you turned back to Bucky, your expression had changed. Something softer, more vulnerable.
“This is Za’ta,” you said quietly. “She is… my soul sister.”
Bucky looked at you, then at the creature, then back at you. You weren’t looking for a reaction. You weren’t showing off. If anything, you looked a little shy—bashful in the way your shoulders tilted, how you rubbed your fingers together absently at your side.
He took a step closer, eyes never leaving Za’ta. “Soul sister?” he said, voice low.
You nodded. “She found me when I was a child. I thought she was a dream. No one believed me at first.”
“And now?”
“Now they call her a sign. A reminder that Bast is still watching. That something lost can still return.”
Za’ta gave another low sound in her throat, deep and resonant, like a purr wrapped in thunder. She didn’t seem threatened by him. She only stared. You stepped closer to the base of the tree and reached up, fingers brushing her forelimb with a familiarity that spoke of years. “She is very protective. So don’t be surprised if she does not like you.”
Bucky gave the smallest huff of amusement. “Fair. Most people don’t.”
You glanced over your shoulder at him, your hand still resting on Za’ta’s forelimb. “Come,” you said softly. “She won’t hurt you.”
Bucky stood a few feet back, boots pressed into the soft earth just beyond the tree’s wide roots. His gaze flicked between you and the massive creature now crouched along the thick branch above, wings slowly folding in. His shoulders stiffened slightly.
“She looks like she wants to bite my head off,” he muttered.
You smiled at that, a quiet thing. “Only if I ask her to.”
He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
You extended your hand to him—palm up, open—and held it there.
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stepped closer. The wind tugged at his hair, and his left sleeve—still pinned and folded neatly—brushed his side as he raised his right hand to meet yours. You wrapped your fingers gently around his and guided his palm toward Za’ta’s snout.
Her breathing shifted as she leaned her head forward just slightly. Her nostrils flared as she scented him, and Bucky went still—not frozen, just… alert. Present.
You watched his face, not the moment itself.
His brows were drawn just slightly, lips parted, eyes wide with something more than awe. Wonder, maybe. He was still looking at her like she was something out of a world he hadn’t earned the right to see.
“She’s incredible,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like her before.”
You didn’t look away from him. “I understand what you mean.”
You said it quietly—so quietly it barely rose over the breeze—but he heard it. Your fingers still laced with his. His handwarm in yours.
For a long moment, he didn’t look away from her. And then he did. His eyes dropped down to yours—slow, like gravity had to drag them—and when they landed, you felt it. Something pulled low in your chest. The hush between you suddenly thick.
You didn’t mean to lean in. He didn’t either.
But you did.
The space between you narrowed inch by inch, slowly, without urgency. Like neither of you realized it was happening until it was. His eyes dropped to your mouth for a breath—just a breath—and you felt his hand tighten around yours slightly, like a tether.
Then—
A sharp screech cut through the air, sudden and piercing.
You both flinched back.
Za’ta’s wings rustled as she shifted her weight impatiently, clicking her jaws once and tilting her head between you. Watching. Demanding.
You exhaled a shaky breath and laughed under it—embarrassed, heat prickling behind your ears.
“She… she hates when the attention is not on her,” you said quickly, stepping back and letting go of his hand. “She has always been like this.”
Bucky didn’t say anything. He was still watching you. His expression unreadable—but softer than you realised.
You looked anywhere but at him.
And Za’ta huffed again, smug.
The jungle held its breath.
Night clung thick between the trees, but the clearing was cast in amber—the flames from the ritual fire dancing in wide arcs, casting flickers of gold across both your faces. The logs crackled, popped softly. A slow curl of smoke drifted into the canopy, disappearing into the dark.
Bucky sat cross-legged before it, his bare arm resting loosely on his thigh.You stood across from him, wrapped in your ceremonial drape. Quiet. Still. He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked on the flames, unmoving. His breath was steady, but shallow. Too even. Like if he let it go, he’d break.
“It is time,” you said softly.
He didn’t respond right away. His fingers flexed once against his knee. Finally, his voice came—low and rough. “Are you sure?”
You took a step forward, slow and deliberate. The beads around your ankles chimed gently as you moved through the red light.
“I would not have brought you here if I wasn’t,” you said.
He nodded once, jaw tight. Still didn’t look at you. His voice was quieter the next time. “What if it doesn’t work?”
You watched him, “Then we keep trying.”
“And if it does… if I change—” His throat bobbed. “If I become him again?”
The fire was between you, but only barely. Its warmth licked at your skin. “If it comes to that,” you said gently, “I will stop you.”
He looked up then. His eyes met yours—and you saw it. The fear sitting just behind the surface. The quiet, desperate hope.
You held his gaze. Firm. Steady. “You will not hurt anyone,” you said. “Not tonight. Not here.”
The fire hissed.
Bucky blinked once, then nodded—almost imperceptibly. You saw the way his shoulders drew in, not from shame but from restraint. He wasn’t bracing for failure.
He was bracing for possibility.
You reached into the small carved bowl at your side and pinched a bit of the dark herb Queen Ramonda had prepared—a grounding agent meant to stimulate memory but soften the nervous system. It burned bitter in the flames.
He didn’t flinch.
You closed your eyes for a moment, whispered something under your breath—not for him, but for Bast. Then opened them. You met his gaze again.
The flames painted shadows along his cheekbones, flickering across his skin like something alive, but he didn’t blink. His eyes were fixed on the center of the blaze, shoulders taut, chest rising just a little too fast to be calm.
You took a slow breath, grounding yourself before you spoke.
“Тоска.”
He flinched. Not hard—not visibly—but his body gave a slight jolt, like something deep inside him had twitched on instinct. His eyes didn’t leave the fire, but his jaw clenched.
You continued, voice low but even.
“Ржавый.”
A breath stuttered out of him. You saw it; the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the slight widening of his eyes, like a thread was pulling somewhere in the back of his mind. A place he hated.
“Семнадцать.”
He swallowed thickly. His shoulders rounded in a little tighter, like he was bracing for impact—not physical, but worse. A memory pressing down on him from the inside out.
“Рассвет.”
His breathing hitched again, shallow and audible now. Still no movement. Just his eyes, fixed in the fire, wide and shining.
“Печь.”
A sharp inhale.
“Девять.”
A small tremor in his hand. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t speak.
“Доброкачественный.”
His teeth gritted, muscles in his jaw tight. You could see the glassy sheen now, clinging to his eyes, but he refused to blink. As if even that was too dangerous. Too vulnerable.
“Возвращение домой.”
A flicker. His mouth opened slightly—not to speak, just to breathe. His chest rose in short, sharp pulls. Still, he sat.
“Один.”
The fire popped, as if it had heard. You waited just a second longer. A breath. And then—
“Грузовой вагон.”
It landed like stone dropped in still water.
You watched his face. The glassiness turned to wetness. One tear—not sudden—just… there. Sliding down the side of his face, unbothered by pride. His mouth parted with a sound so small you almost missed it. Not a cry.
A release. A breath he'd been holding for years. You moved then, quietly and carefully, until you were kneeling beside him. You didn’t touch him.
“They’re gone,” you said softly. “The words have no power over you.”
He gave a small nod, barely there, then looked down at his lap. And that’s when it cracked.
A sob escaped—quiet and short, like it had snuck out without permission. His head dropped forward slightly, shoulders hunching. Just… shaking. As if his body didn’t know what to do now that the chains were gone.
His head hung low, his spine curved inward like his body was trying to protect something it no longer knew how to hold. The fire behind you cracked and hissed, but it felt distant now, a heartbeat outside your own.
You sat with your legs tucked beneath you, your hands resting in your lap, eyes fixed on the tremble of his shoulders. You didn’t speak. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t crumble the moment.
Then—quietly, like the words had to be dragged from somewhere inside him—he lifted his head. His eyes were swollen, lashes wet, his nose red, and he looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.
“…Thank you,” he breathed.
And just like that, your resolve gave out.
You leaned forward without thinking, hands rising to gently cup his face. Your palms were warm against his skin, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes with more gentleness than you meant to show.
He stilled.
His hand stayed in his lap, clenched tight. His left shoulder twitched once against his side, useless, aching. It made him feel unbalanced, almost childlike.
But you didn’t care. You guided his gaze back to yours, close enough that your breaths tangled.
“You are free,” you whispered, your voice a little shaky now. “You hear me, James? You are free.”
His mouth moved like he was going to say something—maybe your name, maybe nothing at all—but no sound came. Just another breath, sharp and broken.
And then he leaned forward. Not rushed, not messy. Just… drawn to you. His forehead came to rest against yours, tentative at first, like he was afraid you’d pull away. But you didn’t. You stayed still, your hands still holding his face, and you let him come to you.
His body trembled against yours as his head dipped, resting against your temple, your hair, your shoulder—wherever he could find something solid.
You didn’t need to speak.
You just stayed with him in the firelight, your hands still cupping his face, while he finally let himself cry.
He couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.
“You’re not gonna tell me where we’re going, are you.”
Your back was to him, but he heard the grin in your breath—light, soft, teasing.
“No.”
The path had narrowed again, the jungle around you thick with dusk. The last hints of sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken threads, but you moved easily, your pace quick and effortless as always. Bucky followed, trailing just behind you—not struggling, just distracted.
Mostly by you.
You were walking a little slower than usual, like you wanted him to catch up, and he did—only to stop again when you turned just slightly and the dying light caught your skin.
He hadn’t said anything yet, but he’d noticed. How your clothes tonight was lighter. Lower on your shoulders. A slit along your hip he was trying very hard not to stare at. Your jewelry caught what little light there was—gold and copper tones that glittered faintly at your throat and wrists. And your scent—
He couldn’t ignore it. It hit him in waves, warm and sharp and soft all at once. Something creamy, but richer. Something smoky and sweet underneath it, like crushed herbs rubbed gently between warm palms.
It made something tighten in his gut before he had a chance to understand why. “You know I don’t like surprises,” he muttered, pushing a low branch aside with his hand.
“You say that,” you hummed, “but you always follow me.”
That made him huff a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. Just enough to admit you were right. He didn’t ask again. He just kept his eyes on the way your bare shoulders caught the last of the gold light, the way your hips shifted gently with each step, how loose your body was—not careless, just… unguarded.
And then he heard it. A low, rushing sound from somewhere ahead. Not wind. Not animals. Something steady. Powerful.
He slowed his steps. “…Is that a—?”
Bucky ducked beneath a cluster of vines, one hand brushing the trunk beside him for balance, his boots sinking slightly into damp moss. The roar of the waterfall grew louder as the trees thinned. The path narrowed again—now more of a ledge than a trail, sloped slightly downward, leading toward the sound.
You turned to him with a small nod, lifting your hand toward the curtain of water ahead. It shimmered silver in the last breath of evening light, a wall of liquid glass pouring down the cliffside like it had been doing so for centuries.
“This way,” you said, voice softer now.
He raised a brow. “Through it?”
You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “Trust me.”
He didn’t hesitate.
You stepped first, your hand skimming the rock as you angled your body along the edge of the cliff wall, slipping through the narrow gap between stone and water. Bucky followed, keeping close behind you.
The moment he stepped under the fall’s spray, he sucked in a sharp breath—the water hit cold at first, soaking his shirt instantly, cascading over his shoulders like a slap.
“Shit—”
His foot slipped on the smooth stone, and for a second he flailed, only for your hand to shoot out and grip his wrist—your fingers strong, grounding. You steadied him.
He blinked the water out of his eyes, still hunched slightly as the current pelted his back. You looked up at him, already drenched too, and laughed—not loudly, just a small, surprised sound that slipped out like you hadn’t meant for it to.
He stared for a second before something low in his chest gave—and then he was laughing too. Just a breath. Just once.
You held his arm a second longer than necessary before releasing him gently. “This way,” you said again, tilting your head toward the dark behind the water.
You led him through it—deeper, drier, into a space carved by nature and time. And then he saw it.
The cavern opened gradually, its walls slick and smooth, the ceiling arching high above like a dome. Faintly, impossibly, light glimmered from within the stone itself—streaks of soft violet pulsing through the walls like veins. White engravings—symbols, words, maybe names—had been carved by hand, some so old the edges had worn to nothing.
The sound of the waterfall became muffled here.
Bucky’s voice came quietly, like he couldn’t help it. “What is this place?”
You didn’t look at him at first. You stepped further in, water dripping from your arms, your back straight but your voice gentle.
“A place for prayers,” you said. “To be heard.”
You turned slowly to face him. Your eyes flicked to the glowing walls, then back to his face.
“…And sometimes answered,” you added, a little quieter.
You walked further in, your bare feet silent against the cool stone, stopping near a small rise in the floor where smooth slabs had been arranged in a wide circle—natural, almost like a nest of rock.
Bucky trailed behind you, slowly, eyes adjusting to the cavern’s low light. The pulsing violet veins in the walls gave just enough to see—shadows flickering gently over his face, the damp curve of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
His hand drifted out to trace the symbols nearest him. He didn’t touch them at first—just hovered. Then, slowly, he let his fingers graze the stone. The grooves were faint, worn, but still there. Words in a language he couldn’t read.
“We call this place…” you began, your voice echoing gently off the walls, “Umqolomba wezandi.”
Bucky glanced toward you. You were standing near one of the glowing crests, your hand resting lightly against the rock, like greeting an old friend.
“It means…” you turned toward him, “the cavern of echoes.”
His gaze flicked to the ceiling, then around again—like he was finally beginning to feel what this space was.
“Wakandans believe the walls carry the voices of our ancestors,” you continued. “When someone prays here, the wind returns the sound. Not loud—just… enough. Just a whisper.”
He didn’t speak. You stepped forward slowly, closer now, until your voice dropped slightly. “Some come here to seek guidance. Some to mourn. Others come to whisper things they’re too afraid to say out loud.”
He didn’t take his eyes off you.
The violet glow from the stone etched itself along your cheekbones, catching in the curve of your nose and the line of your collarbone. Your skin shimmered with it—like the cave was pulling its light from you, or maybe the other way around.
Bucky stood a few paces away, one hand still pressed lightly against the wall, fingertips resting on the carved stone.
“Why’d you bring me here?” he asked quietly.
You met his gaze just for a moment—and then turned away, eyes flicking toward the deepest part of the cavern. The faintest smile tugged at your mouth, sad and barely there.
“I thought…” you began, voice low, nearly drowned by the hush of dripping water, “you might like to see one last thing that is special to me.”
He stepped closer, slow and careful. His hand fell to his side. He didn’t rush you. Just stood there.
“One last thing?” he asked, softer this time.
You nodded once. Still not looking at him. “You are free now.”
The words came out smaller than you expected. You swallowed and pressed on, forcing them to be steady.
“Your mind, your body. They belong to you again.” You let out a tight breath, arms folding lightly over your stomach. “You are no longer bound to this place.”
He heard the shift in your voice. Not anger. Not even grief. Just that quiet thing that sits under both—a kind of sadness people don’t name. You kept your eyes forward. “You can go home. To America. To whatever life you have waiting for you.”
A beat passed. And then another. He said nothing.
You finally turned your head, just slightly, your gaze still somewhere near the floor. “You are not a prisoner, James.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then, voice low—not confused, not sudden, just certain.
“…What if I don’t wanna leave?”
That made your breath catch and you looked up. He was watching you. Not the way he looked at the walls, or the fire, or even the sky above the cliffs. He was looking at you.
You averted your gaze when you spoke again—voice lighter now, but not quite free of its ache.
“Well, you are free now,” you said, almost teasing, but not fully. “You can do whatever you want.”
Behind you, Bucky didn’t answer, but you heard the faint shuffle of his boots against the stone—inching closer.
You kept your gaze ahead, eyes following the purple light in the walls like it was safer to look at than him. “You could stay, if you wanted. Here in Wakanda.”
He was closer now—not quite beside you, but you could feel the warmth of him just over your shoulder.
“There is a place for you in the city. Or the village. You have many skills.” You gave a small shrug, hoping it looked casual. “They’d be lucky to have you.”
Your voice dropped slightly. “And if you wanted…” You shifted your hands in front of you, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “You could create a family. Start again.”
You meant it. You did. Even if it scraped something raw inside you.
You exhaled slowly. “Wakanda has the most beautiful women in the world.” You glanced sideways, just enough to see his profile in the low light. “As you’ve seen in our village.”
That came out more bitter than you meant it to. He didn’t call it out. Didn’t acknowledge it it. Just kept his gaze on you, mouth twitching like he was biting back something.
“Amahle sings like a bird,“ you said, voice soft, but flat as you rolled your eyes, “Everyone says her voice could wake Bast herself.”
“... I don’t want Amahle.”
His voice came quiet, close behind your ear. You tried not to react, but your lips twitched before you could stop them. You turned a little more toward the wall, hiding your smile with another breath.
“Mandisa is a good hunter,” you added casually.
“Yeah,” he said, voice a little lower now. “She is.”
You turned sharply, brows furrowed, head snapping toward him, a frown growing on your lips.
Bucky was already smirking.
You sighed. “You are trying to be funny.”
“I’m succeeding.”
He looked pleased with himself. His face was relaxed in a way you didn’t see often—that boyish ease creeping through, tugging the lines of his mouth into something crooked and soft.
The smirk faded from his face slowly, but the closeness stayed.
He didn’t step back. Instead, Bucky leaned in—just a little—until his chest nearly brushed yours, the heat of him warming the air between you. You felt it rise, all at once, like your body had only just now realized how close he really was.
His breath touched your cheek. His nose almost grazed yours.
And then, gently, he raised his hand, fingers calloused and careful as they lifted to your jaw. He didn’t rush. Just let the back of his knuckles skim the side of your face first, like asking permission without speaking. When you didn’t flinch, his palm settled softly against your cheek.
You leaned into it. Barely. But you did.
He watched you. Every part of you. The slight part of your lips. The flutter of your lashes. The way your breath caught in your throat when he spoke.
“I know which woman I want,” he said, voice low—not raspy, not strained, just… quiet. Truthful. “But this woman must also choose me.”
The words sat there between you, trembling slightly in the stillness.
And then you smiled. Soft at first. Small. But real.
It bloomed slow, like light warming over your face—the kind of smile that reached your eyes, crinkled the corners, made your lashes lower like you were trying to shield the joy behind them.
And Bucky…
He didn’t breathe for a second.
Because it hit him suddenly—that smile. That it could burn brighter than any fire in this cave. That it made something stir in him, deep and good and maybe desperate.
You tilted your head just slightly into his palm. And your voice came in a murmur—so quiet, it almost disappeared into the echoing stone.
“She already has.”
He didn’t move at first.
Even with your words hanging between you—soft and sure—he stayed still for a breath. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone slowly, once, and you watched the way his eyes dipped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, asking without asking.
And then, finally, he leaned in. Slow. Careful. Like he was still waiting for you to change your mind.
You didn’t.
Your eyes stayed on his, heavy and unblinking. You could feel the way his breath trembled against your lips just before they touched—feather-light, a brush more than a kiss, like the moment itself was scared it would shatter if either of you moved too fast.
The first contact was barely a second.
He pulled back an inch, eyes searching yours again—checking. Not for rejection. For permission to fall apart. And then your fingers found his wrist and you held it there as you leaned forward this time, mouth tilting up to his again.
This kiss was deeper.
His lips pressed more firmly, shaping to yours with growing certainty. Warm. Intentional. His hand cupped your jaw tighter, not possessive, just present—thumb slipping behind your ear as your mouth opened slightly beneath his.
He tasted like breath and earth and the faint hint of herbs still lingering on his tongue. You sighed into him, your lips parting again, more confidently this time—and he met it, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until your noses brushed and your mouths moved like they’d done this before in another life.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. But it was hungry, like something long-denied finally unfolding itself without shame.
You felt the drag of his bottom lip against yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe—only to kiss you again, mouth firmer now, more certain. You answered with a small sound in your throat, something soft and needing, and his hand slipped from your cheek down to your neck, holding you there.
Your lips stayed locked —deep, slow, and consuming. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of it, learn the exact pressure that made you sigh, how long to linger before pulling away and pressing back in.
His dragged his knuckles lightly down the line of your throat. You shivered, not from cold, but from how warm your skin felt under his touch—slick, soft, prepared.
He felt it too. His fingers paused at your collarbone, as though registering something he hadn’t noticed until now—the way your skin gleamed faintly in the purple cave light, the faint shimmer of oil that clung to your shoulder.
He broke the kiss, just barely, lips still brushing yours as he whispered, “You smell really… good.”
You smiled, small and shy, as his hand moved again, trailing along the curve of your shoulder with a gentleness so soft it didn’t need the word.
“Shea butter,” you murmured against his mouth. “And… rose oil.”
“Mm,” he hummed. “Thought I was going crazy.”
Your noses bumped again as he kissed you once more—deeper this time, tongue sliding gently against yours. Your lips parted easily, like you’d been waiting for him to stop holding back.
His tongue moved slow—careful, tasting—coaxing yours to meet him with the same rhythm. The heat pulsed low in your belly. You leaned closer, your body drawn to his without needing to think, and you felt his hand skim further down—across the line of your upper chest, fingers splayed. The pads of them gliding over oiled skin, the slip of it making his breath hitch in his throat.
He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.
His hand kept moving—lower now, tracing the inside of your arm, then circling back up to press against the small of your back, guiding you closer into him. The kiss had deepened into something more now—your mouths slow but messier, wetter, tongues sliding in practiced rhythm, breath catching between swallows.
Your body responded in kind—your chest rising, brushing his, your hips tilting slightly, angling into his heat. His hand moved again—back to your neck, then your shoulder—his thumb slipping over your collarbone, down the swell of your chest, just grazing the upper curve of your breast through the fabric.
You broke the kiss gently, your lips lingering against his for a second longer before you pulled back, eyes fluttering open to meet his.
“Let me see you,” you whispered.
His brows twitched slightly, his breath shallow, but he didn’t ask what you meant. He just looked at you—looked through you—for a moment longer, then reached for the hem of his shirt.
The fabric stuck slightly to his skin, damp from the air and the heat between you. He tugged it upward in one slow pull with his hand, careful not to rush, and let it fall behind him with a dull whisper on the stone floor.
You exhaled.
The cave light caught the lines of him—soft purples and muted whites streaking across the planes of his chest, the hard curves of muscle shaped by war and grief. His torso was broad and strong, marred with a constellation of old scars. Some long-faded. Some newer. Some you’d seen before, from a distance when he washed by the river.
But now, they were offered to you. Your hands lifted slowly, sacred without trying to be. You let your fingertips touch his chest first—just a brush, testing. He stayed still.
You dragged your hand up, tracing the faint slash beneath his ribs, then higher, over the long scar that cut across his sternum. His skin was warm. Alive. Steady.
Your other hand joined, smoothing along his chest, rising toward his shoulder—his right—where flesh still met bone. You felt the dip of his collarbone under your thumb. The tension in his neck.
And then you saw it. The left side. The end of it.
The soft, healed edge where the metal used to continue. Now just a metal shoulder, curved and cold where limb had once been. You didn’t hesitate—your hand moved there too, fingers slow, brushing the edge where metal had once been forced into living body.
That’s when he looked away.
He dropped his head slightly, jaw tight. You felt the shift in him, like something pulling back. “I wish…” he said softly, the words caught on something raw. “I wish I could feel you with both hands.”
Your chest ached.
You moved without thinking—both hands rising to cup his face, gently but with certainty. His skin was warm under your palms, scruff along his jaw. You tilted his face back toward you.
“Don’t look away,” you whispered.
His eyes found yours again, guarded but open. Flickering. You held him there.
“This,” you said, your thumb brushing lightly beneath his cheekbone, “is a symbol of your survival. Your strength.”
He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his, letting your hands fall back to his chest—grounded, present.
“I want you,” you said quietly. “Just like this.”
Bucky couldn’t remember how they got to the ground.
One minute, your mouth was on his, your hands mapping his chest with slow adoration, and the next—he was on his back, the cool stone of the cavern floor beneath him, smooth as water-worn bone.
You were in his lap, straddling him, your knees braced on either side of his hips. His hand was on your waist, fingers digging in, not hard—but anchored, like he needed the contact to keep himself tethered to this moment. To you.
Your lips never left his. It was slower before. Gentle. But now—
Now it was need.
You kissed like it had been years. Like it had been denied for lifetimes. His mouth was open against yours, breath ragged, tongue dragging against yours in a rhythm that was no longer careful. Your hands had disappeared somewhere—he couldn’t even tell where—because all he could feel was your body moving against his, your chest brushing his, your thighs tightening every time your hips rolled just right.
His beard scraped against your cheek, your chin, the underside of your jaw as he kissed lower, biting softly at your throat, open-mouthed and warm. You arched into him, your back curving, and his hand followed instinctively—pressing flat along your spine, guiding your body closer until there was nothing left between you but heat.
You smelled like sweat now—like skin, oil, the scent of perfume still clinging to your pulse points. The smell of you dizzying, something earthy and warm and faintly sweet. He wanted it everywhere. On his tongue. In his mouth. On his body.
He grunted something low in his throat and pressed his mouth to your collarbone, his lips dragging over the slick warmth there, tasting the rose oil and salt. His hand moved up, cupping the back of your neck, thumb pressing under your jaw as he pulled your mouth back to his.
He needed to feel you everywhere.
Your hips shifted again—slow, grinding, and his cock twitched hard beneath the fabric, trapped between your bodies. You felt it. He knew you did. The noise you made—soft, breathy—went straight to his spine.
His kiss turned rougher—still careful, still wanting to worship you, but there was nothing polite about this now. This was hunger. This was claiming. Your lips swollen, breath catching between gasps and moans. You kissed like you were already ruined. Like the fire you’d started weeks ago had finally reached its burn point.
You broke the kiss first. Not far—only enough to breathe—but he followed you instinctively, chasing your mouth like he wasn’t ready to let it go. His lips brushed yours again and again, searching, impatient.
“Wait,” you whispered.
He stilled, breathing hard, pupils blown wide as he watched you.
Your hand lifted slowly to the knot at the base of your neck—the simple tie holding your wrap in place. The movement was deliberate, almost shy, though your chest was rising fast enough to betray you.
Bucky’s gaze followed every second.
You tugged once.
The fabric loosened.
You tugged again.
And it slipped.
The cloth fell away from your chest and pooled around your waist, leaving you bare to him in the soft purple glow of the cavern. The cool air kissed your skin, but you barely noticed it—not with the way he was staring at you.
He looked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Your breasts rose and fell with your ragged breaths, skin shining faintly from oil and warmth. You could see the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand twitched against your hip like he didn’t know where to touch first.
You leaned forward and kissed him again before he could say anything. But his attention had shifted.
His mouth left yours almost immediately, sliding down to your neck, tongue dragging along the damp curve of your skin. He kissed there, slow and messy, lips open, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.
“Wanna taste you,” he murmured against your throat.
You gave a small nod, barely able to think, and his mouth moved lower. His hand slipped up your side, thumb brushing over the underside of your breast as his lips followed the same path. You felt his breath first, hot and shaky—then his mouth closed around your nipple.
The first pull of his lips made your head fall back.
A soft, unguarded moan slipped out of you as he sucked, gentle at first, then firmer—tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk forward against him.
Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, holding him there as he switched sides, giving the same attention to the other breast. His hand kneaded at your waist, dragging you closer, guiding your body to move against his.
You rolled your hips again—harder this time—grinding down against him. You could feel him beneath you, thick and straining through his pants, and the friction made you gasp.
“My James—”
He groaned at the sound of his name, mouth still on you, and the vibration of it went straight through your body.
Your hands fumbled at the waistband of his pants, his breath hot and shaky against your neck as you kissed him between desperate, half-laughed curses. The sound of fabric dragging against skin filled the cave—wet with sweat, clinging, urgent—as he finally shoved them past his hips with your help.
You sat up just enough to tug them off the rest of the way, tossing them aside. He was already bare beneath, hard and flushed and waiting, the sight of him making your thighs tighten.
The air was thick around you, warm and damp, your bodies gleaming in the violet glow. Your chest was still rising fast, skin slick with oil and heat, and he was staring up at you now—flat on his back, hand firm on your waist like he couldn’t believe this was happening.
His mouth was parted, eyes trailing slowly from your breasts to your stomach to the place between your thighs. Adoring. Devouring. And still, just softer than lust. Like he was seeing a vision he didn’t think he deserved.
You leaned forward again, kissing him once, slow and open-mouthed, before whispering against his lips, “Now we become one.”
And then you reached between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance.
You angled your hips carefully, breath catching when the head of his cock pressed against you—thick and hot and already leaking, your folds slick from want and desire. He groaned beneath you, the sound strained and breathless as your hand stroked him once, then lined him up again.
You held his gaze as you began to sink down. Slow. Stretching.
Your body opened around him inch by inch, the burn sweet and perfect, your walls clenching as he filled you. You gasped, forehead dropping to his, and his hand clamped harder on your waist, thumb digging into the soft dip of your hip as he breathed through it with you.
“Fuck—” he rasped. “So tight—”
You whimpered against his jaw, your thighs shaking as you lowered further, the stretch making your head spin. He was thick, every inch dragging against you, and you could feel the way your body adjusted to take him. Your cunt fluttered as you seated yourself fully.
You stayed still a moment, chests heaving, foreheads pressed and breath shared.
And then you started to move—slow at first, easing into it, your hips rocking gently as you adjusted to the weight of him inside you.
Bucky groaned, the sound guttural and rough, his hand gripping your waist like a lifeline. His eyes were fixed on where your bodies met, the slick drag of you gliding up and down on his cock. He watched with his mouth parted, sweat already clinging to his brow, chest rising fast.
“Shit… you feel—fuck, you feel so good—”
You moaned at the praise, your hands braced on his shoulders as you picked up the rhythm—grinding down, then lifting, riding him slow and deep. Each time you dropped your hips, he hit that perfect spot inside you, and your breath came shorter, messier, your thighs beginning to tremble.
The cave amplified everything—the slap of skin, the wet glide of your cunt around him, your moans echoing off the walls, layered over the low roar of the waterfall beyond. The air felt thick with it, humid and alive.
You rode him harder now—hungrier.
Your breasts bounced with each thrust, your ass smacking against his thighs as you worked yourself over him, chasing every drop of friction. Bucky’s hand dragged from your waist up to your breast, cupping it, thumb brushing your nipple as he thrust up into you from below.
He could only touch what his hand could reach—but he touched you like it mattered. Like he meant it. Palm sliding down your stomach, fingertips trembling as they traced the sheen of oil and sweat, down to your pelvis where he pressed his thumb against your clit and rubbed.
You cried out, head snapping back, the pleasure white-hot.
“Look at you,” he groaned, voice cracking. “So fucking beautiful—riding me like this—”
You leaned down, panting against his jaw as you rode him harder, messier now, the rhythm losing its grace, becoming more primal. Your walls clenched around him, slick dripping down your thighs, the sounds of it loud, obscene, echoing like prayer.
He was too far gone now. The need—no, the craving—to feel more of you, to bury himself deeper, to give in overtook whatever control he’d been holding onto. And even with only one arm, he moved with purpose.
“C’mere—” he rasped, voice wrecked and low, and with a groan of effort, he shifted.
It wasn’t graceful—his balance off, his body strained—but somehow he managed to turn you beneath him, easing your back down onto the stone floor with a grunt and a clumsy half-roll that made both of you gasp-laugh through the haze. His hand braced above your shoulder, his knees sinking between your thighs, body hovering over yours.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he murmured, breath hot against your cheek. “Tighter.”
You obeyed, locking your thighs around his waist—holding him close, keeping him there, right where you wanted him. Right where you both needed this to happen.
And he started to thrust again. Harder now. Deeper.
Each stroke knocked a cry from your throat, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into him like your bones didn’t know how else to respond. His pelvis pressed flush with yours on every pump, the rhythm steady and sharp, and you could feel how deep he was—how full you were—how good he made you feel, even with just one hand and every ounce of concentration funneled into you.
He kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, tasting your whines as they broke free, his body slamming into yours faster. When your head fell to the side, he kissed your neck, your shoulder, your jaw—everywhere he could reach, panting between moans, sighing your name into your skin like it was prayer.
And then he pulled back just enough to look at you.
His thrusts slowed for a beat.
The cave light shimmered across his face, sweat lining his brow, his chest heaving above yours. You could barely keep your eyes open, pleasure swimming behind your lashes.
But then he said it. Voice thick, barely a whisper.
“Ndiyakubona.”
I see you.
Even through the haze, your mouth broke into a smile—soft and dazed and full of everything your body couldn’t say. And without answering, you pulled him down, crashing your lips to his again, arms around his shoulders as your hips lifted to meet each thrust as it turned rougher.
Unrelenting.
It was no longer slow or sensual—it was instinct. The slap of his hips against your thighs echoed through the cavern, the air thick with sweat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of your cunt clenching around him with every punishing stroke.
He adjusted his stance, gritting his teeth, and shifted you up—pressing your knees toward your chest, his hand gripping the back of your thigh, holding it open as he fucked into you deeper. Your body arched under him, your head thrown back, mouth open, moaning without shame.
This was carnal now. Primal.
You were folded beneath him, trapped in a mating press, your legs shaking around his waist, your hands clutching uselessly at the slick stone floor as he drove into you like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.
He was panting—loud and sharp, every muscle tight—but his eyes never left you. He was watching. Watching your face, your mouth, the way your brows twisted, the way your back arched higher with each thrust, like you were caught somewhere between ruin and salvation.
“Finish for me,” he grunted. “Let me feel it. Let me—fuck—let me feel you.”
You whimpered, your voice breaking with each slap of his hips, the pleasure unbearable. And then it happened.
You cried out, legs clamping around his waist, your body locking up as the orgasm crashed through you—white-hot, full-body, helpless. Your walls clenched around him so tight it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.
Bucky felt it.
Felt you milk him, tighten around his cock like your body was made to take him. His head dropped forward, his mouth falling open in something like awe.
“Holy fuck—”
He stared at you, wild-eyed, stunned, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
You were still cumming—still gasping—your thighs trembling around him, your cunt pulsing as aftershocks rippled through your belly.
And Bucky had never felt anything like it.
Not in his entire life. Your pleasure, his name on your lips, your body spasming beneath him, because of him—
He was close. So close.
You were still panting, your body limp beneath him, your skin slick and glowing under the cavern’s low purple light—but he didn’t stop.
Bucky kept thrusting—slower now, but deep, deliberate, like he was chasing something he was scared to catch. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, holding you steady, your cunt still fluttering around him, soaking and spent.
“Fuck—” he groaned, voice cracking. “I’m close—”
You looked up at him through heavy lashes, lips parted, skin flushed.
And he leaned down. Pressed his mouth to yours—soft at first, desperate beneath the tenderness—and kissed you through it.
Then he broke away just enough to breathe.
He thrust once.
Twice.
And on the third—he came.
With a broken sound in his throat, he drove into you, hips jerking as his release tore through him. He spilled deep inside you, thick and hot, his whole body shuddering from the force of it. His thighs trembled, his jaw slackened, and he dropped his head forward, forehead pressed to yours as he tried to catch his breath.
His arm shook beneath him, struggling to hold his weight, but he stayed there—inside you, skin pressed to skin, sweat dripping from his temple to your cheek.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You kept your eyes open, watching him through the haze—not touching, not speaking. Just watching. The way his lashes stayed low, the small twitch of his jaw, the slight wince in his expression as the high began to ebb.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head.
He looked down at you, lips slightly parted, his chest heaving above yours. The expression on his face wasn’t something he could name—not yet. Not exactly. But it looked a lot like being broken open in the gentlest way.
He swallowed hard.
“…Shit,” he muttered, voice low and rough. Not ashamed. Just overwhelmed.
He was still inside you. Still hard, still twitching faintly from the aftershocks.
But even in that fog, he shifted—careful not to collapse onto you. He slid out of you with a low groan, drawing a quiet whimper from your throat at the loss, and moved onto his back beside you, his chest rising and falling in heavy waves.
You both stared up at the cavern ceiling for a few long moments. The stone above glowed softly, the walls still humming faint with the pulse of the violet veins.
Neither of you spoke.
And then—after maybe two breaths too long—he reached for you.
His arm came up and around your back. He pulled you into him, not forcefully, but fully—pressing your bare body against his chest like he couldn’t bear to let the space grow cold between you.
You folded into him easily, instinctively. Your head rested just below his jaw. His lips found your forehead.
And then—as if pulled—your mouth tilted up, found his again. Slower now. Softer. Still open-mouthed, still wet, but no longer frantic.
Your lips finally parted again, not out of need, but because you both simply ran out of air.
The kiss faded into stillness. Your forehead stayed against his, your fingers still resting on his chest, tracing absentminded shapes into the skin just above his heart. You could still feel it beating—slower now, steadier. But still there. Still real.
His hand smoothed along your back, dragging a lazy line down your spine like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. He didn’t speak. Not at first.
You didn’t either.
Until finally, he murmured—barely audible, but firm,
“…Thank you.”
You blinked. You pulled back a little, just enough to see his face. His eyes were still on you. Heavy-lidded.
“For what?” you asked, soft.
A pause.
Then he said it—slowly, like every syllable cost something.
“For saving me.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
“I didn’t save you,” you said eventually, after a beat. “I only helped—”
“No,” he cut in, quiet but certain. “You saved me.”
Your brows pulled slightly.
He exhaled through his nose. Not out of frustration—just trying to find the right words. Words he wasn’t used to saying.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever… feel like a person again,” he said, his voice rasped with fatigue, but not hesitation. “Not after what they did to me. Not after all the decades that I was just a… a thing.”
He looked at you again. “And then I came here. And I met you.”
Your expression softened, almost imperceptibly, but you didn’t interrupt. You let him speak.
“You didn’t flinch when you saw me,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Didn’t look at me like I was some... broken weapon. You just looked. And listened. And existed.”
He paused again.
“I haven’t been able to breathe in years,” he whispered. “Not without waiting for the trigger to pull again. Not without thinking someone’s gonna drag me back into something. But here… with you…”
His fingers flexed faintly against your back.
“I can finally fucking breathe.”
You blinked slowly. Your heart pulled so tight it hurt.
He didn’t need to say I love you. This was deeper than that. He still wasn’t looking at you directly now—not all the way. Just barely off, like it was too much.
And when you finally spoke again, it wasn’t to dismiss his words or soften them. You just said, simply,
“…You saved yourself.”
His eyes flicked back to yours. Still wide open. Still raw.
“I was just there to hold the net,” you said. “You did the climbing.”
You didn’t know how long you stayed there.
The rhythm of your breathing had synced again, like the hush between waves. The cavern, once echoing with gasps and desperate cries, was still now. A sacred hush laid over everything—water still falling outside, glowing rock pulsing soft violet all around you, but inside, it was just the two of you.
He was still staring at you.
You were still staring back.
At some point, you had propped yourself slightly onto your elbow, the cool of the stone under your skin grounding you as your other hand tangled with his. His thumb brushed yours absently, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
And then he spoke. Quiet. Uncertain.
“Maybe…” he began, the rasp still clinging to the back of his throat. “…maybe I had to go through all of it. The war. Hydra. All of it.”
You blinked slowly.
He swallowed.
“Maybe I had to lose everything so I could find you.”
His voice wasn’t smooth. It cracked halfway through. But he didn’t look away this time. Not when he said it.
Your chest tightened—too full, too much. Your heart hurt with it. In the most devastating way.
Your fingers lifted to his cheek, brushing the hair back that had fallen near his brow. His eyes closed under your touch—not from shame. Just from… feeling.
You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your voice almost a whisper.
“You did not deserve what they did to you,” you murmured. “Not any of it.”
His jaw clenched slightly.
You kissed the corner of his mouth.
“But you survived. You endured.”
You kissed his temple.
“And if the path led you to me…” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes again.
“…Then I am grateful for every step you took.”
a/n | if you’ve made it this far, well damn, what did you think?
Okay so obviously i made up the Isisa based on the Ikran to make our girl extra special. and is based on Neytiri’s first Ikran, Seze:
I literally have a full on fic in my head of our girl being present in Black Panther's plot and Infinity War, but lets just put it in my back pocket for now.
The warthog and cave scene are directly taken from Avatar, when Neytiri first met and saved Jake; and their bonding and mating scene.
I still wanted to have more fluffy scenes before she became soft with bucky, with him watching her when she’s soft and playful with others, like during a baptism celebration, or more scenes with Za’ta
she’s supposed to give off this:
andddd also realised there wasn’t that many wakandan!reader fics, wonder why…
people can write and imagine themselves as russian assassins, goddesses and literal aliens… but never as an indigenous girlie, smh
pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"
word count: 19.6k
masterlist
a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing.
synopsis:
The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.
You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.
You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.
While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.
“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”
You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.
The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house.
“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”
Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath.
“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”
You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”
“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.
“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.
“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.
“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.
You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound.
These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.
You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.
“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”
You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.
“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!”
You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.
“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.”
Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately.
“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.”
The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom.
You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.
“… attendance is mandatory for all households…”
Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”
Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.
“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”
“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”
Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”
“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.”
The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.
Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards.
“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”
When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did.
While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.
As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.
Attendance is mandatory for all households.
You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?
Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house.
And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?
No.
It was silly to indulge in such foolishness.
Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.
But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.
With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.
The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you.
Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.
You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.
Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.
You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid.
You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.
You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going.
You were actually going to the ball.
Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood.
“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room.
You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.
“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath.
The three of them froze.
The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable.
“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”
You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”
The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.
For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.
“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!”
Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”
You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.
“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”
She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you.
“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”
You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you.
Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.
“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”
Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.
They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.
A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.
“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”
“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.
Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.
Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.
You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down.
You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.
Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.
“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”
She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart.
“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”
As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time.
“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”
It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face.
Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.
As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.
“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”
“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable.
“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”
“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”
“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne.
“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”
Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”
Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”
He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought.
“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”
Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.
You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”
Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet.
“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”
She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.
With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store.
It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?
Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment.
Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.
You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips.
To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.
Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.
“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”
You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him.
“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”
Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”
You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy.
“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”
Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.
“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”
You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.
“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”
Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back.
Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.
“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”
As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.
There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.
You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him.
“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”
The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you.
Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.
“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”
You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.
“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”
You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.
Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.
“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”
You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.”
Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.
“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.”
“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”
“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”
“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”
Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.
You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms.
As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.
Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk.
“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”
“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”
Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves.
She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.
That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.
“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”
Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.
“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”
The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”
Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.
“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.
Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that.
“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”
Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.
“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”
A father?
Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.
You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing.
“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”
Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.
“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”
Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.
“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.
There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.
“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”
Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view.
You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.
Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe.
He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless.
He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.
Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.
“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”
Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.
“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”
You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color?
“Blue?” you frowned.
“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.
“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”
You and Martha just blinked at him.
Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.
The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder.
“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”
Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.
“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”
He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”
“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”
The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.
“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.
Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster.
With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out.
What happened?
How’d you get these burn marks?
You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t.
Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.
“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”
“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”
Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.
Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street.
The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.
Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”
She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.
“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”
“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating.
You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before.
“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”
You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”
Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.
“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”
You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh.
“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”
It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.
They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.
With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you.
He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust.
He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy.
It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.
You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you.
You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.
You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine.
The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you.
If you went, you risked everything.
If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.
As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well.
You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.
You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.
You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard.
You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery.
This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.
“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.
Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.
The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave.
“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”
The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.
“Child, what in heaven’s name—”
You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”
“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”
The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.
She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass.
Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.
“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”
You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement.
She looked like she belonged in a palace.
“Martha, I… thank you—”
“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.
She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.
Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.
“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head.
When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.”
A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.
“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”
“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”
“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.
She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight.
“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”
Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.
He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.
Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.
Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.
He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.
As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.
“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”
Had he not been clear enough?
Now, he felt like a fool.
Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.
And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.
You were younger.
Much younger.
Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.
He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.
But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.
His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.
But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.
He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.
A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.
“King Barnes?”
Bucky turned to the attendant.
“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”
Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.
“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.
He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.
“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”
He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.
He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.
He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.
“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”
“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.
He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.
“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”
“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”
“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”
While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.
It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.
You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.
You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.
The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.
As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.
At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.
You were beautiful.
Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.
You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.
He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.
“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.
The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.
A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.
“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”
“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”
“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”
You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.
You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.
“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”
Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.
The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.
Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.
Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.
“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”
Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.
But you already felt as though you were suffocating.
You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”
As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.
There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.
Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.
The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.
You weren’t a princess.
You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.
One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.
“I… I cannot,” you whispered.
Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”
“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.
Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.
Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.
“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”
You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.
Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.
It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.
Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.
Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.
It was him.
The man you had risked everything to see just once more.
Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.
He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.
But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.
“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”
Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”
You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.
Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.
“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”
Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.
“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”
You felt like you were going to collapse.
The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.
Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?
Was that why he insisted you come tonight?
The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.
You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.
The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.
“Who’s there?”
Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.
There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.
“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”
You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.
Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.
It was you.
You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.
You had heard it all.
Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.
Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.
“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”
Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.
He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.
“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”
You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.
Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.
As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.
He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.
“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.
His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.
His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.
Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.
“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.
Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.
“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.
You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.
But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.
You decided right then to spite him.
To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.
Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.
Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.
“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.
“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”
You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”
As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.
“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.
“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.
Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.
Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.
Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.
“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”
He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”
Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”
Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.
“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”
Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.
“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.
Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.
It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.
Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.
“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.
Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.
The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.
He didn’t just want to dance.
He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.
As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.
Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.
“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”
You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.
Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.
“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.
You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.
“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”
He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.
Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.
“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”
“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.
“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”
He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.
“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.
“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”
“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.
“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”
The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.
You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.
That should be more than enough.
But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.
You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.
The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.
Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.
Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.
The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.
You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.
Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.
“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.
“Y-your Majesty—?”
With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.
You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.
“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”
“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.
You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.
“Stop trying to run away.”
You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.
“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”
“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.
“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”
“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.
His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.
“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”
Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.
“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”
His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.
“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.
Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.
“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”
Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.
His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.
“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”
“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”
You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.
“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.
“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”
His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.
With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.
“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.
He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.
“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”
You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.
“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”
“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”
Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.
“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”
His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.
“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”
You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.
“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”
Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.
“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.
He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.
“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.
“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.
“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”
Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.
Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.
Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.
“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.
“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”
Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.
He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.
He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.
“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”
You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.
“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”
Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.
“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”
You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.
The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.
Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.
“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”
Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.
You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.
“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.
Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.
You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.
He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.
“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”
Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.
“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”
Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.
It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.
He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.
He wanted you.
Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.
You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.
Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.
His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.
Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.
“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”
Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.
“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”
He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”
Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.
The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.
“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”
Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.
It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.
“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”
You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.
He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.
But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.
The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.
Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.
“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.
“Oh my god—!” you whined.
He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.
The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.
Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.
“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”
You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.
As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.
“Y-your Majesty?”
“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.
“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”
You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”
Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.
“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”
As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.
Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.
“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”
Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.
Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.
“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”
Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.
The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.
Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.
“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”
“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.
He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”
As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”
Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.
You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.
The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.
“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”
With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.
“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”
His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.
Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.
Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.
“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.
You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.
You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.
But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.
He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.
Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.
When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.
“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”
His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”
Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.
A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.
But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.
“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”
You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.
“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”
He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”
With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.
You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.
As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.
You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.
Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.
You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.
Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.
You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.
It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.
It was an impossibility of worlds.
He belonged to history.
You belonged in a basement.
As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.
“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”
You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.
The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.
“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”
Discretion?
You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.
He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.
To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.
You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.
You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.
How could you have been so foolish?
“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”
“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”
Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.
“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”
He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.
“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”
A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.
The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.
He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.
“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.
He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.
Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.
A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”
The word died in his throat and his smile faded.
The room was silent.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.
Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.
He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.
“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”
He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.
His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.
He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.
“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”
He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.
Did you not believe a word he said?
The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.
Did you still think he was that kind of man?
Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?
Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.
He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.
It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.
By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.
He was going to find you.
He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.
Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.
And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.
Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.
He held the glove up between them, snarling.
“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."
19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️
again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!
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pairing: farmer!bucky barnes x city girl!reader x farmer!steve rogers
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, threesome, pining, alcohol, banter, touch starved stucky, sexual tension, lots of pent-up sexual frustration, the boys are clingy attention whores, manipulation (they want you to stay), breeding kink, oral (m receiving), size diff, m!masturbation, overstimulation, jealousy, degrading, praising, dirty talk, pet names: "pretty girl" "sweetheart" "darlin'" "baby"
word count: 18k
masterlist
a/n: what's better than one touch starved farmer boy? TWO touch starved farmer boys who are best friends!!!!! it gets kind of dark at the end (steve and buck are desperate.) so please tread carefully.
synopsis:
Bucky and Steve live in a town filled with an endless stretch of green, animals, and their only company is other strong men and elderly women. When an attractive, young woman visits town for a research project, the touch-deprived boys can't help but want to play with the new piece of candy.
Steve threw the last log onto the flatbed of the good ol’ truck, a thing that had seen more rust than oil changes in its life.
“That should be the last of it,” he announced from the back, closing the tailgate and giving it a solid slap to make sure it held. “Start her up, Buck.”
Bucky turned back to the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The truck answered with a loud rumble before sputtering out. He tried again, resulting in another shake that rattled the cab, and then… nothing.
Steve came up to the driver’s window, resting an arm on the sill as he wiped sweat from his face with a dirty towel.
“Lucy’s not startin’?”
“Does she ever?” Bucky sneered, turning the key once more as the truck grumbled in protest. “I thought you were supposed to look her over last night.”
“I was—then I got a call to round up some loose, wild chickens. After that I got sidetracked, and, uh…” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, guilty. “I fell asleep.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Perfect.”
“Hey,” Steve said, nudging his shoulder roughly through the window. “While I was being productive last night, maybe you could’ve spent that time fixing her up instead of jerking off.”
Bucky shoved the door open without warning, forcing Steve to stumble aside. He gave him a sharp side-eye glare.
“I was not jerking off,” he muttered, heading for the front of the truck and popping the hood to peer into the engine.
Steve barked out a laugh as he stepped up beside him, clamping a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You keep tellin’ yourself that. The walls are paper thin, you know?”
“Shut up,” Bucky mumbled with a flushed face. He reached down, jiggled the loose battery cable, then tightened the clamp with a huff.
“All right,” he said, wiping his hands on his dirty jeans. “Try it now.”
“You sure that’ll—”
“Just get in the damn truck, Steve.”
With a shrug, Steve climbed back into the cab and turned the key. The engine coughed in front of Bucky, then rumbled to life, making the whole truck shaky but steadily idle.
Steve grinned out the open window. “Well, would you look at that. It’s our lucky day.”
“And we don’t get much of those,” Bucky agreed, not wasting a second as he slammed the hood shut and jogged around to the passenger side, yanking the door open.
“Don’t admire her too much now,” he warned, climbing in. “Start drivin’ before it gives out and we have to push this damn thing ourselves again.”
The truck rattled its way down the dirt road, tires crunching over gravel as the town came into view—if you could even call it that. The ‘town’ had a handful of weather-beaten buildings, a leaning water tower, and more livestock than people. Chickens scattered as Steve eased off the gas, the engine making a suspiciously loud noise that couldn’t even be ignored if they turned the radio up higher.
Fury’s place sat at the center of it all. A squat, sturdy building that had once been a general store several years ago, then a post office, and now served as whatever the town needed it to be. Meetings, supplies, paperwork.
Basically, everything important that no one else wanted to deal with.
A faded sign out front still read “COMMUNITY OFFICE,” though half the letters were missing.
“Made it,” Steve said, turning the engine off as he glanced at Bucky with a smile. “Told you Lucy had one more trip in her.”
“One,” Bucky huffed, hopping out. “Don’t get greedy.”
They climbed onto the flatbed and started unloading, tossing logs into a neat pile beside the building. The door creaked open halfway through, and Fury stepped out, cane in one hand. His good eye flicked over the truck, the wood, then the two of them.
“You’re late,” he said calmly.
Steve lifted his head as he tossed another log. “Truck trouble.”
Fury snorted. “That truck is trouble.” He eyed the woodpile with approval, though. “Still—this’ll last us through winter if rationed right. The town owes you.”
Bucky threw another log. “Town’s been owing us a while.”
Fury shifted his weight, tapping the end of his cane against one of the logs. “When you’re done,” he said, already turning back toward the door, “I’m gonna need you boys to come inside and sign the delivery papers. Wood tally, fuel credit, the usual nonsense.”
They both gave each other a look. Anything involving paperwork, pencils, and pens was well outside their familiar territory. Their comfort zone was muscles, strength, and work done with their bare hands.
The boys were… really good with their hands.
They finished stacking the last of the logs in relative silence, the only sounds being the dull thud of wood and the distant lowing of cattle.
Steve hopped down from the flatbed and dusted off his hands. “You ready, Buck?”
“Ready to skim the papers and not read a word of it?” Bucky wiped his hands on the dirty towel before tossing it through the open passenger window. “Sure.”
Inside, the building was way cooler, the air was filled with the smell of old paper, dust, and faint bitter coffee. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with binders, ledgers, and boxes labeled in Fury’s neat handwriting. A single desk sat near the back, buried under forms.
The two men lingered by the front door, leaving a trail of dirt and mud beneath their boots as their eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight to the dim interior.
“Come here, boys,” Fury called, circling around his desk.
Steve stepped forward—but Bucky stopped short, his attention snagging on something off to the side of the office.
“Uh,” Bucky raised a finger to point, not even trying to hide it. “Who the hell is that? She lost?”
There you sat, prim and composed, one leg crossed over the other, a newspaper folded neatly in your hands. Your clothes were clean, your shoes never touched by dirt, and the two suitcases at your feet looked like they cost more than what Steve and Bucky made in a day.
You looked like you had stepped off the wrong bus, yet decided to stay anyway.
Steve turned at Bucky’s voice, nearly breaking his neck to get a better look. His gaze trailed from your face down to your legs, the way you subtly bounced your foot as you were absorbed in whatever dull headline held your attention.
Your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip, and Bucky’s breath hitched.
“Damn…” he muttered.
“No.” Fury emerged from behind the desk, glancing between the three of you. “She’s right where she’s supposed to be.”
You finally looked up when Fury tapped the side of your bench with his cane. Lifting your head, you pulled the earbud from your ear.
“Nick?”
“These are Rogers and Barnes,” Fury said. “They run the livestock operations on the outskirts.” Then he turned back to the two men. “And this is—” he paused, nodding to you, “—a family friend from the city, a couple hours away. She’s here for a research project.”
Steve stepped closer, raising a brow. “Research?”
You folded the newspaper and tucked it under your arm before standing. “Animal productivity,” you explained. “Sustainability in isolated farming communities. Breeding patterns, yield consistency, that sort of thing.”
Both of the boys tilted their head in sync, and Fury shook his own, looking at you. “You’re speaking a whole different language to these cave animals.”
Bucky crossed his arms, ignoring the jab. “And you picked this place?”
“I insisted she come here,” Fury said, raising a brow at him. “Why are you making it sound like this place is bad?”
Steve shrugged. “Well—”
“Don’t answer that,” Fury cut in with a sigh, waving a hand as he turned back to his desk. “Sign these. And once you’re done—” his gaze flicked to your suitcases, “—help her get settled in the farmhouse out back.”
“The farmhouse?” Bucky met Fury at the desk, planting both hands on the edge as he leaned over him. “You’re not stickin’ a girl like that in some dirty farmhouse, Fury.”
It seemed like every farmer you’d met so far was loud and painfully straightforward. You glanced down at yourself—your clothes, so different from the muted dresses the handful of elderly women wore around town. Since stepping off the bus, you’d been surrounded by the smell of manure, too much testosterone, and a growing sense of self-consciousness.
Fury looked up at Bucky with his good eye. “I already told her about our very limited lodging options.” He turned to you for backup. “And she was okay with it. Right?”
You were not okay with it.
You were used to a queen-sized bed in your comfortable city apartment, right in the heart of everything. Not a farmhouse.
“Yup,” you said anyway, forcing a nod and a smile.
For research. Right?
Bucky scoffed and clamped a hand down on Steve’s shoulder, pulling him closer hard enough that Steve nearly stumbled.
“You know, We’ve got Sarah’s old house right next to our farm—the one that’s been collectin’ dust,” Bucky said, giving Steve a firm slap on the back to rope him in. “What do you say, Stevie? Take us a few hours to clean it up, pull the mattress outta the closet, get it all nice and tidy for our little friend here.”
All three men turned to look at you, and you suddenly felt very small beneath their attention—especially under Steve and Bucky’s eyes.
“I… wouldn’t want to intrude,” you said gently, scratching at your temple. “I’m not sure how Sarah would feel if I just moved in—”
“Sarah—God rest her—wouldn’t want an impressionable young woman like you sleepin’ in a cold, dirty farmhouse,” Bucky cut in, flashing Steve a grin.
Steve let out a slow, patient breath through his nose. “I suppose you’re right. My mother wouldn’t want that.”
Bucky turned back to you, a charming smile tugging at his mouth. “How about it, pretty girl?”
You glanced at Fury, searching his face. He was the only person you trusted here, and as long as he trusted them, that would have to be enough.
Fury let out a quiet, weary sigh and gave you a small shrug. “They look like troublemakers,” he said, “but they’re the ones keeping this town running.”
He pointed at Steve while looking at you. “You can trust this one.” Then his finger moved slowly to Bucky. “But be careful with this one.”
“Hah. Hah,” Bucky replied dryly as he crossed the room, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. He bent down, grabbed one of your suitcases, and tossed it toward Steve, who barely caught it off guard.
Bucky picked up the other bag and flashed you a smile.
“Our truck’s right outside. Come on.”
With one strong hand gripping the strap of your suitcase, his other hand—surprisingly respectful—settled at your lower back as he guided you towards the front door.
On the way out, he gave Steve a look, nodding once to signal him to follow.
“You two better take good care of her,” Fury called after them. “She’s a family friend. Remember that.”
Steve paused, glancing back at Fury with a sigh.
“Yeah, noted,” he muttered as he stepped outside with the luggage, following you and Bucky.
Fury waved you off, then turned back to the desk, eyeing the untouched stack of paperwork still waiting for signatures.
“Goddamnit,” he muttered.
Outside, Steve and Bucky tossed the luggage into the flatbed haphazardly. The heavy thud of your expensive bags made you flinch, especially knowing your laptop and notebooks were inside.
Bucky swung the passenger door open wide and motioned you over with a hand. “Come on in,” he said. “Lucy don’t bite.”
“Lucy?” you huffed a small laugh, hesitating as you stepped closer. Leaning inside, you saw the floorboards caked with dirt and mud; one step in and your shoes would be ruined in an instant. “Uh, I don’t think there’s room for me—”
“Sure there is,” Bucky interrupted.
Without warning, his rough hands found your hips and lifted you easily, setting you down on the passenger seat. “Scoot over,” he said. “You’re gonna have to be the middle man.”
Before you could even say anything, Bucky planted one heavy boot inside the cab and hopped inside, rocking the truck and forcing you to scramble over as he slammed the door shut. You barely had time to find your balance before Steve opened the driver’s door and climbed in, settling behind the wheel with a huff.
Now, you found yourself wedged between two broad, very dirty men who smelt like sweat and sun.
And suddenly, the cab felt very, very warm.
“Let’s see if she’ll turn,” Steve muttered, twisting the key in the ignition.
“What do you mean, let’s see?” you asked warily, tugging at the collar of your shirt. “And does this thing have air-conditioning?”
Steve pressed his lips together. “Air-conditioning would be the very thing that puts Lucy in the ground.” He tried again—the engine sputtered, then died. “She’s a little rough around the edges, but… she should come around.”
Your eyes fluttered shut as you focused on your hands folded in your lap, realizing what you had gotten yourself into. You were in the middle of pretty much nowhere, with spotty service, no sleep, wedged into a truck with two men you had never even met, headed for a house where who knew what kind of bugs were waiting for you.
“Oh my god,” you whispered to yourself, voice shaky.
Steve glanced at you, his expression softening just slightly. “Hey—don’t panic. She’ll start. Just gotta—” he turned the key again, then once more. The engine finally roared to life, rattling violently as the truck shook beneath you.
“There we go.”
Bucky rested his arm out the window, flashing Steve a grin over your head. “Our lucky day, you said?”
The corner of Steve’s mouth tugged into a smirk as he shifted into drive. “Don’t get greedy.”
As Steve pulled onto the road, the truck rattled and shook over every rock and rut. You reached for the seatbelt, tugging at it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Seatbelts don’t work, sweetheart,” Steve said, glancing over at you with a reassuring smile before returning his focus to the road. “Just try to hold on tight.”
That did very little to calm you.
That was a safety hazard and straight up illegal.
You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, shoulders rigid. Your eyes switched between the flaws of the old truck— to the web of cracks in the window, to the dust on the dash—and the unfamiliar stretch of land rolling past. The farther you got from town, the quieter it became. Fewer houses, fewer people—just fields and fences stretching on forever.
Bucky could feel how tense you were from the faint brush of your shoulder against his.
“You alright?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. “You look like you’re thinkin’ about jumpin’ out and runnin’.”
You looked up at him and forced a laugh, though it came out thin and brittle. “I’m fine. Just… adjusting, I think.”
“A lot different than city life, huh?” Steve asked from the driver’s seat.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “This is… very different.”
“Well,” Steve said, resting one hand on the window sill and the other on the wheel, “since we’ve got a bit of a drive, why don’t you tell us more about this research project of yours?”
“Yeah,” Bucky added. “You studyin’ cows or somethin’?”
“Not just cows,” you said. “Basically, when communities are geographically isolated, access to veterinary care, supplemental feed, and modern equipment becomes limited. That can unintentionally alter breeding cycles. Livestock may breed earlier or later in the season, fertility rates can fluctuate, and stress levels directly affect overall yield.”
Bucky scratched at his chin, letting out a thoughtful hum. “Breeding…”
Steve glared at him over your head.
You just kept going, oblivious as your hands lifted slightly as you explained, slipping deeper into familiar academic territory.
“I’m also comparing seasonal fertility rates,” you said. “In places like this, breeding windows tend to be less controlled, which can lead to overlap between generations. That affects herd structure, genetic diversity, and long-term productivity.”
Bucky nodded slowly, eyes still on the road ahead. “Uncontrolled breedin’, huh.”
“Buck,” Steve warned.
“What? I’m not doin’ anything.”
You glanced between them, finally catching the smirk tugging at Bucky’s mouth as he fought back a laugh and the disapproving look on Steve’s face, despite the smile he was clearly trying to hide by staring out the window.
For fuck’s sake.
You were realizing now that Dirty Man One and Dirty Man Two were trying to crack inappropriate sex jokes.
“Jesus,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “You men are disgusting.”
“Hey! Don’t lump me in with him,” Steve said quickly. “I’m the one tryin’ to get him to settle down.”
The rest of the drive was surprisingly pleasant. Both of them asked about your school and your research, and every time you answered in more detail, you noticed their slightly dazed and confused expressions. Steve tended to ask the more in-depth questions, genuinely curious, while Bucky nodded along like he understood every word.
The truck bounced and swayed over ruts, rocks, and packed dirt as Steve turned into a long, wide driveway. Ahead stood a large farmhouse, with a smaller cabin-like building off to the side.
Farther to the left sat another structure.
A very, very small one.
Too small to be a house, but just big enough to be a storage shed.
“Here we are,” Steve announced as the truck rumbled to a stop and the engine cut out.
You raised a finger, pointing to the small shed. “Is that—”
Before you could finish the question, both men opened their doors and hopped out of the truck without a word. They grabbed your luggage—now smudged with grime and dirt—and started carrying it to the shed.
You scrambled out of the truck, nearly stumbling as your feet hit the ground, and hurried after them.
“Wait—hey!” you called, jogging to keep up as they headed straight for the shed. “T-that’s not where I’m staying, is it?”
Bucky glanced back over his shoulder, adjusting his grip on one of your suitcases. “That little building over there? Yeah. That’s it.”
Steve slowed a little, giving you a little apologetic look as you caught up. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he promised. “My mom used it as a guest place for a bit. Solid roof, no leaks—”
“And a whole lot better than the farmhouse Fury was gonna stick you in,” Bucky added.
You looked at the structure again as you walked —weathered wood, a single small window, and a door that had clearly seen better decades. Your pace faltered.
“Guys,” you said flatly. “That is a shed.”
Bucky stopped in front of it and set the luggage down, turning to face you with a grin.
“Technically,” he said, “it’s a converted shed.” He lifted a hand just in time to catch the key Steve tossed his way.
“We fixed it up, mostly.” Steve looked down at your expression, the way your teeth caught your bottom lip and the weary, beady eyes you’ve been wearing ever since they picked you up in their truck.
Without thinking, he rested a protective hand at your back, drawing your attention.
“I know this is different from the city life you’re used to,” he said gently. “But I promise, it just needs a few touch-ups. You’ll get comfortable in no time.”
The way Steve looked at you eased the tension in your chest. His smile was warm, his voice patient and kind. And if Fury said this was the one you could trust, then so be it.
“Thank you, Steve.”
The other one, on the other hand…
Bucky unlocked the door with a huff. Dust immediately billowed out, making him cough as he waved a hand in front of his face. He glanced back at you and Steve.
“Oh, by the way,” he said. “There’s no bathroom in here.”
Perfect.
Bucky nudged the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside, his heavy work boots creaking against the frail wooden floorboards. Steve followed, setting your luggage just inside the doorway.
You hesitated at the doorframe before stepping in after them.
The place was ridiculously tiny. One narrow room with a low ceiling, a single window coated in dust, furniture and cabinets that looked like it could barely hold up. It smelled like old wood, hay, oil and something faintly metallic—you didn’t know what.
Back in the city, you had white walls, clean linens, and the oddly relaxing hum of traffic outside your window. Here, you had stained wallpaper peeling at the edges and bawking chickens.
For your research project, you reminded yourself. You chose this.
Bucky looked around with his hands on his hips. “It’s small,” he said thoughtfully, “but I think it’s the perfect size for a girl like you.”
He smiled, and you weren’t entirely sure how you were supposed to take that.
When he noticed your silence, the smile slipped just a bit. “You okay?”
You snapped out of it, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah, I just…” You exhaled, rubbing your arms. “I think I really need a shower. If that’s—uh—even possible.”
“Oh,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Sure. But you’re not doin’ that here.”
You gave Steve a look, almost like a silent plea for backup, but he only shrugged in response as Bucky continued, smirk firmly in place.
“C’mon. Our place is right next door. Real bathroom. Hot water.”
You shifted on your feet, eyeing them both suspiciously. “And the door,” you asked carefully, “it locks?”
The two men exchanged a silent look, and immediately, you regretted asking. Here they were—offering you a ride, a place to stay they’d fix up just for you, even letting you use their shower—and you’d gone and asked if the lock worked, as if you were accusing them of being some kind of creeps.
But then they blinked at each other and burst into laughter.
Bucky let out a sharp bark, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he grinned. “It locks.”
Steve wiped at his face, trying to rein it in. “You know, you’ve got men out here showerin’ in their front lawns with a bucket of water and a bar of soap,” he added. “But I get it. Can’t blame you for askin’. City instincts.”
Your face immediately burned with embarassment. You’ve delt with your fair share of annoying men in the city, but it was something about being surrounded by farmer men that made the teasing feel ten times more insufferating.
“Yeah,” you mumbled, crossing your arms. “Very funny.”
Still smiling, Steve wiped at the corner of his eye and motioned toward the door. “Come on. Follow us—we’ll show you where you can wash up.”
After you quickly grabbed a fresh set of clothes out of your luggage, they led the way across the yard, Steve out front and Bucky hanging back just enough to make sure you were keeping up. The dirt path had been worn smooth by years of boots and tires, and on either side of it the farm stretched out in every direction.
Cows clustered near the fence line, tails swishing lazily. A pair of horses lifted their heads as you passed, ears flicking toward you with mild curiosity. Chickens roamed freely, darting around your feet like they owned the place. Everything felt alive— busy and loud in ways that reminded you of the city, though it couldn’t have been more different.
The farm loomed closer as you approached—big, solid, and weathered, with hay bales stacked nearby and buckets of feed scattered around the yard.
Walking past, you reached the house itself. It was a small, one-story, cabin-like structure built from dark wood. The door creaked as Steve pushed it open, and the scent inside was a stark contrast to the earthy, animal smells outside.
From the doorway, you could smell the soap, clean laundry, and coffee. You were met with heavy wooden furniture. Worn floors. Tools leaned neatly against one wall. A pair of muddy boots sat by the door.
Very manly was the only way you could describe it.
Steve stepped aside to let you in. “Watch your step.”
As you stepped in, dodging the muddy boots, the house felt sturdy and lived-in. Not polished, but definitely cared for.
Bucky shut the door behind you with his heel and jerked his head down the narrow hallway. “Bathroom’s this way.”
You followed, your gaze drifting over the details as you walked by. Family photos tacked messily to the wall—they didn’t look alike at all, had different lastnames, so siblings seemed unlikely, yet there were dozens of pictures of them together from childhood. A calendar hung nearby, crowded with notes about feed deliveries and vet visits, all scrawled in incomprehensible, sloppy boy handwriting.
Bucky paused and pointed at one of the photos—a younger version of him and Steve standing side by side with crooked smiles.
“Handsome, ain’t he?” he asked, tapping at himself.
You couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve seen better.”
Steve snorted while Bucky rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. He stopped at the last door and pushed it open with his knuckle.
“Here we go.”
The bathroom was small but clean. White tile lined the walls, a deep tub sat beneath a real showerhead, and shelves held neatly folded towels alongside mismatched bottles of soap. A narrow window above the sink let in a stripe of late-afternoon light, dust motes drifting lazily in the air.
“Hot water takes a minute,” Bucky said, leaning against the wall. “Gotta let it run first.”
You looked between the two men, clutching your folded clothes to your chest. “Thank you—both of you. I really appreciate this.”
“Don’t mention it,” Steve said with a casual wave of his hand. “A friend of Fury’s is a friend of ours.”
Bucky pushed himself off the wall and stepped aside, giving you room to enter. “Steve and I will clean up the shed while you’re in here. By the time you’re done, it should be ready with the mattress and all.”
Your smile softened as you glanced at him. “You guys are great. Seriously, I couldn’t be—”
“Just make sure you shout us out in that research paper,” Bucky cut in with a grin, resting his hand on the doorknob. “And don’t forget to let the water run. Enjoy your shower, pretty girl.”
The door shut softly behind you.
And on the other side, Steve immediately whacked the back of Bucky’s head.
“Pretty girl? Pretty girl?” Steve whisper-yelled. “Are you kidding me?”
Bucky winced, rubbing the back of his head as they headed down the hall towards the front door. “What? She is pretty, Steve. And don’t act like you’re any better. ‘Sweetheart’? Really?”
“I’m trying to be respectful, Buck,” Steve sighed as he pushed the front door open.
“And I was being respectful,” Bucky clicked his tongue. “You know how rare it is for a beautfiul woman like that to be around here. Gotta make a good first impression.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Get your head out of your ass. A girl like that would want nothing to do with dirty men like us.”
“Oh—come on, Steve,” Bucky whined, following after him like a bug in the air, “why you gotta be so hopeless, man?”
“Not hopeless,” Steve corrected, pushing the shed door open. “Realistic.”
Bucky scoffed as he followed him inside, heading straight for the closet. He hauled out the folded air mattress and the old hand pump, dropping them onto the floor. “Yeah, yeah. Still—doesn’t hurt to imagine, you know?”
Steve grabbed the broom and dustpan from the corner and started clearing dust and debris. “Imagine what, exactly?”
Bucky grinned, eyes drifting back to the window that faced the house for a second before he caught himself.
“I dunno. Coming home after a long day, boots covered in dirt, back sore as hell—and there she is. Clean, soft, talkin’ about all that smart stuff she knows. Maybe dinner’s on the stove, or she’s sittin’ at the front there with a book, lookin’ all pretty.”
Steve snorted. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“Have not,” Bucky said, laying the mattress out where Steve had just swept and starting to pump air into it. “Tell me you wouldn’t want that—a gorgeous girl like that walkin’ around the house, keepin’ it warm and cozy—barefoot and all.”
Steve went quiet as he lifted an old bed frame and leaned it against the wall. He didn’t answer right away, but the faint pink creeping up his ears gave him away at the thought.
“…I guess,” he admitted slowly, “it’d be nice to have someone to come home to.”
Bucky’s grin turned smug instantly. “Ah. There it is.”
“She’s here for research,” Steve reminded him firmly, snapping himself back to reality. “Not to get hitched to a couple of guys who spend all day haulin’ logs and tendin’ cattle.”
“But picture this, Stevie—” Bucky glanced up as he crouched on the floor, steadily pumping air into the mattress. “You work yourself half to death,” he went on, muscles flexing. “We both do. Up before the sun, down after it sets. Muscles sore, hands cracked, brain fried.” He slowed, leaning his weight against the pump. “Wouldn’t kill us to have someone who… helps take the edge off.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve groaned, turning to try and hide the blush on his cheeks. “You’re gross, man.”
“Look—” Bucky sighed as he stood, “we haven’t had a woman like that around here in a long time. And she’s not just any woman—she’s smart.” He shook his head, scoffing lightly. “A man’s allowed to dream about comin’ home to somethin’ nice. Maybe even havin’ a smooth pair of legs wrapped nice and tight around—”
His voice trailed off as his eyes caught sight of you through the window.
You stood on the front porch, barefoot, a towel draped around your shoulders as water dripped from your hair. You were dressed in something light and easy—a dress. Nothing fancy, but far more comfortable than what you’d worn when they first met you.
… And somehow, far more domestic.
Steve followed Bucky’s gaze, his breath hitching once he saw you. Bucky swallowed hard. Neither of them spoke.
Then, they finally looked at each other, faces warm, wearing the same boyish, awed grin—just like the ones frozen in those crooked childhood photos on the wall.
“Pretty,” they both murmured at the exact same time.
They watched as you lifted a hand to shield your eyes, squinting against the afternoon sun as you scanned the yard. You took a few steps down the porch, bare feet tip-toeing around the dirt as you tried to squint at the shed.
Bucky straightened immediately, dropping the pump as it hit the wooden floors with a loud thud. “She’s lookin’ for us.”
Steve was already moving, setting the broom aside so quickly it wobbled, then clattered against the wall before falling to the floor. “Well—don’t just stand there!”
They headed for the door at the same time, bumping shoulders as they squeezed past each other, neither willing to give ground. When you spotted them walking toward you with Steve taking the lead and Bucky half a step behind, clearly trying to edge ahead, a small smile spread across your face.
“Oh—there you two are. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to—” you sighed in relief, gesturing vaguely at the farm around you. “—wander.”
Bucky let out a short chuckle, rocking back on his heels as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You can wander all you’d like, darlin’,” he said. “What’s ours is yours.”
The nickname threw you off guard. You felt your face warm, heat creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the sun as you tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Back in the city, men didn’t really talk like that unless they were intoxicated at a bar and trying to get in your pants.
But this felt different. Maybe it was just that gentleman, charming, farmer boy thing.
“Oh,” you said, a little breathless. “That’s—uh… really sweet. Thank you, Bucky.”
Steve gave Bucky a look out of the corner of his eye—a careful look. Bucky, meanwhile, looked far too pleased with himself.
“Just don’t go wanderin’ too far, baby,” Steve added quickly, stepping up onto the porch beside you. “Some of the fences are old, and the horses don’t always respect personal place.”
If you hadn’t been flustered before, you definitely were now.
You didn’t get called things like darlin’ or baby very often, and even when you did, the words had never affected you like this. Not the way they sounded coming from two devastatingly handsome, accommodating men with soft southern accents.
“I—okay,” you said quickly, nodding as you snapped yourself out of it, though the corners of your mouth still tugged into a smile. “I’ll be careful.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he glanced at Steve, then back at you, his own lips twitching like he was biting back a comment.
“We’ve fixed up the shed for you,” Bucky said instead, propping one leg on the porch step and resting a hand on the railing. “Mattress is ready if you wanna rest. You wanna take a look?”
Your attention drifted past the shed, toward the open fields, the fencing, and the animals moving lazily across the land.
“Actually,” you trailed, removing the towel from your shoulders, “would it be okay if I checked out the animals first?”
Bucky tilted his head. “Animals?”
“For my research,” you clarified quickly. “I’d really like to get an initial survey while there’s still daylight. Just some baseline observations—livestock condition, spacing, behavior. I won’t get in the way.”
Steve exchanged a glance with Bucky—a look you’d noticed they shared often since you arrived.
Then Steve smiled back at you. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just—” he gestured vaguely to the fences, “—stay where we can see you. Okay?”
“Don’t worry,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. “I’m not planning on getting lost.”
As you turned back to the house, already half a step up the porch with the intention of grabbing your shoes, something caught the corner of your eye. Your gaze snapped to the far end of the pasture, where a small cluster of animals had gathered. A few cows wandered lazily nearby, but it was two chickens in particular that caught your attention.
A hen crouched low to the ground, wings spread slightly, tail lifted—while a rooster mounted her from behind.
Your eyes went wide.
“Oh—wait, wait, wait!”
Shoes forgotten entirely, you pivoted on your heel and hurried back down the porch steps, already digging your phone out of your dress pocket. “This is perfect timing! Hold this—please—”
Behind you, Steve barely had time to react before the towel was tossed his way, landing squarely over his head.
“Hey—” he started, but you were already jogging barefoot across the dirt, eyes locked on the breeding chickens.
Your hair breezed through wind and they got a good whiff of the pleasant scent before you ran off. Despite using the same shampoo as them, it smelled surprisingly soft and very feminine. A smell they weren’t used to, but one they’d easily grow fond of.
You slowed as you got closer, steadying your hands, snapping a few quick photos as discreetly as possible, and crouching slightly to keep from startling them. Your lips moved as you narrated under your breath.
Bucky stared after you, incredulous, before letting out a low whistle. He nudged Steve in the arm just as Steve pulled the towel off his face.
“What’d I tell you?” Bucky murmured with a crooked grin. “Barefoot—” he nodded inside the house, still warm and humid from your shower, “—and already keepin’ the house warm.”
“Alright. Enough gawking,” Steve warned, though his eyes were still still fixed on you. “Just ’cause we’ve got a pretty girl livin’ with us now doesn’t mean we don’t have work to do.”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that while you stare even harder.”
For the rest of the afternoon, until the sun laid low and the sky began to darken, the two men worked diligently around the farm. And despite Steve’s warnings not to gawk, their eyes found you anyway—again and again.
You crouched near the animals, scribbling notes into your journal, occasionally lifting an expensive-looking camera—one in far better condition than their own damn truck—to snap photos of the cattle. And even after they’d warned you about the fences, you climbed up onto the railings anyway, the wood creaking beneath your toes as you leaned forward, determined to get the perfect shot of the horses.
Wood was getting stacked, hay bales tossed aside, tools scattered and gathered again as needed.
Still, every so often, Steve would glance up from his work to try and look at you, but only to catch Bucky leaning against the farmhouse doorway, eyes trailing shamelessly in your direction.
“Whatcha starin’ at, Buck?” Steve grinned as he tied off a rope around a hay bale.
Bucky didn’t look away from you. His smile softened as he watched the way you held the camera carefully, how your toes balanced on the fence rail, the breeze tugging gently at your hair and dress.
“Just admirin’ the view.”
Steve’s gaze followed his, and he let out a low groan as he stood up. “She’s gonna fall off that fence if she keeps leanin’ over like that.”
“And we’ll be there to catch her,” Bucky replied with a grin, pushing off the doorframe to help with the bales.
You had no idea you were being watched so closely.
Unbeknownst to them, you had been sneaking glances of your own towards the farm. Their white tank tops—streaked with dirt and darkened with sweat—clung to their muscular bodies. Broad arms and strong backs flexed and tensed every time they lifted something heavy. Each hay bale toss came with a grit of teeth, a scrunched brow, and a low, rough groan.
And afterward, they would both exhale deeply, chests rising as they wiped sweat from their foreheads with thick forearms.
They were both strong, capable men—reeking of masculinity, so sure with their hands with what came from years of real work.
Men you’d never meet in the city.
Night had fully settled in now, the sky stretched dark blue and wide, scattered with bright stars. From where you stood, you watched Steve and Bucky just outside the house, pumping water through the pipes as they rinsed off their hands and faces.
Water trickled from their chins, disappearing into the deep lines of their firm chests beneath worn tank tops. They wiped their faces with towels, murmured something to each other—and then both turned your way.
Two sets of eyes found yours that stared at them shamelessly.
You immediately looked down at your camera screen, pretending to be fixated on the chickens you photographed as you tried to play it cool.
Then you heard footsteps, two sets of heavy footsteps treading through the grass and dirt and closer to you.
Fuck.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve approached, crossing his arms while he looked down at you. “We were gonna grab some food in a bit. You hungry?”
“Oh,” you hummed, your stomach already answering with a rumble. “Yeah. I could eat.”
“Every Friday night, the town heads down to the bar,” Steve continued. “More of a saloon, really. Beer, cheap whiskey, food. Sometimes there’s live music if Gary brings his guitar—or the jukebox, if it decides to work.”
“And line dancin’,” Bucky added. “Bad line dancin’.”
“I’m not sure if you have that kind of thing in the city,” Steve went on, resting a hand against the fence as he hovered over you, “but if you wanna tag along for a bite, you’re more than welcome.”
You closed your journal and slipped the camera strap from around your neck, standing with a small groan as you stretched. You were here for research, yes, but it wouldn’t hurt to see what the town had to offer beyond livestock and open fields.
“That sounds fun,” you said, smiling. “I’ll come. I just need to rinse up real quick and I’ll be right out.”
Your gaze dropped to your feet, dirt caked between your toes, bits of grass still clinging to your skin. Then you glanced down at your clothes.
“Is… what I’m wearing okay?” you asked, a little self-conscious as you smoothed the fabric down.
Steve’s eyes dropped before he could stop them, taking in the way the dress fit you—how it followed and hugged your curves, how the neckline framed your chest just right. Realizing how intensely he was staring, he snapped his gaze back up to your face. His jaw tightened as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Yeah,” he nodded quickly, standing up straight. Then he cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s— it’s fine. You’re fine.”
Bucky, on the other hand, took your question as an invitation to check you out shamelessly. His eyes roamed over you—appreciating your chest and legs. Liking what he saw, his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip, teeth catching it afterward.
“Real pretty, doll,” he said lowly. “Wearin’ a dress like that around here… almost makes me wanna keep you to ourselves.”
You rolled your eyes, hoping the silver moonlight didn’t betray the flush on your cheeks or the way your lips twitched into a reluctant smile.
“You two are unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head as you stepped past them towards the house.
Halfway to the porch, you called back over your shoulder, your voice playful. “Do you flirt with every woman who crosses your path, or am I just lucky?”
Bucky’s mouth snapped open—a smart-ass remark already locked and loaded—but Steve cut him off instantly, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “Hey now! Don’t look at me. It’s him. He’s the problem.”
The sound of your light, airy laugh drifted back to them—a sound so soft and gentle, it seemed to knock the air right out of their lungs.
“I’ll be back in a minute!” you called with a wave, jogging up the porch steps and disappearing inside.
“Don’t take too long!” Bucky shouted after you. “Or else all the food will be gone by the time we get there.”
As the screen door clicked shut and you vanished from sight, their laughter trailed off. The silence of the countryside came back, broken only by the faint chirps of crickets in the distance.
Steve let out a heavy exhale, rubbing the back of his neck.
“…We gotta get a grip,” he muttered.
“I’m being serious, Stevie,” Bucky said, giving his friend’s arm a sharp nudge.
His flirtatious smirk was gone, now replaced with a protective look that Steve had only seen him give to their horses.
“I mean—look at her. If she shows up at the bar looking like that, every bastard in the county is going to be breathing down her neck.” He crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the door where you had just been.
“…Yeah,” Steve huffed quietly. “I know.” His gaze stayed on the house, tracking your silhouette as it moved past the lit windows.
“Hell, half the men in this town would get worked up just seein’ a lady show a bit of ankle,” Steve added dryly. “I still can’t believe Fury told her to come to this dump.”
Bucky let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Listen to us—soundin’ real territorial all of a sudden.”
Steve scrubbed a hand down his face, his palm rasping against his stubble. “It’s just—she’s our responsibility while she’s here. Fury trusted us to look out for her. That’s all it is.”
“Yeah,” Bucky hummed. “That’s all.”
They stood in the yard, watching you move past the glow of the house windows.
In the long silence, they both realized how dead wrong they were. Truthfully, they weren’t all that much better compared to the sleazy, overworked men in town.
When they first laid eyes on you, they immediately wanted to keep you to themselves. And despite only having you here for a couple of hours, they were going to make sure to keep it that way.
Steve started talking lowly to Bucky, quiet enough to make sure you couldn’t hear—even though you were already inside.
“We stick close tonight. No one bothers her. No one gets handsy. And if anyone does—” Steve stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. “—we shut it down. Calmly.” He emphasized.
“Right.” Bucky nodded. “Calmly.”
“That means we don’t start fights, Buck.”
“Hey—I don’t believe in startin’ fights,” he mumbled, crossing his arms defensively. “Just… finishin’ ‘em.”
“Alright, enough loitering. Let’s start up Lucy.” Steve slapped a firm hand on Bucky’s back, nudging him towards the truck.
Bucky mumbled grumpily but trailed behind anyway, yanking the hood latch and propping it open while Steve climbed into the driver’s seat. The keys jingled as Steve turned the ignition.
The truck clicked, chugged, whined, and gave them nothing.
He tried again. Another cough, a weak sputter—and then silence.
“… You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Steve muttered, giving Bucky a flat look through the windshield.
Bucky leaned over the engine bay, bracing one hand on the frame. “Don’t look at me like that. She was runnin’ fine earlier.”
“Well, she’s got real bad timing,” Steve shot back sassily, twisting the key once more, like sheer will might help. The engine answered with a pathetic hiccup and died again. “We can’t invite her out and then tell her the truck’s dead.”
“I didn’t invite her,” Bucky said, poking at a hose. “You did.”
“Oh, don’t start.”
Bucky adjusted a loose wire, fingers blackening with grease. “Try it now.”
Steve turned the key, and still… nothing.
Steve leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling sharply. “Unbelievable. First night she’s here, and we’re about to tell her we can’t even get her into town.”
“Relax,” Bucky said, though his jaw was tight. “Lucy’s temperamental. Always has been.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and bent closer to look inside the engine. “Could be the starter. Or the battery. Or—”
The screen door slammed shut, and both men froze at the sound.
You stepped back out, shoes on this time, hair neatly fixed, looking entirely too put together for a place like this. You jogged towards the truck, a smile already on your face.
“Hey!” you called brightly. “You guys ready?”
Steve’s head snapped up so fast he nearly cracked his neck. Bucky straightened, narrowly missing the hood as he stood.
“Yeah—uh—we’re ready,” Steve said quickly, turning the key again. “C’mon…” he muttered under his breath.
Then the engine finally roared back to life, loud and rumbling, sounding like music to their ears. Both men looked at each other in disbelief.
Bucky slowly lowered the hood and gave it an affectionate pat. “Atta girl,” he murmured. Then he glanced at Steve, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Our good luck charm, ain’t she?”
Steve shook his head, trying to hide his own smile. “Yeah. She is.”
And you couldn’t tell if they were talking about the truck—or you.
Lucy rattled beneath you like she was held together by sheer luck alone.
The ride into town was loud and bumpy, the streets dark and lit only by the truck’s dusty high beams and the occasional window light from passing houses.
The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the cab, drifting in the scent of dust, grass, and something smoky from farther ahead. Steve drove with one hand on the wheel, relaxed now that the truck had decided to cooperate, while Bucky leaned back in his seat, elbow hooked out the window.
Town came into view slowly—a handful of buildings clustered under string lights and old streetlamps. It looked far more beautiful than it had in the broad daylight when you first arrived. The bar stood near the center, a squat wooden building with a faded sign swinging above the door. Even before Steve cut the engine, the twang of banjos and guitars met your ears.
“Well,” Steve said, hopping out and extending a hand to help you down. “We made it.”
The moment you stepped inside, you were greeted with the sounds of loud music, laughter, and the smell of cigarettes.
Glasses clinked, boots thudded and scraped against the old floorboards. A few men with weathered faces leaned against the bar with their sleeves rolled up, while a group of elderly women sat at a corner table with playing cards spread out before them. Someone whooped near the jukebox, and a few people were already on the floor, dancing and sweating.
One pair of eyes landed on you, then several.
Soon enough, nearly everyone in the damn bar was staring.
Conversation grew a little quieter. Curious, surprised, and a few openly appreciative glances lingered on you longer than they should’ve. You crossed your arms defensively on instinct, suddenly very aware of yourself.
And both of your boys noticed.
Steve stepped up beside you, resting a protective hand on your lower back that somehow managed to soothe you. Bucky moved to your other side quietly, his broad shoulders subtly boxing you in as he glared at everyone else in the room.
Most of the crowd looked away and returned to their drinks, but the younger men kept their eyes fixed on you.
“Don’t mind them,” Bucky murmured, leaning in so only you could hear. “Town don’t get many new faces. Especially not pretty ones.”
Before you could respond, someone at the bar shouted, “Rogers! Barnes! Thought that was Lucy I heard coughin’ her way into town!”
Steve laughed, lifting his other hand in greeting. “You know she wouldn’t miss a Friday.”
The elderly men at the bar chuckled, and one of them leaned back on his stool to get a better look at you. “Well, don’t just stand there hoggin’ her, Rogers,” he called out. “Come on over and introduce us to your new friend.”
You hesitated, your eyes darting between Steve and Bucky. Despite the protective hand on your back, Steve’s expression remained calm and gentle, clearly intent on not starting any trouble. Bucky, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to fight anyone who even dared to look your way.
“They’re alright,” Steve reassured you quietly. “Promise. Half the fellas at the bar are married.”
Then a burst of laughter exploded from a table near the back where a group of women sat hunched over cards and half-empty glasses—clearly the wives in question. One of them slapped the table. “That’s because you earned it, Marie!” another shouted back. “Now stop yellin’ and play your damn hand!”
You couldn’t help but smile.
Steve gave you a gentle nudge. “C’mon. Let’s say hello.”
They led you toward the bar, Steve’s hand relaxed and guiding at your back while Bucky stalked half a step behind you, mugging everyone who looked your way. The older men adjusted their stools, flashing friendly smiles as they made space for you.
“This is Frank,” Steve said by way of introduction, and you reached out to shake his hand.
“So,” Frank raised a brow, looking between the three of you. “Who’s the young lady?”
You returned his greeting with a polite smile. “I’m a family friend of Fury’s. I’m here for a research project.”
“Ohhh, Fury’s girl?” the bartender whistled, wiping down a glass. “Well, hell—someone warn the whole town not to lay a finger on this one.”
A few men barked a laugh, the scent of beer wafting from their breath, as Frank waved a finger between Bucky and Steve.
“Specially you two,” he said, looking at you. “These guys are the ones causin’ most of the trouble around here. Fury actually trusted you with them?”
“Hey, we’re perfect gentlemen,” Steve countered. “Ain’t that right, Buck?”
“Right,” Bucky muttered, his arms crossed as he glared at someone across the bar. “Gentlemen.”
You shrugged lightly, smiling. “They’ve been nothing but nice. They even fixed up a shed for me to stay in.”
“A shed?” one man barked, spit nearly flying. You took a subtle step back. “Rogers, Barnes—you stick a girl in a shed and call it hospitality?”
“Don’t sully my ma’s house like that,” Steve joked, reaching over the counter to grab himself a beer.
“Y’know, when Sarah was alive, she didn’t call it much of a house, either,” Frank added, stifling his cigarette in the ashtray as a cloud of smoke drifted toward you.
Steve reached over the counter again, this time snagging two more bottles and sliding cash to the bartender with a nod of thanks.
“Alright, alright,” he said good-naturedly. “Before you all start fillin’ our girl’s ears with nonsense, we’re gonna grab a table.”
Bucky tipped his chin to the back corner. “There’s an empty one over there.”
Steve nodded in that direction, gesturing for you to lead the way.
“Oh, so she’s your girl now!” the men teased, their laughter following you. As the three of you walked away, they called out their goodbyes. “It was nice meetin’ you, sweetheart!”
You looked over your shoulder, giving them a quick wave.
“And it was nice talkin’ to you too, Barnes!” Frank shouted sarcastically. Bucky didn’t even look back, simply raising a hand in a dismissive wave as he guided you to the booth.
Bucky stood aside, letting you take the inside seat of the booth. As you slid in, the cushions felt worn and soft—broken in by years of Friday nights exactly like this one. Once you were settled and had set your beer set on the table, Bucky slid in right next to you.
“I’ll grab us somethin’ to eat,” Steve said, standing at the edge of the table and scanning the chalkboard menu. “Place may be small and reeks of cigarettes, but they do grill a mean burger.”
You smiled up at him. “I’ll trust your judgment.”
Steve turned back toward the bar, weaving his way through the crowd. It was just you and Bucky now, surrounded by the loud music and people nearly tripping over themselves. You took it all in with curious eyes while Bucky leaned back against the booth, his arm draped lazily across the top of the seat behind you, beer resting casually in his hand.
“So,” Bucky huffed after taking a sip. “How’re you likin’ the small-town nightlife? Real glitz and glamour out here.”
Your eyes continued scanning the room—the scuffed, dirty floors, the dartboard with three crooked darts still stuck in it, and some burly men arm wrestling in the opposite corner.
“Oh, yeah,” you agreed sarcastically. “Definitely glitz and glamour. We do this all the time back in the city.”
“Yeah?” he laughed softly. “Definitely just like the champagne-and-rooftop parties you have every night. Uh-huh, got it.” He smiled at you before taking another swig of his beer.
You watched the lines crinkle attractively at the corners of his tired eyes—evidence of long days and too little rest. His tongue swept across his bottom lip to catch a stray drop, and the simple motion made your stomach flip, your pulse ticking up a notch.
You took a quick sip from your own bottle to hide your reaction, then cleared your throat.
“Anyway,” you started lightly, “what’s with everyone telling me that you two are trouble?”
Bucky let out a playful scoff. “That’s just old-timer slander. We’re model citizens.”
You gave him a skeptical look. “Right. So innocent that every person I’ve met has warned me about you two,” you added dryly.
“Absolutely,” he said, lifting his beer in a small toast. “Wouldn’t hurt a damn fly, darlin’.”
“Does that explain why you’ve been scowling at every man in here like you’re ready to fight since we walked through the doors?” you taunted.
He set his beer on the table and leaned in closer; you could catch the scent of it on his breath. “Look around you, sweetheart,” he rasped.
You did. The room was full of weathered faces, grease-stained flannel shirts, and men who had clearly seen better days. Most of the women were gathered at the cards table—all silver hair and loud, gravelly laughter.
“See any other woman as young and beautiful as you?” he asked. His eyes trailed over your face, down to your jawline and your neck while you were too busy scanning the bar to notice. “Stevie and I are just protectin’ you, that’s all.”
Protecting you?
Your face warmed, and the second you turned your gaze back to him, you found he was already watching you, leaning in dangerously close.
“That so?” you asked softly, your eyes searching his.
“That’s so,” he repeated lowly. You watched as his gaze dropped slowly from your eyes to your lips.
In the city, independence was everything; women were expected to take care of themselves. But here, it felt like those modern rules had been stripped away in favor of the old ways. It was traditional—strong, capable men protecting and providing while the women held down the home. It was a lifestyle that didn’t—couldn’t— exist in the city where everyone was always on the clock.
Just then, Steve approached, setting down plates piled with burgers, fries, and ribs. He had a wide grin on his face. “Eat up, princess.”
As you looked at the food and then back at the two of them, you realized that maybe you didn’t mind being taken care of—especially by them.
You all dug in, the smell of grilled meat and greasy fries making your stomach rumble. Bucky took a massive bite of his burger, already smearing sauce across his chin. He glanced over at you, smirking while he chewed.
“Bet you don’t eat this kind of slop back in the city, do ya?” he teased, nodding at your hands as you tried to steady a burger the size of your head. “Probably don’t even know how to eat with your hands.”
You rolled your eyes. “I do know how to eat with my hands,” you said, adjusting your grip. “I’m just eating with manners—something you two should try learning.”
“Hey, don’t be afraid of a little mess,” Bucky said, swiping a finger over a barbecue rib until it was coated in sauce. “That’s part of the fun.”
Steve gave him a disapproving look across the table. “Buck, no—”
But Steve’s warning went in one ear and out the other. Before you could react, Bucky reached over and swiped a thick line of barbecue sauce right over your lips and chin.
“Hey—!” You recoiled, pressing your lips tight to keep his finger from slipping into your mouth. Bucky sat back in his seat, letting out a roar of laughter at your reaction.
“Oh my god, Bucky! You are trouble!”
You reached for a napkin, but Steve snatched it away before you could grab it, snickering along with his friend.
“Steve, you too?!” you frowned dramatically, dropping your burger back onto the plate. You stood up, reaching across the booth to grab it, but Steve held it further back, laughing at your sad attempt. “How could you do this to me? You literally told Bucky no!”
“I know, I know,” he laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. “But look at you—you look so damn cute, sweetheart.”
With a groan, you leaned over the table, stretching just far enough to snatch the napkins right out of Steve’s hands. You immediately started dabbing at the mess on your chin.
“Jesus,” you said, shaking your head playfully. “Nick was right about you two.”
All three of you were still recovering from the laughter when two large shadows fell over the table, blocking the warm overhead light.
“Well, well,” a slurred voice drawled, catching the guys' attention. “Ain’t this a pretty picture.”
Bucky looked up, and it was like a dark cloud loomed over him; his smile was instantly replaced by a hard, dangerous frown. “Get lost, Mike.”
‘Mike’ didn’t even glance at Bucky. Instead, his bleary gaze raked over you, slow and hazy in a way that made your skin prick uncomfortably. You sank back into your seat, subtly trying to hide yourself behind Bucky’s frame.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” Mike said, leaning his hands on the edge of the booth, trying to keep himself from toppling over. You could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath from across the table. “Didn’t know Buck was harborin’ such a pretty little secret. Take a look at this prize, Dave.”
His buddy, ‘Dave’, snickered beside him, resting a lazy arm around Mike’s shoulders. “Oh, what a pretty thing you are. City girl, right? You bored with these two yet? You know, we could show you a real good time.”
Steve shot you a careful look. “Just ignore them—”
“I’m good where I am, thanks,” you answered sternly, the words out before you could even register Steve’s warning.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving Mike’s. “I said get lost.”
They ignored him again.
Mike tilted his head at you, a lopsided, ugly smirk on his face as he adjusted his footing, nearly stumbling. “You’re probably gettin’ real tired of being stuck with these two nobodies,” he scoffed. “Why don’tcha hang out with real men like us?”
That was when Bucky’s hand curled into a white-knuckled fist on the table.
Steve reached out, his fingers brushing Bucky’s forearm as a warning. “Buck.” Then, he faced the men, his voice calm and level. “Alright. That’s enough. She’s with us. Go stick with your arm wrestling and leave us be.”
Dave laughed—a mean, loud sound—and reached over to give Bucky a mocking nudge on the shoulder. “Yeah, listen to your boy-toy, Barnes. Like the loyal dog you are.”
Steve’s brow twitched. “What the hell did you just say to him?”
You rested a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, leaning in with a worried look. “Bucky, I think we should just go—”
But before you could finish the sentence, Steve moved in one quick, explosive motion—his boots hit the floor hard as he lunged out of the booth. A blur of movement followed as his fist cracked straight across Dave’s jaw. The brutal, clean punch of skin-against-skin echoed through the bar, followed by a startled gasps of people who stood nearby.
Mike blinked in shock, watching his friend drop, then let out a roar and swung at Steve. The punch caught Steve high on the cheekbone, snapping his head to the side.
People jumped out of their chairs, wood scraping against floorboards as they shouted and lifted their drinks. “Fight, fight, fight!”
“Jesus Christ!” you gasped, quickly getting up. You nudged Bucky in the shoulder hard. “Bucky, grab Steve and let’s get out of here—!”
But Bucky was already standing, and he had absolutely no intention of ending it.
His blue eyes were filled with fury as he closed the distance to Mike. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, spinning him around just to deliver a devastating blow straight to his face—then another immediately to his gut, sending Mike doubling over.
“Fuckin’ Barnes!” Mike wheezed.
A circle formed around them almost instantly, leaving you trapped inside the booth with no escape. People cheered, laughing and whooping as if this were a Friday night show rather than a real fight.
“Knock ’em silly, Rogers!”
“Your punches are gettin’ sloppy, Barnes!”
Your heart thumped fast in your chest as punches flew in a blur and blood splattered the floor. You twisted in your seat, scanning the room desperately for anyone who might step in—a security guard, a bouncer, any responsible grown-up.
The bartender just threw his head back and laughed, wiping the counter with a rag. “Ah, hell,” he called over the noise, sounding more amused than concerned. “Didn’t think it’d only take two drinks tonight.”
A few men near the bar raised their glasses, toasting to the chaos.
“Hey! Can someone stop them?!” you tried again, but no one heard you. Or, more likely, no one cared.
A couple of the older women at the card table barely glanced up from their game, still laughing among themselves.
“They’ll walk it off,” a guy at a nearby table said casually, taking a slow sip of his beer.
“Barnes always did have a temper,” one of the elderly women added from the card table, her voice sounding almost fond of the memory.
You watched in horror as Bucky and Mike stumbled into a nearby table, knocking it over and sending beers flying as they exchanged heavy blows. Next to them, Steve had Dave in a chokehold while Dave repeatedly drove his elbow into Steve’s gut, making him recoil with every hit.
The bartender noticed you trying to push your way out of the booth, your hands waving in frantic, useless circles as you tried to get him to stop the madness.
“Don’t try to fix it, city girl!” he called out, his booming voice carrying over the crowd. “They’ll be done when they’re done!”
Your shoulders slumped in defeat. Just then, the room erupted into cheers as Steve delivered a massive hook to Dave’s jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Dave groaned, spitting blood onto the floorboards as he tried to push himself back up.
Steve stood over him, chest heaving as he adjusted his stance. “You done?”
Dave wiped his mouth. “Not even close.”
“Good,” Steve huffed, raising his fists again. “I could do this all day.”
Oh.
Despite the panic, a snort escaped you at how ridiculously corny that was. Yet for some reason, the line seemed to amp up the crowd even more—as if he were a pro wrestler and that was his legendary signature catchphrase.
“That’s it, Rogers!”
“Yeah! Show ’em!”
“Knock his teeth out!”
As you looked between the men, your shoulders eased just slightly. You realized Mike and Dave were in far worse condition than Bucky and Steve.
They weren’t losing.
They were in complete control, moving like they’d fought like this a plenty of times before. It was as if this bar floor had been their training ground since they were kids.
With a defeated sigh, you tipped your beer back and took several long swallows, emptying the bottle in one go. The cheap alcohol hit your system, mixing with the leftover adrenaline and replacing your earlier panic with a sudden, sharp spark of excitement.
You slammed the empty bottle down on the table, cupped your hands around your mouth, and shouted over the roar of the crowd.
“Kick his ass, Steve!”
A few heads turned—some giving you surprised glances—while other men cheered along with you.
“Come on, Buck—you can do better than that!” you yelled.
Bucky blinked at you, a surprised smile ghosting over his bloodied face before he used your voice as fuel to keep going.
Steve ducked a sloppy swing from Dave, landing a clean hook that snapped the man’s head to the side. Dave staggered backward, fighting to stay upright as the crowd erupted. Meanwhile, Bucky had Mike pinned against the floor, each punch making the wood rattle and creak.
You watched, breath caught in your throat. You were worried about their safety, but God—they were good at this.
And they looked good doing it.
Their hair was damp with sweat, trailing over their faces as they grunted and delivered heavy blows. You couldn’t help but notice the way their muscles flexed or the way the veins stood out on their large, powerful hands.
The brawl continued until more tables were upended and bottles shattered, glass spraying everywhere as the locals scrambled to avoid the crossfire.
Finally, the bartender slapped his rag onto the counter with a sharp, fed-up sigh.
“Alright! That’s enough!”
Steve grabbed Dave by the shirt, his fist cocked back, while Bucky buried another punch into Mike’s stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. The bartender’s patience finally snapped for good.
“I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH!”
The room finally fell quiet.
He jabbed a finger towards the entrance. “Barnes. Rogers. OUT. And take Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum with you before you bleed all over my damn floor.”
By the time you all made it back to the farm, the night air had cooled significantly, the crickets still humming lazily just as they had before you left. Lucy rumbled to a stop, and the three of you climbed out in silence.
As you approached the house, the porch light flickered on with a weak, twitching buzz.
In the dim yellow glow, you finally saw the extent of the damage.
Steve’s cheekbone was already swelling, a dark bruise blooming beneath the skin, while dried blood traced a path from his split lip to his chin. His knuckles were raw and scraped open. Bucky didn’t look much better—one brow was split, a smear of red trailing down his temple, and dust was ground so deeply into his clothes it looked like he’d rolled through every inch of the town’s dirt.
“Well,” Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we’ll turn in. Big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Bucky added, brushing dirt off his shirt like that would somehow fix anything. “Let us know if you need anythin’, doll. We’ll keep the door unlocked for you.”
They both turned to the door, but your voice made them stop.
“No,” you said sternly.
They both looked back, Steve tilting his head in confusion. “No?”
“You guys are not going to bed like that.” You gestured wildly between their bruised faces. “You’re both bleeding. You’re filthy. And—God, both of your knuckles look like ground meat.”
Bucky glanced down at his fists and mumbled, “It’s not that bad…”
“It is,” you insisted.
He shrugged. “Fine. We’ll rinse off with some cold water and soap. Done.”
“Not done,” you corrected sharply. “You’ll wake up with infections and crusted in blood. You guys were rolling all over a floor covered in God-knows-what.”
They exchanged a glance, not really knowing what to say. You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest.
“Inside. Now,” you ordered.
Steve opened his mouth, holding up a hand. “Honey, we’re fine. You should get some rest—”
You ignored him, pointing firmly past him toward the house. “Go.”
Inside, you guided them to the kitchen table like scolded schoolboys. Steve sat down, his posture stiff and awkward, while Bucky leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. He was trying to play it cool, though he clearly had no idea what to do with himself.
It had been years since they were in this position—not since they were kids and Steve’s mom was patching them up after a rough day of playing in the dirt and getting into scrapes. Back then, they’d have wide grins on their faces as she kissed their "boo-boos" goodbye.
But now, as grown men with a beautiful woman in their home tending to them, they were both as stiff as a load of bricks.
They watched in silence as you filled a bowl with warm water, found a clean cloth, and grabbed the small first-aid tin they pointed out in one of the cabinents.
You sat down in front of Steve. “Alright,” you murmured, dipping the cloth and wringing it out. “You’re first.”
You pulled your chair closer, tucking yourself between his knees as you gently tilted his face toward the warm overhead light. The bruise across his cheekbone looked even worse up close. When you pressed the damp cloth to his skin, he flinched.
“Sorry,” you whispered, softening your touch.
“S’okay,” he murmured back. “It feels nice.”
Bucky watched from the counter, his jaw clenching. He couldn’t quite place the feeling in his chest; all he knew was that he wanted the same focused attention Steve was getting.
So, when you said, “Bucky, come here. I’ll do you next,” his feet moved without hesitation.
He grabbed a chair and dragged it right up behind you—perhaps a little too close in his eagerness. He settled in as he impatiently waited his turn, sandwiching you between the two of them.
“Both of you,” you said, setting the bowl down and picking up the gauze. “Watch me. That way, when someone’s not here to take care of you, you can take care of each other the next time you get into a bar fight.”
You took Steve’s hand, and he shuddered at the contact. As you carefully wrapped his split knuckles, your fingertips grazed the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, making him swallow hard.
You could feel Bucky’s presence right behind you. He leaned over your shoulder, watching your hands work. Seeing how softly you cared for Steve hit him with a deep sense of longing he couldn’t hide anymore. He sighed softly, resting his forehead against your back, his rough hand finding your waist to give it a gentle, needy squeeze.
“I… need attention, too,” Bucky mumbled.
You finished wrapping Steve’s hand, snipping the excess gauze with a pair of scissors. A soft chuckle escaped you at Bucky’s blunt admission.
“Well,” you teased. “Maybe if you two hadn’t started a fight, you wouldn’t be in such desperate need of my attention.”
“We had to defend you, baby,” Bucky sighed. His hands palmed your waist, making you gasp softly.
For Bucky, there was something grounding about your proximity—the way you felt under his hands was relieving for him after the chaos of a long day.
“They were lookin’ at you with bad intentions, sweetheart,” Steve added, leaning in even closer as his eyes bored into yours. “We were just tryna protect you.”
You picked the towel back up, looking deep into Steve’s gaze. He was staring at you so intensely that it made the air feel thin. If you leaned in just an inch further, you could have kissed him.
And judging by the way his gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, he was thinking the exact same thing.
“I’ve been stared at and talked about by plenty of nasty men in the city,” you explained softly, wringing the towel over the bowl. “But not once did anyone defend me the way you two did. You’ve both done so much for me since I got here, and I don’t know how to pay you back.” You lifted the damp cloth. “This is the least I can do.”
“You being here, taking care of us… that’s more than enough,” Bucky rasped.
You turned in your chair to face him, your brow furrowing as you took in his split skin. When you dabbed the towel gently against the cut, he hissed.
“You might need a butterfly bandage for your brow.” You frowned.
Despite the sting, Bucky let out a rough chuckle. “You’re speakin’ a different language, darlin’.”
You rummaged through the tin and, to your surprise, managed to find one. You held up the bandage; it was still in its wrapping, though the edges were a bit frayed.
“How long has this been in here?” you asked.
Steve shrugged. “I dunno. We don’t really use the kit. Not since my ma passed.”
“It should be fine,” you shrugged. “Better than nothing.” Because of Bucky’s height, even with him sitting, you had to stand up to get a clear look at the wound.
“Hold still,” you whispered, reaching out to push a few long, dark locks of hair out of his face.
Bucky’s hands didn’t stay still, they continued to roam around your waist, originally with the intention to steady you as you stood over him, but his touch was growing bolder.
He let out a low shudder as your fingers trailed over his forehead, smoothing his hair out of the way. The sensation of being taken care of by you finally broke through him as his palms slid from your sides toward the small of your back, pulling you just an inch closer.
Bucky looked up at you, his eyes dark and heavy—and it had nothing to do with the exhaustion of the day.
“You feel so warm underneath my hands, baby,” Bucky rasped, his thumbs grazing the hem of your shirt. “I like this sight. You takin’ care of us. Ain’t that right, Stevie?”
You felt the floorboards creak as Steve rose from his chair. A second later, his presence loomed behind you, solid and warm. You were completely trapped between them now—Bucky’s hands at your waist and Steve’s shadow falling over your back.
Steve leaned in, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His breath was hot against your skin, sending a shiver straight down your spine that made your hands tremble as you held the bandage.
“You’re right, Buck,” Steve murmured against the smooth skin of your neck, resting his hands on your hips. “I like this. Very much.”
You stood frozen as Steve’s nose brushed against the sensitive spot behind your ear while Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his thumbs tracing slow, and smooth circles over your hips.
“You guys…” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper—breathless and trembling. You tried to focus on Bucky, your fingers shaking as you finally pressed the butterfly bandage over the split in his brow.
He leaned his face into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he let out a long, heavy exhale.
“Shhh,” Bucky murmured, his voice vibrating. He shifted his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to the palm of your hand. “Just stay here, baby. Let us hold you. We’ve had a long day.”
Behind you, Steve’s hands slid fully around to your front, his large palms splaying across your stomach as he pulled your back against his broad chest. He buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin as he spoke.
“Buck’s right,” Steve rumbled, his arms acting like a warm, heavy anchor. “Just for a minute. Stay right here.”
The silence of the night outside amplified the low, gravelly tones of their voices. They both spoke as if you weren’t there—or as if you were a prize— talking over and around you while their hands continued their slow, possessive exploration of your body.
“Fuck, she’s so soft, Stevie,” Bucky groaned.
His eyes were still closed, his forehead resting against your stomach as his hands slid lower, his calloused palms molding to the curve of your backside. “I didn’t think skin could be this soft.”
“Smells so good, too,” Steve murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating through your spine. He took a deep, shaky breath as his stubble grazed your neck. “Like vanilla… something sweet.”
Bucky let out a dark, huffed laugh, his grip tightening to let you know he wasn’t letting go. “What’d I say? A pretty girl taking care of us… ain’t this the dream? Makes you wanna keep her all to ourselves.”
Your breath hitched and your gaze dropped, looking down at Bucky as he sat between your legs. Through the thin fabric of your clothes, you could feel the heat of his body, but it was the sight of his heavy denim that made your heart skip a beat.
The friction of your bodies pressed together had clearly taken its toll because a prominent, hard bulge was straining against the fly of his jeans, mere inches from your legs.
Before you could even process the sight, you felt Steve shift behind you. He leaned his weight into your back, his large hands firmly placed on your hips. Then, he gave a subtle and slow rock of his hips, pressing his own growing hardness firmly against you from behind.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Steve whispered against your ear, his deep voice making your legs tremble. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s just… you guys are—” you swallowed nervously, embarrassment rushing to your face. “Hard.”
Bucky chuckled lowly, his hand coming down to palm himself through his jeans.
“Do you want us to stop, baby? We can stop—” he groaned, palming himself even harder as he looked at you with hungry eyes. “We’re good boys. We’ll stop if you want us to. We can behave. Right, Stevie?”
Steve was behind you, getting bolder with his movements as he rocked his hips deeper against the curve of your ass.
“Yes,” he grunted. “We’re good. Very good boys.”
Their hands continued roaming over your body eagerly. Bucky’s breath grew heavier as he touched himself through his pants, and the feel of Steve’s rock-hard erection pressing against you while he planted soft kisses on your neck was enough to make your head spin.
The whole kitchen reeked of lust, like there was spell in the air that only made you want them more and more.
“D-don’t stop,” you breathed, your eyes hazy with desire. “This is the least I can do to pay you guys back, right?”
Steve let out a sharp sigh and Bucky groaned so deeply—it was practically a growl.
Bucky pushed himself off his chair, his movements powerful and sudden as he crowded into your space. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe before his mouth crashed onto yours.
His kiss wasn’t gentle or patient; it was hungry and demanding, and you could taste the faint, bitter tang of the beer from earlier. His tongue swept against yours, a low, possessive sound vibrating in his throat as his hands moved from your waist to cup your face, his calloused thumbs brushing over your burning cheeks.
Now that Bucky was standing, Steve was able to press even closer, his large body a solid wall of heat against your back. His hands, now wrapped in the gauze from your careful work, slid upward from your hips.
One hand splayed across your stomach, bunching the fabric of your dress beneath his fingers as he pulled you firmly against his hips, rocking into you. Meanwhile, his other hand moved higher, his fingers groping your tits through the thin material.
Steve buried his face in the crook of your shoulder. “So good,” he murmured against your skin. “You fit so perfectly between us, sweetheart.”
You were drowning between them—lost in the friction of Bucky’s tongue and the way Steve’s hands explored your curves from behind. Your senses were completely overwhelmed. Every time Bucky tilted your head to deepen the kiss, Steve would find a new patch of skin on your neck to mark with his lips, leaving you gasping into Bucky’s mouth.
“Shit, baby,” Bucky groaned against your lips.
His hand slid down your arm, his fingers locking firmly with yours. He guided your hand down between your bodies, pressing your palm directly over the hard, straining heat of his denim. You could feel him twitch beneath your fingertips.
“Touch us, baby,” Bucky groaned, rocking his hips into your hand, his voice desperate. “Don’t be shy now. You wanted to take care of us, didn’t you?”
The friction of your palm against him made his eyes roll back for a second. Steve let out a low, approving growl against your neck. He reached around, his own hand covering yours, adding his strength to the movement as he pressed your hand even firmer against Bucky.
“That’s it,” Steve encouraged, his breath hitching as he watched your hand work. “Look at how tiny your hand looks against him. You like that, don’t you? Feeling so small and helpless between us?”
Bucky’s head fell back, his jaw tight as he fought for air. “God, Stevie…” he moaned. “Help her—guide her hand against me—fuck, just like that…”
Steve’s hand tightened over yours, his movements guiding the friction of your palm against Bucky’s heat. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear; his voice was a gravelly, commanding rumble.
“Get on your knees and take care of my best friend, would ya?”
“O…okay…”
You sank to the floor, the wood cool and hard against your skin as you settled between Bucky’s boots. He let out a ragged breath, his hands immediately finding your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head back so he could look down at you with raw, uncontrollable hunger.
But you weren’t alone on the floor for long. You felt the floorboards groan as Steve knelt directly behind you, his massive frame shielding you from the rest of the room. His large hands slid under the hem of your dress, gathering the fabric upward until it was bunched around your waist, leaving your skin bare to the kitchen air.
As you reached for Bucky’s belt, your fingers fumbling slightly with the heavy leather, you felt Steve’s hand slide between your thighs. His thumb dragged across your clothed clit with a slow, agonizing pressure that made your back arch and your head drop onto Bucky’s lap.
“Focus, sweetheart,” Steve taunted from behind you with a low, condescending laugh. His other hand came around to cup breasts—teasing your nipple through your dress, holding you steady as his thumb continued to work you. “Take it off him. He’s been waiting all day.”
With a sharp tug, you finally eased Bucky’s jeans down. When he finally sprang free, the sight made the air leave your lungs in a sharp gasp. He was thick and heavy, his skin taut and pulsing with a heat you could feel even before you touched him.
Bucky let out a low groan at the sensation of being exposed, his hands tightening in your hair. He seemed to preen under your shocked gaze, his hips giving a small, instinctive twitch towards your face.
Steve chuckled darkly behind you. His hand was still buried between your thighs, and as his thumb made another slow, heavy pass over you, he felt the sudden, hot gush of moisture through your panties that coated his fingers.
“Fuck, Bucky. Look at that. It’s like she got even wetter just seeing how big you are.”
Bucky reached down, his fingers trembling as he cupped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.
“Is that right, darlin’?” he chuckled, his thumb catching on your bottom lip. “You like what you see?”
“Think you can fit me in your tiny little mouth, baby?” Bucky challenged. You watched as his cock throbbed, the tip already leaking and eager to be inside your mouth.
You swallowed hard. You weren’t sure if you could; you had spent a handful of nights with men in the city, but none of them were of… this size.
“I don’t know,” you admitted embarrassingly, your hand coming up to circle his shaft. “But I’ll try—”
Growing impatient, he pressed the head of his cock against the seal of your lips, the warmth making your heart beat faster.
“It’s okay,” Bucky reassured, breathing hard above you as he began pushing past your lips. “Steve will help you. Ain’t that right, Steve?”
You weren’t sure what he meant by having Steve help you, but he didn’t give you much room to think or ask anyway. He probed his length more firmly against your lips, forcing you to open up. You began taking in as much of his thick length as you could manage, your tongue swirling around the broad head as you started to bob your head rhythmically.
“Fuuuuck, that’s it,” Bucky hissed.
His hands stayed firmly anchored in your hair, his knuckles white as he held you in place. Behind you, Steve became even more relentless. You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them aside until he could slide two fingers deep into your slick heat.
“God—you’re accepting me so easily, baby. Bet you’ve been wantin’ this from the moment we picked you up, huh?” Steve whispered, kissing your ear as he continued to work his fingers inside you.
“Jesus—Steve, I wish you could feel how warm her fuckin’ mouth is,” Bucky moaned, tossing his head back while giving you shallow, sharp thrusts. “This—this is incredible…”
The dual sensation was a sensory overload of pleasure—the feeling of Bucky stretching your mouth while Steve’s fingers curled inside you, hitting your sweet spot with every rhythmic movement of his hand.
“More… more…” Bucky groaned, his voice breaking as he tilted his hips up to meet you halfway. He was desperate, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches.
“You hear that, baby? He wants more,” Steve said.
He wasn’t just watching anymore.
His desire to see his best friend satisfied was overriding his patience.
You let out a small, muffled whimper of protest against Bucky’s shaft, your eyes watering as you reached your limit, but Steve didn’t let you pull away. He placed his large, heavy palm on the back of your head and…
… firmly pushed you down against Bucky’s cock.
Your eyes went wide as you took Bucky deeper than you thought possible, his length hitting the very back of your throat. He let out a sound that was half of a groan and a sob—a loud, desperate moan that echoed through the kitchen. He bucked his hips upward, losing all composure as he finally found the depth he’d been craving.
“Fuck—oh my god,” Bucky gasped, his eyes rolling back. “Just like that—keep her head down, Stevie—shit. Feels too damn good!”
The kitchen was filled with the lewd sounds of his ragged, uncontrolled breathing and the wet slide of your mouth working over him. Steve’s fingers were moving just as frantically inside you now, his rhythm matching the desperate pace of Bucky’s thrusts.
“That’s it, sweetheart, take it all,” Steve growled from behind you. “Keep your eyes open. Look at him. You’ve got him falling apart. Give him everything.”
Bucky’s eyes were blown wide, staring down at you with overwhelming lust.
“Fuck, Steve… she’s perfect. Her mouth—so tight… so warm,” he gasped, his voice cracking. He began to thrust more wildly, his hips snapping forward as he searched for that final bit of release.
“I’m gonna—fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum. Don’t you dare stop. Steve, hold her head. She’s gonna swallow every drop for me.”
“Do it, Buck,” Steve encouraged, his thumb hitting your clit with a press that sent sparks through your vision. “Fill her mouth up. Show her how much we needed this.”
Bucky finally snapped.
He bucked his hips hard against your face, his entire body shuddering as he began to pulse deep in your mouth. You whimpered, your hands gripping his thighs for balance as you felt the hot, heavy waves of his release hitting the back of your throat, making you choke around his shaft.
“Christ—God, her mouth is so warm… shit, Steve. You hear her chokin’ around me? She can barely swallow it down!”
“She’s fluttering all over my fingers too, Buck,” Steve groaned. “She’s gonna cum—I can feel it.”
Bucky finally pulled his cock out of your mouth with a wet, sloppy pop, his release dribbling down your chin as you fought for breath. Your head was dizzy from how brutally he had used your mouth and how deeply Steve was fingering you.
“Steve,” you gasped. “Don’t stop—please. Don’t stop—!”
But Steve didn’t give you the release you were begging for.
He abruptly curled his fingers and pulled them out of you with a sharp, wet sound that left you feeling cold and aching. You let out a cry of frustration, your hips twitching involuntarily to the space where his hand had just been.
Steve stood up, the floorboards creaking under his massive weight. He didn’t look satisfied. If anything, watching Bucky use you had only made him look more predatory. His hands went straight to his belt, the leather creaking as he unbuckled it impatiently.
“You don’t cum until you please the both of us first, darlin’,” Steve commanded.
“Steve, please,” you whined, turning around so that your hands tugged at his jeans. “I was so close.” You looked at Bucky next, frowning. “Bucky?”
“He ain’t gonna help you, baby,” Steve said. “On the table,” he ordered, nodding to the sturdy wooden surface where the medical supplies had been scattered. “Get up there and show us how much you want it. Lay on your back for me.”
Bucky was still catching his breath, leaning against the counter with a dazed, satisfied smirk.
“You heard him, baby,” he rasped, his voice still rough from his climax. “Better be a good girl and please him well.”
With your face burning in embarrassment and two sets of eyes watching your every move, you crawled onto the table, your panties soaked and dripping between your thighs. You slowly settled down on your back, with Steve standing before you and Bucky making his way to the other side.
Steve stepped up, reaching down and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your panties, stripping them down your legs and tossing them onto the kitchen floor.
As soon as you were bare, he stepped into the space between your thighs, the heavy, scorching weight of his cock poking against your entrance. He was even longer than Bucky—not quite as thick, perhaps, but still more than big enough to stretch you to your absolute limit.
“Look at you,” Steve murmured, staring at you with hazy eyes as he stroked his length. “Look how ready you are for me.”
Bucky stepped closer, jeans still around his ankles, as he gripped his own half-hard length. He jerked himself off with slow, heavy pumps, his gaze fixed on Steve as he prepared to take you. With his free hand, Bucky grabbed the hem of your dress and hiked it all the way up to your neck, exposing your breasts to the cool air and their burning gazes.
“So pretty,” Bucky whispered in awe, as if he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
He leaned over, his fingers gently playing with your nipples as you whimpered and squirmed on the table, caught between the two of them.
Your heels dug into the wood of the table as you arched your back, the friction of Steve’s heat against your entrance making you whine. You were desperate for the fullness, your body burning with an unfinished ache that Steve was intentionally prolonging.
“Please,” you whimpered, your hands reaching out to grab Steve’s muscular forearms. “Steve, please... I need it.”
“Jesus,” Bucky rasped, his eyes dark with a mix of affection and hunger. “She’s so damn cute when she’s begging like this. Make it last, okay? I want to see our girl come apart nice and slow.”
“I’ll try,” Steve managed, his voice strained. He slowly pushed the broad head of his cock past your folds, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp before he pulled back, teasing the very edge of your sanity.
“Steve—please! Stop with the teasing, I can’t—” you begged, “I can’t take it anymore.”
Steve’s jaw clenched tight as he hissed through his teeth. “I know, baby girl. I know.”
Deep down, he wasn’t intentionally trying to tease you. The feel of your wet tightness already clamping down on him made him remember how long it had been since he’d fucked anything other than his own hand.
And it meant that, despite Bucky’s request, he likely wouldn’t be lasting nearly as long as he wanted to.
He slowly pushed in deeper and deeper, each inch making you gasp and arch your back off the table as you tried to adjust to his size.
“F-fuck, Steve!” you moaned.
Finally, he bottomed out completely inside you, his massive weight pressing you down into the sturdy wood of the table. Every time he slammed his hips forward, the medical supplies rattled and the table groaned under the force.
“Fuck, too tight,” he hissed.
His big arms circled your frame, holding you tightly as he began fucking you with a desperate, frantic hunger.
“God, you’re so tight,” Steve repeated, “so fucking warm.”
Bucky was right there, leaning over the side of the table to catch every detail. The sight of Steve losing his usual composure—seeing his best friend’s broad back muscles tensing and rippling as he drove into you—had Bucky’s cock snapping back to full attention for a second round.
He jerked himself off faster, his eyes darting between your flushed face and the place where Steve was disappearing inside you.
“Tell me how tight she is, Steve,” Bucky urged.
“Like you wouldn’t believe, Buck,” Steve groaned. “She’s squeezin’ me so good—it’s just like you said… a nice, smooth pair of legs wrapped tight around my waist. Fuck—it’s going to be so hard to pull out.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened at Steve’s words, the blue turning to a stormy midnight black. His cock was twitching and pulsing in his hand, slick with his own pre-cum and the lingering wetness from your mouth as he watched Steve’s massive body hammer into yours.
“Pump her full, Steve,” Bucky growled. “Breed her. Fill her up so damn deep she can’t think about anything or anyone else—until she thinks only about us.”
“B-breed…?” you whimpered, your eyes rolling back.
Your head spun at the words. The thought of Steve’s cum filling you— of that thick, heavy seed flooding your core while Bucky watched—sent a violent jolt of overwhelming pleasure through your body.
You felt your walls contract, clamping down on Steve’s length—milking him so hard that it made him choke on his own breath.
“B-Buck…” Steve gasped, his pace becoming erratic. He was losing the fight for control. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he felt your climax beginning to roll over him. “She’s so close… God, I’m gonna—”
“Cum inside her,” Bucky urged, leaning in close until his breath hitched against your ear. “Fill her up and make her our girl, Stevie. Pump her so full she’ll never want anyone else.”
The command from Bucky was the final blow to Steve’s restraint.
With a low, hungry roar that vibrated against your chest, Steve bucked. He rocked his hips into you one last time, pinning you to the table with his full weight as he bottomed out.
“Christ, take it, sweetheart! Oh—fuck, take it—”
His body went rigid as he began to pour himself into you. You felt the hot, thick jets of his release hit the very back of your womb. It felt like he was never going to stop—years of pent-up sexual frustration finally rearing its head.
Your mind fractured. The internal pressure of him, combined with the mental image of being bred, sent you over the edge.
“Oh my god, Steve! I’m—I’m gonna cum—!” you screamed into the crook of his neck, your walls seizing and pulsing in a violent, uneven rhythm that milked him for every last drop.
“Fuck—yes—take it all, baby,” Steve groaned, his voice jagged as he shuddered against you, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder.
Bucky stood before you, panting as he watched the liquid evidence of Steve’s climax begin to seep out and coat your thighs. Seeing you stretched and filled by his best friend was too much; with his own cock already hard again, he was more than ready for round two.
And this time, he wanted to be the one inside.
Steve slowly pulled out of you, the sound of the wet, suctioning release loud against the heavy breathing between the three of you. You let out a broken gasp, your body feeling hollow and sensitive as the cool air hit where his heat had just been. A thick trail of his release began to spill over your thighs, coating the wooden table beneath you.
Steve leaned down, his eyes a bit softer than they were before, reaching out to hook his arms under yours to help you up. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned—”
“Move aside, Steve.”
Bucky’s voice was like a whip crack.
He stomped over, his boots heavy on the floor, and physically brushed Steve’s hands away from you. There was no gentleness left in him now; his jaw was set, and his eyes were fixed on the mess Steve had left behind.
“Bucky?” you asked softly, trying to catch your breath. “Are you okay—?”
“I’m not done with her,” Bucky growled.
Before you could reply, he grabbed your hips and flipped you over. Your face was pressed down into the hard, cool wood of the table, your cheek flat against the surface as he forced your ass up high.
“B-Buck—!”
Without warning, Bucky lined himself up against your puffy slit, and in one aggressive motion, he buried himself deep in your overstimulated heat. You let out a muffled shriek against the table as he began to fuck you doggy-style, one hand pinning your head down while his other gripped your waist tightly.
“Fuck!” Bucky barked, biting his lip. “She is tight, Steve. Fuckin’ hell… like a tight, warm and wet fist wrapped around my cock.”
“Bucky—haaah, I… It’s too much—fuck—oh!”
The friction was almost too much to bear. You were a babbling, overstimulated mess, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas against the wood of the table.
With every heavy, bottoming-out thrust, you could feel Bucky physically pushing Steve’s cum deeper into your core. It was a strange, overwhelming sensation—the feeling of being claimed by one man while the other’s mark was forced even further inside you.
Steve stood by the side of the table, his chest still heaving as he watched. He looked genuinely surprised, a small, breathless huff of laughter escaping him as he watched Bucky go to work. “Christ, Buck... you're still going? Fuck. You’re ruinin’ her.”
Bucky only grunted like an animal in response as he gripped your waist tighter, rocking his hips even harder.
You were a drooling, slutty mess on the table, and the pathetic sight made Steve smile softly at you in sympathy. He reached out, his large hand stroking your sweat-dampened hair away from your face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple while Bucky hammered into your hips from behind.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, his voice a soothing balm against Bucky’s relentless pace. “Just let him in, darlin’. Such a good girl, taking him so deep for us. Just breathe through it for me.”
“Stevie,” you whined, your voice pitching higher. “He’s so th—thick… he’s stretching me so much…”
“I know, baby,” Steve murmured. You weren’t sure if his words were meant to soothe you, but his tone was shifting, becoming almost condescending—as if your overstimulated state was exactly where he wanted you.
He watched with a possessive sheen in his eyes as Bucky’s hips continued to batter against you. “Cum inside her, Bucky. Fill her up.”
Bucky let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh between the loud creaks of the table. “Shit, Stevie… you want me to knock her up too?”
Steve just kept stroking your hair, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. “It’s just like you said—a pretty girl like her staying home and takin’ care of us. Don’t you want that, Buck? To see her round, glowin’, and barefoot? Somethin’ about keepin’ the house warm?”
The rhythm of Bucky’s thrusts faltered for a split second before becoming twice as violent. A low, needy sound escaped him.
“Fuck… I want that so bad. More than anythin’. Shit.”
Bucky leaned down, his chest crushing against your back, his voice sending tingles down your spine. “I’m going to breed her. She’s stayin’ here with us, Stevie. We’re makin’ her ours for good.”
The thought should’ve terrified you, but as you lay there pinned between them, lost in a haze of pure, unadulterated lust, the idea only turned you on even more. Your only concern now was whether you could even contain Bucky’s release inside you.
“I—I don’t think I can,” you babbled against the table, your words slipping out between broken gasps. “…take it… take Bucky’s cum… I—”
Steve didn’t let your panic spiral. He leaned down further, his large, warm hand moving from your hair to cup your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head so he could look you in the eye.
“Yes, you can, sweetheart,” Steve cooed. “You’re made for this. You’re made for us. Just relax those pretty muscles and let him in.”
He then pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his thumb stroking your cheekbone even as Bucky’s pace turned frantic.
“Look at her, Buck,” Steve whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. “She’s worried she can’t hold it all. Tell her what you’re gonna do.”
Bucky let out a choked, desperate sound, his fingers digging into your hips. “I’m gonna fill her to the brim,” he rasped, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “I’m gonna fill her so full she’ll leak all over the table.”
Another needy moan tore from his chest. “G-gonna knock her up until there’s—fuck— atleast one brunette and one blonde baby runnin’ around the house, Stevie.”
At Bucky’s nasty words, your walls spasmed, clenching around him as your second orgasm finally shattered. You let out a high, broken cry against the table, your vision sparking white as you came right along with him—completely spent, completely undone.
With a final, sloppy, and shaky thrust, Bucky fucked into you one last time. He groaned your name as his body locked up. You felt the first hot stream of his release hit you, and your eyes went wide as he began to pump himself empty.
He held you pinned to the table, his weight crushing you down, ensuring that every drop of his heat was forced deep into the space Steve had already claimed. “Yes, yes—that’s it…!”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve praised, his voice thick with pride. He watched the way your body jolted with every pulse of Bucky’s climax. “Takin’ it all, keepin’ it all inside for us. Such a good, fertile little thing.”
Bucky stayed heavy against you for a long time, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths.
Slowly, he eventually began to pull out. You let out a small, needy whimper at the loss of his heat, your body feeling heavy and thoroughly used. A thick, creamy mixture of both men began to spill out of you, making a mess of your inner thighs and dripping onto the dark wood of the table. He hooked his arm under your waist and gently pulled you back against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
“Look at that,” Bucky rasped, his voice rough with post-coital bliss as he looked down at the mess they had made of you. He pressed a firm, possessive kiss to the top of your head. “You’re ours now, pretty girl. Every inch of you.”
Steve moved in from the side, his expression soft as he watched the two of you. He leaned down and wiped a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb before pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.
“Our best girl,” Steve echoed softly, his large hand coming to rest over your stomach, splaying wide and possessive.
“We’re gonna take such good care of you. You’re never going anywhere else.”
I am so sorry about the massive wordcount. I got carried away at the end w/ all of the smut 🚬 anyways, credits to @earthsmightiestbenders for helping me come up with this massive filth of a line:
“G-gonna knock her up until there’s—fuck— atleast one brunette and one blonde baby runnin’ around the house, Stevie.”
thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I hope you enjoyed!
summary: out of a job and with no place to go, you have no choice but to move back home. the house is the same, the town is the same, your dad is the same — familiarly absent. what has changed is the man who now lives in the guest bedroom. bucky barnes — your dad's best friend — is not familiar, nor is he absent.
warnings: MDNI! no use of y/n, established relationship, age gap (reader is abt mid 20s), HEAVY daddy kink, elements of age play, dom!bucky, sub!reader, masturbation, oral sex, piv, creampie, breeding kink, mentioned lactation kink, hints of daddy issues, bucky is a bit of a perv, one (1) mention of student loans, mentions of a broken home and neglectful father
reader: afab!reader, uses she/her pronouns, mentioned to be smaller than bucky, able bodied.
a/n: yeah idk what this is chat but i'm sure as shit not sorry! thank you @barnes-babydoll for proofreading and @sheriff-bodecker for letting me raid your pinterest board <3
wanna read on ao3? click here!
There was comfort in knowing your dad’s habits hadn’t changed after you left for college.
He still wakes up at the same, mind-numbing hour in the morning — if he comes home from the office at all — still takes his coffee black with one spoonful of Stevia, still insists on spending half the month away on business trips to places you can’t care to remember. It was familiar — the routine easy to slip back into after you moved back home, the loss of your job leaving you unable to afford your fancy apartment in the city.
When you were a kid, your aunt would stay with you. She’d take you to school, go to your recitals and cart you around to friends houses. She’d try to cook you dinner, and she’d even lie and say your dad called to say goodnight after you fell asleep, whenever he was away. Your dad’s absence was almost more familiar than his presence, his time devoted to his work instead of you.
Now, an adult with a retirement plan and student loans and a resume gathering dust, your aunt isn’t there to watch over you. But your room is the same as you left it, and there’s a collection of takeout boxes in the fridge from the nights your dad eats at home, same as always. Your aunt isn’t there to watch over you, though you aren’t alone. Bucky is there, living in the spare room down the hall from yours.
Bucky had never been a fixture in your life, growing up. You knew of him almost exclusively through pictures and the rare stories your dad told of his childhood. Almost. You do have one memory of Bucky — distant and hazy — of him drinking beer and laughing with your dad on a camping trip when you were ten. You remember a large hand ruffling your hair after he helped you spear a marshmallow on your stick. More than that, you remember that final fight your dad had with your mom, the one that cut the trip short, the one that sent her running for the hills without you.
While your dad had stayed in their hometown, Bucky hadn’t. He’d joined the military, where deployments and a subsequent injury that cost him his arm swallowed up the years. It’s not until his wife asks for a divorce that he comes back home.
And why wouldn’t he move back? Bucky had no kids to keep him there, no ties to sunny California. He’d wanted to come home for years, missed the changing colors of the leaves in the fall, missed Sundays spent with your dad eating cheap wings and watching football.
Bucky told you that late one night when sleep escaped you both. He tells you all about growing up with your dad, all the ways your little town has changed and all the ways it’s stubbornly stayed the same. You trade stories, a currency built on shared meals and empty houses. It’s easy to fall into a routine with him. He cooks; you clean the dishes. You buy the groceries; he puts them away. It’s almost domestic, dangerously so. It’s easy in a way you’ve never had. He becomes a constant in your life, so much so that your friends begin to joke that he’s your best friend these days — this man twice your age.
But could you really be blamed for growing closer to him? He was easy to like; you understand why your dad has kept in contact all these years. He’s funny. Kind. Never once has he questioned your decision to move back home. Your dad hadn’t done that. And Bucky cares. You’d never had anyone make dinner for you the way he does before. Your dad lived on takeout, and your aunt did the best with what she had.
Your world tilts when your friend makes a comment one night in the car.
It’s a Friday, and your friends insist on coming into the house when they come to pick you up. You wonder why they snicker to themselves, why they flash you incredulous looks whenever Bucky’s back is turned.
Bucky sends all of you off with a wave, a kind smile and a “be safe, ladies!” that brightens your entire night. It sends your friends into fits of giggles.
The car is silent until you leave the driveway. The moment your house is out of sight, Katie shoves you, a wicked grin painting her face. “You didn’t tell me he looked like that! He’s the hottest fucking man I’ve ever seen! I thought we were friends!” She teases.
“What do you mean?” You hope she doesn’t mean Bucky. Maybe she’s talking about someone else, someone other than the man who has wedged his way into your life.
Delusion fails to save you.
“He’s fucking hot, is what I mean! You said he’s divorced? I’ll ride him so hard his balls deflate. And his metal arm?” She breaks off into a groan, and your jaw clenches.
The rest of your friends laugh at Katie’s crass words; you play at disgust. “He’s my dad’s friend!” You protest.
You wonder why your words fail to convince you, wonder why the defensive strike in your chest tastes like jealousy, rather than fear that your friend will make things awkward between you and Bucky. You try to ignore that your first thought is that Bucky is yours. You refuse to reckon with the fact that the thought of coming downstairs one morning and seeing your friend at the kitchen counter, in one of his shirts, eating breakfast that he made her is enough to ruin your mood for the evening.
It festers, the possessive flare that took root early that night. You’re quick to dismiss Katie’s suggestion that she walks you to the door; the uncharitable thought that she only wants to get her claws into Bucky bounces around your skull. A woman who has only shown you genuine friendship should not incite such feelings in you, you tell yourself. And yet they’re there, as ever-present as Bucky is that night after you go in, handing you a glass of water and a bottle of Advil for the hangover you’re sure to experience in the morning.
It’s hard not to notice him in that way after that. You try not to. You really, really do. But it’s hard when he prances around the kitchen in shower-damp hair, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, the hem of his t-shirt rising with his arms every time he reaches to grab something. It’s rude, really. Offensive, when you couldn’t do anything about it.
It’s worse when you’re seated across from him, talking to him with his attention solely on you. It’s intoxicating — the weight of his eyes on yours as he hangs on your every word, the low rasp of his voice; it’s easy to get lost in him. And when he sends you to bed because “it’s late, and you need rest,” voice firm and unyielding, you can’t help the warm tendrils of arousal that curl through your stomach.
Eventually, you reason that looking won’t hurt. Looking never hurt anyone, nor did late-night fantasies when kept to oneself. It wasn’t wrong as long as you never touched him, as long as he didn’t know.
Looking begins to hurt one day after your shower.
You hadn’t bothered bringing your clothes with you, like you did when Bucky was home, and he wasn’t supposed to be home for a few hours yet. So when you step out of the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel, hair still wet and stuck to damp skin, Bucky catches you by surprise.
Maybe surprise is putting it lightly. You almost run straight into him, stumbling, floundering to keep from crashing into him without losing hold of your towel, and it’s Bucky who steadies you. Bucky, who grabs your shoulders with hands that engulf them. Bucky, whose hands sear, stuck to your damp skin, metal and flesh alike. All you can do is gape up at him, startled at his presence and off-kilter from your almost fall.
You grip the towel close to your chest, white knuckles preserving your dignity.
“Careful, sweetheart,” Bucky says, voice low. He flicks his gaze down to your chest before darting back up, not quite meeting your eyes, instead focusing on a point just above your head. His hands drop and his cheeks flush — it’d almost be adorable, if he wasn’t so visibly uncomfortable.
“I’ll just-“ Bucky steps back, and you don’t get to apologize before he’s rushing to his room down the hall.
You hurry to yours, kicking yourself the rest of the afternoon. You sulk through dinner too, where Bucky still can’t quite meet your eyes. You’d ruined things, made them uncomfortable, awkward, destroyed what fledgling friendship had been building between you two with one ill-timed shower.
Alone that night, all you can think about is the way his eyes had crept over you, up your legs still dripping with water all the way to your chest, your hands clenching the towel close. You thought about it as you crawled into bed that night and grabbed your vibrator from your nightstand.
You have shame, but apparently not enough to not get off to the memory of his hands on you.
—
Things don’t stay awkward, but they don’t go back to how they were, either. Bucky watches you now, and if the notion weren’t so far-fetched, you’d think he watches you in precisely the same way you watch him.
On the days he goes for a run, you sit on the front porch to read your book. If he just so happens to run shirtless, returning to the house chest heaving, skin shining with sweat, well then that’s your business. No one has to know you commit that image to memory, dredging it up later when you’re alone in bed, twisting it and distorting it until the image becomes him on top of you, chest heaving for an entirely different reason.
You think for a moment that his eyes trace your bare legs stretched in front of you, reclined on the lounger. But that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?
When he cooks, you park yourself at the counter under the guise of keeping him company. It has nothing to do with the way he effortlessly handles the skillet, metal hand clinking against the metal handle, or the way the veins on his hand twist as he grips the wooden spoon. A wooden spoon that looks minuscule in his hands, mind you. What does it matter if you later imagine those same hands crawling up your legs, prying you open and putting you on display for him?
You question yourself again when he hovers around you when you do the dishes after dinner. He doesn’t have to press so close to you when he deposits more dishes in the sink. He doesn’t have to sweep his hand across your lower back when he shuffles by you, but he does.
The tension boils over on a Saturday.
It’s another girl’s night, and rather than risk your friends piling into your house again to leer at Bucky, you’re ready early, intending to be waiting downstairs and half out the door when they arrive.
You know you made the right decision when you come downstairs and see Bucky lounging on the couch. He’s wearing those sweatpants again — the grey ones — and a t-shirt that stretches tight against his chest. You don’t think you can suffer through what would be downright vulgar comments in the car from your friends. At least, not without letting your jealousy get the better of you.
Bucky looks up when you walk into the living room, eyes darting down to your bare legs before drifting back up to the edge of your little skirt, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. You fidget under his scrutiny, smoothing down your skirt. Suddenly, you wish you’d picked something longer.
“It’s too much, I know,” you say. You never dress like… this. But the goal that night was to find a distraction. Someone to pull you out of the haze that was Bucky Barnes.
Standing in front of him, you don’t know why you ever thought that was possible.
“Not at all. You look good,” he says. The compliment does not help the restless buzz beneath your skin. He pushes up from the couch and in two long strides he’s standing in front of you. He reaches for your necklace, the charm twisted and backward.
It’s hard to keep your breath steady when his hand brushes against the bare skin of your chest. You try. Really, you do. Your breath hitches anyway: the slightest bit, barely — and you wonder if Bucky wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t moved so close to you, so close that you’re forced to tilt your head back to look him in the eye.
It’s hard to ignore the way your heart stutters when he towers over you like this. It’s only happened once before, when he pressed up behind you to grab a glass from the cabinet you couldn’t reach. This is different. You couldn’t move then, couldn’t avoid it. You can now. You could back away, put a respectful distance between you both.
You don’t.
Carefully, Bucky untwists your necklace where it’d wound around itself. He pauses, holding the charm between his fingers and inspecting it. It glints against the dark vibranium of his fingers, clinking faintly.
“Pretty,” he comments. It’s a dainty thing, a little gold star with your birthstone that dangles from a thin gold chain. He weaves it between his fingers, the gem catching the light. For a moment, you think his gaze has dipped, trained instead on your exposed cleavage, but that couldn’t be right.
“Dad got it for me when I graduated college.” A star for his little star, he’d said. He’d given it to you over dinner, at the restaurant in town you’d mentioned only once offhand.
“You mean his assistant picked it out,” Bucky scowls. Your brows flick up. You don’t know when, if ever, you’ve heard him take such a tone when talking about your dad. It’s almost critical, judgment apparent in the downturn of his mouth.
“I don’t- He’s busy. That’s all,” you say. You don’t know why you defend him this time, but you do. Your friends know you’re perhaps your dad’s worst critic. Maybe because the necklace is one of the few gifts he’d ever given you that wasn’t money stuffed in a card, or because the dinner the night he gave it to you was a rare moment where his attention was yours alone.
“Hm. He leaves you alone too much,” Bucky mutters, dismissive of your defense. He drops the charm but doesn’t back away. “Has it always been that way?”
You nod, thinking back to those years in high school, the times you bothered to come home in college. “It’s okay. Used to it,” you shrug. He’s still so close to you. You can see the wrinkles between his brow when he frowns at your answer, feel the deep breath he takes before moving to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, sending your heart fluttering.
“Shouldn’t be. Someone needs to take care of you.” Your face heats inexplicably. Maybe it’s the tone he says it, the low hum of his voice. Or maybe it’s the soft hand he runs down your arm, the ghost of a touch, barely perceptible before it’s gone.
“You take care of me.” The words are out before you can stop them. You don’t mean to say it. It’s stupid — he doesn’t take care of you. He’s just being polite, just being nice to the daughter of the man whose home he’s staying in for free-
“Yeah?” His voice comes out tight, and he leans back. His eyes flit down again to your bare legs, and he swallows hard. “You like when I take care of you?”
“I do,” your voice is thinner than you’d hoped, breathier than you’d wanted. His eyes snap to yours, darting down to your lips for the briefest moment.
“Then let me take care of you tonight. Don’t go out.” Your breath catches at the way his voice dips. It’s the type of thing you’ve heard him say before in your late-night fantasies but never thought to hear aloud. He doesn’t mean it that way. You must be reading it wrong, looking too far into his words.
Don’t go out. Your heart thunders, mouth suddenly dry. “Don’t go out?”
“No. Stay in with me. Don’t want you going out, not in that skirt.” His jaw clenches when he dares another peek down at your skirt, and your heart skips. Rather than meet your eyes, Bucky returns to fidgeting with your necklace, the smooth vibranium of his hand all but resting on your chest.
“Thought you said I looked good,” you say. You want to hear him say it again, need to hear him say it again. He still hasn’t moved, standing far closer than a friend would, let alone a friend of your dad’s. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne, heady and devastating.
“You do. That’s the problem. Don’t want those boys down at that bar sniffin’ around you.” His eyes shift upwards to yours. It’s hard to breathe when he’s affixing you with a stare like that, his jaw working, your necklace still in his hand keeping you firm in your spot. “That’s what you wanted, right? Heard you on the phone with Kathy.”
“Katie,” you correct. “And so what if it was? You’re not my dad,” you quip, because what are you supposed to say to that? You can’t be reading this wrong — the way he’s looking at you, the clench of his jaw when you confirm what he heard.
“Thank God for that.” He lets your necklace drop again and pinches the hem of your skirt between his fingers, and you fight to stay still, to control your breathing. “You don’t want those boys, not when you look at me the way you do.”
You blanch. “I don’t—”
“You do. On the porch when you’re pretending to read, in the kitchen when I’m cooking, you aren’t subtle, sweetheart.” He presses closer, and you step back. The wall meets your back, and still Bucky doesn’t stop. “Wanna know something? I like the way you look at me. Look at you the same way, you know. Really shouldn’t, but I do.”
“Bucky—“
His hands brace against the wall and cage you in. His breath brushes against your lips, and you can smell the mint from when he’d brushed his teeth after dinner. “Tell me I’m not reading this wrong.”
It’s not a question. He knows. You can see it in the way his eyes drop down to your lips, in the way his hand comes to cup your jaw, cool metal sharp against your flushed face. You don’t respond with words. Instead, you lean up into him and rest your palms on his chest, ghosting your lips over his, soft and feathery. His heart thunders under your palms, and just when you start to draw back, sliding your hands down his chest to withdraw them back to your side, Bucky catches your hands in his and kisses you back.
The way he kisses you is almost shy, his lips barely brushing against yours, careful and tentative like he’s expecting you to shove him away. It’s you who deepens it — you who frees your hands from his to grab his shirt and drag him closer. You sigh into him, letting him trace his tongue along your lips. He tastes like mint and something heady, something you can only name as Bucky that you already crave more of. You don’t care if you’re sloppy in the way you let your tongue meet his; you can’t think about anything aside from the slide of his lips against yours, the tangle of his fingers in your hair.
Your dad could walk in the door and you wouldn’t notice. Your world narrows down to the rasp of Bucky’s stubble against your skin, the weight of his metal hand falling to circle around your back. He gathers you closer and your stomach flips, a whimper breaking free that Bucky nips your lip in response to.
Panting, Bucky tears himself away. His tongue darts out to run along his lips, and he shakes his head. “You should tell me to stop.” Bucky lets you drag him back down, and when he kisses you this time, it’s frantic and wanting, his lips chasing after you like you’re seconds away from coming to your senses. His lips trail down your chin, traveling along your jaw to nip at your skin. “Fuck, this is wrong.”
“Don’t care. Don’t want you to stop,” you whine. “Want you.” Your hand slips into his belt to tug him closer, keeping him from moving away again.
Pupils blown wide, Bucky stares down at you like something holy. Something terrifying. You watch indecision dance across his face, the hesitance in his eyes that flees when you reach up to brush a stray piece of his hair out of his face.
“Text your friends. You’re not going anywhere,” Bucky says.
He watches as your hands fumble with your phone, fingers shaking when you lie and say you’re sick, can’t come out. You don’t know if they buy the excuse, if they’re mad at your last-minute cancellation or if they even care at all. Your phone falls by the wayside when Bucky gathers you in his arms and hurries you up the stairs.
When you wake up the next morning, bare beneath his sheets and tangled in his arms, you wonder how you could have called anything other than this love.
—
You feel anything but guilty.
Why would you, when Bucky treats you with more care than anyone has ever treated you? It’s easy to fall in love with him — to fall into a domestic routine that revolves around him. You no longer count the hours until your dad returns. Instead, you count the seconds until he leaves again, when you and Bucky no longer have to play the part of roommates. If it were up to you, you wouldn’t wait until he left again. You’d carry on as you did when he was gone.
It’s Bucky who refrains from touching you when your dad is home, Bucky who resolutely stays in his room — alone — until your dad is gone again. It doesn’t matter how much you beg and tease, he staunchly ignores the foot you run up his leg at dinner or the eyes you make at him over the rim of your wineglass. Bucky is stubborn — set in his ways and intent on shielding you from the consequences that would follow the revelation of your relationship.
Bucky feels the guilt that you don’t. Or, some of it at least. He’s told you he should feel worse for fucking his best friend’s daughter after he let him stay in his home for free out of the kindness of his heart. He’s told you how he feels guilty for not feeling more guilty, for not feeling guilty enough to stop, for not being even the slightest bit sorry.
Maybe it’s that not-enough-guilt that leads Bucky to break his own rule.
It’s late when it happens, past midnight, in the aftermath of a dinner so painful you would almost rather rip the band-aid off then and there, your dad’s feelings be damned. Your dad had come home early, a whole day early, and it was only luck that you and Bucky had just finished when he walked in the door with takeout for all three of you. You didn’t expect the fear of almost being caught to ignite something in Bucky, but it does. You can see it in the way he watches you all dinner, sitting next to your dad, drinking beer with him and reminiscing on their high school days all while Bucky’s cum pools in your panties. Every uncomfortable shift in your seat has Bucky’s grip tightening on his glass because he knows.
Bucky knows he fucked you bare — he has every time since that first night — both of you placing perhaps too much trust in your birth control. And he knows you didn’t have enough time to truly clean up when you were scrambling for your clothes. He knows that each time you squirm in your seat it’s because he’s leaking out of you, reminding you exactly who you belong to.
Halfway through dinner, he has to excuse himself; take a minute in the bathroom to try to will his erection to settle down. It doesn’t work, and he resorts to tucking it into the waistband of his pants — something he hasn’t had to do since fucking high school. He counts his lucky stars that it goes down, that he’s not still hard when your dad insists on sharing one last beer with him on the couch after dinner.
When you go upstairs before him, your dad still rambling on to Bucky, his eyes follow you like a sad dog. Your dad keeps him down there, talking about God knows what, and by the time you hear two sets of heavy footsteps trudge up the stairs you’ve showered and changed into underwear that doesn’t stick uncomfortably every time you shift.
It’s no surprise when thirty seconds after your dad’s door closes, Bucky creeps into your room as silent as a mouse. The door shuts softly behind him, the lock clicking with a dull snap. Bucky leans back against the door and watches you, taking in the way you’re sprawled across your bed in the t-shirt he left in your room that morning with dark eyes.
After a beat, he stalks across the room towards you, silent until he reaches you. He sounds almost disappointed when he lifts the shirt you’re wearing to find you wearing a new pair of underwear. “You changed,” he frowns.
“Was uncomfortable, you say. You sit up to meet him, gathering him closer to you. He leans down to kiss you, slow and sweet, and you almost forget that your dad is just down the hall. It’s just Bucky in your mind. Bucky, who’s standing between your legs, bent over you with your head firmly in his hands. Bucky, who kisses you in a way that belies the filthy way he fucks you. He kisses you like something fragile, like something he can’t fathom the existence of.
“That’s okay,” he whispers against your lips. He steps back and yanks your shirt up and over your head, crowding you backward up the bed, crawling over you until he’s all you can see. “Just have to fill you up again, get this pair all messy too.”
It’s not slow that night. It’s frantic, hurried and desperate in a way that reminds you of that first night. When he shoves in, stuffs you full of his dick that’s been half hard since dinner, you cry out. Sharp, too loud for the circumstances.
“Shh,” Bucky clamps his hand to your mouth, his thumb slipping in and pressing against your tongue. “Can’t be too loud, sweetheart. Your dad is just down the hall. Don’t want him to know I’m in here, do you? Don’t want him to know I’m fucking his little girl full. Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking tight, pretty pussy never wants me to leave, does she?”
He grinds deep, fingers moving from rubbing slow circles around your clit to pinching, working it between calloused fingers. What follows is a sequence of unfortunate errors: your walls convulse tight around him, his hand slides from your mouth as his hips stutter, and you cry out a word that damns you both.
“Daddy!”
You both freeze, his dick half buried in you as that word waltzes around the room. Bucky’s head snaps up to look down at you in wide-eyed disbelief, something wicked crawling along his face as he watches you wither in humiliation. You push at his shoulders, but he refuses to move, despite the oily shame seeping through your veins.
A door opens down the hall. You hear your dad’s shuffling footsteps before a knock echoes and your doorknob jiggles. “Sweetheart?” your dad calls. He knocks again. “You okay?”
Your shoves against his shoulder grow frantic, but Bucky ignores you. He gathers your wrists with ease and pins them above you with one hand, the metal one grasping your jaw. Bucky shallowly thrusts into you and has the audacity to smirk when you struggle to swallow your moan, as if discovery won’t lead to certain doom. “Answer him, sweetheart. Don’t want daddy to worry.”
It takes you a moment to steady your breathing enough to form words. There’s a moan caught in your throat, one that you’d have no explanation for, really. You swallow it down. “Y- yeah, I’m fine,” you manage to rasp out, shaky as Bucky slowly rocks into you again. “Bad- bad dream!”
Your dad mutters something before his steps disappear back down the hall, and Bucky waits until his door thuds closed to start pounding into you. The air disappears from your lungs again, your teeth dig into your bottom lip, trying to stifle moans that instead turn into shattered whimpers.
“Daddy, huh?” He keeps a firm grip on your jaw, frowning in disappointment when you try to wrest yourself free and hide your face. “No no no, baby. Stop that; don’t hide from daddy. Let me see my little girl’s pretty face. There you go.”
That night, when you come, it’s with cries of daddy that Bucky eagerly swallows down.
It all slips from there.
It should scare you, how easily the two of you fall into… whatever this is. It should send you running — the words he uses when you’re in bed, the way he so easily slots into the place of caretaker and lover.
It doesn’t.
If anything, you seek it out, chase after the thrill that has your heart stuttering, your head spinning hearing him call himself that.
“Give daddy a kiss,” when he comes home from running errands.
“Be a good girl for me,” when he asks you to do something as simple as drying the dishes.
“Don’t you wanna make daddy feel good?” when he has pinned against the wall, cock hard and teasing against your stomach.
You don’t think you’ll ever get used to that feeling — the swirling of your stomach, the clench in your womb that comes from hearing those words. It gets to Bucky too; you know. Your reaction, how sweet you sound begging your daddy to touch you, to make it feel better — he’s hard and leaking before the words even fully register.
You like having something that’s just yours, something about your relationship with Bucky that never has to see the light of day. Because you know you’ll have to come clean to your dad someday, tell him that you’re hopelessly in love with his best friend. But this? This you can keep close to your chest.
—
You start to suspect that your dad suspects there’s something going on between you and Bucky when he delays leaving for his next business trip. He’s never been good at picking up parts of your life without you telling him — often more than once before he remembers — but his next business trip was meant to be in his favorite city, a city that he loves almost more than you. He makes a habit of leaving almost a week early when this city is in question. But this time he lingers.
Did he know that the second he’s out those doors his best friend has his daughter bent over the counter and calling him a name once only reserved for him?
You weren’t about to find out if he knew — not when you and Bucky relied on him for housing. You had no plans to tell him until Bucky found an apartment of his own, somewhere you could take shelter from the fallout of what would surely be a nuclear bomb dropped right on the already fragile relationship you had with your dad. So you pulled back, reinstated Bucky’s abandoned rule, let your caution take the wheel no matter how many times Bucky slipped into your room after dark.
You’d hated those two weeks just as much as Bucky had. Your dad had waited to leave until Bucky left to look at apartments, something he’d initially planned for you to help him with. Instead, you’d stayed home to have lunch with your dad, who left an almost pointed thirty minutes after Bucky.
The moment your dad’s car disappears around the corner, you’re texting Bucky, asking when he’ll be home. To your despair, Bucky doesn’t reply.
Two weeks with nothing more than a quick kiss has left you restless and impatient to wait for Bucky’s return, which leaves you in your current predicament: straddled atop a pillow, barely satisfied and driven half mad.
The plush pillow wedged between your legs is a poor replacement for Bucky’s thigh, but it does the trick. You left your shorts and panties on — the friction of the fabric too delicious not to — soft sighs spilling as the fabric rubs your clit. You grind down harder and whine. It’s not enough. You swivel your hips, but nothing touches the ache. You need more.
You slump forward on the bed, shoving a hand beneath the pillow in a desperate bid to have something firmer to grind against. You gasp when it works, your hips canting forward against the pillow, the friction of your panties against your pussy a burn that drowns the desire. The high dances just out of reach and you chase it, humping the pillow greedily, moans spilling wantonly as your release barrels towards you faster and faster, a runaway train careening down a hill as your hips find just the right rhythm. The pressure mounts higher and higher until—
"Oh, baby," Bucky coos. The train screeches to a halt, metal screeching against metal.
You jump up, eyes snapping to him leaning in your doorway. He was supposed to be out. But there he is, standing in the doorway watching you, gaze dark and tracing up your figure from your legs clenched around the pillow to your nipples pebbling beneath your tank top. “You know better than to play without me,” he says.
You're frozen as he stalks towards you. He tugs the pillow from beneath you and sets it aside, guiding you to sit in front of him on the edge of the bed. “I- I’m sorry,” you say.
Bucky hushes you. “You’re not in trouble, sweetheart. Tell daddy what happened.”
Your face heats, just like it always does when you hear him call himself that. “It was all tingly. It wouldn’t stop aching,” you say. You know what game he wants to play, and you’re never anything but an eager participant.
Stepping between your legs, Bucky leans over you. With a gentle shove to your shoulder, he leans you back until you’re lying on the bed. He runs his hands up your bare legs. The flesh one calloused, the metal smooth, you shiver as they both stop to toy with the hem of your cotton shorts. “Silly little girl wasn’t thinking right. Needed her daddy to come take care of her.”
You squirm under his attention, his hands fluttering back down to rest on your knees. You try to close your legs and hide the mess you know is there between your legs.
Bucky tuts and shakes his head. "Don't be shy, baby. Let me help you." Gently, he pries your legs back open. "Hm? You gonna let daddy see?"
You bite your lip and nod, shivering when Bucky glides his hands up to your hips and guides your shorts down leaving you in just your panties. Bucky groans, cursing low as he slips a finger under the gusset of your lace panties and tugs them aside. "Look at that, baby. Your princess parts are all wet for me."
The words hit you straight in the core, making your head spin. Hearing Bucky talk like that never fails to drive a deep, wanting burn deep in your core. Bucky knows it too, would tease you for it if it didn’t drive him just as crazy. Firm hands on your hip Bucky maneuvers you up the bed, settling between your legs, breath dusting along your thigh as he inspects you closer. “Just couldn’t wait for me, could you?” he says.
“Bucky, I-“ You can’t close your legs and hide — his shoulders keep them open, on display for hungry eyes that shamelessly take in your damp folds.
“Not my name, sweetheart, not in here." His tongue flicks against your inner thigh, turning his head to hover his mouth just over your center, breath hot against the damp fabric.
“Daddy,” you whine.
“There you go,” he praises. He licks up your slit, tongue rasping against the fabric of your panties. You whimper and Bucky hooks a finger into the waistband, slowly peeling them down and away. “You made a mess, baby,” he mutters. He starts to discard them on the floor when he pauses.
You really had made a mess; you can see your slick gathered and glistening on the fabric. Slowly, Bucky brings them to his face. He licks them, moaning and tracing his tongue along the lace that had only minutes ago been buried between your lower lips, dragging along your clit. Your breath stutters, watching him bury his face in your panties. His hips twitch down into the bed and you squirm.
Finally, Bucky tosses them aside and returns his attention to you. He brushes a finger along your opening, teasing up and down. You wriggle your hips impatiently and Bucky chuckles, swiping a finger through your wetness before moving to rub figure eights along your clit. “Such a good girl, letting daddy touch you here,” Bucky murmured.
You bite your lip and prop yourself up on your elbows, watching him as he toys with your cunt. Bucky grazes a finger along your opening, up and down. You wriggle your hips and he chuckles before finally dipping his finger into you, finger curling upwards before slowly dragging back out, stroking against your walls in a way that leaves you wanting instead of sating anything. The wet noises mingle with your breathy whines, his finger slowly pumping in and out.
“Poor thing,” Bucky pouts. “Needed me so bad. Just listen to that.” He rests his head against your thigh and adds another finger, playing with your wetness before sinking both back in.
“More,” you beg. You try and roll your hips down onto his fingers but he stops you, pinning your hips to the bed with one hand.
“More what, baby? Use your words.” His command is joined by his fingers finally curling against the spongy spot that always makes your vision blur.
You gasp, words lost to you and he knows it, judging by the lazy smirk stretching across his face. “C’mon sweetheart,” he encourages, just as his fingers curl upwards again, smirk widening to a smile when your walls clamp down.
“Your mouth!” You force out. You wind your fingers in his hair, trying to guide his mouth to your pussy but he resists. “Please, daddy!”
“And where do you want daddy’s mouth? Here?” Bucky kisses your inner thigh, his playful smile persistent and infuriating, eyes still trained upwards on you. You shake your head. “Show me.”
This time when you tug his hair, Bucky lets you guide him down to your slick folds. You expect him to tease you — Bucky loves to tease, loves to flick his tongue along your outer lips, tease his fingers up your slit — anything that drives you mad, leaves you whimpering and pleading, Bucky is a fan of.
Today he must be as desperate as you. Instead of teasing, Bucky flattens his tongue against you, taking his time in dragging it up, dipping into your slit and coming up to roll against your clit. It’s sudden, dominating. The aching shock of it should be too much but it’s not. It leaves you craving more. You try to roll your hips up into his mouth, thighs snapping closed around his head to trap him there, but Bucky won’t have that, can’t have that. Not when he’s waited two whole weeks for your dad to finally leave so he can have you how he really wants. His arms slide around your legs, prying them open and pinning them back, leaving you spread wide and at his mercy.
You sob, high and sharp, and you feel Bucky grin against you. He’s sloppy in the way he licks into you, tongue alternating between laving against your clit and dipping back down, curling into your wet heat. He delves his tongue in, massaging against your gummy walls as your moans grow filthy, the high you were chasing before he came home returning with a vengeance.
Your first orgasm ripples through you and you come with a strangled moan, clinging to Bucky’s hair like a lifeline.
Bucky looks up at you, the lower half of his face shiny with your slick. His metal arm retreats from its hold around your leg, which you let fall limp to the bed. Two fingers slip between your thighs, coming to rub gently on either side of your clit. Still reckoning with the aftershocks of your orgasm, you jolt, choking on a heaving inhale. “Daddy!”
“What is it, baby?” he asks, frowning in mock sympathy as his fingers spread wider, leaving your wet cunt, still twitching, on display.
“Need you in me,” you beg. You try to reach forward to drag him upwards, but he bats your hands away. “Need you to make it better.”
Bucky bends down and kisses your clit, his fingers pulling the hood back to expose it to the cool air. You whine, and Bucky coos in mock sympathy. “Mm. Not yet, princess. You got to play by yourself. It’s daddy’s turn,” he refuses.
He chooses then to suck your swollen clit into his mouth, quelling the pleading argument you were about to make. This time he lets your hips roll upwards. You all but ride his face as he moans into you, sucking greedily at your folds, your clit, anywhere that will keep you driving your soaking cunt against his mouth. His tongue buries deep again, nose nudging against your clit with every thrust of your hips.
The build-up is mind-numbingly fast, building on the remnants of the last orgasm with a ferocity that has you gushing against his mouth. Bucky groans filthily against you, hips rutting into the bed as he swallows down all you have to offer.
Bucky pulls back and away while you’re still shaking, limbs too loose to cling onto him. The lower half of his face is damp with your cum that he doesn’t bother to wipe away, hair disheveled from where you clung to him. Bucky leans down to kiss your shoulder and you can smell yourself on him, etched into his skin. Still pliant, you let Bucky slip your tank top up and over your head, finally baring you in entirety. Sitting up to kneel above you, Bucky rids himself of his own shirt.
You watch with panting breaths as reaches down to grip his cock, still trapped behind his jeans. He palms himself, rubbing his erection and letting his hips rock forward. It’s shameless, the way he fucks into his hand and watches you, eyes greedily roaming over your tits. You eye him in turn — the sight of him almost obscene. The broad plains of his chest, the scars that mark his story spanning across, you could spend hours tracing them with your tongue. You have — working him up to a point where he almost came in his boxers.
Reluctantly, Bucky moves his hand, his belt clinking as he removes it with a deft tug. The zipper of his pants whispers as he pulls it down before he finally reaches in and frees himself. Thick and swollen, his dick is flushed an angry red. The thick vein you love tracing with your tongue leads up to the head, dark and weeping at the slit. You sit up and watch as he strokes himself, smearing precum down along his shaft. You lean forward, close enough that the musky smell of him reaches you. It’s mouthwatering and leaves you craving the salty taste of him, yearning for weight of him on your tongue.
“Please, daddy? Wanna taste you,” you beg. Instead of waiting for his answer, you suck the head into your mouth. Eyes closed, Bucky continues to stroke himself as your tongue dips into the slit, circling around the head. He opens his eyes and drops his head forward to watch you as a hand wanders to tug at his balls, swollen and heavy in your palm.
“You look so pretty with daddy’s cock in your mouth,” Bucky says. A gentle hand pets through your hair before gathering a handful, tugging you off his dick. “But I’m not done playing with you. Don’t pout, baby. Next time. Promise.”
Gently, Bucky guides you back down. He sits back between your legs and guides his dick to rest on your folds. Hesitantly, Bucky rolls his hips, groaning as his dick slides along your lips. “Fuck, sweetheart. Your special place is all messy again.”
Bucky takes a hold of himself and drags the head through your slick, watching with a slack jaw as he dips the head just into your entry, playing in your wetness before coming up to circle around your clit. You try to shift your hips when he brings the head back down to poke at your entrance, try to sink down on his cock, but Bucky catches your hips with a heavy hand. Intent on toying with you, Bucky slides his cock against your folds again.
“Please,” you beg. You look up at him and pout. You hitch a leg over his hip, spreading yourself wider. This time when you roll your hips Bucky lets you, his hand sneaking down to press against his cock, grinding it down against your cunt. “Need you so bad, daddy.”
With a groan, Bucky drops his head to your chest before capturing your lips in a kiss. His metal hand rests on your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge as he licks into your mouth, nipping and sucking your bottom lip. He still tastes like you, tangy and potent. His other hand stays busy, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance, prodding in gently. “Yeah? Gonna let daddy fuck you, baby?”
You nod eagerly, hands sliding to rest on his shoulders. Bucky presses in, just enough to bury the tip in your wet heat. You clench around it and Bucky shudders. He tries to go slow, tries to make you feel every aching inch as he stretches you open. He wanted you to do the waiting this time, after you made him wait a whole two weeks to have you again. That plan goes to shit the moment he feels your nails dig into his shoulders, clinging to him with a breathy whine of “daddy” that just about makes him combust.
In one smooth thrust he buries himself deep, your sharp gasp joined by his broken moan as your cunt convulses around him. Even when it hasn’t been two weeks, the stretch burns, scratches an itch that no one else has ever been able to. You let your head loll back, swimming in the overwhelming relief of Bucky finally sliding home, filling you in a way you’ve craved since your dad came home.
Bucky hitches your leg higher around his hip and grinds down, trying to drive himself even deeper. You gasp, fingers sliding against his skin and leaving red welts in their wake. You decide then that you don’t care if your dad is suspicious, if he’s home for another two weeks, a month, it doesn’t matter. Your dad could come home, walk into the room and catch you just like this, and you don’t think you’d care. Bucky is what matters. Bucky, and the feel of his cock spearing you open.
Arms bracketed on either side of your head, Bucky allows himself a moment to catch his breath before he starts to rock into you, looking down to watch how your cunt swallows the thick length of him. Pulling out almost entirely, Bucky fucks back into you, grinning at the choked sound you can’t swallow back. “Look at that, pussy takin’ me so well. Can feel you squeezin’ me. Fuck. Do you like when daddy fucks you? My little girl loves being split open, huh?"
“Yes! Feels so good, needed you so bad,” you cry. Your world narrows to Bucky and the slick drag of his cock in and out, his balls slapping against you each time he drives home, broad chest blocking your view of everything but him. Your fingers curl tighter into his skin, grasping for purchase as you feel yourself falling further into him.
“Shh, daddy’s got you,” Bucky says. He grinds his cock deeper, bullying against the soft spongy spot again and again. His dog tags dangle tauntingly by your face, cold metal bumping your chin until you hook a finger around them, tugging down on them to try to catch his lips with yours. He ducks, instead dipping to leave wet kisses along your jaw, trailing down more to your neck to nip and suck at the sensitive skin. Red marks bloom in his wake, and Bucky runs his thumb over them appreciatively. “My good girl, yeah? Only mine.” Bucky sits back, metal arm slipping down to roll against your clit. You cry out, sharp and helpless, and Bucky curses low as you throb around him. “Only daddy gets to touch you here, right sweetheart? Only daddy gets to hear those pretty noises.”
“Only you, daddy,” you cry. Your hips twitch upwards, chasing the friction against your clit. Bucky presses harder and your stomach clenches, the dual assault on your clit and that aching spot inside you leaves your legs shaking, overwhelmed but still wanting more. “Harder! Need more. Please!”
“Yeah? My little girl wants more?” Bucky slips an arm down to catch one of your legs, stretching it up while his metal hand takes a firm hold of your other thigh, holding you steady as he fucks into you with abandon. The rhythm he strikes is relentless — toe curling, devastating. “This what you wanted?”
You nod, tears pooling and slipping down your cheeks. Each thrust shoves you that much further up the bed, the headboard steadily thumping against the wall. Your hands fall to the sheets, scrambling for purchase that you never find.
“You know what daddy wants?” Bucky rasps. You shake your head, breath catching on a moan. You think this might be your end; the fire burning through you threatens to consume. It’s all you can focus on — the slick glide of him in and out, the obscene squelching as he burrows himself deep again and again, his metal hand digging into your thigh, the ache in your hip from the leg he has draped over his shoulder — it leaves your head empty, your focus only on the fever building. “Wanna fill you up, cum deep inside you again and again until it takes.”
Your vision nearly whites. The electric arousal that sparks through you shouldn’t be such a surprise. He never uses a condom, not since that first night when you begged him not to pull out, to fill you up and leave you leaking. You’d expected tonight to be the same — he’d leave you messy, watch as his cum leaked out of you, trail his fingers through it until he worked himself up enough to fuck it back into you. But the thought of it taking? Your whine is pornographic, walls clenching around him, your hands flying to wind in his hair.
Like everything when it comes to you, Bucky takes note of your reaction to his words. Files it away, runs with it. “You like the sound of that? Dirty little girl. Want daddy to breed you? Pump you full of his cum?”
You can’t find your words, too lost in the way his pace has slowed to a filthy grind, forcing you to feel every inch as he slides out and sinks back into you. You arch up into him as Bucky leans over you, large hands spanning across your jaw, keeping your eyes on him. “Asked you a question, sweet girl.”
“Y-yes,” you choke out. Words freed, you can’t stop the debauched slew that spills forward. “Wanna be full of you, wanna feel it leak out of me. Love when you cum in me. Please, please daddy!” This time it’s Bucky who whines. His pace swiftly climbs back to frantic, the slap of skin obscene as he chases a high you’re both rapidly barreling towards.
"Shit, gonna get you pregnant, baby. Keep you stuffed full until it takes. Let everyone see who you fuckin’ belong to.” His hand slips down to paw at your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers. "Watch as your pretty tits get all full and heavy. Gonna let me drink from them? Let daddy nurse from you?”
“Oh god!” Your head swims. You can’t focus on anything other than the building pleasure, the coil winding tighter around your stomach like a vice. “Need to cum, daddy please!”
“Don’t gotta beg me, baby,” Bucky says. He grinds his hips, a foamy ring of white gathering around his base. “Be a good girl, come with daddy.”
You come with a scream, cunt contracting around his cock as the searing wave of ecstasy finally overcomes you. The spasming of your swollen walls around him tears Bucky right over the edge with you. With a punched groan, he collapses, hips rocking softly against you as his cock pulses, spilling thick ropes of cum deep inside you with breathy moans. Cum leaks out around him as his hips maintain a lazy rhythm, the aftershocks of your shared release lingering, refusing to ebb.
When his hips finally still, Bucky rolls over, dragging you with him until you rest on his chest. Bucky doesn’t pull out — he meant what he said about keeping you full. He stays buried deep with a leg hooked over you, keeping you firmly in place on top of him.
It’s Bucky who speaks first, words whispered as he traces lazy shapes on your back. “Sweetheart?”
You hum, still too hazy for real words. The sweat has started to dry, leaving your skin sticky and stuck to his, but you’re too numb to move, limbs still limp and molten.
“I’m not waiting two whole weeks next time.” Bucky pulls out, and you wince as his cum trickles out of you. Predictably, his hand sneaks between your thighs. His fingers swipe up the mess, trailing their way back up to shove back into your swollen pussy.
Breathless, you hide your face in his neck. “Then you’d better find us a place.”
Bucky rolls you back over, cock already hardening again, insistent against your thigh. “One step ahead of you sweetheart.”
alt version | part of my winter holiday celebration | main masterlist
pairing: avengers!bucky barnes x f!reader
summary: you'd been living dangerously all night. prancing around in that short dress, drinking a few too many christmas cocktails, and taking your role as mrs. claus a bit too seriously... or, you drunkenly sit in bucky's lap. wc: 3.0k
warnings (18+): smut [making out, lap sitting, dry humping, cumming in pants], alcohol consumption, descriptions of drunkeness, not proofread, pics are not representative of reader's physical traits!!
note: this is an alternative version of my dec. 7 fic, secret santa. this is the same au, same reader & same bucky but in this fic there's no secret santa game being played. some sections are taken directly from the previous fic, this is just my alternative idea for how it plays out.
you had always annoyed bucky. gotten under his skin for some reason that he couldn't quite figure out. there was just something about you that bugged the hell out of him. not that he'd ever admit it to your face; you were the avengers' darling after all. their favorite lab assistant, cute as a button and always ready to help. you were such a good employee that tony had you move into one of the spare rooms in avengers tower, so you'd literally always be there to help.
great for you and everyone else, fucking hell for bucky. every corner he turned, there you were with that stupid fucking smile on your face, chatting with someone, probably brightening their day.
you'd tried to do that with bucky only to be shut down every time. the truth was, you'd admired bucky, knowing he'd been through so much. so you'd tried to talk to him and become friends but every time you spoke he'd say maybe one word then just walk away. it got to the point where you just stopped trying. and you were fine with not talking, thinking that maybe he was just awkward and not social (which was true), but then you noticed other things. like how he'd stare at you sometimes, but not just staring, he was glaring. or sometimes he'd roll his eyes at something you said. it was hard not to be offended, even with steve telling you not to take it personally.
for the most part, you kept it cordial with bucky. you didn't try to start conversations with him anymore (which bothered him more than he would like to admit), but you also weren't out right rude to him. he was just around. that is until one fateful weekend: the weekend of the avengers' christmas party.
you had been excited about the party for weeks, even ordering a mrs. claus costume to wear. though it was a little more scandalous than you usually went for (as you told natasha during your thirty minute debate about whether or not it was appropriate), you had thrown caution into the wind and decided to wear the dress anyways.
the party was all christmas cocktails, sugar cookies, and santa hats galore. everyone had loved your costume, some maybe a little too much; you had seen pepper smack tony's arm after he ogled a little too long.
you had also come up with a spectacularly terrible drinking game for yourself where every time you felt self conscious about your outfit, you took a sip. this is how you ended up loudly singing christmas carols with sam, much to everyone else's annoyance.
this annoyance led many to having even more drinks. at some point, thor produced a bottle of liquor he said was from another of the nine realms or something, though you weren't really listening. you were far too busy nearly dying as one sip of the liquor seemed to have burned the skin off your throat. so even though you stuck to the earthly cocktails, the extra terrestrial liquor did turn it into a proper party. maybe a little bit too much.
tony had--for some reason--felt encouraged to challenge thor to a drink off, which he lost nearly immediately, having to be comforted by pepper (thor laughing and bruce shaking his head as they watched). sam had taken two shots of the E.T. and was now laid out on the couch. steve was by his side making sure he was okay while nat laughed and documented the situation on her camera phone.
this left bucky somewhat unattended in a corner of the party. while everyone else's attention was elsewhere, yours had focused in on said lonely man as you finished your fourth drink.
the alcohol had done its job (and a damn good one) lowering your inhibitions, so you fearlessly walked (stumbled) up to bucky with a smile on your face.
"buckyyy," you sing as you approach. he had been watching you approach and was now looking up at you expectantly. before he can process what was happening you sat yourself down. right in his lap. it's a bold move, and though you definitely feel looser with the alcohol in your system, you're fully aware of what you were doing.
he hadn't been ready for it, and apparently neither had you, because you immediately begin to tip over. his hands shoot out and grab your hips instinctively, steadying you on his leg. your hands reach out for his shoulders, which you now happily hold onto as you smile at him even bigger.
"ohh, bucky!" you say excitedly, "merry christmas!" you give a little bounce to emphasize your happiness.
he just watches you with a rapt curiousity as you swing your legs over his so he's practically holding you bridal style. he keeps one arm around your back to keep you from falling over again.
"yeah, merry christmas," he mumbles before looking around the room to see if anyone else was aware of what was happening right now. they weren't.
"oh." he turns back to see you pouting as you look at him. "you're not having a good time?" any other time, you would have expected him to roll his eyes and tell you to leave him alone. but the way you were looking at him right now, lips drawn in a pout, eyes wide with sadness-- he just wants you to look happy again.
"no, it's okay," he tries, "it's a nice party." he watches your mouth change into a lopsided smile, like you were halfway between happy and sad.
"yeah, i guess." you shift in his lap as you turn to look out at the party, which was starting to empty out as thor carried tony to his and pepper's room. as you move, you unknowingly scoot closer to him, your ass getting dangerously close to the bulge in his pants that he's currently hyperfocused on keeping down.
the little dress you're wearing doesn't help one bit. the fur trim around your low-cut collar doesn't do much to hide your breasts. the skirt of the dress was so short that it had lifted up, meaning your bare thighs and underwear are resting on his jeans. damn it, bucky, why would you think about her underwear at a time like this?
you sigh loudly, pulling his attention back to your face. "bucky, you're always so sad. it makes me sad. i just-- steve's told me a bit about what happened and i know you don't like me, but i just want to help. i like you a lot, bucky, and you--"
you stop suddenly, leaving bucky hanging as he waits for you to continue. he unconsciously leans in closer to your face, like maybe he just can't hear you.
you, on the other hand, feel your face flush at your admission of liking him. the alcohol must be wearing off because you can feel some embarrassment start to slip in. what were you doing telling him all this?
"i'm sorry, i should--" you start to get off his lap, but his hands quickly wrap around your waist, pulling you back onto him. you gasp as he pulls you close, your leg accidentally brushing against the growing tent in his pants.
"wait," he says lowly. "don't." you look at him with your eyebrows furrowed. "i don't hate you." he says it so quietly you aren't sure if you even really hear it. your eyes dart around his face until his gaze becomes too much and you look down at your lap.
"bucky..." you breathe out. the air between you two had gotten thick. you can feel yourself getting more and more sober by the second, just as you feel his cock getting harder and harder against your thigh.
you look up at him and swear you're even closer than you were before. his face is just inches from yours as he watches you.
"i don't hate you," he repeats. though they're simple words, ones that shouldn't excite you the way they do, they feel like more than just a statement of indifference. maybe it's because you know that him saying anything to you is a huge step forward. or maybe it's because he's like three inches from your face and his eyes keep stealing down to your lips.
you act on basic feeling, closing the distance between your lips and his. it's soft, almost too soft. he's so gentle, it's like he thinks he's going to break you. he pulls away after only a few seconds, his face hovering a few inches from yours. he begins to whisper your name before someone interrupts.
"hey buck!"
bucky quickly helps you slide off his lap onto the seat next to him. you both look to steve walking towards y'all. as he gets closer, he starts looking between the two of you, like he knows he's interrupted something.
"sorry, uh, we're gonna take sam to his room. make sure he gets back okay," steve says, gesturing to where natasha is standing in front of a very intoxicated sam. "are you..?"
"i'm fine," bucky says gruffly.
steve looks between the two of you again, like he's not sure he believes it. bucky huffs a sigh. "steve, really, i'm fine."
"okay. uh, let me know if you need anything. i'll just be with sam for a minute," steve says. he looks between the two of you again before giving you a nod and walking back towards sam. he gives the two of you another look before he helps natasha carry sam towards his room.
this is when you look around to realize the party has ended. however, you don't think whatever is happening between you and bucky has ended just yet.
"bucky--"
"i'm sorry. i shouldn't have--"
"no, i'm sorry. i kissed you--"
"no, no," bucky says, putting his hands up. "you're drunk. i shouldn't have kissed you."
you shake your head. "i'm not that drunk."
"you stumbled up here and sat in my lap," he says matter-of-factly.
"okay? i'm-- i knew what i was doing. i still do." you didn't mean for the words to come out so breathless. they almost sounded like a proposition, though neither of you know quite how to respond. you decide to start again. "bucky," you say carefully, "i kissed you. and i'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable. i shouldn't have--"
"it didn't."
you're at a loss for words. you teeth pull your bottom lip in, biting like maybe it'll give you an answer for what to do next. your brain can't seem to come up with the right thing to do, so you, for the second time tonight, decide to act based on feeling.
"bucky, i want you."
bucky almost can't believe it, but you said it so softly, so earnestly. his hands twitch at his sides, wanting to reach out and hold you again so badly but his mind is stopping him. his eyes are analyzing your face, trying to see if you're telling the truth. do you really mean this? you couldn't possibly...
"bucky," you say his name to break him out of his thoughts. "please say something."
he doesn't say anything. he can't. because you're impatient, tired of this limbo you've been in for what feels like hours. so you pushed your body forward onto his, gingerly pressing your lips against his.
bucky stills for a second, before his resolve snaps and his hands fly to your waist. he pulls you in closer until you're on his lap again, thighs around his hips. you deepen the kiss as you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair.
you feel his erection against your core as you mindlessly grind against him. his arms wrap around your torso, his flesh hand snaking up to grip the back of your neck which allows him to pull you impossibly closer to him.
the kiss only breaks after you moan into his mouth from the feeling of his jeans against your clit. you're practically panting above him as you grind against his hardened cock, but he's not doing much better. it's understandable why you're so enthusiastic about getting off on his lap (you haven't been with another person since before moving in to the tower). it makes you wonder how long it's been since he was with someone. the wonderment is cut off when his mouth greedily seeks yours again.
he groans after you grind against him particularly roughly, almost bouncing as you move your clothed cunt against him. the feeling of your warmth against his dick, even through the several layers of fabric, has his mind melting.
"fuck," you breathe as you feel your pussy clench around nothing.
he can practically feel your wetness soaking onto his jeans and he nearly cums at the thought. honestly, he doesn't know how long he's going to last. with your soft mouth on his lips, your chest bouncing against his, and your warm, wet cunt desperately rutting against his cock... it's hard to believe he's lasted this long.
"oh, sweetheart," he groans, "slow down. i'm-- i'm not gonna last."
the sound of his voice pushes you to the edge of orgasm. "oh fuck, bucky," you nearly whimper. "it's okay, i'm close."
you bury your head in his neck as you keep grinding against his shaft, desperate for your orgasm. you feel his hands run up and down your thighs before they come to squeeze your hips so hard they may bruise, like he's trying to keep control.
"it's okay, bucky," you breathe as your orgasm approaches. "oh fuck," you whine as his cock twitches from inside his jeans. you can feel him pulsing through the fabric as he cums, the knowledge sending you over the edge. he squeezes your hips even tighter as he presses you against him. your pussy clenches over and over, wetness leaking out of your hole.
your breathing is uneven at best as you ride out your orgasm against him. you feel the remnants of whatever alcohol you drank wash over you in your haze, suddenly feeling very tired as you slouch against his body.
you listen to his breathing calm down, feeling his heartbeat against you as you lay on his chest. eventually, he loosens his grip on your hips. after a minute of regaining some of your composure, you lean back from him.
"are you okay?" he asks quietly.
"yeah," you sigh, content even as exhaustion takes over. "you?"
he nods, but he seems off. his eyes are looking anywhere but directly into yours and he just feels... far away. you place your hand lightly on his cheek, forcing him to look into your eye.
"you're sure?" you ask again.
he draws in a sharp breath, but nods a few seconds later. you bite your lip, unsure of if you believe him. but you're not able to say anything before he speaks.
"you should go to bed." and with that, he's already lifting you off his lap. he practically holds you mid air while your legs untangle from his body and drop to the ground. you're still a little wobbly, so he keeps a firm arm supporting you as you make your way towards the hallway.
passing through the empty common room, you remember how the party was raging earlier. some of the lights have automatically dimmed, leaving just the twinkle lights to keep the room aglow. you can see lights of the skyline through the glass, but you prefer the warmth of the lights in here.
bucky leads you to your room. he opens the door for you and starts to walk you to your bed before you stop him.
"wait just a second, i've gotta go to the bathroom," you get to the bathroom door before turning back and adding, "don't leave yet," before disappearing into the bathroom.
you're quicker than usual going to the bathroom and honestly a little surprised when he's still there after you're done. you crack a little smile at how out of place he looks in your bedroom. his large frame against the rather cozy feel of your room... it's cute.
"hey," you say softly as you walk up next to where he stands against the wall of your room. you can feel sleep begging to take over, but you need to talk to him first. "i don't regret what we just did, you know? and i do like you." he doesn't reply with more than a nod, so you ask the question that has been stirring for the past few minutes. "do you regret it?"
you hold your breath as you wait for an answer, staring into his eyes like maybe they'll give you a hint on how he's feeling. he shakes his head.
"no. but we can talk about it tomorrow. you need to sleep." you huff. you don't know if you're fully happy with his answer but you also know he's right.
you turn towards your dresser and start unzipping your dress, not caring if he's looking (partially because you're too tired to care and partially because you literally just dry humped him until you both came in your pants). you pull on clean underwear and pajamas, stealing a glance in his direction to find he's turned his back to give you privacy. you smile despite yourself at his gentlemanly ways before walking up to him and tapping him on the shoulders.
"promise me that we'll talk tomorrow. first thing," you say, your vulnerability evident in your voice. bucky nods.
"i promise," he says before pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. it happens so quickly, the next morning you're not even sure it really did happen.
but the next morning you also wake to find him waiting outside your door, ready to discuss what happened last night. you had to insist to him several times that you were within your right mind when you hooked up with him for him to believe you, but eventually the conversation turns sweet.
note: ok up to the wire on this dec. 25 deadline for this story but it's a holiday. i hope y'all enjoyed this. it may be a bit of a mess because honestly i wrote it over like two days and was tired both times. also second fic in a row featuring dry humping... whoops. that's what i get for trying to branch out and not have piv in every fic.
a concept: trucker!Steve Rogers not having anywhere else to go on Christmas and he ends up at Diesel Dolls (Ransom Drysdale's strip club) where he meets... YOU.
pairing: trucker!steve rogers x stripper!female reader
summary: you're dancing at the club on christmas day when a man walks in, and you can tell right away that he's different from all the lonely schmucks you've met at Diesel Dolls. in fact, he has the potential of being something much more and turning your entire life upside down...
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, dry humping/dry sex, lap dance, free use, dirty talk, light degradation, lots of dirty thoughts (including fantasies of oral sex [both m and f receiving]), light degradation, light objectification, bdsm dynamics, little bit of denial, check-ins, praise kink, pet names (doll, baby doll, angel), bit of an open-ended ending...
word count: 2.6k
a/n: i realized it's officially been a year since i posted any new fics in my Truckers Universe and it made me unbearably sad, so i started thinking about a Diesel Dolls dancer reader who's working on Christmas—and she meets trucker!Steve Rogers and they have some smutty fun 🤭 i'm still undecided on whether this is actually the story i go with for trucker!Steve and, if so, how it develops, but i had this idea and i ran with it. this is not edited to my usual standards and was written in a bit of a rush but i hope y'all enjoy anyway!
and merry christmas, ya filthy animals ❤️
Most establishments were closed on Christmas, but not Diesel Dolls. The strip club where you worked was open on Christmas day.
If anyone asked the owner, Ransom Drysdale would say it was because there were paying customers. But, if the whispers in the dressing room were to be believed, it was because the boss man didn’t have anywhere else to go for the holidays—which would mean you had something in common.
Truthfully, you didn’t mind working on Christmas. Since you didn’t have anyone special to spend the holiday with, you figured you might as well let the other girls get time with their families. Besides, it meant you could earn all the fat tips you could from the lonely schmucks who visited the club on Christmas day.
But he was different.
You knew it from the moment he walked into the club, all broad shoulders, narrow waist and golden hair pushed back from his ruggedly handsome face. Even from afar, you could tell that sitting atop his face, his beard nestled between your plush thighs, would be like sitting on the most pleasurable throne.
To your surprise—and delight—he made his way over to the little side stage where you were dancing after he did a quick perusal of the room. He lowered himself into the empty couch in front of you, and it was only because he was so close that you could see the hint of pink in his cheeks above his beard.
“Ma’am,” he offered by way of a greeting, adding a respectful dip of his chin.
Just that one word, spoken in the low rumble of his voice, had shivers skating down your spine; you didn’t have a hope of stopping the wicked smile that spread across your face.
Up until that moment, you’d been dancing lazily on your stage, but since you suddenly had an audience—one so hot and so clearly a little uncomfortable—you had the urge to show off a little.
Grabbing the pole at the center of your little circular stage, you spun around it, gathering speed before launching yourself into the air and flipping upside down. You used the man as an anchor to stop you from getting dizzy while you spun upside down, one leg curling around the pole while the other opened into a split.
Deftly maneuvering around, you flipped over again and slide down the metal pole, holding the man’s gaze all the while. When your knees touched down to the cold floor of the stage, you unwound your body from the pole and crawled over to the edge.
There, you sat back on your heels, spreading your thighs wide and throwing your shoulders back, pushing out your tits in your slutty little Santa costume. You couldn’t help but notice the way the man’s eyes roved over your body, sending even more delicious shivers racing down your spine.
“Merry Christmas, sir,” you purred in your most sultry voice, not having to work hard at all to bring it out. “Can I be your doll for the day?”
The discomfort that had cloaked the man’s shoulders like an ill-fitting sweater when he walked in seemed to melt away and he settled deep into the leather sofa where he sat, his legs spread wide as he took up all the space in front of your little stage.
His blue eyes sparked with something hot and hungry and a small smirk tugged on the corner of his mouth.
“Why don’t you come sit in my lap, doll,” he suggested, patting one of his thick thighs so enticingly, a buzzy kind of excitement bubbled through your body. “And tell me whether you’ve been naughty or nice this year.”
You didn’t have to be told twice. With an eagerness you hadn’t ever felt when talking to a client at the club before, you scrambled off the stage and slid into the man’s lap, a knee on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his shoulders.
“Oh, sir,” you purred, leaning forward to press your tits against his chest.
Your voice trailed off and you had to pause for a moment and suck in a breath to steady yourself when you felt his hard muscles against your soft curves, your mind going haywire with the sensory delight. To make matters worse, he smelled delicious, something spicy and earthy that you wanted to bathe in.
After a too-long moment, you remembered it was your job to be seducing him—not getting lost in the smell and feel of him when he hadn’t even touched you yet—and you picked up the thread of what you were saying.
“I think you’ll find I’ve been very naughty this year, sir, but if you’re good, I’ll be very nice and let you play with me all day long—I might even let you do whatever you want with me.”
The man’s chest shuddered against yours and the breath he let out was unsteady in the kind of way that sent a surge of power straight to your head. It was like taking a shot of whiskey, the way it hit your bloodstream and had an immediate effect, filling your head with hazy warmth.
“Steve,” he croaked, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over the gravel in the parking lot outside the clube. “I’m Captain Steve Rogers, but you can call me Steve.”
He was adorable, and if it wasn’t against the rules of the club, you might’ve been smitten with the man. As it was, you pushed all thoughts of the kind aside and used your hands on his shoulders to push yourself back. Your ass perched on his thick thighs as you gave him your name—only your first—and said, “Nice to meet you, captain.”
Effortlessly, you slid your hips forward until the soft center of your body met the hard length of Steve’s bulge and you settled your warm heat against him. You watched his eyes darken as you curved your spine, pressing your tits to his chest while keeping your gaze locked on his.
“Touch me, Steve,” you whispered, not intending to whine the words, but not being able to stop it. You ached for his touch more than anything you’d yearned for in a long time. “Play with me—please.”
Steve’s eyes were blisteringly hot on your face, and the smirk that curved his mouth was more than a little smug.
“Such a demanding little toy,” he chided lightly, his tone so patronizing, it made your toes curl in your sky-high heels. “Why don’t you show me what your sinful, slutty body can do, and we’ll see if you can earn the privilege of my touch.”
“Oh fuck,” you whispered under your breath, closing your eyes against the wave of incandescent heat that flooded your body at his words. Usually the clients that came into Diesel Dolls were all too eager to put their greedy paws on the girls, and the rule was that they weren’t allowed to unless a doll gave them permission.
You’d never had to work for a man’s touch before, and you found that you loved it. You wanted to prove yourself worthy of earning Steve’s hands on you, so you sank deeper into your body and began to work.
Before you could truly start, though, Steve’s eyes sharpened on your face, his brows furrowing so that a crease of concern formed. “Is this okay?” he asked, brushing the backs of his fingers gently over your cheek.
You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch, humming a sound of pleasure. “It’s very okay, Steve, I’m okay.” You opened your eyes and stared deep into his. “Just—just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s hot.”
“Oh,” Steve said, the pinkness returning to his cheeks.
He traced his thumb along the edge of your cheek, something like reverence in his expression, before he got control himself. He settled back into the leather seat, his arms spread across the back of the couch.
His voice was impossibly gentle, and so at odds with his demeanor, when he said, “Whenever you’re ready, baby doll.”
“Thank you, Steve,” you murmured, giving him a soft, genuine smile.
It took you a moment to get your head back on straight. A part of your mind was still spinning, trying to keep up with the two sides of Steve Rogers—the soft sweet man who checked in on you, and the sinfully commanding captain whose touch you needed to earn.
God, it all made you want to earn his touch so bad.
Tentatively—much more tentatively than someone with your experience had any right to be—you began to roll your hips, pressing your soft cunt down on Steve’s hard bulge. You watched for his reaction and were gratified by the way his head fell back with a devastated groan.
A self-satisfied grin pulled up the corner of your mouth and you pressed down harder, spreading your thighs on the leather couch until your pussy was plastered against Steve’s cock through his jeans. You worked your soft mound up and down his hard length with the roll of your hips, grinding against him in slow, sultry movements that had him panting in a matter of moments.
“Is this a lump of coal in your pants, captain, or are you just happy to see me?” you purred playfully in Steve’s ear, taking a chance and nipping at the plush lobe. You were rewarded by the captain’s hips kicking up between your thighs, and the man making another tortured sound that sent heat curling in your lower belly.
“You’re really fucking good at this, baby doll,” Steve huffed, lifting his head to shoot you a half-hearted glare. There was exactly zero heat to the expression, though, since his gaze was hazy with lust. “Fuck, keep grinding on it like that, angel.”
His head lolled back against the couch again and you let out a giggle that was more delighted than sultry. “Language, captain,” you admonished him lightly, but did as you were told and kept grinding on his cock, sinking deep into the pleasure swirling like snowflakes through your body.
You were pressed so tightly against his bulge, you could feel his dick twitch in his pants, and you were thankful for the obvious feeling of his pleasure, because you were growing obscenely wet—wet enough that you were starting to worry he might begin to feel it.
“Shit, you feel so good, baby doll,” Steve groaned, the leather of the couch creaking as his fingers dug into the fabric, holding on tight enough that his knuckles were turning white. “Jesus christ—fuck.”
That time, your laugh was breathless with your own desire, which was rocketing up to impossible levels as you watched Steve come undone beneath you. If the man hadn’t already been sitting down with you in his lap, you were certain he’d have been brought to his knees—an image that seemed to stick in your mind like sugary icing.
You could see it so perfectly in your mind’s eye. Your back braced against the metal pole on your stage and Steve Rogers on his knees at your feet. You imagined his ruggedly handsome face pushing between your thighs and that sinfully sweet mouth devouring your cunt until you were riding his bearded face and coming apart on his tongue.
“Baby, ‘m gonna—oh fuck, fuck,” Steve growled, dragging you back to the moment where he was shuddering beneath you. Your body was plastered against his so throughly, you could feel the pleasure shivering through his sturdy form, ratcheting your own pleasure higher. “Oh god, ‘m gonna come, baby doll.”
The words set off something inside you and your body moved on instinct, wrapping yourself even tighter around the large man, clinging to him while you humped furiously against his cock. Your fingers tangled in his soft, golden brown hair as he lifted his head and buried his face in the curve of your neck, huffing your scent like a man possessed.
“Come for me, captain, use my slutty body to get off,” you murmured in his ear, your voice urgent and wicked. “I’m your toy, Steve, use me. Use me, use me, use me.”
It was too much for the man, and he let out a low shout, muffling the sound into your collarbone as he gathered you tightly in his arms. He held you so firmly, you were nearly crushed to his chest, but you didn’t mind, not with the way he was holding you still and grinding his cock relentlessly against your cunt.
“Fuck, baby doll, you’re fucking perfect—perfect fuck toy,” he muttered into your skin as he came, his words dissolving into a bone-ratting groan.
Steve’s cock twitched against your pussy while he kept grinding you down on his throbbing length, and it set you off. You did something you’d never done before—come in the club. Your body shivered and trembled in Steve’s arms, little moans of pleasure slipping past your lips despite your best efforts to keep quiet.
Together, you shuddered through your orgasms, Steve grinding into you from below and your body quivering uncontrollably in his lap.
Finally, the two of you came down from your releases, and you knew the moment Steve realized he was touching you, because his hands began to wander over your body. His palms were warm and calloused, and endlessly gentle as they learned the curves of your thighs, your waist, your ass.
“I guess I earned the privilege of your touch, huh, captain?” you asked playfully, leaning back and giving Steve a teasing smirk.
His answering grin was lopsided and more than a little goofy, which had your heart doing ill-advised somersaults in your chest. You couldn’t help it, though, the man looked so fucking good when he was wrecked by an orgasm—an orgasm you’d given him without even taking your clothes off or taking him in your mouth or your other holes. It gave you a newfound sense of pride that you didn’t fully understand.
“Baby doll, after that performance, you’ve earned more than my touch,” Steve said, his chest still heaving as he caught his breath. “You’ve earned my eternal devotion—I’ll do anything you want, angel.”
A slow smile curved the corners of your lips and you leaned into Steve, nuzzling your cheek against his beard, your lips teasing the shell of his ear. “How about you let me take you back into one of our private rooms, captain, and then you can make me work a little harder for that devotion.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he responded immediately, but his arm settled around your lower back, anchoring you to his body. He settled deeper into the couch, his eyes closing as his breathing evened out. “Just gimme a few minutes to recover and work up the courage to walk through the club with the mess I made of my jeans.”
“The mess we made,” you corrected him, earning a hum of acknowledgement and a flicker of smugness at the corner of Steve’s mouth. You giggled, and snuggled into his chest, tucking your face into his neck.
Steve fell into a light doze, and you were content to let him. Diesel Dolls was practically deserted, your boss, Ransom Drysdale, was holed up in his office while the other girls entertained the club’s other clients.
After all, you needed to plan. If you only had Steve Rogers for one day—and Christmas day at that—then you were going to make the most of it. He may have readily offered up his eternal devotion, but you were serious about doing much more to earn it.
And you thought you might start by getting on your knees between the captain’s thick thighs and cleaning up the mess you’d made together. Then you’d let him do whatever he wanted with you…
It was Christmas, and you were going to be the best toy you could be for Captain Steve Rogers.
Maybe, if you were good enough, he’d keep you all for his own.
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