summary: a starving, homeless man who was once a knight saves you when you are attacked in the midst of a famine raging across the kingdom. james protects you instinctively, not knowing who you are, and moved by guilt, admiration and an immediate affection, you insist on helping him. still feeling unworthy of your touch and kindness, james’ devotion to you becomes absolute, shaped by gratitude, love and obsession.
warnings: she/her pronouns for reader; age gap (reader's in her 20s; bucky's in his late 30s); forbidden love/secret relationship; angst; mention of poverty & famine; terrible parents; brief attempted sexual assault; reader gets tipsy in one scene; wounds & blood; one brief panic attack; sword training; virgin!reader; reader wears dresses & has hair; bucky is called james; dark-ish!bucky; obsessed!bucky; protective!bucky; devoted!bucky (he’s pathetically whipped); size difference (yes he’s huge, yes he has a big dick); jealousy & possessiveness; yearning; feelings of guilt; mentions of religion; self-loathing; fluff; smut; masturbation (f & m); handjob; nipple play; oral (f & m); outdoor sexual activities; intercrural sex; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; creampie.
word count: 20.3k
a/n: big disclaimer → I wanted to set this in a time with no technology but with certain comforts, like running water 🥲 so don’t look too much into it pls. in general, I took as reference the middle ages in europe but I don't think there are many references/details about the reader's fashion and the general aesthetic of the story, so feel free to imagine whatever you want! also, the language is not accurate because I only speak present-day english. I tried to embellish it but I’m not sure, especially in the smutty parts. I’m also sorry if some parts feel a little rushed, but I was very tired.
hope you’ll enjoy!
The town is quieter than it should have been. The market stalls stand half-empty, their awnings flapping like broken wings in the wind. Smoke curls from chimneys, thin and bitter, carrying the smell of boiled roots and old grain. You walk slowly, your cloak drawn tight, counting the steps so you would not seem lost.
You needed to see it for yourself. The damage done by Father’s foolish delusions of grandeur. The heavy taxes levied to fund a recent failed campaign were destroying your kingdom. The court spoke of victory delayed, of honor salvaged from defeat, but the streets tell a different story. Grain sacks are gone. Meat is a memory. Even the dogs are thin.
The people bow to your image in the tapestries, yet curse your shadow in the streets, and never once saw your face.
Your parents never let you be anything but a symbol. At the palace, hands guide your steps; voices decide when you sleep, what you eat, whom you might speak to. They dress you in silk and call it protection, as though walls and guards could keep the truth from you forever.
But a symbol does not ache when it sees a child with hollow eyes. A symbol does not feel shame.
You slow near an alley, your breath fogging the air. Once, this place was loud with haggling and laughter. Now, it is only acrid smells and hunger.
If you stayed inside, you could pretend this is necessary. You could pretend Father was right. That's why you are here. Not to be brave. Not to be reckless. But because if you did not look, if you did not know, then you would be complicit in the lie.
Your heart thuds painfully as you pass a man crouched beside a wall, hands wrapped in rags. He does not look up.
The sound of footsteps behind you come too fast, too close. And for the first time since leaving the palace, you feel afraid. A shout breaks the stillness.
“Oi! You.”
You turn.
Three men stand near a shuttered stall. Their clothes are patched, boots worn to the sole. One holds a cudgel, another a knife more suited for bread than flesh.
“You lost?” One asks. “Or just brave?”
You swallow, trying to appear confident but not provoking. “I’m going home.”
“Not with a cloak like that.” The one with the knife says, pointing at you with the utensil. “Not when my children haven’t eaten in three days.”
He dives for you. But he never reaches you.
The air moves.
Someone strikes him from the side, hard enough that he stumbles into the stall, sending rotten apples rolling across the stones. The second man swings blindly and misses as a hand seizes his wrist and twists until the cudgel clatters to the ground.
The third fleds immediately.
The man before you sways dangerously, breath coming in sharp bursts. He is so much taller than you, yet terribly thin. His coat is threadbare, his boots rimed with frost. Dried blood darkens his knuckles.
“You should not walk here.” The stranger utters, still giving you his back. “People are hungry. Angry. They don't see faces anymore.”
“You saved, you were watching.” You marvel, still shocked.
He shrugs faintly. “Someone should.” Then he takes a step forward, possibly to leave, and falters, but you catch his arm.
“Careful.”
He stiffens instantly, pulling away as though your touch hurt.
“Don’t,” he whispers. “Please.”
You notice then how badly he is shaking. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m used to it.”
You study him properly now: the way he carries himself despite his weakness, the scars on his hands, the instinctive way he had placed himself between you and danger. Your lips part to ask more, but within moments, you are flanked by several men in armor, men he immediately recognizes as royal knights.
“Princess! Oh Gods! Please return to the castle. The King and Queen are worried sick.” Your Father’s trusted man throw a disgusted glance at the shivering man, who had carefully moved to the side when he saw them arrive. “It is not wise to interact with… Beings such as this one.”
You shoot the knight a look that quickly makes him cower in shame. “If I were to ignore a dying man when I am able to help, who am I to call myself a princess of the people?”
The man attempts to pull his head away, but is both too weak and too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything. He lets you feed and nurture him as he is taken back to the palace.
Over the next few days, James is taken care of thoroughly by the palace staff, his every need tended to. As he recovers, you visit him as much as your “duties” allow, chatting with him and making sure he is being treated well. He feels strange when he starts looking forward to your visits, even wanting to recover faster so he can stay by your side at all times.
And he is able to achieve that wish: his old rank is restored and eventually, you convince your Father to appoint James as your personal guard. It is not easy to get back in the field, although the training is deeply ingrained into his mind and muscles, James still has to get back in shape.
And almost six months later, he kneels before you as your personal knight. He pushes his limits and regains his strength… Only for you.
Gaining your trust, well, that is not difficult at all. After all, you are a kind and fair princess. You do not judge him for being a dishonored knight.
And now he is your knight, and you believe in his strength.
James learns the palace the way a starving man learns the sound of bread breaking. Not by comfort, but by need.
He stands at the edges of rooms, where tapestries dull sound and shadows gather like confessionals, and he observes. Observing had once saved his life. Observing had saved yours.
He tells himself his actions are righteous. He repeats it until it feels carved into his bones. Devotion is not desire, it is vigilance. It is the willingness to be unthanked and unseen. It is standing between cruelty and gentleness even when the cruelty wears lace and smiles.
You move through the halls like something unspoiled by them. Kindness clings to your form— not the rehearsed sort, but the quiet habit of it. You thank servants by name, you listen too long. You assume goodness where there is only spite and envy. It makes you radiant, yet vulnerable.
And it makes something inside him tighten until it hurts.
James hates that tightening. He names it sin. He names it presumption. He reminds himself nightly of the distance between what he is and what you represent. A dishonored knight with cracked hands and a body that still remembers cold; a man who has slept beside rotting food and rats. He does not deserve to look at you longer than duty required.
So he watches the others instead.
He sees how the maids soften their voices when you walk by, how admiration blooms briefly on their faces before souring into calculation once your back is turned. Compliments become comparisons. Gratitude twists into grievance. They speak of your gowns while scraping plates clean; of your gentleness as if it is ignorance. As if you are not the only reason some of them still eat.
He catalogues it all.
Names. Times. Corridors. Patterns of malice that hide behind familiarity. He notes which butlers linger near doors, which knights laugh too quickly when your name is mentioned; the younger, loud, good-for-nothing knights and squires following your curves with nothing more than lechery in their eyes. And then the servants who pass rumors like currency.
He listens for repetition and invention.
At first, he convinces himself this is still duty. Then he begins waking already angry.
The palace guards trust him, he has bled with them after all. The servants fear him, though they could not understand why. James does not threaten, nor accuse without proof. He simply knows too much, and he remembers everything. Evidence gathers itself naturally around a man who knows how to move in the shadows.
Reports are made and dismissals follow. A maid vanishes from service. A butler is reassigned, then imprisoned when the lies unravel under scrutiny. A knight is stripped of rank for words spoken in what he believed was privacy.
And James feels no guilt.
Each removal feels like clearing rot from a wound, and each punishment is proportionate, necessary. Mercy toward wolves is cruelty toward lambs. He tells himself he is protecting the realm by protecting you.
However, it is not enough.
James watches you too closely— not out of distrust, but reverence. He memorizes your routines, the way you tire in the evenings after hours spent studying foreign languages and basic accounting. The moments when the weight of your crown bends your posture just slightly. He learns the cadence of your footsteps, notices how often you smile when you should have hardened.
Love creeps in not like fire, but like frost: silent, consuming, undeniable.
He loathes himself for it.
James has never been a religious man, yet he kneels in the chapel, though his prayers do not ask for forgiveness for desire. They ask for eradication of it. He begs to be made smaller. Less wanting. Less aware. But the gods are silent, too indifferent, and leave him with a heart that would gladly stop beating if it meant you never learned how ugly the world could be.
He does not imagine you loving him. That would have been blasphemy.
What he imagines, what terrifies him, is a future in which you are hurt by someone he has failed to notice in time.
That thought hollows him. So he tightens his watch, narrows the circle. Recommends replacements chosen for loyalty rather than charm. He shapes your household into something cleaner, quieter, safer. A controlled environment.
James refuses to acknowledge this is no longer just devotion. However, he does not stop. Because if love is a sin, then he would commit it fully— wordlessly, invisibly, with his hands forever stained so yours could remain clean.
For most of your life, safety has been a public thing. Guards at doors, walls thick with stone, rules spoken in your name but never to you. You have been protected like an untouched object preserved behind glass. Your parents love the idea of you. The symbol. The promise. They raised you to be admired from a distance, not known. Needs were anticipated only in the broadest sense; no one noticed the small ones. No one ever asked what frightened you when the halls went quiet at night.
James noticed.
He does not overwhelm you with affection. He does not flatter, nor treats you as something delicate that might shatter if handled honestly. His care is deliberate, almost severe, as if your well-being is a task that demands his full attention and exacting standards.
And somehow, this makes you breathe easier.
You feel it in the subtle shifts of the palace; the way certain voices are now a distant memory, the way the air around you grows less sharp. Malice retreats without spectacle, removed so quietly that you never have to confront it directly. You simply wake each morning feeling less braced for disappointment.
Of course, this did not happen by accident.
James stands closer now. Not intrusively, but constantly. His presence is like a held breath— steady, grounding. He watches your surroundings with an intensity that makes you feel chosen, worth the effort. Worth the vigilance.
And no one had ever guarded your mind before.
You realize one evening that you no longer replay conversations in your head, searching for hidden meanings or mockery. You no longer wonder who smiles at you out of obligation or resentment. The burden of discernment, of emotional defense, has been lifted from your shoulders and placed, willingly, on his. And you trust him with it.
Perhaps you should have questioned the depth of his seriousness, the way his attention never truly strays. But you have grown up invisible in rooms full of people. To be the center of someone’s unwavering focus feels less like danger and more like coming home.
The cost of his devotion is engraved in the lines of his restraint. In how little he asks for himself. James looks at you not as something to possess, but as something to preserve, even from the uglier truths of the world.
And you begin to love him for that. Quietly. Fiercely. With the kind of love born not from fantasy, but from relief.
With James, you do not have to perform kindness or strength. You are allowed to rest. To be uncertain, human. His protection extends beyond blades and walls— it wraps around your thoughts, your fears, your softest hesitations, and holds them without judgment.
If others might have called it excessive, you do not. Because for the first time in your life, someone decided that your peace was worth defending at any cost.
And you have never felt safer than you do in the care of a man who watches the world so closely, so that you do not have to.
What James did not anticipate, is how his quiet work would come back to hunt him in the sweetest of ways.
It is late at night when he first sees your bare back. You are bathing, him standing by the door, facing it to guard you, standing stiffly as his eyes squeeze shut at the sounds of fabric falling on the floor and water rippling as your body slowly lowers into the tub.
Having been pampered your entire life, you do not exactly know how to properly bathe yourself. Now that all your maids have been removed, you do not know what to do with yourself. Your knight has yet to find new ones.
“James?” Your voice is soft, hesitant, carrying the faintest edge of embarrassment. “Could you… Help me, please?”
A sharp pang of panic runs through him. He had never imagined he would be entrusted with such an intimate task— not in all his years of service, not in any scenario he had ever faced. The thought of seeing you bare, of grazing the delicate flesh of your skin, makes his stomach twist and his heart race.
He swallows hard, forcing his voice steady. “Yes, Your Highness. I can help.”
The tips of his ear turn red when he finally turns, seeing your naked back turned to him. It is enough to have his cock straining in his pants.
“I cannot wash my back by myself. The new arrangements… I don’t know how to manage without you.”
He nods once, stiffly, and approaches, careful to avert his eyes for a moment before lifting his gaze reluctantly to meet your body. Every motion is deliberate, measured, his mind screaming with the need to maintain propriety while the reality of the task presses on him.
Moving the washcloth against your soft flesh feels almost sinful. You are his Princess, and yet he is touching forbidden territory. Your skin is warm, and with his gloves meticulously removed to move freely, his rough pads end up accidentally brushing it. His pulse spikes violently. James clenches his jaw to keep from faltering, focusing only on the sponge. His hands are surprisingly steady, but every fiber of his body is aware, painfully aware, of the proximity, of the trust, of the vulnerability you display with him.
“I–I didn’t expect–” James starts, but stops himself. Words fail him. Did he create this? By clearing out the staff? He only wanted to protect you, and now… His chest tightens. The room seems unbearably small, every breath too loud, every heartbeat a reminder of the delicate balance between duty and desire.
You glance over your shoulder, expression collected, and entirely unaware of the storm inside him. “I’m glad you’re here.” The softness in your voice tears him apart, both from relief and a quiet shame flooding his veins.
James swallows again, simply nodding and forcing his composure. This is his responsibility, at least until he finds the perfect staff for you. He must remain a knight first, a protector. Nothing more. No misstep. No lapse.
But as he finishes lathering your skin in soap, your back straight but not tense, he realizes something unsettling: he had not planned for this— never imagined that by protecting you, he would also be drawn into this intimate, fragile space where obligation and lust intertwine.
And yet, he would not flinch. He would not let his internal struggle interfere with your well-being.
“Better?” He asks quietly, stepping back.
You smile faintly and serene, almost turning completely to face him. “Much better. Thank you, James. Truly.”
He nods, breath hitching and eyes inevitably falling on your arm, pressed against your soft breast, the supple flesh squished up for him to admire.
His thoughts are a tumult of guilt and restrained longing as he quickly turns back to the door, ashamed of the painful pressure of his cock against the armor.
Days pass quietly, but with an undercurrent James cannot shake. The palace staff has been pruned, but their absence left gaps he had not anticipated. Small tasks, once invisible, now fall squarely on him: arranging your dresses, ensuring your meals are properly presented, checking that your chambers are warm and secure.
He moves through these duties with the precision of a knight, but each time you summon him closer, he feels that old, familiar ache— the impossible combination of desire and guilt. You never demand more than you need, never tease or provoke him, yet the intimacy of your blind trust weighs on him as heavily as any sword in battle.
“James.” His name falls softly from your lips, too familiar, and he curses the day he insisted you dropped the 'Sir'.
He appears instantly, seeing you standing by the window, struggling with a necklace clasp, and he approaches carefully, trying to quell the familiar heat in his belly.
“Allow me.” He simply answers, taking your hands gently. The slight tremble of your fingers makes him swallow hard. You offering him a space he should never enter digs a hole in his chest.
When the clasp clicks into place, he steps back for you to turn with a faint smile. “Thank you. I do not know what I would do without you.”
James’s jaw tightens. By removing those who were unkind, he made you rely on him in ways he never anticipated. And now, he must remain constant, always vigilant, always near.
The day continues, and small tasks repeat: adjusting your gowns, fetching books, preparing for audiences, making sure you have what you need. Each time he approaches, his mind wages war between propriety and the intimate closeness that both terrifies and captivates him.
At night, when he checks on your chambers before taking his own rest, he finds himself lingering, hesitant to leave your side. Sometimes you are already asleep; sometimes you are sitting quietly, reading by candlelight, and he would stand nearby, silently present, the steady beat of your life a tether to his own restraint.
He had sworn to protect you, and he would. But this proximity, the trust you place in him for even the smallest details, tests him in ways he had never expected. James cannot act on his longing; to do so would mean betray your trust and his honor. Yet every quiet glance, every small touch he offers in service, carries a weight he cannot escape.
The problem is, he does not wish for this closeness to end. He could not imagine a life where he is not your shield, your constant, your quiet presence.
James exhales softly, closing the door behind him, his hand lingering on the frame for a moment as if to reinforce the promise he has made to himself— and to you. He would serve you in all ways, endure the tension, and keep his heart restrained, no matter how excruciatingly close they become.
The afternoon sunlight gently spills through the glass as James kneels by a small stack of books, organizing them for you. You sit in the window alcove, your skirts pooled neatly around you, idly alternating between admiring the palace gardens and watching him.
“James.” A playful lilt to your voice. “You do take your duties quite seriously, don’t you?”
He glances up, austere as always. “A knight must be thorough. Carelessness invites danger.”
Your lips slightly curve up, eyes sparkling. “But must you hover so close even when I am perfectly capable?”
His chest tightens, and he swallows, aware of the weight of your gaze and the subtle challenge in your tone. “I… Cannot risk your well-being, Your Highness. It is my responsibility to remain near.”
You lean forward, resting your chin on your hands, teasing now. “You act as if I am made of glass.”
James’ lips press into a thin line, his jaw tight. Every word reminds him of your vulnerability, your trust in him, and the ache in his chest intensifies. “Glass can be shattered, after all.” He admits quietly.
You chuckle softly, and the sound is like the first rays of sun touching his face after a long, rigid winter. “Then I suppose I must rely on you to remain unbroken.”
He freezes, heart hammering against his ribs. You trust him and lean on him, and yet you tease, lightly, as if to test the boundaries he cannot cross.
For a long moment, you simply look at each other, the unspoken tension stretching taut between you. Then you smile faintly, the way you do when you feel safe enough to let your amusement peek out.
The silence lingers until James clears his throat. “There is… Another matter we should discuss.” His voice is quiet, tinged with hesitation.
You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Oh?”
“I cannot always be within reach.” His eyes set on your skirts. “And if you ever are in danger, you must have some means to defend yourself.”
Your eyes widen slightly, the mischievous curve of your lips dims a little. “Are you suggesting I— learn to fight?”
James nods. A knot in is throat forms at the sole thought of you facing danger alone, however theoretical. “I will talk with the King and the Queen and then teach you. It is prudent.”
Your eyes soften, warmth threading through your gaze. “James, you are quite serious, aren’t you?”
“I am always serious about your safety.” He frowns. But beneath the calm, his heart lurches at the mental image of him guiding your hands on a sword, of being close enough to correct your stance, to instruct you, and watch your strength grow.
You lean back against the window frame, a faint laugh escaping your lips. “Very well, then. I trust you, of course. But I suspect this will be more entertaining for you than it should be.”
Your trust is a tether, your teasing a challenge. And for the first time in days, he allows himself a small, private acknowledgment of the truth: he would do anything, risk anything, to see you safe, to see you grow strong, and to remain by your side.
You meet before dawn four days after that conversation.
The practice yard lays half-swallowed by mist, the stones damp beneath your feet. James has chosen the hour carefully after your parents’ affronted reaction to his proposal— no servants awake, no guards lingering. Even the birds seem reluctant to speak.
He places the sword in your hands with reverence that borders on fear.
“It’s heavier than it looks.” He warns, already adjusting your grip before you could answer. His fingers barely touch yours, as if even that contact might betray him.
“I’ve held heavier expectations.” The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, then his expression sobers.
“This isn’t play. If you ever draw a blade, it will be because something has already gone wrong.”
You glance at him. “You are very cheerful this morning.”
James does not smile. He steps back, eyes scanning the empty yard out of habit before settling on you again. When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.
“There may come a moment when I am too far from you.”
The words lodge in his throat. He swallows once, hard, as if forcing down something bitter and choking.
“Too far.” He continues, slower now. “To place myself between you and someone who means you harm.”
His eyes change. They always do when he imagines it— darkened, unfocused, as though he is seeing something layered over the present. A corridor too long. A door too slow to open. Your voice cut off mid-breath.
His hand curls unconsciously at his side.
“You look as though you’re facing an execution.” You try to lighten the spirit.
Yet he drags his gaze back to you, haunted. “I am.”
You laugh then, a soft, unguarded sound that mists in the cold air. “James, if danger ever finds me, I’m certain you will find a way to reach it first.”
He stares at you. That, more than anything, terrifies him. Certainty is fragile. It breaks.
“I would rather you never need to rely on that.” He utters. “Not even once.”
You lower your chin, solemn. “You tried to convince my parents of this.”
“Yes.”
“And they said no.”
“They said,” he starts tightly. “That no daughter of theirs will learn to wield a weapon like a common soldier.”
You hum, lips pressed together. “As if harm recognizes breeding.”
“Exactly.”
He steps closer behind you, correcting your stance, positioning your shoulders. This time he does not flinch from the contact, his hands are steady. Controlled.
“Feet apart,” he instructs. “Balance is survival. Strength is secondary.”
You follow his guidance easily, too easily, as if you were always meant to stand this way.
The warmth of your body seeps through his armor. “Promise me something.” His eyes fix on the side of your face.
“That sounds ominous.”
“If I say run,” he quietly continues. “You run. Not toward guards. Not toward courtiers. Away. Distance is defense.”
“And if you say fight?”
His jaw tightened. “Then you fight like your life depends on it. Because it does.”
Having your back pressed against his front as his hands engulf yours on the hilt of the sword, watching as you get flustered as he inevitably breathes against your neck, makes something warm stir in his belly.
“Again.” James exclaims, this time leaving your softness to face you, lifting his own blade. “From the guard position.”
Steel meets steel, and though he keeps repeating to himself this is preparation for a future he prays would never come, James could not stop the thought that haunts him most.
If the world ever reached for you, it would have to go through him— or leave you armed enough to survive without him.
Both possibilities terrify him equally.
James does not follow you back to the palace. He waits until your footsteps fade, until the mist thins and the yard feels abandoned again, before allowing his hands to tremble.
The sword lays where he has placed it, resting against the stone as if nothing sacred had just passed between them. He stares at it for a long time, breathing through his nose, counting each breath the way he once did in battle to keep himself from vomiting fear.
He has imagined you bleeding before.
The thought arrived unbidden, vivid as memory: your silky sleeves darkened, your breath catching in that small, shocked way bodies do when they realize they are wounded. The image makes his vision blur.
James bends sharply at the waist, palms braced on his knees.
This is what devotion does when it goes too far. It punishes imagination and weaponizes love.
He presses his thumb into the old scar on his left wrist, grounding himself in pain that was once real, not hypothetical. He reminds himself you had laughed, trusted him enough to point the blade meant to slay for you, at you. And you are confident in his ability to reach you no matter the distance.
That belief is heavier than armor.
“I will not fail you.” He whispers into the empty yard, the words torn from him before he could stop them.
The vow settles into his bones, ancient and irrevocable. He straightens slowly, forcing his breathing to steady. Control is the difference between protection and possession. He repeats that like doctrine, though he no longer knows where the line lies.
As he walks the perimeter of the yard, habit takes over. He checks sidelines, counts exits, measures distances between walls. How long would it take to cross them at a sprint? How much time would he lose if the ground were slick with rain? If the halls were crowded?
James sinks onto the cold stone bench near the wall and finally allows himself to sit with the truth he has been refusing to name.
He loves you.
Not as a knight loves a liege. Not as a man loves an idea. James loves you in the way starved things love warmth, with desperation and fear, and the knowledge that one day it might be taken away.
He abhors himself for it.
Love made him want to narrow your world until nothing could reach you. It made him want to decide for you, shield you from pain. Your laughter vibrates through the inside of his ribs, waking his numb, reluctant heart.
Although he would give his life to protect you, he hopes he never has to. Not for fear of dying– no death could be more honorable than the one in your name– but because every moment at your side is a blessing he is not worthy of, yet needs more than oxygen itself.
He stands at your door every day, longing for the moment when the sun rises and he is the first person you see when you open your pretty eyes. And then you smile at him, a lowly knight. And it feels as though the Gods have knelt before him.
And you have chosen him. Not with declarations or promises, but with trust. With your presence in a forbidden yard at dawn. With your willingness to place a blade in your hands because he asked you to.
That trust is sacred.
James bows his head, forearms resting on his thighs, and closes his eyes.
He prays then, for restraint. For the strength to guard without caging. To love without claiming. To be sharp enough to cut down threats and gentle enough not to become one.
If the Gods are listening, he does not know, but when he finally rises, the trembling has stopped.
The world remains dangerous, and the distance between him and you would never truly disappear. But he would bear it. He would bear everything. Because if his fear is the price of your safety, James would pay it every morning, in silence, long before the sun rises.
The city smells different now.
Bread, for one. Fresh, yeasted, unmistakable. Smoke comes from hearths instead of ruins. Laughters resound through the streets— still thin, cautious, but real. James walks beside you, who are hidden in a plain cloak with the hood thrown back despite his earlier insistence. Your head turns slowly as you walk, eyes bright taking everything in as if afraid it might vanish if you blink.
He hates crowds.
Not because of noise, but because of angles. Too many hands. Too many blind spots. Too many ways to lose you in the space of a single breath.
He stays close enough that his shoulder brushes yours when the street narrows. His hand hovers near the hilt beneath his cloak, fingers flexing, measuring distance with every step.
You notice, of course.
“Look.” You say, stopping suddenly. James nearly collides with you.
You gesture toward a baker’s stall where a line has formed— not orderly, or desperate, just waiting. A woman chuckles when flour dusts her nose. A child clutches a warm loaf like treasure.
“They are smiling.” You exhale, as if a boulder was removed from your chest. “They are not in despair.”
James scans the faces automatically. Hope does not erase resentment.
“They do not know who you are.” He answers under his breath.
“That’s the point.”
Then, it happens. A man brushes past you, jostled by the crowd. James’ hand snaps out before he can stop himself, fingers closing around the stranger’s wrist with bruising force.
The man yelps, and the street goes still.
James realizes what he has done a heartbeat too late.
The stranger stares at him, wide-eyed, more startled than angry, and the knight releases the man at once and steps back, forcing his hands to unclench.
“My apologies.” He utters stiffly.
The man nods quickly and hurries away, rubbing his wrist amongst the whispers rippling through the nearby crowd. Curious glances linger but the crowd resumes its organized chaos.
James feels it then, the familiar heat behind his eyes, the rush of imagined outcomes. A blade hidden in a sleeve. A knife meant for your ribs. Blood on stone.
Always blood.
He shifts, placing himself between you and the others without thinking.
Your hand touches his arm. Light. Steady.
“James.” You call quietly. “I’m here.”
The words anchor him more firmly than any command.
He draws in a slow breath. Then another. The city does not erupt. No one rushes them. The moment passes like a storm that decided, at the last instant, not to break.
“I apologize, Your Highness.” His cheeks heat up, unable to look at you. “Crowds make me… Vigilant. I did not mean to frighten you.”
You study his face, the tight control, the faint tremor he could not quite banish.
“You did not frighten me. You frightened yourself.”
He says nothing, but his back tenses at your simple yet smart answer.
After that, you move on more slowly. You linger at stalls, speak with vendors, listen to stories of loss and cautious recovery. James stays close, but he forces his hands to remain still, his posture relaxed. At one point, you laugh— openly, brightly— at something a cloth merchant said. The sound turns heads and the urge to pull you back, to protect your smile from the world’s hunger is torturing.
Yet James swallows it down.
When you finally reach a quieter square, you stop and turn to face him.
“You do not need to carry all of this alone.” Your voice is gentle, like a man coaxing a scared, hungry mutt. “I know the world is dangerous. But it is healing.”
His gaze drops to the stones between you.
“I cannot unsee what it has done to you.” He confesses. “Or what it could still do.”
You step closer, lowering your voice. “And I cannot pretend I do not feel safer because you see it.”
Your eyes meet. Something passes between you, something unspoken and fragile, broken by James straightening, discipline reasserting itself like armor locking into place.
“Shall we continue?” He asks.
You smile at him, soft and certain. “Yes. Together.”
And as you walk on, James keeps his control, telling himself that this, too, is protection: allowing you to stand in the light, even while he remains watchful in the shadow.
The ballroom is blazing with light tonight. Gold and crystal catch the music and scatter it back across the polished floor. The banner of the Stark kingdom hangs side by side with yours, stitched together in forced harmony. Peace celebrated loudly, insistently.
James stands where he always does in these occasions: near enough to reach you in three strides, far enough to pretend that is all he wants.
You move from partner to partner with practiced grace. Hands offered. Bows exchanged. Smiles given.
Not the ones reserved for him. Never.
These are the polite ones, when your mouth curves careful and symmetrical, but your eyes remain distant. The smiles you wear the way one wears gloves: necessary, correct, impersonal.
The real ones reach your eyes first, soften your shoulders. Steal a fraction of your breath, as if joy surprises you every time it arrives.
Men try their luck anyway.
One laughs too loudly, leaning in too close. Another lets his hand linger at your waist longer than custom allowed. James feels each trespass like a blade dragged slowly across his ribs.
He catalogues them. Faces. Names. Countries. How their fingers press. How your shoulders tense by degrees so small no one else would notice.
No one else would know that your tension is the price of politeness.
James’ jaw aches halfway through the night. Thus, when the chance comes, he takes it without hesitation.
The knight steps forward during the brief chaos of a song’s end and inclines his head toward your current partner. “Your Highness,” he turns to you evenly. “There is a matter requiring your attention.”
Relief flickers across your face before you can mask it. “Of course.” You exclaim, already withdrawing your hand. “If you’ll excuse me.”
The man bows, disappointed but powerless.
James does not look back at him.
You move through the crowd and out into the night. The gardens greet you with cool air and darkness scented with flowers; the loud roar of chattering replaced by the crickets singing.
And that’s when your shoulders drop at once.
“You saved me.” A touch of laughter in your voice. “I was beginning to think I’d danced with half the room.”
The corners of his mouth lift slightly but it is too late to hide it. You smile at him, not the careful one.
Your steps are unhurried as your heels carefully hit the pebbled path. Lanterns cast warm pools of light across hedges and marble statues. You speak of the foreign dignitaries, the strained conversations, the effort of celebrating peace with people who had once cheered for blood.
“They’re trying to ignore what happened.” You sigh. “Some of them, at least.”
“They are too busy trying to impress you.” James corrects.
You glance at him, lips thin to hide your amused grin. “You say that as if it is a crime.”
“It is when they forget themselves.”
Your lips curve in betrayal. “I knew you were watching.”
“I always watch.”
You reach a bench half-hidden by ivy, and you sit with a tired sigh, tipping your head back to look at the stars.
“I love it out here.” You hum. “No expectations. No hands I have to pretend not to notice.”
“You should not have to pretend.” He grits out. Your head twists toward him, your eyes bright— too bright. Wine, he realizes. Not enough to dull your mind, but enough to soften your edges.
You raise suddenly and hold out your hand.
“Dance with me.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
“No.”
You blink, taken aback. “That was very fast.”
“I won’t.” He corrects, suddenly recognizing how it came out. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” You tilt your head to the side and James wants to avert his eyes at the adorable action.
Because I want to tear apart every man who touched you.
Because if I hold you like that, I will forget who I am.
Because I will never want to let go.
“Because I am not meant to.” He opts to say instead.
But you do not give up, stepping closer, close enough that he could smell wine and flowers and something uniquely yours. Your fingers rest lightly against his breastplate.
“You are always protecting me.” You whisper. “Tonight, protect me from the memory of that ballroom, James.”
Your smile, gentle, coaxing, unbearably sure of him, undoes the last of his defenses.
He closes his eyes once, then takes your hand.
The music drifts faintly through the open doors, lutes and harps weaving a melody too light for the weight it carries. He leads you closer, aware of every point of contact: your palm warm in his, your other hand on his shoulder, his arm around your waist where no one could see.
James forgets to breathe.
Your gown catches the moonlight like something living, fancy silk and threads of gold shifting with every measured step. It is not extravagance that makes you radiant, but the way you hold yourself— chin lifted, shoulders straight, your movements deliberate and calm. They lend you a gravity no jewel could grant.
Noblemen came to you one by one, offering hands heavy with rings, and bows practiced to perfection. They touched your hands, turned you beneath raised arms. Drew too close, lingered too long. He told himself he had no right, no title, no place in this bright circle of silk and music. He is only a knight, standing guard as he has been taught, watching as others enjoy what duty denies him.
And yet you fit here best, in his arms.
To them, you are beauty and alliance, grace wrapped in soft gowns. To him, you are the woman who has looked at a freezing stranger with tenderness and who spoke his name as if it mattered.
For a moment, James forgets the armor, the crown. The distance that should have stood between you two. Your bodies move harmoniously at once, laughter ghosting across your lips as he spins you once, twice, your head tipped toward his chest.
“This,” You murmur. “is much better.”
His heart thunders.
James feels the echo of fury still coiled inside him, the memory of other hands where his now rest. It flares, and then dissolves, replaced by something dangerously tender.
He is not your guard now. He is just a man holding the woman he loves, under the stars, while the world pretends to be at peace.
And when the song ends, James knows— terrifyingly— that forgetting would be far harder than remembering.
Reality hits like cold water.
It rushes in the moment the music fades, the gardens fall quiet, and the distance between you, social, moral, irrevocable, reasserts itself with cruel clarity. He releases you at once, stepping back as if you burned him, bowing his head to hide the flush that creeps up his neck.
You do not look offended, too busy to unsuccessfully try to stifle a yawn.
“Let me accompany you back to your chamber, Your Highness.” He jumps immediately, softer than intended.
The palace corridors are dimmer now, most guests still lingering in the ballroom, their laughter echoing faintly through marble. Your steps are slow as you walk, the tipsiness you had shrugged off in the garden making itself known.
You sway once and James catches you without thought, his hand firm at your elbow, his other steadying your waist. Your body leans into his for a fraction of a second, unguarded.
Every muscle in his body locks.
“I’ve got you.” He murmurs.
“I know.” You sigh content, and let him guide you the rest of the way.
He focuses on the path. On the cadence of your steps. On anything but the warmth of you through the thin silk of your gown, the way the fabric shifts beneath his fingers when you move. He keeps his hold precise, innocent, as though he were escorting you across ice.
Your chambers door open onto quiet and candlelight, the familiar scent of parchment and flowers settling around you. You slip from his grasp reluctantly, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a sigh that speaks of utter exhaustion.
“James.” You start, rubbing your eyes. “Would you help me?”
He freezes.
“With… ?” He asks carefully.
“My dress.” You whine softly, gesturing vaguely over your shoulder. “It’s late, and Natalia is already asleep. I do not want to bother her.”
His mind stutters, then reels.
“I— Your Highness—” He stops, recalibrates. “If you are certain.”
You smile at him, small and drowsy. “You already helped me before Natalia and Wanda's arrival. I trust you.”
That is the problem.
He approaches as one might approach a sacred thing: reverently, and acutely aware of the consequences of a misstep. His fingers find the laces at the back of your gown, knotted more tightly than he expected.
“Tell me if I pull too hard.” He warns with a voice steadier than he thought.
“I will.” You promise.
He works with painstaking care, eyes fixed on the task, not the person wearing it. Still, when the laces loosen, the fabric parts just enough to reveal a sliver of bare skin, warm and undeniably real.
His breath hitches.
The sight alone is enough to make his heartbeat quicken. He turns his head slightly, giving you what privacy he could while finishing the last tie by touch alone.
“There.” He replies hoarsely. “You should be able to manage the rest.”
You nod, already shrugging the gown from your shoulders with a tired clumsiness that makes his chest seize.
“I’ll wait outside.” He steps back quickly. “Just beyond the door. In case you—” He stops himself. “In case you need more help.”
You look at him over your shoulder then, something soft and grateful in your expression.
“Thank you.”
He bows once and steps out, closing the door gently behind him.
The corridor feels colder without you.
James rests his forehead briefly against the marble wall, breathing slowly, deliberately, until the world steadies. He told himself this is composure. That restraint is not weakness. That love, real love, is proven by what one refuses to take.
He straightens as footsteps echo inside the room, alert again, every sense attuned.
“I’m in bed.” You call softly.
Only then does he allows himself to exhale.
He remains there until he is certain your breathing has deepened into sleep, standing watch in silence, guarding not just your door, but that fragile line, held together by nothing more than his will.
And tonight, he holds it.
Barely.
James returns to his quarters, shutting the door behind him with deliberate care. For a long time, he simply stands there.
The image of you— drowsy, unguarded; the warmth of your back beneath his fingers. The silk sliding away. The way his name had sounded on your lips, softened by weariness and wine.
James closes his eyes.
That was the moment.
Not the dance. Not the jealousy. Not the fury at men who had touched you carelessly. Those things are familiar, almost manageable. He knows how to master violence, how to endure hunger and cold and rage.
But that— standing behind you in the quiet of your chamber, entrusted with your vulnerability— has nearly undone him.
He wanted to stay.
James crosses the room and kneels at the foot of his bed, not in comfort but in discipline, as he had once done when vows still felt unbreakable. He presses his palms flat against the floor and bows his head.
He does not pray for forgiveness. Never. Forgiveness implies he intends to repeat the transgression. Instead, he takes account.
He measures the distance between who he is and who he is supposed to be. He acknowledges the truth without embellishment or mercy: his love has crossed into longing; his devotion is no longer pure. The line he guarded so fiercely has thinned to a thread.
He would not touch you in ways you had not asked for. He would not take advantage of trust offered in exhaustion or wine. He would not mistake your need for safety as permission for closeness.
These are not the rules imposed by rank or law. They are the last pieces of himself he still respects.
James raises and paces the room, restless. He imagines futures he must refuse: a kiss stolen in weakness, a night allowed to blur into something irreparable, a moment where you wake and see not your protector, but a man who has taken what he wanted.
The thought makes him sick.
He presses his fist to his chest, grounding himself in the steady, unyielding beat of his heart. You deserve better than his hunger. And yet, James acknowledges this too: he would not stop loving you.
Love, unlike desire, does not ask permission. It does not retreat simply because it is inconvenient, or forbidden. It settles in and demands responsibility.
If this is his burden, he would carry it. Because devotion, if it is to mean anything at all, has to be proven not in what he takes—but in what he denies himself, again and again, for your sake.
James tosses in his bed, cursing himself for having such good senses. He woke up in the quietest hour of the night and with his headboard against the wall his quarters share with yours, the small, breathy noises from behind your room travel to his ears so easily.
It is evident what you are doing, and James stares at the ceiling, his jaw tight and his cock erect in his pants.
Logically, you are a grown woman with needs. No man would be allowed to satisfy you, James would not let that happen, yet it is the first time he witnesses you pleasuring yourself. A knight should have a better hold on himself in this kind of situation, there is no reason to care for it, for a proper knight's feelings would have been that of indifference beyond protecting and serving their Princess.
But James’ situation is entirely different since he holds more fondness for you than is perhaps wise. More fondness than what is reasonably allowed.
He flexes his hand around the soft pillow. Your soft moans keep filtering through the wall and James finds himself slowly kneading it, trying to find distraction. It works momentarily, until the smooth, cool fabric turns into your thighs in his imagination.
The knight knows that even when you are lost in the throes of passion, you must look so elegant, for you possess endless grace. And your eyes– those gentle, sparkling eyes of yours, could pin a man to the floor better than any spear. They could heal a wound better than any herb and read a man’s soul like a book.
Realizing what he is doing with the pillow, James goes rigid. To show his greed so clearly, selfish and unfair as he indulges in your intimate moment, makes his stomach churn with uneasiness. You must be unaware of the volume of your the breathing, the noises, the soft creaking of the bed as you shift. As a matter of fact, the moans and whimpers grow. Unknowingly, James’ breath matches yours. Shakily in, shakily out. And then…
His hand squeezes his throbbing dick over his pants.
James gasps loudly, withdrawing his palm as if it burned. He wants so badly to remove the thin layer of clothing that bounds him, limbs trembling with the need to connect his lips to yours. He yearns to hear his name on your lips, whether whispered or cried out.
His fingers hesitantly trace his lips, imagining it is your hand tenderly stroking his face. His eyes close as his palm runs down his chest, stopping just above the hem of his underwear. Maybe with a little bit of saliva on his finger he could pretend it is your tongue grazing him, making sure to outline the still covered head.
Perhaps, if James could release some of the pressure, he would be able to face you with much less strain. Or maybe it is just a "reasonable" explanation in order to feel less guilty about jerking off to his Princess’ own pleasure. Shame curls hot in his belly as he finally removes his pants with a single, strong motion. Painfully hard, his body buzzes with lust and the risk of being heard by you. Maybe the sound of his desperation would carry through the paper thin walls and you would hear how crazy you make him.
Oh, to even entertain the thought that you could desire an older man as rough, hairy, and battle scarred as him.
His hand wraps around his leaking cock, hips thrusting up and mind conjuring the softness of your palm, instead of the rough callus on his. He shakes his head as if to condemn himself in real time. A part of him feels dirty, manifesting in the way his wrist stops for a moment, the temporary loss of contact almost bringing tears to his eyes.
In this dark, cold room, James accepts what he has become: a slave to his own pleasure.
“James.” Your soft whines of his name almost make him come on the spot. He squeezes his eyes close, too desperate to analyze the situation. Did you really call for him while plunging your fingers into your sweet core, or was it just a figment of his pathetic imagination? What he wouldn’t give to be in that room with you. To get lost in the tangle of your sheets, sweat, and arousal. To sink deep into you and mark you as his, and feel your hands on his chest as his fingers abuse your clit. The idea of absorbing every sound you make into his mouth makes James shiver, drooling as his hand squeezes once his cock, pretending it is your pussy clenching around him as you come.
He can hear how wet you are, your quiet whimpers overshadowed by your palm slapping against your slick skin. James fights to stay quiet, jaw tight as his thumb swipes over his tip. His hand shoots over his mouth, moaning through his fingers as you finally reach your climax, again whimpering his name. He keeps thrusting into his hand, his thumb focused on the tip and his chest heaving, bucking desperately into his own fingers. Almost close, James momentarily uncovers his mouth to reach onto his side table and retrieve the object of one of his biggest sins. One of your expensive cloaks, the one you accidentally dropped during one of your aimless strolls around the capital. A kind woman had brought it to him, yet he could not find it in himself to give it back. James presses his face deeply into the fabric, just like he did that same night in the privacy of his own room, his cheeks red and his chest aching with shame.
Draping the cloak over his face, he lets his lips fall open, coating the fabric in his spit to let your scent bless his tongue. Saliva slides down his chin, yet he does not care about the mess, too hopeful to retrieve any trace of you. Taking a deep breath, your scent penetrates deep into his nostrils, touching his soul.
With a cry of your name, his chest is splattered with cum. The heavy fabric of the cloak did nothing to muffle the sound of his own orgasm.
James has been waiting for you close to the throne room when the doors burst open with a sudden and loud noise. Your skirts tremble with every hurried step as you storm in the corridors. Tears glisten on your cheeks, yet you do not stop, sprinting with your shoulders hunched, as if trying to make yourself smaller.
“Your Highness!” He shouts, but you do not stop. You vanish around the corner and James follows after you, heart thundering against his ribs, until he reaches your chambers door.
It slams shut with finality.
The soft click of the lock reverberates like a hammer blow to his chest. He bangs on the door, voice breaking. “Your Highness! Please— open the door!”
Inside, he could hear your sobs— shattering, forlorn. His stomach knots. The world feels suddenly dark and hollow. Every instinct screams at him to break the door down, but he restrains himself, knowing you need your space, even if it tears him apart to hear you in such misery and being forced to stand powerless outside.
Natalia appears silently at his side, eyes wide with concern. “Sir James… I—I think I should tell you,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “They– the King and Queen… They—”
James’s heart drops to his stomach, anticipation tightening like a vise around his neck. He clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms. “What?”
Natalia swallows, then speaks. “They want the Princess to marry. They have arranged a ball, invitations are already being written for nobles of the neighboring kingdom. Lords, dukes…” Her gaze lowers. “Their Majesties believe it will strengthen the peace treaty.”
He faced famine, war, betrayal, and the harsh streets of the city, but nothing has ever made him feel so helpless. They’re trading your happiness, your freedom… For mere politics.
“They are already choosing gowns,” Natalia continues quietly. “The Queen wants her presented properly. Radiant. Approachable.” She hesitates. “Desirable.”
The words strike him like poisoned arrows.
James stares at the marble wall behind the maid, suddenly aware of how small the corridor feels, how thin the air is. He pictures you standing beneath chandeliers, surrounded by strangers who would smile at you and think they have a right to your body, and your future.
“How soon?” He exhales harshly.
“Very soon.” Natalia replies. “Within the fortnight.”
A fortnight.
Two weeks until men would touch your hands, guide you through dances, lean close enough that you would smell the wine on their tongues and their entitlement. Two weeks until you would be appraised, discussed, and measured like a prize horse.
“And she?” He asks, though he already fears the answer.
Natalia looks away. “She said nothing. She just… Went very still.”
James nods once, sharply. “Thank you for telling me.”
Worry etches into the maid’s face. “You’ll be there, right? With her?”
James’ answer is immediate.
“Always.”
Once Natalia steps away to return to her duties, James sinks on one knee outside the door, hands pressed against the cool wood. He cannot allow this. And yet, you have chosen to lock yourself away from him.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of agonizing waiting. He stations himself outside your door, silent and resolute. Natalia tries to coax you to eat, her voice soft and patient, but you did not respond. Eventually, the maid placed a small plate near James’ side and slipped away quietly, leaving him as your silent, immovable guard.
Finally, when the castle is engulfed by the silence of the night and the torches flicker low, the door clicks.
James’ breath hitches. He surges forward, heart hammering, and pushes the door open gently.
You are there– hair loose, cheeks wet, eyes red and swollen from crying, your gown wrinkled and clinging awkwardly to your frame. Yet still so beautiful. Your hands tremble as you tear up again at the sight of him.
James moves swiftly, closing the door behind you and wrapping an arm around your frame, pressing you to him with gentle insistence. “It’s over.” He murmurs, voice low and steady, though his chest aches. “I’m here. Nothing will touch you now.”
You try to speak, to explain, but he silences you softly. “No words. Not now. Just rest.”
Guiding you carefully to your big bed, he lets you sit on the soft sheets, trembling, before your faint whisper causes his body to go rigid. “Please, remove the armor. Stay–stay with me.”
His instincts scream against it, he has always been the protector, always armored and vigilant. But he cannot refuse. Not now. Not after seeing you like this.
Slowly, he removes the straps and plates, letting the weight of his armor fall away piece by piece. When he finally sits on the edge of the bed beside you, you tug his hand gently, drawing him closer. Your arms wrap around him, desperate, and James finally allows himself to uncoil, to give in to the moment.
He hugs you tightly, letting every ounce of fear, fury, and relief flow into the embrace. Sobbing quietly against his chest, he holds you firmly, breathing in the flowery scent of your hair, the warmth of your body, the unmistakable, unshakable presence of you.
For the first time that day, James is simply there— nothing to protect, nothing to fight, nothing to plan. Just you and him. He would move Heaven and Earth to stand by you always, no matter the cost.
He does not know how long you stay like that, surrounded by the stillness of the room and the flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows across your face. You still tremble slightly, exhausted from the day’s grief, yet his hold is firm but gentle around you, letting you lean against him.
Your heartbeat is irregular and fast, and it mirrors the tension he has carried all day. You are safe now, here with him. And yet… He feels himself choke under the weight of everything he has tried to protect you from.
Finally, your voice comes, barely above the hush of the night. “James… I—” Your eyes close. “I–I don’t know what I would do without you. You always… Always know what to do, even when there seems to be no way out. You saved me more times than I can count, and… I–”
Your words falter. James’ heart throbs painfully in his chest.
“I love you.” The words are soft, vulnerable, almost a whisper, as if saying them louder might shatter the fragile quiet surrounding you. To James… Well, they feel like a cannon ball falling directly on his chest.
For a moment, he cannot speak, nor move. He should retreat and let the door shut close behind his back, a physical wall that symbolizes his final desperate attempt to distance himself from you.
Now, faced with the impending threat of someone taking you away from him, James refuses to be the umpteenth reason for your suffering.
He leans closer, letting his forehead rest on yours. “I have for so long–” His voice breaks, hoarse. “I have for so long loved you from afar. You are everything I am not worthy of, and yet…”
Your fingers trace lightly along his jaw, and his blue eyes close gently, finally slackening against your touch like an abandoned dog looking for affection. “And yet?” You prompt softly, breathless.
“And yet,” he whispers. “I cannot imagine letting anyone or anything take you from me. I have sworn to protect you, but… I also swear to be here, with you, for you, in every way I can. If you’ll let me.”
Your smile is small through the tears, a mixture of exhaustion and relief, but James has never seen you so radiant before. “I will.” You exhale. “Of course I will. I trust you. Always.”
He hugs you tightly, not needing to speak, letting the shared confession linger in the silent space between you. No threats, no attacks– only the truth of your hearts, spoken softly, held carefully, and received fully.
Your noses brush against each other when your face emerges from the slope of his neck. Your chest heaves when you finally let out your confession.
“I have never laid with anyone before.” James swallows, shaky fingers tracing the line of your jaw.
“I have done things by myself, but…”
“I know.” He confesses. “I heard you.”
“I know. I hoped you would.” Your smile is small when you timidly utter that, and James’ breath hitches.
“Your Highness—”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” Your lips purse in a small pout.
He flinches, momentarily taken aback. “I am your knight–”
“Not only my knight now.” You whisper, slowly lifting one of your legs. James waits with bated breath as your body positions itself on his lap, tentatively yet cunningly.
“We cannot move any further.” His voice breaks, wheezing when your hands cradle his stubbled face.
“I just want to hold you, James.” It is such a simple request, yet he feels like someone has just poured a bucket of icy water on his bare body. Because that’s how he feels, bare, not only emotionally but especially physically; his armor, the symbol of everything he should be, lies carelessly on your rug, because no princess should be forced to be pressed against hard, uncomfortable metal.
His hands lie weak by his sides. Sitting like this, with a pretty woman such as yourself on his lap, James might get untoward ideas and touch you in places he is not allowed to reach.
And now you are tugging down his pants, and James is sputtering to stop you, no real heat in his voice as his hard cock springs out. You swallow, watching it with parted lips.
“It’s… Big.” You mutter, hips unconsciously making a little thrusting movement.
“Is it– alright?” James swallows, blushing.
“Yes.” You smile and he manages to reciprocate, a deep rosy blush sitting on the apples of his cheeks.
You like him, you are accepting him.
Your sparkling eyes lift to look at his damp face, one of your hands placing itself on his pec. “Can I… ?”
And James is only a man.
He nods eagerly, gasping when your soft finger ghosts over his tip. It glides down the veins as you lean in close to get a better look, curious.
“I have never seen one before.” You admit abashed, using two fingers to rub the vein on the underside. James moans, hips jumping into your soft caresses. When you hold his sac, soft and pliable, in your hand he gasps hotly, before finally wrapping your hand around his cock, stroking it to full erection while his head rolls back. His lips part when he sighs, feeling himself grow impossibly harder and thicker in your hand.
“How does it feel?” You ask and twist your wrist, pulling a long guttural moan from him.
“So good, my princess.” He bites his bottom lip, then dares to open his eyes, flitting them down between his legs. “You made me so hard.”
You press a kiss on the side of his neck that sends his eyes back into oblivion, quickening your strokes, twisting a little harder, smearing the dew drops of precum over the smooth head.
“Gods!” James growls, thrusting his hips up into your hand, his breath caught in his lungs. You smirk at his reaction, nipping at his neck yet not enough to leave a lasting mark but one he would certainly feel tomorrow. Your tongue soothes it over while your free hand traces down the expanse of his hard chest to gently hold his balls. His whines are the sweetest of melodies to your ears.
“Let go for me, darling?” You purr and James cries out, a sob echoes in the dim-lit room as a familiar shudder rolls over his body. The hair on his neck raises and his belly contracts when he finally growls out a curse that would make even the rudest of soldiers balk, coming all over your fingers.
James' body shakes as he lets himself fall back against the bed, taking you with him. You let out a elated sigh as you give him a softer squeeze before you regard your soiled hand with innocent interest, and under his stunned gaze, your tongue peeks out enough to taste his seed.
“Gods above, sweetheart.”
You do not answer right away.
The word lingers between you, unfamiliar and precious. Warmth spreads slowly throughout your body, traitorously.
“You—” you stop, smiling despite yourself. “You have never called me that before.”
He looks almost uncertain. “I won’t again, if you do not want me to.”
You swallow, tightening your hold on his shirt. “Say it again.”
James' real smile is not dazzling, but real. It softens his face, strips years from him, something boyish and unexpectedly gentle breaking through the severity he usually wears. It is not as bright as the sun, but it carries his happiness all the same. And when his lips close around another term of endearment, you know you would remember the sound of it for the rest of her life.
Your arms wrap around his torso in a warm hug, squeezing him once as your whisper presses against his chest, so timidly. “Will you… Stay until morning?”
James swallows hard. Every instinct screams at him that he should, that he must, that the world outside could wait. “Yes.” He does not hesitate, his voice barely audible. “I am not going anywhere, my heart.”
You squirm slightly, hugging him tighter. James exhales slowly, letting himself slacken on the comfortable mattress. No threats, no guards, no political maneuvering— just you and this quiet moment of pure, unadulterated love.
For once, James allows himself to simply be the man who loves you and would not let you go.
The ballroom shimmers with crystal and candlelight, but James barely notices. His eyes are fixed on you, tracking every turn, every step, every laugh that feels forced.
The King’s announcement had come before the music even began: you are to entertain suitors, men from the other kingdom, all chosen to cement the fragile peace.
James’ chest had tightened the moment the words left his mouth. He had protected you through enemies both known and hidden, and now your own parents are auctioning you like a prize.
He moves alongside the sidelines, keeping close, as you greet the nobles with careful courtesy. He can clearly see the subtle curl of your lips, polite but empty, and the tension in your shoulders. You hate this. He wants to tear the chandeliers down, strike every man who dares step too close. But James remains quiet. Restrained. Observing. Always observing.
At some point in the night, inevitably, the crowd shifts: laughter and music and drink colliding, and you are gone.
James has always prided himself on having a strategic mind, on being a reliable soldier that always knows what to do, how to act. Now, he darts through expensive gowns and glasses that cost more than his salary, asking anyone who would look at him.
“Have you seen the Princess?”
Finally, a round man says. “She went toward the balcony.”
James sprints to the other end of the room, his boots hitting the marble in harsh, irregular beats. The balcony doors open to the cool night air. And there you are.
You, cowering against the stone wall as a man's hand presses firmly around your forearm. A duke, the knight immediately recognizes him. The sharp tang of alcohol reaches James before he even sees the cocky man’s face. It takes one glance at your wide, terrified eyes for the knight to launch himself at the slimy man, fury and steel all wrapped into one.
The duke yelps as James grabs him, relentless. Some knights had noticed the chaos, their faces turning from curiosity to alarm as they saw the ferocity in James’ eyes and his agitated movements. They followed, apprehending the nobleman and restraining him immediately.
“You know not who you address! You know not who I am! How dare you turds—”
His useless words dispel in the crisp darkness as James kneels quickly beside your hunched form, lifting you gently but firmly into his arms. Your shivering body loses all its tension, falling into his, as your own arms go around his torso instinctively.
“Shh.” He murmurs. “It’s over. You are safe.”
Your forehead rests against his chest, letting the tremors pass slowly.
“I can’t believe— He—” Your voice breaks.
“I know.” James closes his eyes, voice raw with anger. “I know. But I came. I will never let anyone do this to you.”
Your arms tighten around him. “James.”
He lifts his head slightly, letting his eyes meet your. They are wide, glistening with tears, but gone is the fear.
“I—” His voice falters. “I cannot stand to lose you. Not to them, not to anyone.”
Your hand pressed to his chest grounds his racing thoughts. “You won’t. You won’t lose me.”
He shakes his head slightly, disbelief and relief mingling.
“You are my protector, my strength… And my heart.”
He swallows hard, before delicately pressing his trembling lips on the top of your head— a kiss not of passion, but of surrender.
You sigh happily at the contact, trembling less now, yet refusing to ease your hold around him.
“I love you.” You whisper.
James exhales harshly, his hold desperate around you. “And I love you. Always. Even when I hate myself for it.”
James’ boots thump on the marble with a rhythm that matches the pounding in his chest. He has been summoned to the King and Queen’s presence, and he already knows the reason— they want to reprimand him.
They do not understand. They never will, not fully.
The King’s booming voice ripples the silence like a thunder the moment the knight enters. “You assaulted the Duke of Eastpier! Explain yourself!”
James keeps his posture straight, eyes unwavering. “I did not assault him. I restrained a man who was threatening the Princess. He had no right, no claim. He was putting her in danger. My duty is to her safety.”
The Queen’s sharp gaze slices across him. “Your violence was unseemly, sir James. Reckless. A knight is not above law or courtly protocol!”
James grits his teeth. Of course they would be more worried about appearances. The thought burns in his mind. Not that a man had cornered their daughter on a balcony, pressed his hand against her arm, intoxicated and convinced he could have his way with her? Not that she could have been hurt?
They are fretting over gossip, scandal. And James is expected to care more about their fragile reputation than the fact that their daughter had been assaulted.
The rage coils in his chest like a viper. He fought frost and famine for you. He made sure that whoever tried to speak ill of you was apprehended accordingly; he kept you safe. And now, the people who brought you into this world care only about what others think over your own well-being?
He forces himself to breathe evenly, to reply not out of disregard of their words, because that could lead them to strip him of this position and banish him from the palace, far from you.
“I am her knight. It is my duty to protect her. The court’s whispers mean nothing when her life is at stake.”
The King and Queen exchange glances, unease flickering behind their anger. “We… Appreciate your work, sir James.” The Queen admits, quieter though detached. “You have done a lot for our daughter. But you must temper your actions. Be more subtle, for the sake of the court.”
Subtle.
That word makes James’ blood boil. Subtle? After what you endured? After what that scumbag tried to do to you? Subtle will not save you from men like him. Subtle will not shield you from danger. And yet that is what they care about. Their daughter’s safety, apparently, is secondary to the court's opinion.
He holds himself rigid, forcing his jaw to relax, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the Queen. Behind his back, his fists clench until little crescent marks bloom onto his palms. “I will act with discretion. But let it be clear: my priority is the Princess. Always. Nothing else matters.”
The Queen’s expression softens just slightly, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “We are relieved she has such a devoted knight by her side. But discretion, sir James. Please.”
Discretion. Their voices grate against his brain like steel. He leaves without another word, fury still simmering under his skin and heart hammering with indignation.
He finds you pacing in your chambers shortly after, a frown on your pretty features. Your eyes land on the door as he enters, relief flickering in your eyes as you see him.
“They were angry.” You claim softly, stopping mid-step. “I did not know what they’d do to you.”
James crosses the room quickly and holds out his hands for you to take. “Nothing will happen to me. I am your knight. I swore an oath to protect you, and I will never break it.”
You hesitate in his embrace, your shoulders lowering as a fraction of the tension leaves your muscles. “I was so afraid they would punish you. Or force you away. You did nothing wrong.”
“And yet I must be careful.” He admits bitterly. “For appearances. But that does not change the truth: no one, nothing, will harm you while I stand here.”
Exhaling slowly, your chin lifts up, wishing to behold his face. “I know.” Your voice quiet but certain. “I trust you. You have kept me safe all this time. I don’t want to imagine what would happen if you weren’t here.”
James’ gaze softens, allowing his hand to hesitantly cup your cheek. “You need not to imagine it. I am always here, by your side.”
The court could fume. Nobles could whisper. But the threat is gone, and for the first time since that unpleasant event, both of you can breathe.
The infirmary is still when you open its door: no hearth lit, no servants bustling through, only the faint smell of iron and dried herbs clinging to the stone.
James sits on the edge of one of the narrow cots, his back straight despite the blood seeping through the torn linen of his shirt. He has not noticed you yet, his focus is inward, jaw clenched, one hand braced against the mattress as if holding himself in place.
You close the door softly behind you.
“James.”
At the sound of your voice, he stiffens. He turns too quickly, and pain flickers across his face before he can mask it.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He says at once, not wanting for you to see him like this, pathetic, in pain.
“I know.” Your mouth curves a little, stepping closer.
He stands, as if to put distance between you, and sways. You catch his arm without thinking. For a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. His skin is hot beneath your fingers, fevered from exertion and blood loss. His eyes drop to where you are touching him, and his shoulders go rigid.
“I’m fine,” he clears his throat, too quickly. “It’s nothing.”
“You are bleeding through your shirt.” You refuse to let it go. “Sit down.”
He searches your face, as if gauging how far he could push this before you yielded. You do not, on the contrary, you meet his gaze steadily, princess or not.
Finally, he exhales and lowers himself back onto the cot. After gathering what you need, you dip one of the edges of a white cloth in the bowl of water, before glancing at James and halting in your movements as if seeing him for the first time that afternoon.
“I believe you will have to take off your shirt.”
James’ lips press together as if to hide an amused grin at your sudden modesty. Despite that, he feels a slight pull at his nerves at the realization. You have never seen his upper body. He does not fear your judgement, not after what you had done that night. But perhaps he does feel a bit anxious to fulfill your expectations, considering the signs of battles he brings with himself like a sore reminder of his past.
The moment he slips his shirt off, gritting his teeth at the pull at his cut, you are left staring at him, suddenly mute, lips parted with a soft sigh that speaks of everything but disappointment.
James would have been a liar if he denied how your silent wonder stroked his ego. He worked for the muscles in his upper body his whole life, particularly after he decided to gain back his strength to become your protector, when his bones were too exhausted from the cold to collaborate, and his tongue could not remember the taste of bread. Now muscles adorn his torso again, alongside various scars, a souvenir of his reckless days as a Knight Banneret.
“I would never use my strength to hurt you, my heart.” You swallow, the sides of your neck heating up as he finally lets his walls crumble.
“I know.” You fret, before clearing your throat and composing yourself. “I was merely… Assessing the damage.” You wait, letting him indulge in smugness a little more. “Darling.”
James is certain his ears are on fire now.
“May I?” You whisper, already moving forward and reaching out your hand.
Your knight gulps. By all means, he longs for you to touch him, trace every line with your fingers, with your lips, your tongue–
“Of course.” He rasps instead, frowning at himself.
Your dominant hand dutifully wipes around the wound first, tender but thorough. The cut is clean but deep, an angry red line across his torso where the blade had slipped past guard and armor alike during practice.
Your other hand rests on his shoulder for balance as you stand between his legs, crouched and a little twisted, your position slightly awkward and no doubt uncomfortable.
“You were careless.” You start quietly, more relief than scolding in your tone. “You could have been killed.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”
“That’s not what I meant.” You dampen the cloth again. “You do not get to throw yourself away anymore.”
His gaze flicks up to your face. “And why is that?”
Your hand pauses.
“Because I—” You swallow, your eyes landing on his lap before looking him straight in the eyes. “Because you are mine now.”
His expression shifts, something raw breaking through the discipline.
“And I am yours.”
You let the words hang between you two as you go back to clean the cut. James hopes you cannot feel the way his heart is trying to crawl out of his rib cage from how quick it is beating. He decides to focus on something else, such as your beauty. It is rather unusual for him to see you from this angle, normally he towers several inches above you, having you have to tip your head back to simply look at him.
“When did you learn to dress a wound, my sweetheart?”
The hand on his shoulder squeezes the flesh once, a way for you to free yourself of the dizziness taking over you each time he lets himself indulge in your love for each other, releasing himself from duty and etiquette.
“I was a wild child.” You muse, a little smile brightening your features. “And there was a maid who would take care of me. She taught me a lot.” The fondness in your voice is evident as your eyes grow hazy, remembering a happiness long gone. “She was more of a mother than my own.”
A frown clouds your soft features with disappointment, quickly dissipating as James’ hand moves gently on the curve of your waist in comfort. You give him a small smile, before using a bit of wine to disinfect the wound.
He really did not want to show you how the sting affected him, yet he finds out that letting you, out of all people, see him vulnerable is not the worst thing to happen. When a hiss falls from his lips at the burn, your eyes raise to his with an unspoken apology; and his pain is soothed by the softest of kisses. James proceeds to steal several more, squeezing your hips, toying with the hem of your bodice before he lets you continue, demanding such compensation every time you make his jaw clench; and with each kiss, his hunger grows.
The moment you need to take a fresh cloth to bandage his torso, a squeal escapes your throat as strong arms circle your waist, dragging your body to sit on his thighs. Leaning onto his shoulders to not to fall, your breath fans his face as you shift in an attempt to find a comfortable position, inevitably brushing his most sensitive part.
Your knight claims your mouth, a hand reaching to cradle your face while his thumb gently strokes your cheek. Your body melts into his, pliant, and your lips succumb to his advances. His arm pulls you firmly chest to chest, your gasp of surprise swallowed by his mouth as your hands grab his arms. His pants are too tight all of sudden and he has no doubt it does not escape your attention.
“My dear heart…” He whispers, tasting the skin of your neck. How sweet you are, so effortlessly, unconsciously alluring to all his senses. The scent of your skin, the taste of your lips, the tender heat of your touch. Your eyes are blown with lust and wide as you feel his arousal, he cannot help himself with an angel like you resting on his lap. Your trembling hands settle on his shoulder for support, only to start grinding against him and Gods, he is so close to throw you on the cot and have his wicked way with you.
James had women in the tavern please him for money when he was younger and irresponsible, and his hand temporarily eased his lust thinking of how sweet your heat would be. Yet nothing could compare to your touch on his bare skin, and your palm around his cock.
Your lips part with a shaky exhale when his hands travel up your waist, teasing the underside of your breasts. He craves to taste them since the moment he helped you wash your back and your arm pressed against your sinful curves out of decency.
“James–” You whimper as your thighs tremble when his hips thrust up. He can feel the pressure in him building, his hands burning to untie your bodice, ruck up your skirts and pull his pants down to remove all barriers between you. Just him, you and absolute bliss.
“My heart, my sweetheart, how you tempt me.” He pants into your skin. A small pitiful sound which almost breaks his resolve has his blood boiling when his mouth meets your neck, heavy breaths expanding his chest as much as they do yours, every inhale causing your breasts to brush against his naked chest.
He dares to look up at your glistening face, instantly regretting it when his cock throbs at the sight of your own desire written all over your features. “This the most difficult and yet the sweetest trial I have ever faced. You are beautiful, so beautiful.”
James grabs your hips, forcing his own to cease the instinctive motions, preventing your own as well.
The corners of your lips lift in a shy smile. “And you are so handsome, darling.” You admit. “It is hard to not give in to sin.” You timidly mumble, caressing the hair on his chest.
His beautiful, kind, bashful minx of a Princess. How could he not fall for you?
“I feel the same, sweetheart. I love you.” Your eyes shine with affection as you cup his face and plant a soft kiss on his forehead.
“I love you too, James.” You swallow, squirming. “Promise me you will be more careful.” Your eyes flit to the wound you had not finished cleaning, but James tips your chin up gently so you can look at him.
“I promise, my sweetness.”
You clear your throat, slowly standing up from his lap under his confused gaze.
“Perhaps,” your knees land on the wooden floorboards, the discomfort unmistakable and immediate, yet your soft skirts alleviate it a little. “You need a stronger… Encouragement.”
James towers over you, still and bewildered. His Princess, kneeling before him, a lowly knight. How blasphemous!
Your hands work nimbly on the opening of his pants, finally freeing his erection from its confines.
The world slips out of focus until all that’s left is James’ shaft, leaking and proud against his abdomen. Your mouth waters at the sight– his tip is flushed red, swollen; the length throbs under your misty eyes, undeniably starved for him.
“Sweetheart–”
“Let me do it, please.” You mumble, forcing yourself to look up at his parted lips. “Let me make you feel good.” You mewl, reveling in his gasp when your hand wraps around his shaft, the head nudging your mouth, smearing his precum across your lips, now shining with him and oh, your tongue finally peeks out to taste it, and Gods above… The sight alone could have him coming untouched.
His hips rut forward automatically, pushing his tip in and out of your mouth. “S–Sorry my love.” He rushes out, unable to stop himself from feeling your velvety warmth around him. His musky scent fills your nose, and your thighs clench against each other.
“Oh Gods.” He moans, finally working his way into your mouth. You relax your throat, just like Natalia told you to do. It was quite embarrassing to ask her for this kind of advice, but your trusted maid revealed herself to be very knowledgeable, and happy to help you. She has extensive knowledge on your special relationship with your knight.
James’ head falls back, his hand involuntarily fisting your hair, before soothing your head with gentle apologies and soft caresses.
“No.” You wheeze, tightening his hold on your hair with your own hand. “Let me take care of you.” You lean forward, pressing a kiss on his hip bone. “I want you to use me, James. You deserve it.”
He stifles a groan at your eagerness as you engulf his cock as far in as you could, his balls nudging your chin. His blue eyes darken, now locked with yours as his jaw unclenches. He is utterly in love with you. Everyone else was completely ruined for him the moment you took a look at him when he was still homeless, and decided to nurse him back to health. Despite the fact that James spent the first months in denial, he knew he was truly, irreversibly gone for you.
His hand shakily smooths your hair back as your tongue licks a long stripe along the underside of his length, base to tip. Your palms slide up his thighs, feeling his taut muscles beneath your fingertips, then your right hand gently cups his balls.
“Oh princess.” His head falls forward, and you take him into your mouth again, rolling his sack in your hand, gently suckling at his tender head.
His soft whimpers blend with the warmth of your bodies.
“Sweetheart, your m–mouth–” His praise is cut off by a whine when his tip kisses the back of your throat deliciously; your hand continues to work on his balls, the other anchoring yourself to his thigh.
He forces his hips still, groaning brokenly as your cheeks hollow around him. “Where did you learn– oh Gods!” His jaw clenches, finally willing his eyes open to enjoy the show.
Small tears gather at the corners of your eyes as you gag around his cock, the sight alone makes his knees tremble, his breath stalling in his chest. He is so close, you can feel it.
Seeing your devoted, hard-working knight reduced to a moaning mess makes your hole clench around nothing. What a mess you are making in your undergarments!
Saliva pools around his length, slicking down his balls. His teeth hurt by the way he is clenching his jaw, trying to keep his hips firmly on the cot, until your hand squeezes around his thigh. He looks down hurriedly, scared to have hurt you, yet he only sees your wide eyes, before you nod at him. That’s when his hips snap forward, both his hands flying on your hair to help you bob your throat up and down his cock.
A wet gulp, a slap of his balls against your skin, your mouth slurping with every thrust.
Before you can realize what is happening, James bursts into your throat with a needy groan, hot ropes of cum painting your insides as your eyes close, forcing yourself to swallow around him to ensure not a single drop goes to waste.
Your skin is hot and sticky with sweat as the sound of heavy breathing fills the dimly lit room. Finally pulling out, James slowly loosens his grip on your hair, instantly going for your waist to help you up and on his laps. With eyes half-lidded, you regard him, quiet yet hopeful for some sign of approval.
“You are going to kill me one day, sweetheart.” His fingers brush your cheek with gentleness, searching your face for any sign of discomfort; his shoulders lower only when you giggle at his dejected voice. Then, your eyes widen.
“Oh Gods, your wound!”
This day feels like a gift. Sunlight spills freely across the gardens, warming the stone paths and waking the scent of flowers that have slept through the colder weeks. The air is gentle on your face, carrying the soft hum of insects and the distant splash of fountains scattered across the grass. For once, nothing presses at your chest. No expectations, no lessons, no whispered plans made without your consent.
You lead the way to the pond with a skip in your steps that makes James barely contain his satisfied smile. It lies tucked behind a curtain of willows, their branches trailing low enough to brush the crystalline water’s surface. The world seems to end there– the sounds are muffled, and the palace is reduced to something imagined rather than real. It has been your favorite spot since childhood, a place where you could pretend to belong only to yourself and nature.
James steps in front of you, instinctively scrutinising the surroundings before setting an old, big cloak on the trimmed grass for you to rest on. The tension eases from his shoulders when he sees no one else is near.
“There is no one around.” You smile, settling onto the makeshift cover at the water’s edge and kicking off your shoes.
James immediately understands what you mean. That's what you say to imply your wish of having him closer, out of his duties. Sitting beside you, close enough that your arms brush against each other, James closes his eyes for a moment, simply listening— to the water, the wind, the fragile peace neither of you trust to last.
Yet, it is enough for now.
Then, you lean into him. He stiffens for half a heartbeat, habit more than hesitation, before his arm comes around your shoulders. His touch is still careful, always careful— at least when his blood stays away from his loins, for he fears the world might punish him for touching you too freely.
You tilt your head up, the tip of your nose grazing his jaw. “No one can see us.”
“I know.” He murmurs, his gaze flicking once more to the trees before landing on you. He observes you with anticipation as you rise onto your knees, only to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him.
It is unhurried, freeing, nothing like the stolen, breathless moments you usually manage. His hand slides to your waist, tentative at first, then surer when you lean into him more. When you part, James rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.
“I wish I could give you this every day.” He confesses like a prayer.
“You already do.” Your hands cradle his cheeks, thumbs caressing his stubble. Your head turns then, brushing your lips along his jaw, his cheek, smiling when he finally chuckles, a low, unguarded sound.
You lie back together, your head on his chest as his arm wrap around your shoulders, keeping you close to his muscled body while his fingers trace absent lines along your arm. You tell him about the lessons you skipped yesterday, about a ridiculous myth you had read in one of Father's books that morning, and then you comment the swans freely playing in the water, marveling at their graceful beauty.
And James listens, because your every word matters.
Your voice dwindles into silence eventually, and when your eyes raise, they find his already admiring you with a soft, rare smile on his lips. Before long, your little haven comes alive with heavy breathes, heated gazes and wandering hands.
James draws you to him, mouth still pressed on your delicious lips, barely holding back from sinking his teeth into the supple flesh. You respond with a small, pleased noise, soft and warm against his taut body, and your tongues much more daring than the previous times you indulged in such moments of forbidden closeness.
With a grunt, James gently guides you back until you lay completely on the cloak, bracing himself with an arm above you. With growing confidence, your arms circle around James’ head, hands fisted into his hair and curiously roaming his body.
You open up like a flower under his fingers. Slowly, he kneads your chest, then your hips, your thighs, all to be rewarded with gasps and whimpers leaping from your mouth into his. You keep pulling him against you, as if you wish to melt into one. It is easy for your knight to explore what's hidden under your dress, for you chose a lighter, simpler gown today– were you hoping for something indecent to happen? Have you been luring him in all morning, only for his control to finally slip?
The skin of your inner thigh is soft when he presses his big palm to your core, causing you to buck into it clumsily.
“Gods.” James sighs, dipping his face into the inviting curve of your neck. “You are divine, sweetness.”
Your answer dissolves into sighs and whimpers as James kisses the skin of your neck and grounds his palm into you. The way you are coming apart underneath him, how your hands caress up his back, how your thighs keep trying to shut close around his arm, and most of all the soft, desperate sounds falling from your lips… It is driving James crazy. With a practiced hand, his fingers reach for the hem of your undergarments and pull down. Then, his hand finally touches the warm spot between your legs, wet and slick from pure desire. Your every breath and twitch are delightful as he slowly trails his fingers over and between your folds, lightly rubbing your hidden nub.
“James.” You whine against his lips. It is not enough. Thus James pulls the cups of your dress down, breath hitching at the sight of your beautiful breasts, and kneads the flesh with his other hand, kissing between your tits; your gasps are loud and your chest pushes insistently against his mouth as he finally tastes your turgid nipples. The hands in his hair tightens once the knight gathers some of your wetness to spread it on your sensitive peaks; sucking and moaning around them, his eyes roll back when your tangy nectar quenches his thirst for you. You whimper and arch into his touch, and James smiles satisfied with his face nestled on the soft cushion of your breasts. He is wholly and entirely endeared, you are so beautifully receptive to even the most minuscule of movements on your pussy.
“W–What…?” Your neck cranes confused when you cannot feel his warmth against your bare chest anymore. With a soothing caress on your thigh, James grips it, guiding you until you spread your legs apart, as wide as your skirt allows. And then, you squeal.
His tongue darts out to lick at your core, sending thrilling jolts throughout your body.
You quickly hike up your dress, finally catching sight of him as his mouth attaches to you. You watch transfixed, exhilarated as James sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around it circularly, dipping between your folds with every shudder of your thighs.
His eyes are closed in peaceful bliss, and his tongue shakes back and forth, nose nuzzling in closer to your core like you are seeping nectar instead of arousal. His voice escapes in little grunts and gasps as you preen and moan above him; your thighs attempt to close around his head, yet he welcomes the sudden pressure with a loud moan, before he forces them open again.
“James!” You moan, head thrown back against the old cloak. “I feel— I think I’m–”
Besides your voice and his, you have never heard a noise so crude as the result of him fucking you with his mouth. Your hole clenches around nothing, and James decides to close the remaining distance, pressing a finger inside. It is the perfect pace and pressure that makes you grip his hair, finally humping his face as your wanton sounds resound through the willow fronds, the most melodious song that James has ever heard.
“James!” You come hard, ignoring his grin against your core as your insides tightened around his finger. He drinks your orgasm up with his cock straining in his pants, loving the way you clutch around his head like a vice, to the point where he stops thrusting his finger and instead focuses entirely on nursing on your clit until you are trembling and sobbing for him to stop.
When your mind does not feel so foggy anymore, the first thing you notice is a heavy weight on your chest: content, your knight rests on your warm breasts. You simply cradle his cheek, placing a thankful kiss on his forehead.
It is not difficult to convince him to let you help him with his own arousal. His cock slides back and forth but it passes over your clit each time. Your nails dig into the skin of his forearm as your back is pressed securely against his chest, one of his hands resting firmly on your hips to pull you back and forth in perfect rhythm with his thrusts.
“Sweetness, I know–” James gasps. “I know it feels good but you need to stay put or it will end inside you.”
You whimper, it is so wet and warm and the way your intimate parts sound together is so perverse, yet the fear of being caught faded once your swollen clit started rubbing against his thick cock, every single vein deliciously teasing your wet folds.
Lightly grabbing your jaw, James lifts it up enough so he can press a loving kiss on your lips, his free hand groping your still naked chest. “So soft and so lovely for me, my princess.”
He shakes and clutches your skin hard enough to toy with the line between pleasure and pain, grunting prayers for forgiveness in your ear until he tarnishes your pussy with his seed. Your name has never sounded so tender on someone's lips.
James is in the practice yard when he hears you running. Not the measured steps you usually take when you come to find him, nor the careful quiet of your secret meetings in his room. This is ragged, uneven— skirts hitched too high, breath breaking. He turns just as you burst through the archway, cheeks wet with fat tears and eyes shining red.
“James!” You scream, to hell with good manners. And the way his name fractures in your mouth makes his blood go cold.
He crosses the yard in three strides and catches you before you could say anything else. Not an embrace— he never dares that where stone and shadow could betray you— but his hands close around your forearms, steady. He forces his voice into the calm he uses on frightened horses and wounded men.
“What is it?” He frowns. “You are safe now. Slow your breathing.”
You shake your head, a sharp, helpless motion, and the tears spill at last. “They have decided.” You whisper, closing your eyes in pain. “My parents. They have chosen him.”
The world narrows to the irregular sound of your breathing and the dull thud of James’ own heart. Chosen. Him. The words echo, merciless.
For a moment, an image rises unbidden: a foreign lord’s hand closing over yours, a crown pressed down where his fingers brush your hair. A life sealed shut like a door slammed in his face.
He loosenes his grip before you can feel his hands tremble.
“Who?” He swallows around a knot, though the name hardly matters. Any name that is not his would have the same weight.
Your eyes land on his chest, unable to face the storm inside his. “A duke from the western side. They say he is… Suitable.” Your voice breaks again, a cruel scoff of a laugh falling from your lips. “That this will secure the border for good.”
Something fierce and ugly surges in him then— an instinct as old as hunger. Take you and run. Put steel between you and anyone who dares claim you. He has lived with less than nothing before; he could do it again if it meant you are free.
But he says none of it.
“James, I can’t– I don’t want him. I don’t want any of this. You have to do something please! I–” Your words tumble over one another, dissolving into a thin, frightened sound. A tremor runs through you, and your hand presses on your chest as though trying to hold your heart in place. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, and your gaze darts past him as if the world has started to spin at the speed of light.
James angles his body so he blocks you from any prying eyes. His voice remains low, firm. “Look at me.” His finger gently lifts your chin. “Do you trust me?” You desperately nod. “Then follow me, we cannot stay here.”
Your eyes flick to his, wide and unfocused. Somewhere beyond the archway, footsteps echo— distant, but real. Without hesitation, James reaches for his cloak, previously abandoned on a stone, and wraps it around your shoulders, drawing the hood up to shadow your face. His hands are steady even as his pulse thunders in his ears, you are more important.
“Head down.” He murmurs. “Stay close and do not speak.”
His hand on your back guides you forward, the other subtly steering you through the narrow passages he knows better than his own body. Every corner suddenly feels dangerous. Every servant, every guard a threat— not to him, but to your dignity and privacy. If they see you like this, tear-streaked, shaking, it would spread. Whispers would turn to speculation. Speculation to certainty.
James would not allow it.
You reach your chambers without incident, and James wastes no time. He locks the door behind you, and only then does he turn back to you. The moment the latch clicks, your strength weakens. You sag against the door, breath coming in short, broken gasps. James is there instantly, kneeling in front of you, his presence solid, unyielding.
“You are safe.” He utters quietly. “No one can see you now.”
Inside, fear claws at him, sharp and relentless. The walls meant to protect you are now a deadly trap, and this is only the beginning. The first crack in something that could shatter you both. But he keeps his face calm, his voice sure. Panic could take many things from him, but not you, not while he still stands between your peace and the world.
“Breathe with me, my heart.” He encourages softly, one of your hands led to his chest to match his breathing. “I am here now, nothing can hurt you.”
He knows how this world works, how little a princess’s wish could weigh against treaties and borders. His love feels suddenly small and useless, a candle guttering in a storm. He draws in a slow breath and waits until you match it, until the sobs ease into shaky inhales. All the while, dread coils tighter around his heart. He could face blades and hunger and exile, but the prospect of a future where he stands by and watches you marry a man that is not him, against your will… He would tear that future apart before he allowed it to come to pass.
Only when the blizzard inside you quiets, your legs give up under you. James promptly catches your waist, guiding you to sit on your bed with a softness that makes tears spring up in your eyes again.
“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, hands fisted in his cloak as if it was the only solid thing left.
“You are not alone.” He chooses each word like a step across thin ice. “We’ll find a way forward.”
“I refuse to let anyone else touch me the way you should, James.” You swallow, tugging him closer by his shirt. “Let it be you, the man I love, before I am married off to someone undeserving of my touch, who only values gold and titles.”
“My love, what are you suggesting—”
“Take me.”
“Don’t—” He strangles out. “Some words are too dangerous to be spoken aloud.”
“Why?” You almost shriek. “I love you James, and you love me. Let it be you!”
“You must,” His jaw tightens. “You must think this through. If anyone was to hear… If this were spoken of, it would stain you. I won’t be the reason—”
“Please, James.” You are now sobbing, clinging to his shirt like the last thing tethering you to this world. The sight strikes him harder than any blow. “We have already indulged in each other's pleasure—”
James stares at you, disbelieving. “What you are asking is completely different. Don't say what cannot be taken back.”
Your voice shakes, but it does not falter. “I am to be given to a man who sees me as a treaty, as a chest of gold with a crown upon it. He does not know me. He does not love me.” You sniffle. “You do.”
“That is precisely why I can’t,” he replies, too quickly. “Because I love you.”
Your fingers reach up, stopping just short of touching his cheek, as if granting him the chance to pull away. “James,” you whisper. “Please. Let me choose something for myself before I am no longer allowed to.”
His ears ring. He craves to close the distance, to give you the comfort you ask for, the truth his body has known long before his mind allowed it. He needs to have you, and mark you. No one would be allowed to claim you.
“Are you certain?” He asks hoarsely. “Tell me you won’t regret this. Tell me you won’t wake tomorrow and wish I had been stronger than you were.”
You meet his gaze without flinching. “I will regret it if you don’t.”
For a long moment, James does nothing. He sits there, torn between devotion and damnation, between the man he has sworn to be and the man you are asking him to become. Then, with a care that borders on reverence, he lifts a hand to your cheek, as if even that was a transgression in this moment, and leans in.
The kiss is supposed to be brief, chaste. A promise rather than a claim. But after he pulls away, his breath unsteady, his forehead resting against yours as if he could not trust himself to look at you, his restraint snaps.
With a moan, his hand moves against the back of your neck, pulling you until your lips collide with his. His other hand finds its way to your hip, rubbing the skin through the soft fabric of your gown in a soothing motion.
“You are trembling,” he comments softly. “Are you scared of me, my heart?” You quickly shake your head, pulling him down into another breathless kiss. He groans, kissing you harder, hand finally sliding down to cup one of your breasts. Heat instantly floods your core, and he revels in your little gasps. “Gods, you don’t even know what you do to me.” Your cheeks are flaming at the veneration in his words, his compliment igniting something deep inside of you, a burning, aching need in your belly that has you wiggling your hips to relieve some of the tension.
“It's just me.” Your breath quivers as his forehead gently rests against yours. “Let me worship you, my love.”
You can only nod eagerly, and James kisses you again until you are dizzy. His hand slides back under your dress, his fingers softly caressing your skin until you tighten your hold on his shirt. He undresses you slowly, taking his time in admiring the sight of you beneath him as you slowly bare more and more of your gorgeous body to him, until you are fully exposed to his gaze, now lying on your bed.
You tentatively reach up and grasp at his shirt, helping him pull it over his head, and you moan at the sight of his broad chest. You have seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never when he was looking at you like an animal hunting its prey. Pressing your lips to his, you continue your mission of undressing him, clumsily toying with the hem of his pants and helping him to tug them down his legs, leaving you both naked and vulnerable.
Your gaze wanders downwards before you even realize it has, and you quietly gasp at the sight of his cock, already hard and aching for attention.
James notices the way your eyes fight the urge to glance back down at his cock, and a little grin brightens his features. You can sense in his warm gaze and the way he holds you closely to him, that he understood what you crave.
He moves to straddle you, pressing his forehead to yours so all you can see are his pretty blue eyes staring right back at you, blocking out the rest of the world and your own thoughts. “Speak to me, sweetness.”
You put your hand on his heart thumping in excitement as the other one traces the expanse of his torso, until it reaches his cock. When you wrap your fingers around his girth, you both let out a loud moan. He always feels so heavy in your hand, so thick and hard under your fingertips as a pang of arousal shoots through you when he moans out your name at the contact. Oh, you could barely wait to have him inside of you.
“My greedy princess.” He exhales slowly, precum dribbling from the tip and you cannot resist the urge to thumb over his sensitive tip to collect some of it. You barely contain your pleased grin when he moans loudly at the feeling, he could come on the spot if you do not abandon your teasing motions.
To know that he is the first man you have ever seen or touched sends a sensation through him that he cannot quite describe. Something primal that fills him with the pride of being the first to have you like this. To be the only man who will ever have you wholly like this.
“I don’t believe it's going to fit.” You breathe out, drooling like a hungry mutt as you keep jerking him off.
“Then let's get you stretched until it does, princess.”
James worships you with his mouth and fingers. He makes sure to guide you so your hips roll against his eager tongue. You gain a rhythm, moving back and forth seeking out that delicious friction against your clit as you grasp his hair with both hands. Your breath comes out in short pants, and you feel the pressure deep within your pussy close to overtaking you. His fingers move with care, slipping between your thighs like he already knows your body’s secrets. The first touch makes you gasp— gentle, slow, utterly devoted. You rock down against his mouth a couple more times, two fingers deep abusing your sweet spot until you cry out, your first orgasm bursting and rippling over your body. James hums approvingly as he drinks your slick like fine wine.
“I have given you the world, my love.” He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as his length teases your folds. “Let me show you the divine devotion of a true knight, loyal until the bitter end.” Slowly inching it inside you to revel in the feeling of your tight walls, you can only moan into his mouth in response. At first, he thrusts inside you slowly and deliberately to get you used to the feeling. The sensation is initially foreign to you, the stretch unlike anything you have ever known, pain and pleasure mixing together in the most delicious way as you whimper against his mouth.
“I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.” He starts to rut into you more roughly, abandoning his rhythm once he has a taste of you. “Just like this.” His hips snap forward, and you cry out in response.
“Oh James, Gods above!” Your back arches, legs tightening around his waist, silently begging for more.
“I'm not going to last if you look at me like that.” You can only kiss him, his hips rocking against yours to the hilt in a rhythm that makes you clutch at his bicep with one hand and his neck with the other, nails exquisitely marking his skin.
“I can't let you marry him, I can't let you go.” He needs you ruined for any other man. His fingers trails between your thighs, stroking lazy, merciless circles until your hips jerk up. His mouth closes around the swell of your breast, tongue hot and insistent on your nipples, and you cry out, arching against him.
“James.” Your voice breaks as your body trembles on the edge.
“Forgive me, my princess. I cannot stop.”
“You're not allowed to stop!” You whimper.
“You’re mine to cherish, mine to love.” James whispers, voice rough with possession. “I’ll worship you within an inch of your sanity, fuck you so tenderly and viciously that you will think of nothing but this moment.”
And when he kisses you again, filthy and slow, your body shatters for the second time, clinging to him as you come undone. Shame no longer exists; only the endless tide of your desperate touch, and your sweet moans as he tears you apart. He swears he has never seen anything more angelic than the sight of you overtaken by pure bliss.
A shiver runs down your spine when his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and wild, and you swear he growls when his body presses you more firmly into the wrinkled sheets, his mouth at your throat, your legs disgracefully open for him and only him. James brutally thrusts into you, harder, deeper, the sound of your cries jumping on the marble walls, careless of any servant that might walk by and hear you.
Every thrust, every scrape of his teeth along your skin, every hot kiss to your breast claims you wholly.
“I can’t— Gods!” He pants your name into your neck, kissing and sucking down the column of your throat, his hand digging into your thighs mercilessly. You are so close again you can barely breathe. The world narrows to the animalistic pace of his hips, his musky scent, the heat building in your core. When your climax hits you for the third and final time, it’s like a storm roaring inside you. James feels you clench around him impossibly tighter, indulging in the way you scream his name, shaking and moaning out of control. An angel made of sinful rapture, pliant for your knight to use as he pleases. Your delicious whimpers and the sounds of your wet pussy sucking his cock back in are utterly obscene, and he knows he is not going to last much longer.
“I need—” He groans, crashing his mouth against yours in an open-mouth kiss. His thrusts grow erratic, before spilling into you with a deep, shuddering moan muffled by your raw lips, filling you with his warmth.
Clinging to each other, both of you tremble, your body exhausted yet sated. James breathes heavily against the damp crook of your neck while you gently thread your fingers through his hair. His hold around you is urgent, terrified someone might break the door down and drag him away from you. Your arms tighten around his shoulders to keep this moment forever, because no matter what is going to happen, you belong to him.
James lies on his side, staring at the gradually slowing of your chest beside him, tracing the curve of your eyelashes in his mind, the gentle brush of your hair tickling his skin.
He has always known loyalty, but today it transformed into something more. Fierce, unyielding, all-consuming. Your laughter, your sighs, the way you look at him when you think no one is watching— they are all treasures he would guard with his life. He could fight armies, bear scars, face danger without hesitation, but nothing matters as much as your happiness.
Not even his armor.
He presses his hand to his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat sing the truth he has tried to ignore for so long. He has no crown to offer you, no kingdom to claim, no power to command armies. But he has his sword, his vow. And his heart, utterly, irreversibly yours.
When his forehead rests against yours, and your fingers intertwine, your focus is solely on him.
“I have a sword to protect you, but not a crown to have you. Marry me, my sweetness, and let us leave behind this world that wants to bind you. Let us write our own story, where we are free, and happiness is ours alone.”
Your breath hitches at those hushed words, outshouting every symphony, every reprimand, every demand that has shaped your life. Tears well in your eyes, shimmering like the morning light as your free hand cradles his already damp cheek.
“Oh my beloved knight. Yes James, I will be your wife! Take me with you and let's leave this place behind. Together.”
He holds you close, feeling the weight of every fear and every doubt melt away. In that embrace, surrounded by the warm light of the candles, you allow yourselves to believe in a future untouched by duty or sorrow— a future that is entirely and beautifully yours.
if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist, just leave a comment or an inbox (my whole account is nsfw, so you need to be 18+ and have your age displayed. it is impossible for me to go through every account, therefore I trust you to be honest and respectful of my rules and boundaries, thank you).
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!
winter soldier x reader / thunderbolts!bucky x reader
word count: 18.7k
you fell in love with the man who trained you in the red room. he helped you escape - and made you promise to never look back. years later, when an old friend asks for your help, you find yourself working with a group of anti-heroes. including him.
warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut, ex widow reader, angst, heartbreak, thunderbolts timeline, pre-winter soldier movie timeline, mentions of blood, canon level violence, probably poorly translated russian, no use of y/n, reader is afab, oral, unprotected p in v, reader is implied to be shorter than bucky, reader's age isn't specified but she is an adult throughout the whole story, slow burn as fuck but happy ending i promise
thank you so much to @starsoverbrooklyn and @whereiweep for letting me yap about this for over a month and for reading over it for me. ily and appreciate you both so much.
i made a little playlist for this fic. you definitely don’t have to listen to it, but here it is if you want to give it a listen for the vibes ✨🖤
Circa 2013
“Согните локти. Я не хочу повторять это снова.”
You grit your teeth at his words. He only speaks to you in Russian when he means business - it's a force of habit for him, more than anything, but you can't help but feel the stinging pinch of disappointment anytime he speaks to you in the language.
His voice is always a tad colder. More mechanical. Like he's talking to one of the handlers. Like he's a little less himself.
Whoever that may be.
Bend your elbows. I don’t want to have to tell you again.
“My elbows are bent,” you say flatly. It’s a bold face lie - you know damn well you tend to hyper-extend your arms when they start to get tired during target practice. He reminds you of it often.
“Come and get a closer look and see for yourself,” you taunt him.
He says nothing. After a second of loaded silence, the sound of his combat boots against the floor echoes through the room as he takes deliberately slow steps toward you. He probably thinks he's intimidating you - and judging by the way your breath catches in your throat as he closes in on you, it’s a safe assumption.
You maintain your position when he comes to a stop just inches behind you. Your index finger hovers above the trigger as you try to ignore the way your heart races as he looms over you from behind.
It isn't a reaction born from fear. It’s excitement. So often you try to draw him in closer, though it’s rare that he actually indulges in your scheming.
He stands close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. You blink rapidly, as if it will somehow make the goosebumps that have suddenly appeared on your skin dissipate.
He raises his metal hand to your arm from his position behind you, placing his fingers against the bend of your elbow and applying just enough pressure so that you relax the position of your arm. Then, using his flesh hand, repeats the action on your opposite arm.
“Now,” he breathes in perfectly clear English, “if you’re finished trying to get my attention, shoot the target.”
You blink. Once, then twice, and then squeeze the trigger. Only after a perfect succession of hits, do you remember to breathe.
“See,” he muses, his voice softening the slightest bit. “You've got great aim, when you aren’t being childish.”
You whip around, turning to face him. Your chest brushes against his, but he doesn’t move an inch. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, unblinking. His jaw is set in a hard line, but you don’t miss the way his Adam’s apple bobs at the sudden close proximity.
It's moments like this that you’d do anything to know his name. You’ve wondered what it could be a thousand times. Henry? William? Daniel?
None of those names seem to suit him. But you know better than to ask. Every time you do, you’re met with a blank expression and loaded silence.
“Am I being childish?” You challenge. “Or do I just find all of these extra lessons a little…unnecessary? I don’t see anyone else getting this level of one-on-one attention. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might be growing fond of me, Soldat.”
His expression remains stoic. Your eyes begin to sting, but you refuse to be the first to blink.
“If these extra lessons help to keep you alive, then they are not unnecessary to me.”
He suddenly steps back, distancing himself from you a mere second before the double doors on the other side of the room come flying open and two Hydra agents barge inside. They bark commands at him in thick Russian accents, effectively breaking any tension that had been brewing between you. Still, his gaze remains on you.
“Любить — недостаточно сильное слово.”
With his back turned to the guards, he says the words low enough so that only you hear them. He then turns and follows the agents out of the room, leaving you alone to wonder if you’d heard him correctly.
Fond is not a strong enough word.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
A fortnight passes before you see him again.
Each night, you fall asleep replaying the last words he said to you on an endless loop. With every day that passes, you’re more and more convinced that you had hallucinated his confession.
It's rare that you go this long without seeing him. Your sessions together had become something of a routine, and you find yourself wandering aimlessly in your limited amount of free time each day, just hoping to run into him around the bleak and depressing facility that you're forced to call home.
You just need a few minutes with him - just long enough to confirm that you aren’t going crazy. That he really did say those words to you before seemingly vanishing like smoke.
You find yourself longing to get him alone. Really alone. Not in the way that you’re alone when he’s making you fight him in hand to hand combat or shoot at the same target for the twentieth time and someone could walk in at any moment. Completely and utterly alone - away from here, away from Hydra, away from the Red Room.
Maybe then he’d open up and at least tell you his name.
But it’s just a fantasy. Merely something for you to maladaptive daydream about in order to get through the day when he's nowhere to be found. The likelihood of ever seeing him outside of these walls is slim to none, but that doesn’t stop you from fantasizing about it far more often than you care to admit.
It's three in the morning and you’re staring up at your ceiling in the pitch black when you hear a sudden commotion of slamming doors and loud, angry voices. You sit up, holding your breath as you listen. There’s only so much that you can make out from down the hallway, behind the closed door of your room, but it’s enough to make your heart thud in your chest.
The soldier. The asset. Soldat. All spat in the same tone of disgust.
You get out of bed, tip-toeing across the room to press an ear against your door in hopes of hearing his voice. You just want confirmation that he’s okay - that he’s alive.
All that you’re able to hear is the voice of the guards, one indistinguishable from the next. Within a minute, the voices dissipate and the night is silent once more.
Your thoughts begin to spiral and your stomach churns with nausea. There’s no use in even trying to sleep now. There’s no way your brain will allow you to relax enough to fall asleep until you know that he’s alright.
You’ve lived in this facility for years. You know it like the back of your hand - even sections that are supposed to be off limits. You’ve never been to his quarters, but you know your way around well enough to get there. You don’t have any intention of actually approaching him; the last thing you want is to do anything that could cause the guards to refer to him with so much venom in their voices again.
Just to hear the shuffling of his covers or low snores from behind his door would be enough to ease your worrying until you see him again.
The compound is eerily silent at night. You don’t bother putting on shoes, as you’re able to walk more quietly without the shuffling of your slippers. The metal flooring of the hallway feels like ice against your feet, making you wish you had at least thrown a hoodie or cardigan over your camisole.
Without any windows or lights on, navigating your way through the endless maze of hallways is borderline impossible. You have to rely on touch more than sight, keeping your hands extended in front of you to feel for anything you might run into. Eventually, you make your way to the basement, where you’re relieved to see that the long hallway is illuminated by dimly lit sconces, each placed a few yards apart.
From the opposite end of the hallway, you hear what you believe to be running water - a faucet or shower. You follow the sound until you come to a closed door with faint yellow light spilling from the crack at the floor. You freeze, waiting to hear some kind of movement or see some kind of shadow appear on the sliver of light.
“I know you’re out there. You aren’t nearly as quiet as you think you are.”
You exhale through your nose at the sound of his voice, releasing the breath you didn't realize you’d been holding in. His voice is as serious as ever, and there’s an unusually strained edge to it, but he’s alive, so you can’t help but feel relieved.
“How’d you know it’s me?” You murmur back.
He’s silent for a few moments. You start to worry that you’re bothering him when the door opens up, startling you - for more reasons than one.
“I can smell you. I recognized your scent.”
Your eyes go wide as your mouth hangs open in shock and horror. He pulls you into the bathroom and closes the door before the first question can leave your lips.
The left side of his face is marred by a reddish-purple bruise that covers his eye and extends down to his cheekbone. His bottom lip is just as swollen, with a split down the middle. There’s dried blood concentrated around his nose, indicating injury there as well.
Only after taking in the jarring discoloration across his face do you realize that he isn't wearing a shirt. Your gaze trails to the raised, jagged scar tissue where the flesh of his shoulder meets the metal that is his left arm. You aren't sure how he lost the limb - you’ve never asked - but the scarring tells you it was brutal and violent.
“Who did this to you?” You whisper, not trusting your voice. The same feeling of nausea that came over you when you’d overheard the guards talking about him washes over you once more.
He swallows thickly, his jaw tensing as he grits his teeth. He doesn’t answer before he turns away from you to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Deep down, you already know the answer.
“Part of my latest assignment didn’t go as intended. It’s my own fault.”
You can tell by his tone of voice that not only does he blame himself, but that he thinks he’s deserving of the punishment. You don’t care what the assignment was, or how it went wrong - you refuse to believe that he could deserve such cruelty.
You don’t know his story. For all you know, maybe he chose this life. But if he’s anything like you - and every fiber of your being is screaming that he is - then you know that he had as little choice as you did when you were thrust into this world of malevolence.
No matter his history and how he found himself to be in the position that he’s in, it hurts you to see him in this state. If you could, you’d take it all away - the scars, the pain, the weight of all of his responsibilities.
You slowly walk towards him, coming to a stop when you’re standing directly behind him. With one hand, you grab the damp washcloth that he’d been using to clean himself up with off of the vanity.
“Turn around,” you instruct him softly. You aren’t sure why you’re surprised when he obeys without hesitation - his entire life is taking orders from others. It stings a little; just how quickly he turns to face you, because you know it isn’t purely out of trust. It’s out of habit of doing what he’s told.
You keep your eyes locked on him as you tentatively raise the cloth to his face. You gauge his reaction to make sure he isn’t going to move away or tell you to stop. When he doesn't flinch, or even blink, you delicately sweep the wet rag along his bottom lip, letting the dried blood melt away.
“You’ve been sending me mixed signals, you know,” you hum, breaking the heavy silence looming over you. “A confession like that followed by two weeks of silence really fucks with a girl’s head.”
He waits until you finish cleaning his lip to speak. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
His answer stings. You don’t know which would hurt worse - your brain playing a cruel joke on you and making up the entire scenario, or it really happening and him regretting it.
“Did you mean it?”
“Yes.” He pauses. You wait with bated breath. “I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it.”
The goosebumps on your skin, originally caused by the chilly night air, are now from his words. His stare. His close proximity to you. You can’t help but wonder when the last time that someone, anyone, stood so close to him without the intention of inflicting pain was.
You’ve been this close to him before. Closer, even. But always for the intents of training. Never quite like this. Never in a way that you can study every individual freckle, wrinkle, and scar on his skin.
Even as bloodied and bruised as he is, you've never seen anyone even a fraction as beautiful as him. You believe there’s a real possibility that he’s an angel; outcast from heaven and damned to hell. Here.
They’re likely the same place. The only possible difference between the two is that here has him.
When you finally finish ridding his skin of all of the dried blood, you reluctantly start to drop your hand from his face, but he stops you. He grabs your hand in his flesh one, keeping it near his cheek. With his metal hand, he takes the bloodied rag from you and tosses it somewhere behind you.
His skin feels like fire against your own and blood pounds in your ears as he slowly brings your hand to his mouth. He presses his lips to the top of your knuckles, all the while never taking his eyes off of yours.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs as he lowers your hand away from his lips. The words snap you back to harsh reality. You pull your hand out of his grasp, stepping back to put a few inches of space between the two of you.
“Right,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to speak at a normal volume. You clear your throat and reach for the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I’ll go—"
“That’s not what I mean,” he interrupts, stepping forward. You freeze. “I’m not referring to this bathroom. You shouldn’t be in the Red Room. You should be far away from here.”
Without thinking, you close what little distance is left between you. Your hands settle on either side of his waist, his muscles taut under your palms. He tilts his head down, resting his forehead against yours.
“I could say the same about you,” you hum. His fingers trail up the sides of your arms; the warmth of his skin on one and the chill of metal on the other. When he reaches the top of your shoulders, he cups the sides of your face in his hands. “Something tells me you shouldn’t be here, either.”
He shakes his head, his eyes cinched shut. His swollen, pink lips form something akin to a grimace. “No,” he whispers. “No. The things I’ve done… this is where I should be.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Before he can try to convince you otherwise, you lift yourself by the tips of your toes to press your lips to his.
You can count on one hand the number of times that your lips have touched someone else’s. This kind of life doesn’t allow much time for simple pleasures - bubble baths, watching a morning sunrise while drinking coffee, long drives with your favorite music blaring.
Kissing.
Despite your inexperience, you’ve been kissed enough to know how it feels. At least, you thought you did. Now, you’re not so sure. Because this - this feels entirely different. The way he kisses you as if you're the air he needs to breathe and holds you like a fragile lifeline is brand new to you.
Even though you had wiped the blood off of him, he still tastes faintly of iron from the cut on his bottom lip. He’s hesitant at first - like he knows he shouldn’t be doing this yet physically can’t hold himself back. But your tongue sweeps along the swell of his bottom lip and he loses all restraint.
His hands - hands that you have seen snap bones like twigs and pull countless triggers - now tremble as they caress your face. His flesh hand trails down to the side of your neck and he tilts your head back, deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue past your lips. His movements are slow and intentional, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth before the moment can shatter around you.
You release an involuntary whimper into his mouth and something within him snaps. He drops his hands to the curve of your ass and hoists you up around his midsection. The sudden movement startles you and you gasp, but the noise is swallowed by him. He spins around, plopping you against the cold marble countertop.
You secure your legs around him, keeping him flush against you. Your fingers dart to the long locks of his brunet hair when the sudden, loud pounding of a fist against the bathroom door rings like a gunshot through the night.
“Soldat,” a deep, monotone voice calls from the other side. You recognize it from when you’d heard the commotion in the hallway not long ago. “You are needed upstairs for a mission report.”
You both go completely still, too terrified to even breathe. You hadn’t locked the door. If the guard so much as cracks the door open, the two of you would be exposed. He holds a singular metal digit up to his lips, indicating for you to stay silent.
“I’m almost finished cleaning up,” he barks back, his voice robotic and void of emotion. “I will be there soon.”
“Hurry up,” the guard snaps. “Or you’ll have even more to clean up.”
By some miracle, his footsteps begin to retreat down the hallway. You exhale in relief, your heart beating wildly in your chest.
“I should have heard him,” he mutters lowly, shaking his head. He steps back, leaving you sitting on the edge of the counter. You fight against the automatic urge to pull him back to you. “I was distracted.”
“We both were,” you breathe. “I didn’t hear him either. We just…have to be careful.”
He looks down at the floor with a furrowed brow.
“I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you. This can’t happen again. Not here.”
He steps forward, grabbing your face in his hands. You think - hope - he might kiss you again, but he doesn’t. He just looks down at you, a storm of different emotions in his blue eyes. He ghosts his flesh thumb across your cheekbone as if you’re made of glass.
“I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.”
He drops his hold on you and backs away. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tell him to stop being ridiculous, but he turns the doorknob and slips through the opening before you can get a word out. It clicks shut by the time you hop down from the countertop. You stand in stunned silence, your brain reeling as you try to make sense of everything that happened in the last five minutes.
You try to calm down before risking the journey back to your sleeping quarters but with each deep breath in, you think of how his lips felt on yours and with every long exhale, his words echo through your mind.
Fond is not a strong enough word.
I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it. You shouldn’t be here. I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you.
I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.
You lose track of how long you stay in the bathroom. Though it’s small, it feels infinitely bigger, and colder, without him in it.
When you finally sneak back to your room, the digital alarm clock on your nightstand reads 4:28 am. There’s no use in trying to go back to sleep now, as you and the other widows are expected to be awake and ready to begin your morning routines in only an hour. Still, you lay down, not quite ready to face the day.
When your head hits the pillow, you hear a faint crinkling noise close to your ear. You reach beside you, turning on your lamp. You lift the pillow, revealing a white piece of paper folded into a perfect square.
Before you unfold it, you have a gut feeling who it is from. Or maybe it's just irrational hope.
You don’t recognize the handwriting. The first few words are messy - childlike. Nearly illegible. The last words, however, are a little bit easier to read. As if whoever wrote the message hadn’t written anything in a while and had to remember how to hold a pen.
Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower. Keep your distance until then. Tell no one. Destroy this after reading.
Friday night - that’s a whole five days away.
He’s plotting something. And you can only hope that it involves both of you getting out of here alive.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
The following days feel like a slow dissent into madness.
You don’t see or hear a word from him. Each day, upon returning to your room after nonstop training, you check under your pillow in hopes of finding another note, only to be met with disappointment. You long for more information - what exactly is going to happen on Friday night? How long will it take the handlers to realize that you’re missing? The tracking device located just under the skin of your left thigh will surely alert them of your desertion. What is his plan? Has he thought of everything that could go disastrously wrong?
And the question that lingers in the forefront of your mind - what you desire an answer to more than anything else - wherever you’re going, will he be going with you?
The mere possibility of the answer being no is enough to make you sick to your stomach.
You’ve barely eaten in days. You have no appetite - not that the food served in the mess hall is ever truly appetizing, but you feel the desire to eat even less than usual. On top of that, you’ve been so distracted that you’re covered in tender bruises from having your ass handed to you during sparring sessions. You haven’t been able to focus on anything the entire week, and others are starting to notice your mental absence.
“Where have you been the last few days?” A feminine, Russian accent startles you in the hallway as you walk back to your quarters on Thursday evening. You turn to see a fellow widow - a short, pretty blonde named Yelena whose room borders yours - looking at you with arched brows. “Your body is here but your mind has been miles away.”
You look away, scared that if you stare into her hazel eyes for a second too long, she’ll see right through you.
“I’m here,” you shrug. “I just haven’t felt the best this week. It’s uh - migraines.” The lie comes naturally to you, though you don’t know if she believes it.
“If you say so,” she snorts. “Must be pretty bad if you’re letting Sasha beat you in hand to hand.”
Luckily, she doesn’t press the subject any further.
Behind the closed door of your room, you retrieve the handwritten note from where you had tucked it between your bed frame and your mattress. He had instructed you to destroy it after reading it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do so.
Maybe you’re sentimental - or perhaps just pathetic - but it’s the only thing you have of him. A singular piece of paper with his messy handwriting. Physical evidence that you aren’t going entirely crazy. You’ve reread the words more times than you care to admit over the last few days, as if they could possibly say something different than the first fifty something times you looked at the paper.
But they don’t change. The words remain the same, in the same black ink that has started to smudge from tracing the letters with the tip of your finger as if they are written in Braille.
Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower.
And finally, after the longest five days of your entire life, Friday arrives.
The day drags on and the nervous pit in your stomach cannot be quelled. You go through the motions as if it’s any other day - archery, aerobics, weight lifting, a five mile run - your typical Friday routine, all while trying to keep your composure at the thought of tonight.
An internal battle wages inside you as nine o’clock draws near. There’s fear, of course. Anxiety and uncertainty and apprehension. But beneath all of that, there’s anticipation. Eagerness. Excitement, even. Simply at the prospect of seeing him again.
There’s a small part of you that almost changes your mind. Not because you wish to stay here, but out of fear for what may happen to him if you’re caught. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if he were punished because he tried to help you.
It would be smart to rip the piece of paper into a thousand tiny shreds and flush them down a toilet and then go the fuck to sleep.
But then, you picture him waiting for you at the base of the watchtower, and the choice becomes clear.
To say that you packed lightly would be an understatement. The last thing you want is for someone to notice you carrying a duffel bag and a backpack out of the facility and ask where you're going, so to avoid drawing attention to yourself, you bring only what you can fit on your person. Your widow bites, a few knives, and two small pistols all concealed by a thick, dark purple bathrobe. It’s both windy and rainy tonight, with temperatures falling into the low forties, so you need something to keep you warm, but a large parka would surely raise suspicion if you were caught.
A bathrobe, however, is perfect for your escape plan. You can’t exactly walk out the front door unless you want a guard to demand information about where you’re going, and this place has practically no windows. A facility like this is designed to keep things in, not let them out - so the ventilation system it is.
And the communal bathroom on your level just so happens to have a nice, spacious vent just waiting for you to crawl into.
Widows are required to be in their private quarters no later than half past eight o’clock, so it times out perfectly with when you need to leave to make it to the south watchtower by nine o’clock. You have exactly thirty minutes to disappear. If you’re careful, you’ll be long gone by the time someone inevitably notices that you’re missing the next morning.
Right off the bat, you get lucky. The hallway outside of your bedroom is deserted, with no guard on patrol. If there had been, you would’ve just made some excuse about needing to use the bathroom, but you’re relieved that you don’t run into anyone on your way there.
With all of the other widows already in their beds, you find that the bathroom is empty, too. With the help of a shower chair that one of the girls has been using due to a leg injury, you’re able to reach just high enough to unscrew the vent cover from the wall.
You’re still standing on the chair when you pause for a brief moment before crawling inside the vent. You lean down, double checking that the note he’d left under your pillow is, in fact, tucked inside your sock.
You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave it behind. A voice in the back of your head kept nagging you to keep it. Once you’ve reassured yourself that the small piece of paper is safely tucked away, you spring into action.
You know you’re leaving behind a scene that paints a very clear picture of precisely what you’ve done - a chair directly beneath the open vent could mean only one thing. The first person who walks into the bathroom will know exactly what happened here.
Once you’ve hoisted yourself through the opening, you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can think about is slithering through the vents as quietly and quickly as you possibly can.
There’s one advantage to having lived in this facility for over a decade - you know the ins and outs of this place like the back of your hand. All you have to do is stay quiet, not have a claustrophobia induced panic attack, and follow the tunnels to freedom - to the man waiting for you in the woods.
Or whatever else might await you at the end.
The air inside the shaft is stagnant yet cold. It smells of metallic rust, almost blood-like. Even the smallest of movements produces a faint echo through the tunnels and all you can do is hope that anyone who hears will chalk the noises up to ghosts.
You freeze every time the metal groans beneath the weight of your body. You breathe in, then out. Count to three, and then cautiously start to move again when you feel confident enough that no one heard you.
The tunnels seemingly get tighter and tighter the farther you crawl. Right, then left, then right, and left again through the never ending maze of metal.
When your muscles start to burn and the shaft starts to feel suffocatingly hot, you picture his face and it gives you the motivation you need to keep going.
There’s no going back now. Not even if you wanted to.
After what feels like hours, when your bones are screaming at you to rest and your skin is covered in a thick layer of sweat beneath your bathrobe and clothing, you breathe a sigh of relief when the slope of a downward facing duct comes into view.
If your calculations are correct, you'll be out of this building in a matter of seconds.
You propel your body forward, mentally and physically bracing yourself for gravity to take hold as you slip down a chute. The smooth fabric of your bathrobe helps you to slide down the incline with ease before you come tumbling out of the vent entirely, plopping onto the cold, wet earth.
You give yourself all of five seconds to both recover from the drop and assess your surroundings, making sure that no one else happens to be lurking around this remote part of the facility at this hour before you begin sprinting in the direction of the woods behind the building.
You glance down at your watch when you cross the threshold of the forest - 8:54 pm.
The south watchtower is roughly half a mile into the woods. Under different circumstances, you'd be able to run half a mile in a few minutes with ease.
But right now? With only the illumination of a waning gibbous moon to guide you through the dense woods while a steady mist of freezing rain gradually soaks through the layers of your clothing? You’ll be lucky to find your way to the watchtower at all.
Still, you force one foot in front of the other, refusing to slow down. You don't want to be even a minute late for fear that he'll think you changed your mind or that something happened on your way there.
For the first minute or so of your trek, the rain and wind feel like a balm to your skin after being trapped in the oven-like vents - but it doesn’t take long for your clothing to become drenched, causing your body to shiver and teeth to chatter despite the fact that you’re running as fast as you can.
You’re thankful he chose the south watchtower. You’re more familiar with it than the other towers that surround the facility, and you know the route well enough. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t have night vision, and you stumble over a large tree root, twisting your right ankle. You curse under your breath but force yourself to keep going, knowing that you’re so close to reaching him.
The tower comes into view, and your heart drops when you don’t see him right away. You slow from a sprint to a jog, looking around the clearing that surrounds the tower when you hear the crackling of twigs and leaves from behind you.
Before you can even lay eyes on him, your wet, shivering frame is enveloped by strong arms from behind you. A metal hand covers your mouth, but you don’t scream. Instead, you relax for the first time in days, practically melting against him.
He breathes your name close to your ear. You turn in his grasp, nuzzling your face against his chest. You inhale his scent - a scent you’d recognize anywhere. It isn’t that of a fancy cologne or strongly scented soap. It’s natural - masculine and musky and uniquely him.
“You came,” he whispers. It isn’t a question, though there is a lilt of surprise in his voice. He grabs you by the shoulders and delicately pushes you back enough to run his eyes up and down your frame. “Are you okay?”
You nod. “I twisted my ankle, but I’m okay.”
His hands move from your shoulders to cup the sides of your face. Even in the limited amount of moonlight, you can see the tension in his jawline seem to melt away. His expression softens for a brief moment before he’s back to business.
“Did anyone see you leave?”
“No.” You shake your head. “No, I don’t think so. I crawled through an air duct in the bathroom and escaped through an exit in the back of the building.”
“Smart girl,” he praises, your face still clutched in his hands. “We still need to hurry. I don't know how much time we have.”
“What’s the plan?” You ask. Not that it really matters - you think you’d do just about anything he asks of you right now. You’d follow him anywhere, as long as it is far the fuck away from here.
He jerks his head in the direction of the watchtower a few yards away. He guides you to the entrance at the base of the structure, keeping his metal hand on your lower back. Once you’re inside, he closes and locks the door behind you. The only source of light in the room is produced by an antique oil lamp. On a concrete bench, there’s a first aid kit that’s already been opened beside an array of medical supplies.
He doesn’t need to say anything for you to piece together what is about to happen. The small, discreet tracking device located in the flesh of your thigh seemingly pulses at the realization. He notices you staring at the equipment and pauses.
“I have to remove your tracker before we can go any farther. We're still on Hydra grounds, so it likely hasn’t set off an alert yet. But as soon as we go any farther south…”
“I understand,” you murmur. “I trust you. Take it out.”
He nods, motioning for you to take your place on the bench. First, you shed the drenched bathrobe. Then, you shimmy your pants down to your knees, giving him access to the location of the tracker placed mid-thigh.
You shiver when the skin of the back of your thighs comes in contact with the cold concrete bench. He lowers himself to the ground in front of you, looking up at you in the dim, flickering light of the lamp. The sight makes your breath catch in your throat. The way he looks at you - like you aren’t an assassin, a soldier, a killer, but rather someone worth saving - it makes your heart nearly combust in your chest.
“I’ll try to be quick,” he murmurs. He places his flesh hand just above your knee as if to ground you. His skin is warm and soft, and you find comfort in it. With his other hand, he reaches for an isopropyl alcohol pad to sterilize where he will make the incision. You hiss when he swipes the cold alcohol across your bare skin.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, a grimace forming on his face. “It’ll be over soon.” You know he doesn’t want to cause you any discomfort, but it has to be done. He retrieves a small scalpel and looks at you for your consent.
“On the count of three?”
You nod, biting down on the inside of your cheek.
“One. Two…”
He doesn’t say three.
Your eyes snap shut and your teeth dig into the meat of your cheek so hard that you taste blood. Somehow, you manage to stay silent. You keep your eyes closed until you feel the tracker ease through the opening he had cut. You glance down, seeing vibrant red leak down the side of your thigh. He places the tracker on the bench beside you - visual confirmation of your newfound freedom.
The small device might weigh less than an ounce, but you suddenly feel a hundred pounds lighter.
He grabs a large gauze pad and presses it to the wound, applying pressure to help slow the bleeding. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice tense.
“Never been better.” You force a small smile to give him reassurance. Despite the circumstances, there’s a level of truth to your words. “What about you?”
“I’ll be better once I get you away from here.”
You watch in heavy silence as he works to bandage the incision on your thigh. He’s gentle - more gentle than anyone has ever been with you, you think.
Widows are usually stuck tending to their own injuries, but in more severe cases, you'd be sent to the pitiful excuse of an infirmary within the Hydra facility. Doctors - who most likely weren’t even legitimate doctors - would do the bare minimum to keep you from dying without caring if they’re too rough or lack bedside manner.
But not him. No, he touches you like the last thing he wants is to cause you the slightest discomfort. He touches you like you’re precious to him.
Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had a decent night of sleep in nearly a week, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re experiencing an adrenaline crash and aren’t thinking clearly, but you can’t help the way your eyes keep flickering to his lips. It’s not the time, and definitely not the place to be having such thoughts, but you think them, anyway - he’s inhumanly beautiful.
“I can rebandage it when we get somewhere safer,” he says when the dressing is secure against your skin. “We need to go. How’s your ankle? Can you walk?”
He stands, pulling you up from the bench in the process. You instantly yank your pajama pants back up around your hips.
Truthfully, you had forgotten all about twisting your ankle while running through the woods. But now, with the sudden pressure of your weight on it again, the pain returns in a dull but persistent throb.
“It hurts a little, but I’ll be okay—”
Before you can finish your sentence, he’s scooping you into his arms. You squeal in surprise as his metal arm swipes your legs out from beneath you. He lifts you with ease, metal arm hooked beneath your knees and flesh arm supporting your back.
You’re sure you could walk. Maybe even run, if you really needed to. But you aren’t about to order him to put you down. Not when the warmth from his arms and chest feels like heaven against the cold night air. Your soaking wet bathrobe still lays discarded on the bench, so you can use all of the warmth you can possibly get.
“This works, too,” you snort. Without thinking, you brush a lock of his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear for him. He looks down at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips for a brief moment before he lifts you up just high enough to press his mouth against your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the sensation of his lips against your skin. You’ve craved to feel this again ever since you first kissed him in the bathroom five days ago.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he murmurs.
You nod, pursing your lips. Your heart sinks a bit at his choice of words.
I’ll be better once I get you away from here. Let’s get you out of here.
You. Not us. You.
He says it like a promise, but you can’t help but feel like it’s going to lead to a goodbye.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
You end up being thankful that he took it upon himself to carry you for the duration of the trek through the woods - a half hour walk through thick, dense trees that would have taken twice as long had you attempted to make the journey on your bum ankle.
The rain had come to a stop, but clouds then covered the moon, making it near pitch black. Somehow, his steps never faltered. Despite the darkness, and all of the tree roots and low hanging branches that he had to constantly dodge, he somehow got the two of you out of the woods and to the safety of a getaway car in an impressive amount of time. Both his vision and sense of direction are so impeccable that you suspect he has supernatural senses.
He drives for hours - always going a steady twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. At some point during the night, you fall asleep in the passenger seat. You don’t mean to, but after days of constant anxiety and subsequently very little sleep, plus the adrenaline crash after your escape from the facility, your eyes close of their own accord.
The first thing that you hear when you wake up is the sound of tires crunching over gravel. You open your eyes, noting that it’s still dark outside. The digital clock on the dashboard of the old Buick reads 2:52 am. You have no idea where you’re at, but a small house comes into the view of the headlights.
“What is this place?” You ask, voice raspy from sleep and dehydration.
“It’s an old safe house,” he grunts. He pulls into the driveway and parks the car. “It’s been inactive for years. We’ll be okay here for the night,” he assures you.
Inactive is putting it lightly. The place looks like it is on the verge of caving in on itself. From the creaky wooden boards of the front porch steps to the cobwebs that decorate the bannisters and windows, it’s obvious that you’re the first people here in a very long time. Still, despite the place being run down, you much prefer it to the place you’re running from.
At first glance, the inside looks surprisingly tidy compared to what you could see of the exterior. Then, you notice a large pack of disposable water bottles and some non-perishable goods on the kitchen countertop - canned soup, instant oatmeal, ramen.
He catches the look on your face. “I dropped all of that off a few days ago,” he says. “There’s some toiletries and dry clothes for you in the bedroom, too.” He jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, an indication for you to follow him.
Prior to a few hours ago, you had no idea what to expect tonight. But the careful consideration and thoughtfulness of it all surpasses your every expectation. In addition to a pile of neatly folded clothing - sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie, etc - there’s a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of soap, shampoo, and even a bottle of lotion.
You don’t know how he did it. You don’t know when he found the time, or the means. But for you, he did.
You sniffle, fighting against the sudden, undeniable burning sensation in your eyes. You do not want to cry. “You did all of this for me?” Your voice is barely a whisper.
He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at the floor. “I tried to be as thorough as I could on such short notice.” His gaze flickers back to you. “There’s one more thing.”
He turns, walking in the direction of the bedroom’s small closet. He opens the door, revealing the closet to be empty except for a pile of extra blankets on the floor. He shifts them around, reaching for something that is blocked by his frame. When he turns back around, you see that he is holding a backpack. He must have placed it in the closet when he dropped the non-perishable goods and clothes off earlier this week. Before you can question what the bag holds, he unzips the main compartment and reaches inside.
“This should be everything you need to start a new life.” You recognize the first item as soon as he hands it to you - a dark blue rectangle with the word PASSPORT engraved across the top. You open it, revealing a brand new passport and ID. There’s a picture of your face and a name you don’t recognize. Your new name.
Your hands tremble around the items. He opens the bag further, revealing the majority of the compartment to be filled with cash.
“Holy shit,” you breathe. He really thought of…everything. “Where did you get this? All of this?” You ask, gesturing between the cash in the bag and the documents in your hand.
He smirks, taking the passport back from you and tucking into an interior pocket of the backpack. “That’s not for you to worry about. I have my ways.”
“Clearly,” you mumble. It’s a lot to take in, and you feel overwhelmed by it all, but there’s one thing that has become abundantly clear - you won’t be leaving this safe house together.
One passport. One ID. One getaway bag. This is all for you.
A heavy silence falls over the room. You could hear a pin drop.
“You’re going back. Aren’t you?” You murmur.
His lips are set in a harsh line. His face gives nothing away, but after a thick beat of silence, he nods in confirmation. “Yes. I’m going back.”
You could pry. Part of you wants to. You want to beg him to tell you why - why he stays with them when he’s obviously so different from them. But if his mind is made up, then this could very well be your one and only night together. You aren’t about to tarnish it.
How are you supposed to ask someone for more when they’ve already risked everything for you?
You step towards him, stopping when your chest is no less than an inch away from his. You look up at the most beautiful pair of blue eyes you’ve ever seen. “Will you at least tell me your name so I can properly thank you?”
He grimaces, shaking his head. “I don’t know my name,” he admits, voice low. “I only know what they call me. Soldier. Asset. If I have any other name, I don’t remember what it is. But I promise, if I did know my name…I would have told you long ago.”
You part your mouth to speak, but no words come out. For some reason, you hadn’t considered the possibility that he may not know his name. Let alone the possibility that he may not have one.
“I’ll leave you to shower. You need to rest,” he says gently as he starts to move past you, towards the bedroom door. You grab his flesh hand in yours and he freezes. You know what you’re about to say is a risk, but considering that he’ll likely be gone come daylight either way, you decide to take it.
“Would you join me?”
There’s a flash of something in his eyes. Surprise, lust - maybe a hint of restraint. “Are you sure you want that?”
“Yes,” you hum, squeezing his hand. “I’m sure.”
That’s all he needs to hear. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and begins guiding you towards the bathroom.
The water pressure is abysmal at best, and the temperature’s barely lukewarm, but none of that matters as soon as he steps into the tub after you. At first, he stands an awkward distance away from you, his hands flexing at his sides like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them. He stands closest to the rusted shower head, the uneven stream spraying the back of his neck.
“You can touch me,” you say softly.
He gulps. He steps closer to you, backing you against the cool shower tiles. His flesh hand rises, brushing against the side of your cheek as his metal hand settles on your hip.
He’s barely touched you yet, and you already can’t stand the thought of never getting to experience it again when the night is over. But you can’t bring yourself to stop. Not when he’s standing bare before you, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize every minute detail.
When he kisses you, he’s hesitant at first. Slow and cautious, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. But you place your hands on his hips, pulling him flush against you, and that restraint slips away. The metal hand resting on your hip trails upwards, ghosting the skin of your stomach until he reaches your breast. He kneads it with a low groan into your mouth.
You lose track of time beneath the stream of water. He kisses you until you’re breathless, only pulling away to move his lips to the pulse point of your throat. He nips at the skin before trailing hot kisses down your neck, past your collarbones and to the peaks of your breasts.
Your own hands begin to wander. You snake one between your bodies, pausing just before you reach the prominent erection that juts against your belly.
“Is this okay?” You ask, the tips of your fingers trailing along his length as you wait for consent to go a step further.
“Yes,” he grunts next to your ear. “Yes, please.”
You wrap a firm hand around him. You’re both fully drenched from the shower by this point, the water acting as a gentle lubricant as you stroke him in your grasp. You start slow, and he exhales a sharp breath as his forehead drops to your shoulder.
It’s clear to you that it’s been a long time since he’s been touched like this. You can tell by the way he shudders against you; almost trembling. Like it’s all brand new to him.
Fingers from your free hand thread through the damp locks of his hair. You guide his mouth back to yours, kissing him deeply as you increase the pace at which you massage him in your hand. He whimpers into your mouth, and a second later you feel him twitch against your palm. He finishes with a deep groan as warm ropes paint the skin of your belly.
His forehead rests against yours for a moment as he comes down from his climax. He takes a few uneven breaths, and then sinks to his knees on the shower floor. You glance down to find him looking up at you as he gently spreads your thighs apart. You nod your head - maybe a bit too enthusiastically - giving him permission to continue.
He starts by kissing the skin of your inner thighs - alternating between each leg until he reaches the apex of your thighs. He’s careful at first, testing what makes you gasp, what makes you dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders. But it doesn’t take long before he finds a rhythm. It’s slow and deliberate, but unrelenting.
Your legs quickly turn to jelly. He reads you like an open book, supporting you from his position beneath you. You think to yourself that you’d do anything to know his name right now, just so you could moan it. Instead, you settle for oh, god - fuck - god, yes while you tug on locks of his hair.
At the sound of your praises, he grows more confident in his ministrations. His lips suck the swollen bud at the apex of your folds and your eyes snap shut as you throw your head back. He eases a singular, metal digit between your legs, teasing your entrance with the tip to coat it in your slick. When he slips it between your walls - slowly to allow you to adjust to the stretch - you feel a hot coil begin to tighten in your lower belly. The sensation isn’t completely new to you, though it’s the first time you’ve experienced it at the hands of another person.
The pressure of his thick, metal finger inside you and his lips around your clit is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Your thighs squeeze his head and he moans against you as you ride his face through the high of your orgasm. When you go still, he slowly rises from the floor and you all but collapse against him. You stand there for a few long moments, in the now cold stream of water that trickles down from the showerhead. Your head rests against his chest and his arms wrap around your midsection, cradling you against him.
He reaches for the towel hanging over the shower’s curtain rod and then wraps it around you before shutting the water off and seamlessly lifting you into his arms. Neither of you say a word as he steps out of the shower and carries you back to the bedroom.
He pulls the comforter back and then places you on the bed before crawling in beside you. You’re both still damp, but you’re far too exhausted to care. Your escape through the Hydra facility’s ventilation system and subsequent run through the woods feels like a lifetime ago, and every part of your body is screaming for you to go to sleep. The only thing stopping you from closing your eyes is that you know when you open them again, he won’t be beside you anymore.
So you force your eyes to stay open for a little longer. Just so you can try to memorize the way his heartbeat sounds when your cheek rests against his chest.
“I need you to promise me something,” he whispers into the dark. He grabs one of your hands in his and brings it to his lips, where he places a soft kiss against your knuckles.
Your breath catches. Before the words can leave his lips, you already know what he is going to say. Words that you’ve been dreading all night.
“You can’t look for me,” he continues when you don’t say anything. His voice is strained, like the words hurt him to say as much as they do for you to hear. “Not ever. You can do whatever you want with your life after tonight, but you can’t look for me.”
You’re silent. You don’t trust your voice to speak. You knew it was coming, but it still stings to hear. You pull your hand out of his grasp and place it on his chin. You look up at him, though you can only see a faint outline of his profile in the darkness.
“I know,” you whisper. You tilt your head enough to press your lips to his one more time. It’s brief, but you hope it conveys so much of what you can’t find the words to say. “Thank you,” you add when you pull away. “For saving my life. For everything.”
He doesn’t say anything - just kisses your forehead, and pulls the comforter tighter around the two of you. The heavenly combination of his body heat and the feeling of his fingers dancing along your ribcage begins to lull you to sleep despite your best efforts to stay awake and hold onto this moment for as long as possible.
“I’ll find you one day. One day, when it’s safe, I’ll find you.”
When morning comes, you don’t know if you dreamed his promise, or if he really had said those words while you drifted to sleep.
All you know is that the space beside you is cold.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
3 years later. Circa 2016.
“I’m missing a small green piece. Did you steal a small green piece, Maple?”
You glance at the brown cat lying on the windowsill. She seemingly side-eyes you as if to say you’re interrupting my nap, human.
You’re not convinced that she’s innocent, though. The cat, who had shown up on your doorstep almost a year ago and made herself right at home, has a knack for knocking over your Lego sets. It wouldn’t surprise you at all if she was responsible for the missing piece.
She can’t be blamed, you suppose. It’s your own fault for leaving the partially assembled Minecraft village in hundreds of pieces across your coffee table. You should have finished it weeks ago, but you’ve done very little other than work and sleep lately.
Work, sleep, work. Drink too much coffee, pick up extra shifts just so you don’t have to be home alone with your thoughts and are so exhausted when you do get home that you have no issue falling asleep quickly, and then repeat it all.
Maple meows, though it sounds more like an annoyed huff.
“You’re right,” you sigh. “I do need to get a life.”
Your ringtone begins blaring, startling you. You glance down at where your cell phone sits on the coffee table in front of you. One of your coworkers, Hannah, is calling you. You debate on letting it go to voicemail - Hannah likes to yap and you aren’t really in the mood for a phone call right now - but part of you hopes she’s calling to ask if you want to pick up her evening shift at the coffee shop the two of you work at, so you answer.
It’s not like you have any other plans tonight.
“Hey,” you greet her. “What’s—”
“Oh my god,” she exclaims before you can get the rest of the sentence out. “Remember a few months ago when I said that a super hot guy was watching you at work but then he just disappeared before you could see him?”
There’s an instant pit in your stomach. You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, the memory from a few months ago replays in your mind.
“There’s an insanely hot guy that keeps checking you out by the door,” Hannah giggles as she walks up behind you. You’re in the middle of making an iced macchiato, so you don’t bother to glance at whatever mystery hot guy she’s talking about.
“I highly doubt he’s looking at me,” you snort.
“Oh, he definitely is,” she insists. “If he wasn’t so good looking it would almost be creepy, actually.”
Curiosity gets the best of you. You put the lid on the drink and casually glance over your shoulder, towards the coffee shop’s entrance. You see a small group of teenage girls at a table near the door, and a few college students scattered about the lounge on their laptops. There’s no lone, attractive man to be found.
Hannah follows your gaze. “Huh,” she shrugs. “Guess he left. What a shame.”
You shake your head at her. “What did he look like, anyway?”
“Shoulder length, dark hair. Vibrant blue eyes. Six feet tall, maybe. Give or take an inch. He had on a leather jacket, even though it’s like a million degrees outside today. And he was wearing one glove? Kind of odd, but in a hot way—”
You lose your grip on the freshly made drink and it falls to the floor, coffee and ice both going everywhere - all over yours and Hannah’s shoes.
It feels as if the room is spinning around you. It’s been three years. It can’t be him.
“Shit,” you whisper, eyes darting around the room as if he’s going to magically reappear. “Shit. I’m sorry, Hannah. I’ll clean this up, just give me a moment—”
You practically run towards the direction of the front door, completely ignoring Hannah’s startled stare. You throw the coffee shop door open, exiting the building. You’re downtown, and it’s rush hour. You see dozens of cars and even more people hurrying to get where they need to be, but your eyes search for one person in particular.
You swear that you can hear blood pumping in your ears. You’ve only been outside for a few seconds and you’re already sweating - and you don’t think it has anything to do with today’s high temperature.
He’s nowhere to be seen. You’d recognize him in an instant. No matter how much time has passed since the last time you saw him - he’d stand out in any crowd.
You should have known better than to look. If he wanted you to see him, you would have - but he didn’t. And now he’s a ghost once more.
You have no doubt it was him. Vibrant blue eyes and shoulder length, dark hair. One singular glove. You don’t know why he decided to show up today, after three years of radio silence, but it had to be him —
Hannah’s voice pulls you out of the memory and back to reality.
“Hello? Are you there? Earth to—”
“Uh,” you interject, trying to remember how to string words together. “Uh - yeah. I remember.”
“I swear to God, he’s on the news right now.”
“What?” Your voice rises several octaves, startling Maple from her sleep. You put Hannah on speakerphone. “Are you - are you sure it’s him?”
“Positive. Turn on your TV right now.”
You glance around your small living room, searching for the TV remote and thanking your lucky stars that you didn’t cancel your cable package like you had thought about doing.
“What channel?” You ask when you retrieve the remote from in between two couch cushions.
“Uhm - 3. 5. 9. Literally any of them, probably.”
Your jaw drops the second that you get to a major news station. For the first time in three years, you see his face.
The footage is grainy - obviously from a security camera. But it’s him - unmistakable. His hair is a bit longer and his chest and shoulders are a bit bulkier than the last time you saw him, but you recognize him in an instant. Even with the piss poor video quality, you can see the shining silver of his left hand.
The headline across the bottom of the screen reads: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, HYDRA’S WINTER SOLDIER, WANTED FOR TIES TO VIENNA BOMBING.
You’re vaguely aware that Hannah’s voice is coming from the speaker next to your ear, but you aren’t paying attention to a word she’s saying. There’s a high-pitched, intense ringing in your ears that makes it impossible for you to focus on what the news reporter is saying. You only manage to get bits and pieces as you attempt to control your breathing.
“James “Bucky” Barnes, former United States Army Sergeant and childhood friend of Captain America, has been identified as the prime suspect in the bombing that took the life of King T’Chaka and twelve others…”
“… conducting a manhunt all over southeastern Europe…”
“Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, has known ties to Hydra that span over half a century…”
You press the end call button on your phone’s screen without even thinking about it, cutting Hannah off in the middle of a sentence. Maple, seemingly noticing the change in your mood, jumps down from her position on the windowsill and trots over to where you sit on the couch.
James. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, the reporter had called him. Bucky Barnes. After all this time, you know his name. You thought that finally knowing his name would feel a lot different. You expected to feel relief - maybe even a sense of satisfaction. But right now, all you feel is fear and bewilderment.
Key words echo in your mind: childhood friend of Captain America. Army Sergeant. Hydra. Over half a century. Winter Soldier.
There’s still so much that’s unknown - so many questions that you don’t know if you’ll ever have answers to. But you do know this much - James Bucky Barnes, childhood best friend of Steve Rogers, wouldn’t work for Hydra of his own volition. You don’t know exactly how he found himself to be their pawn, but there’s no doubt in your mind that there’s more to this story than meets the eye.
The man who saved you - James or Bucky - wouldn’t do what they are accusing him of. Not if he had a choice.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
2 years later. May 2018.
You wish you could say that you kept your promise.
For three years, you did exactly what he’d asked of you. You took the fake passport and ID, the ten thousand dollars in cash, and started a new life. You got your own apartment, a normal job that you didn’t completely hate - even a cat. You kept yourself off of Hydra’s radar. You laid low and didn’t search for him. You were doing good, all things considered.
Then you saw him on the fucking news.
All it took was learning his name for you to pack a few bags into the old Buick that he’d left for you. The next morning, you dropped Maple off at Hannah’s - your friend and former coworker who just so happens to love cats and was more than willing to look after Maple on a temporary or permanent basis - and got on a plane to Romania.
Of course, by the time you got to Romania, he was long gone.
From there, you flew to Germany, where news reports showed him fighting beside Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, and someone named Scott Lang against Tony Stark, James Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, the soon to be king of Wakanda, a robot, and some guy in a spider costume at the Berlin airport.
At the time, you had very little information to go off of, but from what you were able to gather, Bucky had been framed for the bombing in Vienna. Team Cap, as the news reports had referred to the group, had aided in his and Steve’s successful escape from the airport.
After that? Your guess was as good as all of the government officials looking for them. They have been fugitives ever since - Bucky, Steve, Sam, and even Natasha, who had apparently played both sides.
That was two years ago. Since then, you’ve been chasing dead ends all over the world. You don’t even know if he’s alive, but you have to believe that he is.
Currently, you’re in the breathtaking town of Interlaken, Switzerland. The lead you’d been following had turned out to be a bust - no surprise - but Switzerland is otherworldly and peaceful, so you decided to stay for a few days. At least until you catch wind of another supposed Winter Soldier sighting.
You’re finishing up brunch at a small cafe that overlooks the Interlaken countryside. Soft sunlight, a stone patio, and the smell of fresh bread that wafts from the kitchen. You could get used to this. Maybe one day, you’ll come back. When you’ve found him, or he’s found you.
You’re about to signal to a server that you’d like a refill on your coffee when an ear-splitting scream sounds from inside the restaurant. You and all of the other guests on the patio freeze, looking around.
Then, another scream. This time, a young child sitting at a table a few feet behind you.
“Mommy? Mommy, where did you go?”
The child’s mother is nowhere to be seen. Where she sat only a few moments prior is a thick dusting of what appears to be… Soot? Ash?
A tray falls to the ground and glass shatters, tearing your attention away from the panicked child. You glance at a server just in time to see him seemingly turn to dust in front of your very eyes.
Chaos breaks out. Guests are shouting in terror as several others vanish into thin air. You stand up, unsure of what to do. You begin to walk towards the crying little girl a few feet away from you, when you’re overcome with intense dizziness. Your vision goes fuzzy, and your skin feels like pins and needles.
You look down at your hands. The screaming in the background seems to fade.
Not yet, you think. Please, not yet. I need more time. I haven’t found him yet.
Your fingertips crumble before you - carried away by the light spring breeze. The tingling sensation spreads up your arms and you can do nothing but watch yourself disappear.
It’s true what they say. When you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes.
You think of how he looked in the glow of the oil-lamp in the watchtower. You think of his promises - to get you out of the Hydra facility, and to one day find you. One that he fulfilled, and one that he’ll now never have the chance to. You think of his lips on yours and how safe you felt in his arms the one night you shared together.
Your last thought is that you hope wherever you go when you leave here, it’s the same place as him.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
Post blip. Circa 2024.
Ever since you and the other fifty percent of the population that had turned to dust were brought back to life, you’ve been thinking a lot about the butterfly effect.
The idea that if someone misses their train on the way to work, they could avoid a horrible accident. Or that something as small as holding a door open for someone could cause them to pay it forward, then leading to a cascade of simple acts of kindness that could change the course of history.
If your babysitter hadn’t taken you to the community pool that hot July day, you may have never been kidnapped by Red Room operatives.
If you hadn’t been kidnapped by Red Room operatives, you never would have been forced to live in the facility where you eventually met him.
And if you hadn’t met him, your eyes wouldn’t still be scanning every crowd, over a decade later, in hopes of randomly seeing him.
You stopped your search for him. When you were brought back, you had no reason to continue scouring the earth.
Why would you? You no longer have to wonder where he is and if he’s okay. For months following the sudden return of millions of people, you could simply turn on the news or open any social media app. Answers that you’d spent years searching for were suddenly right in front of your eyes.
No, he did not have a choice when it came to working for Hydra. Yes, like Steve Rogers, he was injected with super soldier serum, but unlike Steve, it was against his will. And, fun fact: he is old enough to be your great grandfather.
You also learn that he underwent intensive deprogramming in Wakanda to remove trigger words Hydra had implanted in his mind. No wonder your two-year search for him had gone nowhere.
And yes, he’d received a full pardon for everything he did while under their control. He’s officially a free man. Free from Hydra, and free to do whatever he pleases with his life.
Still, he does not come for you. For several months following the announcement of his pardon, you hold out hope that he’ll show up when you least expect it. But after a while, that hope begins to fade.
You aren’t angry with him. How could you be? He’s the entire reason that you’re free. It’s unfair to hold him to a promise he made over a decade ago, when he was under mind control. The news articles tend to throw around words like brainwashed and memory loss when talking about him - for all you know, he doesn’t even remember who you are.
So, you go through the motions of moving on. Like so many other people, you rebuild your life from the ground up. You relocate to New York and get a small apartment just outside of the city, start going to therapy once a week, explore some new hobbies, and make a few friends. You even run into an old friend - for lack of a better word.
By run into you mean she shows up unannounced at your job on a random Thursday.
It’s a slow, rainy morning at the small bookstore that you work at. You’re in the back, sorting through a new shipment of books, when you hear the front door chime.
“Welcome!” You yell out from the back office. It’s a small store, so you’re sure they’re able to hear you. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”
“Take your time,” a feminine voice calls back. You freeze. You recognize that voice - a distinct Russian accent that you’re able to put a face to right away, even after all these years. “I’ll just entertain myself with this…dark romance smut novel until you come out.”
You almost don’t believe your ears. What could she be doing here, after all this time? How did she find you? You don’t even have the same name as the last time you saw her, thanks to Bucky giving you a new identity.
If your training in the Red Room taught you anything, it’s to question everything and trust no one. You don’t think she’d hurt you. The two of you always got along, and you liked her more than a lot of the other widows. But until you know exactly why she’s here, you aren’t taking any chances. Your bag is just a few feet away from you, and inside it, a small pistol. Quickly and quietly, you tuck it into the waistband of your pants, at the small of your back.
When you exit the back room, she’s turned away from you. Still, you recognize the short stature and blonde hair right away.
“What brings you here, Yelena?”
She snorts, placing the book back on the table before turning around. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”
You stand there, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what version of her you’re about to get. You know just how ruthless she can be, but you also know that underneath the person that the Red Room turned her into, there’s good.
She studies you with a faint smirk. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks…tired. Not just physically, though the dark circles under her hazel eyes do indicate that she needs a good night’s sleep.
“You look good,” she chirps. “Different. Domestic.” She waves a hand in a slow circle, gesturing at your outfit. “What are you now? A librarian?”
“Bookstore manager,” you correct softly. “It’s peaceful.”
She hums, amused. “Must be nice.”
You tilt your head, still trying to get a read on her. “Is there something I can help you with, Yelena?”
The pause is brief but loaded. Her expression flattens. “I was sent,” she says finally. “My boss wants to talk to you. She’s looking for more people with…backgrounds similar to ours.”
You already know where this is going. “Valentina.”
Yelena raises a brow, unable to hide her surprise. “You’ve heard of her?”
You nod. “People talk. They don’t say anything nice, but they talk.”
“She has resources. Protection. Mission stability.”
Yelena recites the benefits as if she’s reading a script. But there’s a quiet sort of resentment in her voice. Like she doesn’t fully buy it herself. “And I’m sure it pays better than…this.” She gestures vaguely towards the bookshelves around you.
“Why me?”
“She says you have skills. And a brain. She’s impressed that you were able to escape the Red Room without getting yourself killed.”
You snort. “Too bad I’m retired.”
“No one ever really retires,” she says, shrugging. “We both know that.”
“Speak for yourself.”
You pause, watching her more closely. There’s something off in the way she shifts her weight, the slight shake in her hands. It’s subtle, but not invisible. And when she turns slightly, you catch a faint whiff of something sharp and metallic beneath her perfume. Vodka, maybe.
“Are you okay?” you ask gently.
She gives a soft laugh, one that sounds more bitter than amused. “You’re asking me that?”
You don’t push. Instead, you fold your arms and say, “Tell Valentina thanks, but no thanks.”
Yelena blinks. “Just like that?”
“I was given a second chance. Someone risked a lot to help me get it, and I don’t think they would appreciate me throwing it away by working for someone like Valentina.”
Yelena’s eyes flicker. She studies you for a long moment, something softening around the edges of her mouth. “So it’s true, then.”
You raise a brow. “What’s true?”
She tilts her head. “The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. Was it really him who helped you escape?”
Your breath catches slightly. You’ve never admitted it out loud to anyone, but you suppose there’s no point in denying it now that both Hydra and the Red Room have been taken down.
“He did,” you say softly. “He got me out.”
Yelena doesn’t speak for a while. When she finally does, it’s almost a whisper.
“Good.”
You both stand there for a long, awkward moment. You can’t help but see a small part of yourself when you look at her. It could have so easily been you in her shoes - working for someone like Valentina, contract kills and shadow operations - if it hadn’t been for him.
You turn to the register beside you and grab a pen and a piece of receipt paper. You scribble your phone number and then hold it out to her in offering.
“If you ever want to get coffee,” you shrug. “Or if you ever need anything…reach out.”
Yelena takes it, eyes flicking down to the number. She folds the piece of paper without comment and slips it into her pocket. Then she gives you one last look - something unreadable in her expression - and heads toward the door.
The bell above the entrance jingles as she exits, and the sound echoes in the silence she leaves behind.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
Present Day.
Funny enough, it’s one of the rare days that he hasn’t even crossed your mind when your phone rings and an unknown number pops up on the screen.
You can’t describe it, but there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach before you even answer. Call it a sixth sense that you somehow knew it wasn’t just another spam call. Normally, you wouldn’t even bother answering a number that isn’t already saved to your contacts, but you hesitate when you start to press decline.
Instead, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”
The first thing you hear is a shaky exhale, followed by your name. Then, background noise. A lot of it. Multiple voices - male and female. You manage to catch a few key words here and there.
New York. Valentina. Bob..?
“Yelena?” You ask in disbelief. It’s been three years since you gave her your phone number and this is the first you’ve heard from her. “What’s going on?”
You’re in your apartment, catching up on some chores that you’ve been procrastinating all week. You’re in the middle of unloading your dishwasher, but you pause as soon as you realize it’s her.
“Are you still in New York?” She asks, forgoing all pleasantries.
“Uh - yes,” you answer, growing more confused and concerned by the second.
“We need help,” she says. “I don’t have time to explain everything, so you’re just going to have to trust me. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“Who is we? And what kind of help, exactly?”
She has to give you a little more information than that. How are you supposed to know what to bring? Do you need firearms? Combat knives? Batons? Smoke bombs? Lockpick? All things that you haven’t had use for in years yet still keep on hand, just in case.
Your thoughts spiral as you wait for her to respond. Someone begins speaking in the background.
“Who are you talking to?” You hear a masculine voice yell. Your heart lurches - you recognize that voice.
As if you could ever truly forget it. As if you don’t hear it in your dreams still to this day.
“Yelena, whose voice is that?” You ask, already knowing the answer. You just want her to say it - to give you confirmation that you aren’t imagining things. That you aren’t crazy.
Yelena doesn’t answer your question or his. You can’t help but wonder if he heard your voice, too. He always had exceptional hearing.
“Meet us at the old Avenger’s Tower,” she says instead. “Get there as quickly as you can.”
“Yelena—”
“Please. Just hurry.”
The call ends, and your heart feels as if it is going to beat right out of your chest. You stare at the phone, debating on calling her back and demanding to know exactly what the hell is going on before you potentially uproot the peaceful life that you’ve worked so hard to create.
But you don’t. Instead, you run to your bedroom and start throwing whatever you can find into a duffel bag. A few handguns and ammo, knives and gas pellets. From your closet, you retrieve a tactical suit that you haven’t worn in years and pray that it still fits.
The truth is, you don’t need to call her back. Though you’re freaked out by the panic in her voice and would love a heads up for what you’re walking into, it doesn’t really make a difference.
No matter what it is, you’re going. If there’s something big enough for Yelena to call you and beg for help, you’re going to do whatever you can.
Especially if he’s there.
The thought of seeing him again, after so many years, terrifies you far more than whatever it is they could need help with. But not nearly as much as letting the chance of seeing him again slip through your fingers.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
Your apartment is only a forty-five minute drive from Midtown Manhattan. An hour, if there’s heavy traffic.
Today, you make it there in thirty minutes. The now twenty-five year old Buick that Bucky had left you in the driveway of the safe house over a decade ago may have over 300,000 miles on it, but you can count on her to get you where you need to go.
You could have bought a new car a long time ago. You have decent credit, job stability, and enough money in savings for a downpayment. You’re just oddly attached to the old thing.
It’s been with you since the very first day of your new life, and it’s one of the only tangible reminders you have of him. That, and the handwritten note he left under your pillow the week you escaped.
You tell yourself that you’re just sentimental, but if the car had come into your possession any other way, you would have junked it years ago.
When the old Avenger’s Tower comes into view, the questions in your head begin to multiply.
“What the fuck have you gotten me into, Yelena?”
Someone has driven a van directly through the building. Where there was once a front entrance, there is now a jagged, gaping hole. From the street, you can still see the van inside.
You park in the first available spot you can find and run one final check: widow bites, two small pistols, a collapsible baton, and several combat knives tucked into your thigh holsters. Despite the fact that it’s been over a decade since you’ve carried more than a single handgun, this doesn’t feel as strange as you expected it to - not yet, anyway. You may feel differently if you end up having to put the weapons to use.
You walk straight into the building through the cratered wall. You look around, not seeing Yelena or Bucky or anyone else that you think would be with them. There’s random men cleaning up debris from whatever the fuck must have happened before you arrived, but none of them pay any attention to you.
Your phone vibrates from your back pocket. The number Yelena called you from earlier is displayed across the screen with a message that simply says: Top floor.
Inside the elevator, you press the button to take you to the very top of the building and then lean back against the wall. Your heart pounds at the possibility of what awaits you at the top floor. Sure, you’re nervous at the prospect of walking into a hostile situation.
But more than that, it’s him. Bucky.
You don’t know what you’ll say to him - or if you’ll even say anything at all. Will he even acknowledge you? What if he doesn’t recognize you? Or worse: what if he does recognize you, and doesn’t care that you’re there?
The elevator ride feels eternal.
You take a few, steady breaths as the elevator passes the last few floors before coming to a stop. The last thing you want is to appear as if you’re on the verge of a panic attack the second that he sees you.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.
He’s the first person that you see. Standing on the other side of the room, directly across from you, is the man you fell in love with without so much as knowing his name.
His hair is a little shorter, and his frame a bit stockier, but he has the blue eyes and serious expression that you fell in love with so long ago.
His jaw tightens, and he swallows thickly. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s recognition in his eyes. He doesn’t appear surprised - he must have pieced together that it was you on the phone with Yelena.
You wonder if he’s putting as much effort into keeping his composure as you are.
All eyes are on you as you step out of the elevator. You force yourself to look away from him. On one side of the room is the woman you recognize to be Valentina - standing next to her is a man you’ve never seen. He wears an ostentatious, gold costume that matches his hair. He fidgets with his hands and quickly looks down when your gaze flickers to him - obviously uncomfortable.
Standing directly across from Valentina and the blond man is Yelena and several others. The only one you recognize is John Walker. You’ve never met him, but you vividly remember his brief, failed stint as Captain America several years ago. In addition to Yelena and John, there’s a paunchy, bearded man in a red costume and a tall, dark-haired woman in some kind of high-tech tactical suit.
They all look like shit. Like they’ve already had their asses handed to them on a silver platter.
“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up,” Valentina drawls in a voice laced with fake cheer. “Everyone else managed to get here on time.” She gestures towards the group of people standing across from her - each of who are glaring at her.
Except for Bucky. He’s looking at you. Though his expression is stoic, you catch the way his throat bobs and his fingers subtly flex at his sides - like he’s holding himself back from saying or doing something.
“Sorry,” you deadpan as you come to stand beside Yelena. “I had to parallel park.”
“And she has a sense of humor,” Valentina retorts. “You know, you’re one of the only people to ever say no to me. Why was it you turned me down, again?” She puts a finger on her chin in mock contemplation and takes a step towards you. From the corner of your eye, you see Bucky inch forward as well, his flesh hand hovering over the gun on his hip.
“Something about someone helping you get a second chance?” She asks rhetorically. “I wonder who that could’ve been.”
You know she’s just trying to get a reaction from you, so you purse your lips, hold eye contact, and don’t respond.
“That’s enough, Valentina,” Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. You don’t let yourself look at him. “Leave her alone. It’s not her fault that she has been dragged into this.”
Valentina doesn’t take her eyes off of you. “He’s still protective. Isn’t that cute?”
“Can someone tell me why I’m here?” You can’t help the way your voice shoots up several octaves. “I wasn’t exactly given the run down.” You shoot a glare at Yelena, who looks at you apologetically.
“Lucky for you, you got here just in time,” Valentina quips as she turns away from you, back to the fidgety blond man standing beside her. “I was just telling your friends here - it is my great honor to introduce to you, The Sentry.”
“Hey, guys,” the man in the gold says. His voice is timid, though it sounds as if he’s greeting old friends.
“You see, the press is on their way here now,” Valentina continues. “And they’re going to witness the awesome power of Sentry as he takes down this ruthless group of rogue agents—”
Rogue agents? Ruthless?
“Sentry, your first mission is to take out these criminals.”
“I don’t wanna hurt you guys. Why don’t you just…turn yourselves in?”
Your brows furrow together. You find it hard to believe that he could hurt anyone with how soft-spoken and hesitant he seems.
Walker steps forward, speaking up for the first time since you entered the room. “You don’t wanna do this, Bobby.”
Bobby? Something clicks in your head at the sound of the name. Bob - you remember hearing someone in the background of your and Yelena’s phone call mention the name. We have to help Bob, they’d said.
As you’re piecing together that this Sentry guy is the Bob they are trying to help, there’s a sudden change in his demeanor. His eyes seemingly darken as his once meek expression turns serious.
“You can call me The Sentry,” he asserts, looking Walker dead in the eye.
“Please, don’t do this. You do not need to listen to her,” Yelena pleads with him.
“Robert, they don’t think you’re good enough,” Valentina interrupts.
“That’s not true. Remember? You can trust me. I know you.”
Bob - Bobby - Robert - Sentry - whatever the guy’s name is - shakes his head. “I don’t think that you do.”
“ENOUGH TALKING,” the tall, hairy man in the bright red suit suddenly booms, capturing everyone’s attention. “No one messes with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!”
At this moment, you’re every bit as confused as Valentina appears to be.
“Thunderbolts?” You echo.
The room erupts before you can process what’s about to happen.
The man in the red suit charges first, letting out a guttural war cry as he hurls himself at Sentry. With one fluid motion, Sentry lifts a single hand and sends him flying across the room with a force that cracks the wall on impact.
Walker charges next, shield raised. The tall, dark-haired woman, whose name you quickly learn is Ava due to Yelena yelling it after her, disappears in a blur of glitching pixels before reappearing behind Sentry in an attempt to destabilize him from the inside.
Yelena flanks to the right, pistols in each hand. She fires, but Sentry easily sends the bullets flying in the opposite direction - straight towards you. Bucky sprints towards you at the same time as Walker, who raises his shield to deflect the bullets.
You reach for your baton, but as you do, Bucky grabs your wrist in his flesh hand.
“Stay close to me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. Even with all of the violence and chaos happening right in front of you, all you can think about in that moment is the feeling of his hand holding yours.
Yelena’s scream as Sentry sends her flying across the room brings you back to reality.
The two of you fall back into rhythm like it’s muscle memory. Your bodies move in tandem as you cover each other. It’s almost too easy to pretend this isn’t the first time you’ve fought together in over a decade. Your movements are a little rusty from so many years of doing your best to avoid scenarios like this, but he easily picks up your slack.
From the corner of your eye, you see Ava cry out as she’s forcibly de-phased, slamming into the ground. Walker hits a column and groans. Yelena lands in a crouch, panting.
“Get down!” Bucky yells, a mere second before throwing himself in front of you.
A blast of Sentry’s energy hits him square in the chest, and he flies backward, taking you with him. Your back slams against the floor, head spinning. When you push yourself up, Bucky is already struggling to his feet.
Sentry closes in on the both of you.
He grabs Bucky’s metal arm mid-swing, and everything slows.
“Don’t—” you start, pushing yourself up, stumbling toward them.
But you’re far too powerless to stop him. With terrifying ease, Sentry rips Bucky’s vibranium arm clean off. Sentry winds the metal appendage back as if it weighs nothing and then swings it forward, slapping Bucky across the face.
“No!” You yell as you fall to your knees beside him. Your scream is swallowed by the sound of the others regrouping, but you barely hear them. All you can see is him.
Your hands cradle his face. He’s out cold.
Around you, the others seem to accept that there’s no way any of you can beat him. The only way out is to run.
Yelena shouts for everyone to move, to get to the elevator. Ava is suddenly beside you, picking up Bucky’s arm before running in the direction of the elevator.
“Walker! Alexei!” Yelena shouts. “Get Bucky!”
The two men appear beside you, hauling an unconscious Bucky into their arms. All of you run after Yelena and Ava, who are already in the elevator. You enter the cramped space a mere second before the doors shut.
Behind the closed doors of the elevator, Bucky is still held up by Walker and Alexei. Everyone around you pants, trying to recover from the absolute disaster of a fight, but your only focus is the man in front of you.
“Hey, hey,” you coo, gently tapping him on the face in an attempt to wake him up. You don’t care that your hands are shaking. You just need him to open his eyes. “Come on, Bucky. Look at me…”
There’s a visible bruise forming across his cheekbone from the impact of the heavy vibranium. His eyes flutter open and shut repeatedly, like he’s hanging onto the sound of your voice in an attempt to find his way back to reality.
There’s a beat of uncertain silence, and then he lets out a groan. His eyelids twitch, and then slowly open. Dazed blue eyes find yours.
“Am I concussed,” he grunts, “or are you actually here right now?”
You’re unable to stop the laugh that slips out of you. It’s half relief, half disbelief. “I’m actually here. Though I wouldn’t completely rule a concussion out yet.”
Ava clears her throat from behind you. You glance over your shoulder to see her holding Bucky’s metal arm out to him. “I take it you two know each other, then?”
You step back as he accepts the appendage, popping it back into place on the left side of his body. You nod, not meeting her stare. “Yeah. Something like that.”
You feel his gaze on you, but he says nothing. An awkward silence settles over the elevator.
When the elevator doors slide open, no time is wasted in getting out of the building. You’re vaguely aware that Yelena, Ava, Alexei and Walker immediately start arguing with each other about what steps to take next, but you aren’t paying attention to a word they say.
The relief you’d felt when you realized that he’s okay just moments before is quickly replaced with uncertainty.
You’re here, he’s here, and you’re both okay. But what now? Where do you go from here? You spent so long wondering if you’d ever see him again, but didn’t even consider what you’d say to him if that day ever came.
Now that it’s finally here, you’re at a loss for words. Factor in the adrenaline crash that you can feel coming on…
Your lungs feel too tight. The sounds around you blur into static. Raised voices, car horns, the distant wail of sirens - none of it registers. Your vision narrows, and suddenly the space feels way too small and loud. It’s all too much.
You turn and walk. You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away. Just until you can breathe again.
You duck around the corner of the building, stepping into the cool shadow of an alleyway. You lean back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as you try to steady your breathing.
Your pulse is racing. Your palms are damp. You press a shaking hand to your chest and attempt to count down from ten.
“Hey.”
You open your eyes at the sound of his soft voice. He’s standing at the mouth of the alley, a few feet away.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. “I just need a minute.”
“I know.”
He takes a few steps towards you, tentative and slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. You cross your arms over your chest. Not because you’re cold, but because you’re trying to hold yourself together.
Every part of you wants to close the remaining distance between you and throw yourself into his arms. To forget everything going on around you and melt into him in the middle of this stinky alleyway. But you fear that if you do, you’ll crumble - and there’s still so much on the line right now that’s bigger than just you and him.
Still, it’s hard to hold your tongue when the chance to say all of the words that you’ve waited years to say to him is right in front of you.
“You never came back for me. Why?”
Your voice breaks on the last word. He flinches, his gaze dropping for the first time since stepping into the alley.
“I wanted to,” he says. “I wanted to every day.”
You wait for him to continue.
“When I came back, after I was pardoned, I did come for you. But I saw how…stable and peaceful your life is. I couldn’t bring myself to disrupt that. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
There’s a lump in your throat that you force yourself to swallow down.
“All I wanted for me was you.”
There’s a flash of something in his eyes - guilt, maybe regret - at your confession. Hearing the words come from your mouth seems to snap something inside him. He steps forward, closing the remaining distance between you. His hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head to look up at him. The lump in your throat suddenly feels suffocating, and your eyes begin to burn with the threat of unshed tears.
“I thought of you every day,” he whispers. The look in his eyes lets you know that he’s telling the truth. “Every single day. Staying away from you is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But I did it because I love you enough to want more for you than…this.”
He doesn’t elaborate on exactly what he means by this. Maybe he means the potential danger that looms over you right at this moment. Maybe he just means him. You’re not sure - you can’t think clearly because he just said that he fucking loves you.
The moment comes to an abrupt end when panicked screams echo from around the block. You recognize Walker’s voice barking a command at someone. You both look towards the commotion, and then back to each other.
“I should’ve come back,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “And when this is all over - whatever the hell this is - I will.”
You blink, stunned by the certainty in his voice. “Are you sure?”
He nods, grazing his flesh thumb along your cheekbone.
“If you’ll still let me.”
Without thinking, you press your lips to his.
It feels like being transported back in time. You’re no longer standing in a Manhattan alleyway in the midst of impending doom. With your eyes closed, and his lips against yours, you’re kissing him for the first time in a Hydra facility bathroom. You’re kissing him in the bathroom of a safe house. You’re kissing every version of him - soldier, ghost, Bucky - more sure than ever that you want all of him.
It ends all too soon. When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.
“When this is over, I’ll be waiting.”
☆☆☆☆☆☆
If someone had told you just forty-eight hours ago that you’d get a call from Yelena asking for help, that you’d be reunited with Bucky, that all of New York would be turned to shadows and everyone would be forced to relive their greatest traumas in interconnected shame rooms, and that you’d be announced as a member of the New Avengers on live television, you would have wondered if you had accidentally consumed a really potent edible.
Everything happened so quickly. Your whole life changed in what felt like the blink of an eye.
You had all been offered rooms at the old Avenger’s Tower - or the Watchtower, as Valentina has apparently renamed it. But you have a place of your own - with a lease that isn’t up until the end of the year. And a job that you actually really like. And plants that have to be watered.
Therefore, you’re back at your apartment outside of the city. At least for the time being.
Yelena didn’t look surprised when she found out that you weren’t staying.
The dust had barely settled from the aftermath of The Void. You were still in your tactical suit, attempting to wrap your head around the fact that Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all Avengers now. You were on your way out of the Watchtower when Yelena caught up to you in the hallway.
“Leaving already?” She’d asked. There was no judgment in her voice, only genuine curiosity.
You shrugged. “This whole…superhero thing wasn’t exactly on my vision board. I just need some time to process it all.”
Her expression softened. “What about Bucky?”
You smirked, exhaling a laugh through your nose. “Bucky knows where to find me.”
You hadn’t meant it to sound harsh. You leaving - it isn’t about pushing him away. It isn’t about making him work for it.
It’s simply about believing that he’d meant what he said. That he really would come for you.
But until then - you have books to read. Laundry to do. Shows to watch. A pothos plant that desperately needs to be repotted. A calm life full of little things that you wouldn’t have if it weren’t for him.
And for the first time in a really long time, you have hope.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
Three hours.
That’s how long it takes for you to hear the revving of a motorcycle’s engine outside of your first floor apartment after you get back to your place.
You’ve barely had time to scarf down two day old leftovers and wash all of the sweat, blood, and grime off of your skin when you hear it.
None of your neighbors ride motorcycles. And the headlights are shining directly into your living room through the cracks of the window’s blinds.
It could be anyone. But you know that it isn’t just anyone.
You’re opening the door before he even has a chance to knock.
His hair is still damp from a shower. He smiles at you in a way that you’ve never seen him smile before. It reaches his eyes and brings out the laugh lines around them.
“That was quick,” you hum.
“No.” He shakes his head in disagreement, but his smile doesn’t falter. “It wasn’t. That took me entirely too long. I should’ve been here years ago.”
Without another word, he steps inside and closes the door behind him.
The warm glow of a lamp in your living room is the only source of light, but it’s enough to see the dilation of his pupils as he takes in your appearance. Freshly showered, bare faced, and nothing but a loose t-shirt draped over your frame.
“Well,” you breathe. “You’re here now. What are you gonna do?”
He stares at you for a moment. Like he’s scared you might vanish if he blinks. Then, his hands are on your waist and yours are in his hair. You pull his mouth down to yours and he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist.
Without so much as breaking the kiss, he carries you through your apartment as if he’s done so a hundred times before. He places you on the edge of your kitchen counter, his hands splaying across your thighs as if to anchor himself.
“You look exactly the same,” he murmurs against the skin of your throat, in between planting kisses by the shell of your ear and your jaw. “Still as beautiful as ever.”
You grin. “Well, I was blipped for five years, so that helped a little bit. You look pretty good, too, you know. Not a day over seventy-five.”
He laughs, pulling back to look at you. His expression turns more serious as he brushes a slow circle on your inner thigh with the cool vibranium of his thumb.
“We don’t have to rush this,” he says in a low voice. “We have time now. All the time.”
Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips ghosting over taut muscles and warm skin.
“I know,” you whisper. “But we aren’t rushing. I’ve wanted this for over a decade. Wanted you for over a decade.”
His mouth is back on yours in an instant. It’s hungry, but still careful. He presses closer and you can feel him - hard against your core, even through the thick material of his jeans. You roll your hips against his and he groans into your mouth at the friction.
“You have no idea,” he groans when he pulls his mouth away from yours, “how many times I’ve thought about this since I last saw you.”
“Oh, yeah?” You smile against his mouth. “What took you so long?”
“Don’t,” he warns softly, dragging his metal hand up your spine. “Don’t start with me. I’ll take you right here.”
Your breath catches, arousal blooming low in your stomach. His tone is teasing but there’s promise in his words.
“I wouldn’t stop you.”
He chuckles lowly. “Tempting. But I’m doing this right.”
Then he’s lifting you again, carrying you in the direction of your bedroom.
Clothes are lost piece by piece, hands continuously touching and roaming. When his eyes drag over your bare body, he breathes your name. Your real name - not the name on the fake passport and ID he’d given you so long ago that most people know you by these days.
Your name. And goddamn, does it feel good to hear him say it.
Then his mouth is on you - slow at first, savoring you, tongue moving with agonizing precision. You gasp, your hands flying to grip the back of his head.
“God, baby,” he mutters in between strokes of his tongue. “You are so fucking sweet.”
“Bucky,” you groan, loving that you know what to call him this time around. By the way he moans into you, you think that he seems to like it, too. “Fuck, Bucky.” Your hips twitch and he splays both hands across your belly, pinning you in place.
“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “I’ve got you.”
You cry out when he slides one thick finger inside, curling it just right, then adding a second without warning. The combination of his mouth and fingers is almost too much. You clutch at his hair, grounding yourself in the sound of his low groans and the warmth of his tongue.
He keeps going, steady and sure, working you until your thighs are shaking and his name is tumbling from your lips again and again. You come with a shudder, gripping him hard and gasping through the wave that crashes over you.
He stays there for a moment, letting you ride it out, before finally pulling away, his mouth shiny and blue eyes full of desire.
“Come here,” you say breathlessly, taking no time to recover before pulling him up to you. You pull his face down to yours, crushing your lips against his once more, reveling in the flavor of yourself on his tongue. He snakes a hand between your bodies, stroking his length in his flesh hand before teasing your entrance with the tip.
“Bucky,” you whine at this teasing. “Please. Waited long enough.”
“I know, sweetheart,” he coos as he eases inside you. You gasp at the stretch, sinking yourself onto his length. “I’m gonna take care of you.”
And he does. It’s not rough or rushed - it’s full of reverence. Like he’s making up for all of the years that he couldn’t have you. Hands roam your body as if trying to memorize every individual dip and curve and every kiss says I missed you, I missed you so much, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.
“So perfect,” he grunts beside your ear. “I love you. Loved you for as long as I can remember—”
His confession is enough to cause the hot coil in the pit of your stomach to snap. You come with a cry of his name, your nails digging into the flesh of his back as he continues to rock into you. He follows shortly after with a low, broken moan into the crook of your neck.
For a while, neither of you move. You lie together in the afterglow, sweat slicked bodies still pressed together as you both come back down to earth.
“Bucky?” You murmur after a moment, still breathless. He pulls back far enough to look down at you.
“I love you, too. For as long as I’ve known you. I never stopped loving you.”
He smiles at your words, his expression open and unguarded in a way that’s brand new to you. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.
You curl into him as he pulls the blanket over you both. His arm wraps around your waist like he never wants to let go of you again.
The city outside is still recovering. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You haven’t decided if you’ll take Valentina’s offer seriously, if the New Avengers are actually a thing, or what any of it means going forward.
Only one thing matters to you right now, and he’s laying beside you, holding you close.
You’re both home.
if you read all 18.7k words of this, thank you. as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🫶🏻💖
daeho helps shy!you feel a little less alone in the games. (set in s2 so no spoilers for s3)
part 1 | part 2
note: hii um I wrote this in one sitting so if it’s bad.. that’s why lol. also! I’d love any requests you have for this pairing, I’m obsessed with them already hehe
kang daeho x shy!fem!reader, fluff + hurt comfort, 1.6k words
Your hands wont stop shaking.
You squeeze them together to stop the trembling, trying not to show how horribly frightened you are. The chaos that was the aftermath of the first game has worn off. You should have calmed down by now, as has every other player in the room, but you can’t seem to stop shaking. Especially now that the vote has been settled, and the majority has voted to stay for another game.
You’re stuck here, at least until the next game is over.
You glance down at the red X velcroed to your chest. You’re certain you made the right decision — no matter how much you need the money, and you really do need it, you weren’t willing to risk your life again. Though you suppose your vote doesn’t matter much now, anyway.
The line moves forward and you follow the man in front of you, staring at his back to avoid eye contact with the other players around you. The masked guards are giving out food, and while you’d prefer to hide in between the bunks somewhere, your stomach aches with hunger.
You can’t stand being around this many people at once. You’re terribly shy at the best of times.
“Are you feeling okay, miss?”
You jump, whipping around. Someone’s tapped you on the shoulder from the line next to yours. It’s Player 388 — a tall man with longer hair, stands right next to you in his line. You remember his face — during Red Light, Green Light, you’d been standing near him and he’d grabbed you, letting you duck behind him and use his body as a shield. You would’ve thanked him, you should’ve, but you’ve been far too shaken up since then.
He looks concerned. You don’t like the earnestness in his gaze, it makes you all sorts of nervous. You nod vigorously, if only to get him to stop looking at you like that.
“I’m okay,” you manage, though your feeble voice suggests otherwise.
Player 388 frowns. “Are you sure? Are you feeling unwell?”
You must be pale in the face, or maybe you look like you’re about to throw up. You sure feel like it. You shake your head. “No, I’m—“
Someone behind you clears their throat and shoves you forward a little. You stumble, and look up to realise you’ve reached the front of the line. You’re face to face with a masked guard.
He holds out your food without a word.
“Sorry,” you mumble to the woman behind you who’d pushed you.
You don’t notice Player 388’s gaze lingering on you as you quickly take your food and book it out of there, your face hot and your heart thudding. If the death games aren’t enough, you’re sure your nerves are going to kill you one day.
You make your way to the back of the room, to a small nook between the beds where you’d been hiding before you lined up for your food. Only, your spot’s been taken by a trio of older men who don’t look like they want to be disturbed. One of them raises a brow at you, eyeing you up and down.
You suppose you look quite weak, with your trembling hands, your food clutched to your chest. You’re surprised your knees haven’t started to tremble.
You mumble an apology and turn on your heel, searching for another spot to hide yourself away. There aren’t many left. You’d been one of the last to get your food, too frightened to emerge from your hiding spot until you knew it was absolutely safe. Most of the bunks are full now, and the players have started to group together, most likely forming alliances. You, on the other hand, are very much alone.
You’re considering doing something absurd like sliding under one of the bunks to hide, when you spot Player 388. He’s settling in the corner of the room, but he’s looking right back at you, something like concern etched into his face. You’re about to look away when he lifts an arm and waves you over.
Should you go? You don’t know if you can trust him — you’re pretty certain you saw him vote blue. Still, he’s the only person who’s been kind to you in this place so far. The only person who’s spared you even a glance.
Your feet make your decision for you. You’re moving before you can stop yourself. You cross the room to where he’s sitting, climbing a few metal steps to get to his bunk, your knees knocking together as you climb.
Player 388 smiles at you as you approach.
“You want to eat with me?” He asks. He shuffles over and pats the spot next to him. “Come, sit.”
You pause. What if he tries to hurt you? Or trick you? Well, you’re here already, aren’t you? And he’s been nice to you so far. You sit down before you can change your mind, pulling your legs in so as not to take up too much space.
“Thank you,” you say quietly, ducking your head. Embarrassment warms your face.
Player 388 shrugs good-naturedly and starts to eat. Your knee bounces uncontrollably, but you ignore it, desperate to look anything but weak. You open your container of food, pulling back the lid to reveal a small meal of rice, sausage, greens, and fried egg.
You blink. For some reason, and despite your hunger, the sight of it makes your stomach turn. It looks like the lunchboxes you used to eat as a kid, something your mother would’ve made you. She’s gone now, and you suddenly miss her very much. Your heart starts to climb up your throat. What are you doing here? You’re going to die in this place, surrounded by strangers. Your last moments will be spent with people you don’t even know.
You start to panic, your heart thud thud thudding it’s way up to your throat. You press your palm to your chest in a poor attempt to calm yourself. Your hands are shaking again, you notice absentmindedly.
“Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?” Player 388 puts his food down and reaches out, moving to take your wrist in his hand.
His fingers brush your skin and you jolt away instinctively, clutching your hand to your chest. 388 looks worried, his brow furrowed, his eyes doe-like as they bore into yours, but he puts his hands up as if in surrender.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says slowly. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you, I swear.”
You nod. “I…I’m sorry. I know you won’t.”
Do you, though? You’re honestly not sure. You lower your hand, rubbing at your thigh roughly with your palm.
“I’m… jumpy,” you explain poorly.
Player 388 nods. “It’s okay.” He says again, soft.
He reaches for you again, and this time you don’t jerk away. He slides his hand over your bouncing knee firmly, the pressure of his hand stopping your anxious tic. His hand is warm through your trackpants.
He smiles, and the look in his eyes is so kind it almost makes you cry. “What’s your name?”
You blink away the beginnings of tears. You won’t cry, not now.
“Y/N,” you manage.
Something about the way he looks at you is calming your nerves in mere seconds. You suppose it’s not very smart to let your guard down in a place like this, but he seems so sweet. Besides, if you’re going to die soon anyway, what does it matter? He might as well know your name.
“Y/N,” 388 repeats, like he’s testing it out. Then he nods firmly, satisfied. “It’s pretty. Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Daeho, Kang Daeho.”
He removes his hand from your knee and holds it out for you to shake. You take his hand in yours for a moment, his palm warm and calloused, yours embarrassing clammy.
Despite this, Daeho smiles at you, tilting his head to the side like a puppy.
“I won’t hurt you, okay?” He says reassuringly, and you find yourself believing him. How could you not, when he says it like that?
Daeho lets go of your hand, and takes up his food again.
“Are you going to eat?” He asks you, glancing at your untouched food. “You’ll feel better if you do.”
You wonder to yourself if he’s only being nice so he can take advantage of you later. You decide you don’t really care.
“Yes,” you nod, picking up your spoon.
You scoop up a spoonful of rice. Your hands aren’t trembling anymore, though your heart is still a riot. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re scared, or because the handsome man sitting at your side is being so sweet to you.
You manage to spoon the rice into your mouth and swallow it without throwing up, and Daeho’s right, you do feel better, even after only one spoonful. You manage a few more, and then Daeho opens your water bottle for you, and after a few sips you feel infinitely better.
Daeho watches you carefully out of the corner of his eye while you eat. When you’re halfway through your food, you turn to him.
“Thank you, Daeho,” you say shyly. “And for, um, protecting me in the first game, as well.”
Daeho grins, graciously ignoring your stuttering. He’s got a pretty smile.
“No problem, Y/N,” he says.
You watch as he takes a swig of water. He’s oddly charming in the way he moves and speaks, and you can’t help staring a bit.
“Stay close to me from now on, okay?” He adds, setting his water bottle down. “I’ll look after you.”
You nod, turning back to your food. It’s not long before you and Daeho notice the men just behind you discussing what the next game will be, and one of them mentions dalgona.
Daeho perks up at this, and practically jumps to join their conversation, tugging you with him to listen in. You realise, with a rush of hope, that the man who’d mentioned dalgona is Player 456. He’s apparently done this before, and he’s the reason most of you made it through the first game.
Between Player 456, who seems to know what he’s doing, and Daeho, who really does seem intent on looking after you, you realise you might just have a fighting chance in these games after all.
-
thank you for reading! reblogs are appreciated as always ᡣ𐭩
I dunno if anyone else thought of this headcanon, but the Winter Soldier was responsible for Australian Prime Minister Harold Holt's "disappearance" into the ocean.
Summary: Bucky suggests sneaking off at the gala. How can you resist?
Word Count: Over 3k
Warnings: Unprotected v. sex, sex in a closet, dirty talk, possessiveness, established relationship, slight insecurities, mention of breeding, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes and he's a simp for you (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Sorry, lovelies. I just really wanted this. Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky didn’t bother to hide his discontent as he looked around at the ballroom. Was it a gala? Fundraiser? What cared? He hated functions like these. People were either there to kiss ass and move up the chain of command or gloat about how well off they were in life under the guise that they were doing good for others. He didn't attempt to converse with any of them, but still had to go as a way to support SHIELD in some capacity and show that he was no longer the Winter Soldier.
At least Steve and Sam were excused from the event due to a mission.
Leaning against one of the pillars and tugging at his bowtie, he spaced out momentarily. No one looked his way, but he still felt judged. Like he didn’t just belong at the event, but amongst anyone. He wanted to go home, get out of his tuxedo, and get the product out of his slicked back hair. He debated sneaking away from some air until he blinked and saw the reason he was truly there: you, the only real person in the crowd of liars and cheaters.
He never understood the expression of clothes clinging to someone like a second skin until you stepped into your floor-length black dress earlier this evening, the fabric enhancing every beautiful curve of your body. His eyes narrowed as you moved around the room and exchanged smiles and handshakes with people. Your aura drew people to you, men brushing against you and their stares lingering for far too long. It served as another reminder of why he didn’t want to go tonight, especially when a General gripped your arm.
If he had a glass in his hand it would’ve shattered.
Convincing you to stay in bed didn't work since you both had to make an appearance, but it didn't mean he wanted you apart from him. “Get over here,” he whispered, craving your attention, needing you close.
As if you sensed him seeking you out, likely feeling the weight of his stare, you turned to meet his gaze across the room. Your eyes sparkled with love that he never thought he’d receive in his lifetime. The kind of love he never wanted to be without again. “Would you please excuse me?” You asked loud enough for him to catch as you removed your arm from the man’s grip. “My husband is waiting for me.”
Your hips swayed as you worked your way toward Bucky, not stopping for any other man who tried to catch your eye. Hearing you call him your husband brought the first smile to his face since he arrived. He still couldn’t believe some days that you wanted forever with him. “I was wondering when my beautiful wife would remember I was here,” he said once you were close enough, reaching out for your hand.
The moment you took it, he stood tall and pulled you against him. He was certain no one else came close to the intimidating vibe he put out, his hold on you possessive as you smiled. “As if I could forget. Practically heard you growling when General Rando touched my arm,” you teased.
“Because he has no right to touch you,” he said, your lashes fluttering as you spun away. His hands guided you back to him. “I know you’re better with people than I am, which is why you’re the one who has to socialize and I’m sorry for that. But you also said I’m not allowed to break any fingers tonight and I won't be held responsible if he tries to touch you again.”
He swore he didn’t have a possessive bone in his body until you sauntered into his life, giving him hopes and dreams and longing.
You laughed at him, a seductive sound that had a few heads turning. “You do know I can break his fingers myself, right?”
He chuckled, leaning close to your ear and tickling your skin with his breath. “I know you're more than capable of kicking his ass. One of your many wonderful qualities,” he whispered. People underestimated you and that was always a mistake. “But I still don't like that he touched you like he wanted to own you.”
You rang a finger along his bowtie. “We all know who owns me and we know I own you, too,” you said, holding up your hand to show him your wedding ring. He tried to ignore how fast his heart pounded at the sight of his ring on your finger, the pledge you two made together. “In a very healthy, non-toxic sort of way, of course.”
He smirked, glancing around at the crowd before looking back at you. “Of course, but maybe we could give everyone a friendly reminder that we’re a happily married and loyal couple.” His voice dropped lower, teasingly. He wanted to make your heart race like his. “Or maybe we could sneak away for a bit. Make this night a little more interesting.”
“Sneak away?” You feigned innocence as you blinked at him. He was certain any innocence you had before he met you was gone thanks to him. “Whatever for?”
“You know what for. It’ll be like that expo we went to a few months ago.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying your face closely. He easily picked up your sharp inhale, the way your pupils dilated and lips parted. It was clear that sneaking off was something that very much interested you. “C’mon, baby. This gala is boring and neither of us want to be here. My idea is much more fun. You know it is.”
He touched your cheek, your skin warm under his hand. He wasn’t able to keep you in bed earlier like he wanted, but the thought of pulling you away and having you right here and now had his stomach fluttering with excitement. “This gala is boring,” you agreed carefully.
“Then let’s make it exciting.” His thumb brushed across your lips and it took everything in him not to push his thumb inside. “You made me come to this thing. Don’t I deserve something for showing up and behaving?”
“I haven't made you come yet.” His muscles went taut when you briefly sucked the digit into your mouth, electricity crackling under his skin. He admired your boldness, how you were unashamedly yourself in front of these people. You didn't and would never care what they thought. “And I didn't make you come to this event, but I can make it worth your while.”
He held your chin and moved close until only an inch separated your faces. Your eyes gleamed with a hunger that rivaled his. The air crackled between you, daring you both to give over to your obvious desires. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?” He rasped when you suddenly pulled back and helped move him across the floor in a dance.
“My plan? I thought sneaking away was your idea,” you smiled, guiding you both closer to the open doorway. “But if we can find a closet or dark corner, you can do whatever you want with me. And I’ll even let you fuck my throat first thing tomorrow morning for behaving.”
A rumbling, deep groan escaped his throat. His fingers dug in possessively when he gripped the nape of your neck and tilted your head so he could taste your skin. Your body molding against his, soft and yielding against his solid frame, wasn’t enough. There were too many clothes in the way and he wanted to bury himself deep inside you.
“You drive me crazy, Mrs. Barnes,” he whispered, lifting his head to look into your eyes.
“The feeling is mutual, Mr. Barnes.” You bit your lip once he waltzed you for enough away from prying eyes, the heat flaring between you. “I need you.”
Every nerve ending came to life when he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue plunged past your lips, holding you steady as he devoured you. You melted against him, which only brought forth his primal hunger more. His intensity never scared you and he would be forever thankful for that.
You gasped as your back hit a wall, the sounds of chatter and music from the ballroom muffled. Your nails scraped the fabric of his jacket, both of you lost in sensations of lust and desire. As one of your hands continued its journey to his shoulder, the other wandered down his torso and didn’t stop until you gripped his thick erection through his pants.
He abruptly broke the kiss when you gave him a squeeze, his eyes wild. “Fuck,” he breathed, gripping your wrist and pushing more firmly against your hand. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”
With dizzying speed, he spun you so that your back pressed against his front. You panted as his hand ventured through the slit of your dress and brushed along your trembling thigh. “Wait until you feel how wet I am,” you whispered, grinding your hips back against his.
His mouth brushed the exposed column of your throat, alternating between small bites and open mouthed kisses. “Still get wet for me?” He asked, massaging your breast with his vibranium hand and drawing another gasp from you when he pinched your nipple. He marveled at how much he could feel with that hand and how he’d never harm you with it.
“Have you seen yourself? One look from you and I’m soaked.” Your back arched as he bit down again. He wished he saw himself the way you did. “And you’re my husband. That craving for you isn’t going away.”
He rocked his hips against yours, seeking out more contact and friction as his cock throbbed and heart swelled. Marriage wasn’t a constant honeymoon phase. It took work. Effort. Compromise. But you were worth every moment, every struggle, every up and down.
Laughter from a few feet away had him lifting his head, both of you looking toward where the noise was coming from. “Fuck,” he snarled, wanting to scream at whoever it was to go the fuck away.
“There’s a closet around the corner. We just need to pick the lock,” you told him, smiling over your shoulder. “I may have scoped out the place in case this happened.”
He chuckled, utterly in awe of you. “I fucking you love,” he exhaled.
Walking with an aching hard-on wasn’t easy, but he managed to get you both further away from the ballroom. He picked the lock with record speed once you got to the door and moved you both inside. He flipped on the light, wanting to see as much of you as he could. For a moment, you two stared at each other and waited for the other to make a move. He loved the anticipation.
“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Barnes,” you said, reaching for the doorknob to lock it. He was about to ask what he possibly did to upset you when you smirked. “You didn’t mention anything about me not wearing any panties.”
His cock was ready to burst from his pants. “Because that fucking clown out there interupted me,” he rumbled, pinning you against the door and crowding your body. His nose touched yours as he hiked your dress up, desperate to kiss you again. Eager to feel your wetness. “You trust me?”
It was a question he always asked. You put all of yourself into his care, your body, mind, heart, and soul. It was only fair that he made sure you still wanted him to be the one for you today, tomorrow, and every day after that. Even then a single lifetime would never be enough for him. He wanted a thousand lives with you.
“Always,” you said, an ache in your voice that he couldn’t resist. He fused his lips with yours, building up the fire all over again when his hand found your damp heat. The most intimate part of you where you allowed him to make himself at home. Your hands shook as you went to undo his pants, wanting to free him. “And you trust me?”
It wasn’t just his heart that contracted. His very soul trembled, wanting to wrap itself up in your light and love. “With everything in me,” he promised, sighing when he pulled his cock free from his underwear. “I’ll worship you later. Those gorgeous tits of yours. Your sweet cunt.”
Once you were home, he’d slip off your dress and give every beautiful inch of your body the attention it deserved. He’d draw a bath for you, too, and hopefully join you so he could simply hold you. But he was desperate for you now. He thought he’d burn if he didn’t have you.
You hiked a leg around him, moving your hips enticingly. There was only so much he could take. And who wouldn’t fall under the tempting spell of your body? “I’m ready for you.” Your soft moan echoed in his ears as he trailed a finger along your slit to your clit, barely touching it. He knew it would shoot small sparks through your body until you begged for more. “I mean it, Barnes. Get. Your cock. In me.”
“My needy little wife,” he whispered against your lips as he gripped the base of his cock and probed your entrance. The breathy sound you made when he began to push in had his blood pulsing in euphoria. It was a wonder he fit some days with how tight you were, but your slick heat stretched and welcomed him every time.
“My needy husband,” you smiled as you enveloped him completely, your fingers curling in his hair.
“What kind of man isn’t needy for his wife?” He began to thrust in deep, deliberate strokes. It matched the rhythm of the music in the distant ballroom, the two of you creating your own sultry dance. Maybe he would go up in flames. At least he’d have you to burn with. “Fuck, your body was made for my cock.”
Each snap of his hips tore more moans and whimpers from your throat and sent shockwaves through his system. You clenched around him with a smile, looking like a debauched angel. “My pussy was made for you, so ruin it.”
He groaned, his pulse beating strongly as his grip tightened on your hips. He fucked you without restraint, just as greedy for you as you were for him. Allowing himself to feel you and what you did to him was everything he was denied for so long. His life had only been order. Pain. You let him lose control. You gave him pleasure. Even a home.
I love you.
“I love you, too, Bucky,” you panted, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone as his eyes closed against the emotions threatening to surface. “I love you, too.”
His pace picked up, urgent, frenzied. At this rate, he might explode into fragments from your declaration and how good you felt. “You love me?” He bit out, his eyes opening and breaths harsh as he felt you clench again.
You cried out, his hand flying up to brace your head before it hit the door. “So much,” you moaned as you gazed at him. You were the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Fierce in love and loyalty, patient and steadfast. He feared some days he’d need you more than you needed him, but you drove that thought from his mind. “I’m yours.”
“I’m not gonna last,” he warned. He couldn’t with the way you looked at him, the way your walls gripped him, knowing you were his.
“Neither am…” Your mouth fell open as your release hit you, your fluids drenching him. It was a wonder to watch you go over the edge in a blissful orgasm. He wanted to be right there with you.
“There you go. Good girl,” he encouraged, your body still tight around his cock. He erupted in one last thrust, his head falling back with an animalistic roar. “Fuck…”
Bucky braced a hand against the door, the other holding you like a lifeline. If only the two of you were at home so he could properly cuddle with you. His breathing remained ragged for a bit as he came down from his high, your breathing beginning to steady, too. He couldn't help but smile as he took in the sight of you thoroughly ravaged and satisfied. “Worth every second of being here,” he sighed, slowly pulling out of your twitching hole. You inhaled when he moved a hand down and swiped two fingers along the mess seeping out of you. “Clean them off for me, baby,” he ordered huskily, bringing them to your mouth.
Obediently, you parted your lips and allowed him to push his fingers in. You swirled your tongue around them to taste your combined essence, moaning at the tangy flavor. He tucked himself away once you finished up, afraid that he’d fuck you all over again if he didn’t get completely dressed. It didn’t stop him from gazing longingly at you as he fixed his jacket.
And it didn’t stop him from imagining your mouth around his cock the next morning.
“Now.” You grimmaced slightly as he helped you steady yourself and straighten out your dress. He knew that look. It was the look you got for a split second whenever the sticky remnants continued to trickle down your thighs. He loved having that claim on you. “How do you expect me to go back to the gala after that?”
“I don’t,” he smirked, his hands moving back to your hips as he snuck in a gentle kiss. “I think it’s time to get you home and back in our bed where you belong. I promised I’d worship you, remember?”
You nodded, your eyes still slightly dazed. “On one condition.”
He titled his head. “What’s that?”
A slow smile curved your mouth, his heart pounding and cock twitching back to life at your answer, “You put a baby in me tonight.”
So, lovelies, was it okay? I feel rusty. And who wants a future fic of Bucky breeding you? Just me? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
a/n: ........I mean, how could i not? it's a classic.
summary: “oh, naughty, naughty you,” Tony crossed his arms with a chuckle, “what were you hoping to get out of this, huh? Sneak in here and seduce the whole team? Is one just not enough for you?” the rest of the men snickered at his mocking quips.
warnings: reader x pro football team!avengers (bf!steve rogers, bucky barnes, pietro maximoff, clint barton, sam wilson, tony stark, thor odinson), smut, slight dubcon, pro athlete au (even though i know the majority of them are american, i’m just gonna say that they play for a team somewhere else just so that i don’t have to say soccer, it hurts my soul), the old oops i accidentally walked into the locker room trope, gangbang, everyone's a hoe, established relationship, kissing, size kink, dirty talk, handjobs, oral, thigh riding, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, anal, double penetration, bukkake, spit kink, squirting, impact play, choking, overstimulation, multiple orgasms
word count: 5400
∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽
masterlist | join my taglist | kinktober 2023
“You were amazing out there,” you purred between pecks as Steve’s firm thigh, slotted between your own, rubbed against your core, your short skirt flaring out over the shorts of his uniform.
“Thank you,” he chuckled, his lips fluttering down your neck as he uttered, “you know, I think was even better with you in the audience,” nudging his leg more determinedly against you as you melted against the wall he had you pressed against, “like you brought me luck or something.”
Just then, as you felt yourself begin to soak through your underwear and mark your boyfriend’s uniform, someone from further down the hallway poked their head out of a door and shouted, “hey, Rogers!” reeling back from the crook of your neck with a peeved exhaled, Steve cast his glance in the individual's direction, “coach wants a word with you in his office.”
“Alright, thanks,” he nodded before turning his attention back to you, arms firm on either side of your head, cosily caging you in as he spoke, “I’ll be right back,” his leg reluctantly retracted from your warmth, “there is lounge down around the corner there that should be on the quiet side about now if you don’t wanna wait out here,” he offered a vague nod to his left before dipping down to near your lips one last time.
Smile growing wide at his considerateness, you breathed, “okay,” but the kiss you thought he wanted to give to you never came as his nose just ghosted against your own, seemingly savouring the moment before you felt him shift and his finger disappeared below your skirt, “Steve, what are you-,” but the rest of your sentence never saw the light of day as, with a daring smirk on his lips, Steve swiftly kneeled down before you and snatched your underwear down past your knees, keeping his eyes on yours as he methodically manoeuvred your jelly like legs to steal the sodden garment completely.
“I’ll come find you in a bit, yeah?” he placed a playful peck right above your knees before straightening back up.
“Steve!” you hazily giggled as he began to disappear down the corridor.
“10 minutes, 15 tops!” he called over his shoulder as he sauntered away from your stunned form, “then I’m claiming my prize!”
With a breathy chuckle still billowing from your lips, you pulled out your phone and rounded the corner, scrolling through your options of temporary entertainment as you neared the room that you could supposedly wait in.
Eyes glued to the small screen in your hands, you didn’t even glance up as you reached the first door you approached, not assuming there were any other options, you simply pushed it open and strolled in.
Fully expecting that you were nearing a couch or something soon, the room you’d blindly entered turned out to not be the lounge you’d thought it was, but instead, the team’s locker room as you swiftly walked straight into a broad and bare chest.
“Wow, I’m sorry-,” your eyes tore away from your screen to finally discover where you were. Vision growing wide, you stared up at the athlete before you, his golden mane rustling from the collision, “I-I-…”
Blinking up at Thor, your own name even escaped your memory as you found yourself in the very last place you should have wandered into.
From off to the side, you heard the voice of Tony holler, “hey sweetheart, fans aren’t allowed in here,” before leaning closer to the sandy buzzcut beside him and muttering quietly, “I thought they said they had tightened security around here…”
With your feet still frozen to the floor, your mouth hung agape as your eyes glazed over the recognisable individuals throughout the room, all in various states of undress. As Thor’s towering form moved past, walking over to snatch up a towel, someone else dexterously took his place, “wait a second, I recognise you,” you blinked back at the guy who rarely left your boyfriend’s side, “you’re Cap’s new girl, aren’t you?”
“I-I-, yeah,” you stammered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to walk in here-”
“Oh, but you did,” Bucky teasingly took a step closer.
“I was, uh, looking for the lounge, and I was just staring at my phone,” you swallowed thickly as someone out of the corner of your eye peeled off their shirt, “I’m so sorry, I'll get out,” but as you whirled around to bolt out of there, you just collided with another individual that had slyly slotted in between you and the only way out of here.
“You’re cute,” you heard Bucky continue as you blinked up at Pietro, his athletic physique now completely blocking the exit, just as Thor's, the team's goalie, would do before the vast net during an intense game, “isn’t she cute, guys?”
Soft echoes of agreeance bounced off the walls before Pietro smiled down at you, “what’s your name, baby?” his accent sending a shiver straight down your spine.
“Y/n…” you softly uttered, your heartbeat deafening in your ears, growing and rippling out from where it was still thumping from between your thighs.
“That’s a pretty name,” his eyes washed over your visage, licking it up like he was at a museum.
“So, tell us, Y/n,” you spun back around at the sound of Bucky’s timbre, “did you really just not pay attention or did you perhaps walk in here on purpose?”
“No!” you squeaked, “I swear, I didn’t-”
“Because I think you were trying to catch a little glimpse,” he teasingly cut you off with a soft tilt of his head.
“Oh, naughty, naughty you,” Tony crossed his arms with a chuckle, “what were you hoping to get out of this, huh? Sneak in here and seduce the whole team? Is one just not enough for you?” the rest of the men snickered at his mocking quips.
“No, I wasn’t trying anything, I-,” the rest of your plea got suddenly swapped out with a shuttering gasp as the player sitting on the bench beside you had begun to ghost his hand against the goosebump-ridden flesh of your leg, sneakily twisting his position enough to catch a glimpse as his touch carelessly bushed against your short skirt, making it briefly fluff out enough for him to notice.
“Hey,” Sam boomed to the rest of the team, “she’s not wearing any panties!”
“She’s not?” Thor turned his head to join the festivity entirely.
“Fuck,” you heard Clint curse gutturally, “you came to the game like that?”
From right beside him, Tony bit down on his smirk, “what a little fucking slut…”
“No, it wasn’t-”
But before you could manage to convince them, Pietro pushed your form lightly and sent you directly into Bucky’s waiting arms. With your back arched like a ski slope, your short skirt rose up, covering virtually nothing, especially after you’d had your undergarments stolen, and granted the men behind you a pornographic view of the state Steve had left you in.
Catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Bucky tilted your head up to catch your hazy eye, “why don’t you wait here with us?”
“I-…” you blinked back at him, feeling your chest rise and fall rapidly against his.
“Rogers won’t mind,” he shook his head reassuringly, fingers shifting to gently caress you’re your heated cheek, “promise.”
“Yeah,” Pietro’s voice resonated vibrantly from behind you once more, “we always take good care of his girls…”
Utterly spellbound by his ocean gaze, your head nodded fuzzily, “o-okay,” your breaths came in shaky as you spoke, “I guess if you say Steve wouldn’t mind, then I could probably just hang out in here for a bit till he gets back.”
“Great!” Sam clapped his hands together, the sudden noise causing you to jump out of the burly arms that held you.
Leaning back against his locker, Clint then asked, “so did you enjoy the game?”
“Oh, sure,” with clumsy words flowing from your lips, your eyes traced Thor’s half-naked form as he crossed the room, “it was fun, I mean, you guys played really well, congrats on the win by the way.”
“Aw, thanks,” the man your gaze was locked upon sniggered as he settled in beside Tony, then leaned in to mutter in his ear just loud enough for you to catch, “Cap really wasn’t bluffing about her.”
“Dude, I know,” Tony harmonized lowly before raising his voice, “so, Y/n!” he slyly cleared his throat, “you never did tell us why you came to our game commando. Did you do that for us?”
“Oh, I-…” you averted your gaze, attempting to explain it with an airy laugh, “that wasn’t me, Steve kinda stole them a few minutes ago.”
Counting from behind you, Pietro challenged, “oh, Steve stole them, did he now?”
“Yeah,” you nodded bashfully.
“And just why would he do such a thing?”
“I-…” you redirected your vision up towards the ceiling, “I think it’s easy enough to deduce what he was thinking.”
“Yeah, but I wanna hear you say it,” Pietro playfully stepped closer, tilting his head to catch your nervous gaze.
“Come on, honey,” Sam’s tongue flickered out to glisten up his smirk, “don’t get shy on us now.”
Gnawing on your bottom lip, you then confessed with an exhale, “…we were gonna go celebrate…”
“Celebrate? Really?” Bucky’s gaze gleamed back at you in amusement, “well, that sounds fun, doesn’t it sound fun, guys?” he didn’t tear his eyes away from you as he countered to the others, their enthusiastic replies swiftly filling the thick air. Slowly leaning in close, he tugged a stray piece of your hair behind your ear, “you know what I think?” your head instantly shook, hypnotically granting him the answer to continue, “I think we deserve some celebrating as well, don’t you think? I mean, it wasn’t only Rogers out there on the field. Don’t we deserve a prize as well?”
As he cradled your face, all you could do was melt, “I-… I guess so…”
Closing the short distance, Bucky planted a feathery kiss upon your lips before tilting his head back ever so slightly to flash you a playful glance, “yeah?” his words were just above a whisper, “you wanna celebrate with us till Rogers gets back?”
With starry eyes, you blinked back up at the football player and hummed, utterly spellbound, “uh-huh,” before his lips pressed against yours once more, kissing you like there was no tomorrow.
Letting go of your face, his silky touch casketed down your form like a waterfall, flutteringly roaming, up and down, each time carelessly catching your skirt and letting it gather up with his hungry movements.
As you purred enchantedly against Bucky’s lips, Pietro behind you sank down to his knees, his intentions becoming clear as you began to feel soft pecks flutter across the backs of your thighs, his fingertips raking over your tingling skin in sloppy patterns.
But as his caresses danced their way further north up your flesh, I didn’t take long before the greedy man dove head first into what he truly wanted to kiss, rendering you to tear away from Bucky’s lips with a dizzying pant, “oh my god,” and bury your face in his brawny chest.
Lapping against your soppy folds, Pietro let go of your puffy pearl with a pop, briefly pulling back to share, “fuck, she tastes good.”
“Oh yeah?” Thor breathed from the sidelines.
“Like fucking sunshine and rainbows,” he elaborated with gravelly desperation in his tone before latching onto your core once more.
You barely noticed when people stepped closer, scarcely knowing whose hands were exploring your every inch, all you knew was how incredible they made you feel.
Squeezing your boobs through your thin shirt, nipples pebbly and clear through the fabric, you felt Tony’s breath tickle your ear, “you mind taking this off for us, sweetheart?”
Eyes fluttering over your shoulder to find him, you simply raised your arms high above your head and let them yank your t-shirt off and merrily discover how you hadn’t bothered to put a bra on this morning.
Glancing down, you watched as Clint cupped your softness in his wide palms, “damn, look at these fucking tits,” he gave them a little jiggle before dipping his head down low to place a few pecks along them. With the left of your small buds swiftly getting captured by his lips, a different hand took over palming your right as your fingers found Clint’s short hair, your nails scraping gently along his scalp, “you like that, hon?” he blinked up at you as he sucked, friskily nipping at your sensitive skin, “you like having these little nipples played with, huh?”
“Mhm,” you nodded hazily as someone reached out to pinch harshly the one not getting slobbered.
“What else do you like, huh?” Bucky asked, his radiating form still pressed up against you. Capturing your chin, his thumb extended to brush over your lips, “you like having something in this pretty little mouth of yours?” poking it in, the pad of his finger softly ran across your tongue before your lips enclosed around him, your head blissfully bobbing as you sucked on his digit, “yeah? You wanna suck our cocks?” he retracted his digit, smearing saliva across your cheek as you offered him a foggy nod, “you think you can handle all of us at once?”
“I don’t know if I can,” you admitted with excitement bubbling in your belly, “I’ve never been with more than just one person at a time.”
“Oh no, really?” Tony rumbled playfully, “you’ve never been shared by more?” he palmed your tit roughly as you craned your neck to gaze at him, “what a fucking shame, truly, you deserve to be worshipped like a goddess.”
“Don’t you worry, darling,” Thor smirked, “we’ll help you,” before Pietro as the last one distanced himself, letting go of your petals with a pop, as you sank down to the floor.
You hadn’t really noticed before, but now that you were at the right eye level, it became impossible not to take in the team’s enthusiasm. Most of them were already touching themselves and some even had already whipped their cocks out, the vision causing your eyelids to flutter as your brain turned molten at the possibilities.
“O-oh, wow,” your eyes grew to the size of plates as they tugged their shorts down, “I-I-,” lengths springing free all around you, “I don’t know where to start… wow…” a giggle suddenly began to bubble out of you as you tore your stare away from their erections to find their eyes, “h-hi.”
Grasping your hand in his, Bucky then wrapped your fingers around his girth, smiling down at you as he throbbed for you, “hey, baby.”
“You’ll all so-,” your dazed gaze flickered around at them all, “wow…”
Raising your other hand up, you enclosed it around Clint, testing out a gentle jerk to gauge their reactions.
“Yeah, right back at ya,” Clint echoed your compliments as his mouth fell open, utterly spellbound by your tender efforts.
Catching Pietro’s eye, you slowly leaned in and gave his tip a sweet kiss, smile wide as you then licked it a few times as if he was a melting ice cream cone on a hot summer’s day, “oh, shit,” he groaned, the grip he had around his base tightening, “open up for me, baby,” parting your lips, he then slowly rocked forward to fill up your mouth slightly, “yeah, just like that,” you felt his pulse against your tongue, “fuck…”
Head bopping gently at a leisurely pace, drooling blissfully around Pietro’s bulbous head, you shifted your hands, eyes fluttering in an attempt to locate the others, Sam and Thor then instead came to your rescue by seizing your flailing hands and bringing them to what you sought.
When you pulled back from Pietro to catch your breath, his dick falling from your swollen lips with a crisp pop, you barely managed to suck in one whole breath before Tony’s hands seized either side of your face, bringing you close and sliding his cock in past your gasp.
“Here you go,” he groaned as he rolled his hips, instantly going so deep that he tickled the back of your throat. With his fist tight around his base, he reluctantly let you come up for air, pulling back so swiftly as if the lack of your warmth pained him, “show me that tongue, angel,” chest heaving and eyes a daze, your mouth fell open and did as he requested, a hot string of drool promptly dripping from it and connecting to your exposed chest. Grabbing your chin and holding it tight, he leaned down and spit in your mouth, watching only a moment as it sparkled on your tongue before he tapped the weight of his girth against it, playing with it like a rain puddle before he ruthlessly thrust forward so deep that his heavy sack nuzzled against your chin and his tip disappeared deep down your throat, “there you go, honey,” fingers woven in your hair, he kept you still as he fucked your face, “there you go…”
As Tony selfishly made you choke on his cock, Clint then knelt down beside you and reached under the short skirt that still clung to your hips. One hand still pumping himself, his other fingers found your core.
“Fuck, she’s so wet,” he groaned, granting your aching clit a few circles before your pussy practically sucked one of his fingers in from how turned on you were, slipping in with no effect at all. Girth falling from your lips, you let out a shuttering gasp. Pressing his cheek against your own, Clint chuckled lowly, “you like that, baby?” lavishly caressing your walls ever so slowly, “that what you need?”
“Oh, god,” you panted, eyes fluttering shut, “yes!”
As he offered you another digit, he kept up a dizzying pattern of pumping his fingers into you, petting against a spot that made your pussy sing, only to retract them in order to rub your puffy pearl, repeating the dance till your legs trembled against the cool tile floor.
“How about something else, huh?” Thor’s voice cut through your haze, “you wanna get that little pussy stretched out by something else?” your frame then jumped as Clint promptly landed a sharp slap against your soppy folds, forcing your eyes to snap open and your mind to race for an answer.
Eyes training on Thor, a playful smirk bloomed on your lips, “what do you have in mind?” you asked innocently before you leaned in close and swiped your tongue over his leaking tip.
Pumping his cock tightly in his fist, he tapped it against your beaming face and chuckled, “you really want me to spell it out for you?” to which you simply giggled under the weight of his length as a reply, one that swiftly got cut short and morphed into a gasp as Clint beside you plucked you up onto your wobbly feet.
Working as the team that they were, they spun you around so that your backside pressed up against Thor. Hiking your skirt far enough up your waist to render it useless, the blonde athlete gazed down at your dripping mess, nuzzled against him and virtually drooling for him to split you open.
“Look at that…” he briefly swiped his cock through your folds, parting them with his girth, “so pretty,” before his hips snapped forward and buried himself completely, “fuck…”
Eyes fluttering closed, you let out a shuttering moan as he held you there for a moment, savouring the euphoric sensation as your spine melted back against his chest. As Thor nuzzled you close, filling your cunt up so much that your knees threatened to give out, you felt stray hands find your tits, twisting and tweaking your nipples teasingly as some others grabbed your palms and guided them towards their cocks, enveloping their own around yours and fucking up into your touch.
“How does she feel?” you heard Tony ask.
Grip digging into your hips, Thor eased his length out, just halfway, before slamming it back inside, poking a place that pushed the air out of your lungs, “fucking incredible,” his lips ghosted against the shell of your ear.
When a pair of hands found your face, cupping your flaming cheeks, your eyes dreamily blinked open once more to gaze back at Sam. Briefly pressing his lips against yours, it nearly gave you whiplash when they then manoeuvred your spine to bend, bowing down for your mouth to be aligned with Sam's excitement.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” he pumped his cock before you, smile growing wider as your soft tongue began to swipe across him, “don’t forget the nuts,” he lifted his length far enough out of your reach, groaning loudly as you began to drool all over his jewels as he wished, “that’s it, atta girl…”
Feeling Thor’s hands shift, one of them came to clench your skirt tightly, gathering the fabric on the small of your back and holding onto it as an anchor as the other one descended upon your ass, slapping away in quick succession, just hard enough for it to tingle deliciously.
It all felt like a blur, like a dream. A beautiful and intoxicating dream. The kind of dream you’d never wanna wake from.
After cumming all over Thor’s cock, in the hazy daze of it all, it took you a moment to realise that they had all switched out, trading places so that Pietro was now behind you, sliding in and out of your clenching cunt, and Clint was before you, sinking his dick so far down your throat that it left an imprint.
“This how you thought meeting the team would go, huh?” Bucky’s timbre cut through all of the moans, “this what you expected?” his touch was all over you, so hungry that you could barely keep track of it, “you expected us to pass you around and fuck your brains out?” gliding his palm down your spine, he then came to fixate on the little rosebud just shy north of where Pietro was having his fill, “has Cap fucked you here before?”
In between your sloppy pecks across Clint’s cock, you admitted, “a-a couple times.”
“A couple of times,” he chuckled darkly, “really?”
“What a dirty little girl you are, letting your boyfriend fuck you in the ass,” Clint suddenly got down to your level and plucked up your flustered face, bringing you close to his own, “say it, say that you’re a dirty girl.”
The words promptly flowed from you as if you were hypnotised, “I’m a dirty girl.”
Tapping your cheek lightly with his palm, he ordered, “again.”
“I’m a dirty girl.”
Slapping your features harsher this time, “one more time, what are you?”
“A-, fuck,” you whined, brows knitted as your pussy filled the room with soppy melodies of desire, “a dirty girl!
Just then, the door to the locker room burst open and in strolled none other than your boyfriend.
“Alright guys, listen up!” he called out before he truly took in the activities he’d just interrupted, “couch says that-,” but then when his gaze finally trained on your cockdrunk visage, the rest of his important message trailed off, “Y/n?”
“Oh hey, Cap,” Bucky grinned, none of the players slowing down at the appearance of their leader, “thought we’d keep your girl entertained while you were gone.”
Closing the door behind him, Steve took a slow step forward and sighed, “guys, seriously?” his glare found each and every one of them, “I was gonna talk to her first,” stride leisurely, he moved closer to you, peeling his shirt off as he did so. Kneeling down before you, getting on your level, a warm smile bloomed upon his lips as his eyes locked with your hazy ones, “hey baby.”
“S-Steve,” you whimpered, wanting so badly to explain, but unable to do anything other than melt even further.
“How are you doing, huh?” the back of his knuckles softly ghosted down your cheek as his gentle tone washed over you like a warm cup of tea, “you still wanna tell me how well I played today or are you too busy telling the rest of the team?”
“No, please don’t go,” you grabbed onto his tender touch, “please!”
Straightening back up to his full height, he pulled his shorts down and let his cock spring free, slapping his toned abdomen with its enthusiasm.
“You mind?” he offered Pietro a nod before the man complied, easing out, and passing you to Steve’s open arms. Scooping you up, his strong grip curved around your bottom entirely. Pressing your lips to his, you tangled your arms around his neck as he nudged your weeping core against his girth, your cunt already creaming and painting his cock a milky shade.
Carrying you in his arms as if it took no effort at all, Steve raised you up further, aligning you just so before dropping you back down again and letting you sink down onto his dick, the sensation causing a pornographic mewl to escape both of your lips as you let the fevered kiss crumble in order to hide your face in the crook of his neck.
“Fucking hell, that’s it,” Steve groaned, lifting you up and down in his grip like a precious little cocksleeve, “that what you needed, huh? You needed me to fuck your pretty little hole?” palming your bottom roughly, he them landed a few swift slaps across it causing even more electricity to course throughout you with the sparks of pleasurable pain, “after the team had their fill, you still needed to feel me?” eyes squeezed shut, your drool smeared against his pulse as you felt him extend a finger and rub a few circles over your other hole, all of the other previous activities already slickening it up enough to make his dance molten and his initiative effortless when he plugged it up, “have me fuck you in front of all of them, give them a good view of what a beautiful mess they’ve made of you… Open your eyes, baby,” hazy vision blinking open, the side of your head stayed plastered against your boyfriend’s broad shoulder as your eyes locked on the spectators, “look at them, look at what you do to them, look at how much they want you.”
Trembling in his arms, so violently that you convulsed off his cock completely, it wasn’t till Sam excitedly pointed out, “oh, she’s a squirter!” that you noticed the gushing waterfall your high had showered Steve with.
“Damn right she is,” Steve smiled proudly, realigning his tender hold as he pressed a soft peck to your temple, “my girl is full of many talents,” with long strides, he then walked up to the bench in the middle of the room and slowly laid down upon it, securely holding your molten form close as he shifted, your body completely plastered on top of his as he cheekily spoke, “in fact, Buck, come over here, help me stuff her a bit more, yeah?”
Glance swiftly washing over Tony, Bucky asked, “hey, do you still have that-“
“Yep, of course,” Tony didn’t need any more to understand, hastily rummaging through his gym bag before tossing his teammate a small bottle of lube, “here!”
After liberally slickening himself up, you perked up a bit as you felt Bucky’s skin press against your own, your back arching up against his chest as he teased you, nudging his tip against your farmost entrance and rendering your form to yet again give into the ecstasy and recover in a flash.
But as soon as he confidently sank in at slow and steady pace, a gasp escaped your lungs, “oh my god!”
“What?” Steve smirked beneath you, catching your wild eyes as he teased, “what is it, babe? What’s he doing?”
Mouth agape and brows tightly knitted, you uttered, “he’s fucking my ass.”
“Who’s fucking your ass?” Steve’s mockingly sweet tone washed over you.
“Bucky,” you whimpered as he eased back out till just the essence of him remained.
“Why don’t you look back at him and say thank you?”
Twisting your head, you found his gaze and hazily managed, “thank you, Bucky,” the sensation of him sinking back in and splitting you apart made it nearly impossible to complete the task.
“Thank you, what?” Steve fished.
“Thank you for filling up my ass, Bucky.”
Capturing your face, Bucky cradled it in his hands as he smiled, “you’re so fucking welcome,” before dipping down to steal a sweet kiss, “any time, doll, any time…”
With your nose nuzzled against Bucky’s, your boyfriend’s low voice once more found your ears, “hey baby? Why don’t you slide my cock back in, huh? Stretch that little pussy out as well?”
Reaching down to seize it, you hummed fuzzily, “mhm,” before slipping it in, your eyes promptly fluttering shut at the ecstasy.
Their thrusts were slow but immensely intense, with a roughness hiding behind the pace that made you tremble between them.
“Fucking hell, if you don’t marry this girl, Cap,” you felt Bucky’s boorish fingers wrap around your delicate throat, “one of us will.”
Fighting to peel your blissful eyes open, you first caught sight of Steve’s adoring features beneath you, gazing between your fuzzy expression and your stretched-out holes as if you were some mystical goddesses. But then your vision glanced across the crowd of professional football players, all fixated on you and nobody else, stroking their cocks to the exact pace your holes got filled.
“I-I-, fuck-…” you whimpered as felt yourself once again near the edge.
“What, are you gonna cum again, sweetheart?” Steve moaned, rolling his hips up into you in a synchronized rhythm, “I can feel you-, christ, you clench down so fucking tight when you’re all stuffed like this,” he snaked his fingers down to strum your aching and overly sensitive clit, your frame nearly bucking away from him as he bullied the painfully puffy pearl.
“It’s too much, fuck-, I don’t think I can take it anymore,” you heard yourself cry, feeling as if you might actually pass out.
“No, no, baby, you can, you can,” your boyfriend declared determinedly, not slowing down one bit at the sight of your pout, “you can take it, you can cum with the both of us inside of you.”
“B-but it’s so much, I-”
“Don’t worry, we’ve got you, don’t we, Buck?”
“Right here, doll,” Bucky’s warm palm slid down your front and grasped your left tit, his whole arm curving over you like a seatbelt holding you upright and close to him, “just fall and we’ll catch you.”
And with that, your pour pussy poured out everything it had, tears spewing from your eyes at the intensity.
“Aah!”
Convulsing, you nearly tumbled to the tile below, but they both held you close, safely in their grasp as well as far down on their cocks as your gushing core clambered around them and nearly expelled them entirely.
Maybe you fell asleep, for even a second, because that’s what it felt like when you blinked your eyes open once more to find your drowsy frame situated on the floor, the lingering aid from a few of the men to get you relocated still remaining as you blinked up at all of them.
Had it truly been that many cocks that had in one way or another been inside of you today?
Smiling up at all seven of them from your position on your wobbly knees, you let your mouth fall open and your tongue roll out once last time as they furiously jerked themselves to completion before you, the grin on your face only growing wider as their cum began to paint your skin.
Twitching and panting, the majority still let their touch linger needily as they floated back down to earth.
Broad chest heaving with every deep breath, “babe,” Steve bit down on his smirk as he gazed down at the decorated state you were now in, “say thank you to the guys for taking such good care of you.”
Making your gaze go on a round to catch each and every one of their doting stares, you uttered breathlessly, “thank you.”
It was a last minute thing, it wasn’t supposed to have happened, but nothing had gone right for you recently so when a work colleague offered you a chance to stay at her family's cottage on Tupper Lake, of course you had said yes.
“No one is using it right now, my parents are away, and I don’t want to go there this year, it’s boring. Why don’t you go? It’ll be fun. I’ll let the property manager know you’re coming.”
Life sucked, you hated your job, and your boyfriend had broken up with you two weeks ago by text. A weekend away with your best friend sounded like the perfect way to reset before you took on the next challenge the following week. Your best friend, Daisy (not her real name but she hated her real name and never used it) was more than up for an adventure so you packed your bags and left as soon as possible. The drive to Tupper Lake was over five hours, it went quickly with you driving and your friend in the passenger seat,
“I think I’m going to quit my job.”
“Oh yeah? And how are you going to pay bills without the crappy job you have?” Your friend grinned at you, and you just smiled back serenely. The day was too beautiful to worry too much over the specifics,
“You never know what could happen, Daisy. Maybe I’ll meet the man of my dreams whilst we’re here. I’m just fed up with dealing with creepy bosses, crappy men, and never feeling like I’m in control. This weekend away with you is going to change everything for me, I can feel it.”
You were being stupidly optimistic, but thankfully Daisy indulged you, closing her eyes in the sunlight like a cat,
“You know I’ve been looking for good luck since forever, so send it my way when you find it, yeah?”
You take her hand over the console. It would be a good weekend no matter what, and you could spend it with her, there was nothing better. Everything else could wait.
Bucky bought the piece of shit boat from a nice looking guy who clearly was too bored to pay attention to the fake ID he was given, which didn’t bother him in the least. The seller barely looked up from his phone as he took his money, gave him a form to fill out, and handed him the keys,
“Enjoy the ride, man.”
“Will do, have a good weekend.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
Bucky smirked to himself as he left, spinning the keys around his index finger idly. Usually he wouldn’t bother buying something outright, but the place that he would usually rent a boat from had upgraded its security system, and he didn’t want his face on a camera. Tupper Lake had been good to him the last few years, he didn’t want to have to leave the nest of his golden goose any time soon, and that meant staying off the radar every time he and Steve were in town. Currently his best friend was sourcing them a new truck, probably seducing a pretty sales lady into giving him a massive discount.
Bucky hooked up the boat to his truck - she’ll be going to the scrap yard in two days time, but she was doing him proud for now, and drove out into the street and headed for the lake, whistling as he did so. It was a beautiful day to take a boat out onto the lake for sure, a day like today made him grateful for his freedom, something he never wanted to take for granted again.
That’s why he was so careful.
The sun was low on the horizon by the time Bucky was making his way over the water, the motor was louder than he would like but better to find out now than tomorrow night, that’s why he did these things early, after all. When he got to the point he liked, Bucky stopped the engine, stuck on his cap and set up the fishing line he had. Not that he gave a crap about whatever little things bit at the line, that wasn’t the catch he was hoping to hook. Bucky smiled as he leant back in the boat and glanced over at the massive home on his right, he then took his binoculars and gazed casually over the lake, making ‘notes’ in his notepad about the birds that he was seeing flying overhead and nesting on the banks.
Bucky genuinely enjoyed bird watching, it was why he was the one to do the lake reconnaissance. He could better play the part of an idle fisherman who liked the wildlife than Steve who couldn’t give a shit about that stuff.
It wasn’t really the fish or the birds that he cared about though.
“Steve?” Bucky put the call on speaker and put down the binoculars, letting his face drift upwards to feel the last of the sun's heat, “Yeah the intel was good. The house is empty.”
“Is it as stacked as the woman at the property maintenance company told us?”
“Oh yeah. Everything that I can see just in the dining room alone is worth a fortune.”
Steve laughed at that, “What is it with these rich assholes? I mean, I’m grateful, but man are they stupid.”
“Yeah well, they’re insured, what do they care?” Bucky took a swig from the bottle of water in his bag, “It’s empty, we can move forward tomorrow night. I think we need to focus on the art in this house, I can check the bedrooms when I’m in to see if there’s jewellery.”
“Sounds good. See you back at the cabin.”
Bucky hung up and started the boat back up. Jobs like this were easy. This massive ‘cabin’ was isolated, had private entries on land and by water, and it had a security system a kid could learn how to hack. In forty eight hours, he and his best friend would be sitting on over a million bucks worth of goods, with a buyer already waiting on the shit. They’d be sitting pretty in Indonesia by the end of the week for another year, before they needed to come back and do this again.
The damn motor on the boat was a problem though, Bucky vowed to have a look and get it quieter as he sped away, the motor was so loud it disguised the sounds of your car as it ambled up the drive just after sunset.
You made it into town with just a few minutes to spare to grab the keys and security codes from the management company, they gave you the directions to the cabin and an emergency number to contact if there were any problems but you were told by the kindly and overly glamorous looking woman that as it was almost the weekend they weren’t likely to come out until Monday,
“Things can be a little slower out here than in the city, girls!”
You look at Daisy who just stares at the woman blankly before smiling at the woman as brightly as you can manage,
“Oh that’s fine. Thanks for your help!”
By the time you’ve stopped at a grocery store and found the property the sun is just about set, you can hear a boat somewhere on the river nearby but you don’t pay it too much attention. The visage of the house renders both you and your friend complain speechless for a minute.
“I thought your friend said this place was a cottage?!”
You blink up at the three story mansion and shrug, “I really don’t want to think about what the ‘cottage’ she grew up in looks like.” You grab your travel bag and a bag of groceries, and head to the front door, taking out the information on the security system as you do,
“Apparently she hasn’t been here in months so it’s probably going to be barren in here, so- oh for fucks sake.”
The door opens to reveal a massive open entry hall, leading to rooms filled with pieces of art, expensive furniture, high end technology and a kitchen that a Michelin star kitchen would envy. You and your friend walk around the rooms in a daze, sighing in defeat when you realise the fridge and pantry are fully stocked, and then groaning when you get to your guest bedrooms.
Your entire shared apartment could fit in just one of these rooms, with ample storage space to spare.
Daisy started laughing, throwing her bag on her bed, “Fuck it, this is a good luck sign. In a few years we’ll be that rich that we can buy this place from her family and come here every year!”
You smile, heading into your own family home sized bedroom with en-suite, leaving your friend to her whoops of glee. Really, she wasn’t wrong, this was a great start to the week you had before your lives were going to change for the better. It had to be
You and Daisy spend the next day enjoying yourselves in the exquisite space you’d been given, feeling very much like pampered princesses living in the lap of luxury. It was a beautiful summer's day, the majority of it was spent lounging outside in your swimsuits, a pitcher of margaritas nearby, just allowing yourselves to relax for a change. After everything, you really felt you deserved it.
Eventually you both went to bed, and you forget to set the alarm.
The boat sliced through the pitch black waters quieter than a mouse, the hours Bucky had spent on the motor paid off brilliantly. It was just after midnight, Bucky would crack the security in a few minutes, Steve would pull up just after one and they would take two hours to bring out everything they wanted to the truck, Bucky would bring the smaller things like jewellery to the boat, and they would be gone at least an hour before the sun rose, no one the wiser and sitting on another years worth of fun money. Bucky was feeling good as he hooked the boat to the wooden platform and stalked up towards the house, his eyes firmly on the door, looking for the blinking light to indicate where the security alarm was hooked…
Bucky got to the back door and blinked. The alarm wasn’t engaged at all.
He narrowed his eyes at the situation for a few moments, hitting the ear piece,
“Steve?”
“Problem?”
“No, not exactly.”
Steve huffed in his ear, “What then? Is there a dog the bitch didn’t tell us about? A cat? A fucking pile of diamonds that you can’t lift?” Bucky rolled his eyes at his friends impatience,
“No, asshole, the alarm isn’t set.” Steve paused, and Bucky waited. They could run the risk, rich people could get careless with their second (or third or fourth or fifth) homes sometimes. It wasn’t like they needed the money… Was it worth risking jail…
“You know I hate budgeting, Buck, I want that payday. Open the door and see what’s up.”
“Okay.”
They didn’t need the money, but having more was always better than having none after all.
Bucky knelt down, took his tools out, and then chuckled when he realised the door wasn’t even locked,
“Steve, this can’t be real. I don’t even need to pick the lock.”
“Well, then these fuckers deserve to get robbed blind. I’ll be there soon, Buck.”
“I’ll leave the main door open, unless, you know, it’s already got flowers and a welcome mat for you.”
Steve laughed and hung up, and Bucky swung the door open, looking around the grand looking living space silently. The back door closed quietly behind him, and he took careful steps into the room, taking stock of the small items he would inevitably put into one of the four duffells he had with him… and that’s when he saw what he’d missed as he was looking through the dark windows.
Glasses. Food waste. Some clothing.
People were here. Judging by the shoes and the fact there were only two glasses that he could see, Bucky assumed only two women.
Interesting.
The house was quiet so, hoping the two women were asleep, he went deadly silent and ghosted through the ground floor, the elusive surprise guests were nowhere he could find, so he started climbing the steps to the first floor… this floor was also empty, just one master bedroom, and a private library and gym. Bucky quickly scanned the bedroom, took note of where the storage was and where the safe was likely to be, and left, he would come back once the guests were secure. That just left the floor above which had the guest bedrooms.
Bucky’s blood pumped hot through his veins, part frustration, part fear, and just a little part excitement. These little robbing trips were so easy most of the time, the thrill of breaking and entering rich peoples homes when they weren’t there had long since lost its allure, and whilst he loved the idyllic life he had, that got boring too. Bucky and Steve had the perfect little haven, and he did love his solitude, but shit got lonely, especially in the last five years. Now even the job had become boring. It was all just so expected. Normal.
This was different. New.
Exciting.
There were four bedrooms on this floor according to the floor plan that he had been given, he expected to find the two little interlopers in the bedrooms facing the lake, but he checked the other two first to be sure, and then quietly locked those doors before treading silently to the the door on the left, it was slightly ajar, giving him an improved chance of not waking whoever was inside. The door opened silently when he pushed it, the clouds parted as he stepped into the room, and that was when he saw you, bathed in moonlight on the bed, the covers tangled around your waist, one leg exposed and bent at the knee. Both your arms were over your head, he could see the swells of your breasts under the cute strappy pyjama top you were wearing… and look at that, there was a little moon cartoon drawn on that space in between your tits…
“Pretty little Moonbeam…” Bucky didn’t realise he’d said that out loud until your eyelids fluttered open. Bucky stared at you for two long seconds as you woke up, your lips parted, and he swooped down and covered your mouth with his hand. He liked that you went completely still and didn’t fight him, he still had to get what he assumed was your friend secured before he could explore this unexpected prize. Bucky slowly sat on the bed next to you, and put his fingers to his lips,
“Will you be quiet for me, Moonbeam? I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise, I’m only here to rob the place. No need for any fuss, okay?” Bucky sighed when you nodded under his hand, and smiled as friendly as he could, “Good girl. I wasn’t expecting people here, I’m sorry if I scared you. Can you roll onto your front for me? I won’t hurt you, really.”
Bucky absolutely had no intention of hurting you… but there were other more pleasurable ways to make a woman scream. He took the cable ties he always had out of his pocket - they were the best for securing heavy items together - and kept his hand in place as you awkwardly did as you were told and rolled to your front. You were trembling slightly, so he tried to ease you slightly as he took one wrist and brought it behind your back,
“There you go, now the other one, you’re doing so well, baby, I won’t leave you like this, it’s just so you don’t hurt yourself whilst I do what I need to okay? I’m just trying to make some money, you understand that, don’t you?” Obviously you couldn’t answer directly, but the barely perceptible nod you gave went straight to his cock, and that was before he tugged on the sheet and saw the shorts covering your ass, your cheeks just peeking out of the hems from where they’d risen on your hips…
Bucky paused, the cable tie in his hand, his eyes on your perfect ass, his other hand over your mouth. He needed you to be silent whilst he got your friend, but he needed both hands to tie you up so you didn’t run and make him knock you out. He leaned forwards so he could meet your eyes. Your eyes were wide and bright in the moonlight, they hooked onto his and you didn’t look away, Bucky smiled as softly as he could,
“I need both hands, Moonbeam, will you be quiet if I stop holding your mouth? Please say yes. I don’t want to knock you out, and I don’t want to gag you.” He let out a sigh of relief when you nodded, but he gripped a little harder before he let go, “Don’t let me down, baby, I’m trusting you.” Slowly, he let go… and you just coughed quietly and stared up at him,
“We weren’t supposed to be here.”
“I didn’t know you would be. I’m glad I found you though.” Bucky took your wrists and tied them securely, “That’s not too tight, no?”
“No.”
“Good,” Bucky then tied your ankles, brought them to your back, and used a third tie to secure both together, leaving you completely immoble. He heard your breathing pick up, especially as he gave into his desire and he touched you over your back, rubbing circles in soothing circles… lower. He stopped at the curve of your ass and rested his hand there, using his free hand to move your face around so he could look at you easier,
“I promised I wouldn’t hurt you… you have a boyfriend, Moonbeam?”
Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, your body held tightly now that his hand was where it shouldn’t be, and you shook your head, “N-no… why do you keep on calling me that?”
“Because, I saw you in the moonlight. Never seen anyone so goddamn beautiful in my life. Think I might want to take you rather than all this shit in this house.” Now you slightly struggled, but a quick spank and you stilled again, “Now don’t make me gag you, Moonbeam. It’s okay, by the morning you’ll want to come with me, anyway. Now stay here, I’m going to get your… is she your friend? Or is it a guy in there?”
The rush of anger that went through Bucky at the thought of a guy staying with you was indescribable, and shocking, he’d never felt jealous before. Thankfully you shook your head and whispered,
“It’s my friend, but please don’t hurt her-”
“Is she as pretty as you are?”
“W-what?”
“Right,” Bucky squeezed your cheek, and then stood up over you, “I’m going to get her and bring her here. Scream and wake her up, and I’ll hurt her in front of you, Moonbeam, you understand?”
Bucky turned away before he could hear your gasp. He had no intention of hurting either of you, not really, but thankfully you didn’t test his threat and stayed deadly quiet as he opened the door to the other room. Your friend was on her front, and stirred just as he reached the edge of the bed, she fought a lot more than you did, Bucky growled when she even got her teeth into his right hand, but he tied her wrists and ankles and then slung her over his shoulder to bring to your room. Your friend was just as gorgeous as you were, but even though he could admit that, it was you that he wanted spread under him, you who he could see walking with him on the beach back home, you who he wanted in his kitchen and in his bed…
Unfortunately your friend started shrieking once she saw you on the bed, so he dropped her to her feet, and gagged her quickly, shoving some cloth in her mouth whilst he grabbed his phone,
“Moonbeam, I have to make a phone call, tell your friend to calm the fuck down.”
He could hear your whispers to your friend as he went to the hallway and stood at the top of the staircase, the phone rang once and then Steve answered,
“Steve, we may have a problem.”
“Tell me.”
“The house wasn’t empty. There’s two women here.” Bucky quickly assured Steve that he’d secured them, before describing them quickly. As expected, Steve hummed in thought, “The other one, she sounds… fun.” Bucky grinned, he knew his friend's taste, “How far away are you?”
“Be about thirty minutes.”
“Can I take a peek?”
“You found them, Buck. I trust you.”
Bucky hung the phone up, and took a moment before going back to the bedroom, sighing when he saw your friends mouth at the cable ties holding you captive, trying to bite at them and snap them, he pulled her away on a huff of annoyance,
“What are you gonna do there? Neither of you can walk, your hands are useless, how are you helping?” Bucky glared at your friend who didn’t back down from the angry stare. He had to smile. Steve was going to love her.
“Okay, fireball, just relax, please? I already told my Moonbeam I’m not going to hurt you, and I meant it. All me and my friend want is the shit in the house.”
“You asked if she has a boyfriend- hey!”
Bucky grabbed the gag and shoved it back in her mouth, and then went to you, stroking his hand over your cheek,
“Are you okay, Moonbeam?”
“Can you let us go? We have the car, we can just go, we’ll wait a few hours before calling the cops, we were asleep the whole time, right? You can get your stuff, and we can just go-”
“Sorry, Moonbeam, you’ve both seen my face now. You’re going to have to come with us.”
“B-but-”
“This doesn’t have to be a bad thing, baby.” Bucky sat back on his heels, pulling the penknife from his pocket, and quickly went to reassure you, “No, don’t worry, this is just to take the ties from your legs, okay?” You were trembling again as he undid the ties keeping you hogtied, and then the ones on your ankles, and the tie on your friends legs as well.
Now, the fun could begin.
Bucky took your upper arm, and gently helped you from the bed, leading you over to a couch in the opposite corner. It was large, the cushions looked comfy enough to sleep on, and they moulded wonderfully to you when Bucky sat you down on them. He stared down at you, biting his bottom lip briefly when he could see more of your cleavage down your top,
“Stay there, Moonbeam, I’ll be back.”
You did as you were told. You were perfect.
Unlike your friend who tried to roll away, shrieking indignantly when he grabbed her and dragged her off the bed and to the couch, dumping her next to you. Bucky smirked at the look she gave him, if looks could kill, he knew he would be dead on the spot. He went to his knees in front of you both, his right hand on one of your legs, and his left on your friends,
“Listen ladies, I’m telling you the truth when I say that I won’t hurt either of you. I’m not going to beat or kill you, I’m not that kind of an asshole, do you believe me?”
The fiery friend rolled her eyes, jerking her leg away from his touch, but you - trembling and fearful though you were - held his gaze, and slowly nodded,
“You won’t hurt us. I believe you.”
“Good girl.”
“Y-you won’t hurt us, but… you want us?”
Bucky squeezed your knee, let his palm drift a little higher,
“Yeah, Moonbeam, I really kind of do. I mean, I want you mostly, but Steve - my friend, he’s not going to be long - will definitely want your friend, and we’re more than happy sharing.”
Your breathing picks up at that, your leg tenses underneath his palm, but you don’t pull away. In fact, if Bucky were a guessing man, he would say that you were turned on by the idea. He knew he was attractive, he’d used it to seduce information out of marks before. He worked out regularly and tried to eat a good diet, kept his hair a little longer and kept just enough stubble that it made his eyes look brighter and knew it would enhance pleasure when he went down on someone.
God, he wanted that with you. One look at you drenched in moonlight and he was a goner.
“I think you don’t mind the idea, huh, Moonbeam, in fact…” Bucky let his eyes drift down, and sure enough, your nipples were hard against the cotton of your top, “You want me inside you, don’t you, baby? I bet you’re even a little wet… Can I look, Moonbeam? You can pretend you don’t like it, it’s okay, I won’t tell.”
Your thighs rub together slightly, not desperately, but Bucky can tell. You shake your head, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself,
“People know we’re here, you can’t just-”
“You’ll be long gone and impaled on my cock on a beach far away by the time anyone realises you’re gone, Moonbeam.” Bucky kneels up and leans over you, his lips at your ear, his hands resting on your shoulders, fingers hovering over the straps of your top, “How would you like that? Me taking you from behind, your face in your friend's cunt, as she sucks on my friend's dick?” Your breath catches, your friend goes completely still, and Bucky grins, pressing one thigh in between yours, and his other in between your friends, “I’ll treat you so good. I can prove just how good, right now.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to answer. Your legs are open, you’re not fighting him, even your friend's breathing has changed from fury to just the barest hint of desire. He stands up over both of you, reaches for the hem of his black Henley, and pulls it over his head. Bucky looks at you as you take him in, your eyes latch onto his metal arm for one split second, but then you look all over his body, the pulse in your neck gets faster and that only makes his cock impossibly harder in his pants. He takes a grip of it, and that's when he hears you groan. Bucky grins,
“I’ve shown you mine, ladies, now let’s see what you have hidden.” Anticipation is sweet, which is why Bucky went to your friend first, his hands at the neckline of the tank top she wore. She held his gaze as he slowly tore the cotton open, exposing her underneath, “Yeah, you’re a real pretty one. Steve is gonna love you.” Bucky quickly looked over at you, your eyes bright in the darkness, but no longer in fear. Feeling more than a little bold, he quickly bent his head and flicked at your friends nipple with his tongue… sure enough, the look you gave him wasn’t of horror,
“You jealous, Moonbeam? Would you prefer if I was sucking on your pretty tits instead?”
You didn’t nod your head, you just looked away. That was okay, you were still struggling with what you were feeling, this wasn’t a usual situation. Bucky spent another few seconds testing how your friend's breasts felt in his hands, against his lips, in his mouth. He came up for air, grinning in her face, amused at how she was glaring at him, but she had the same tell tale signs you did.
Both of you were enjoying this, you just didn’t want to admit it.
Bucky tweaked her nipple, and then leaned in and captured her lips in a kiss, whispering against your friends lips,
“Gotta give Steve a good report, I’ll call him in a second, plus I want to make my Moonbeam a little insane before I see what she looks like under her clothes.”
Your friend doesn’t reply, instead she groans when Bucky reaches down and tugs her pyjama bottoms off and brings them down her legs. His eyes dip down, and he sighs in pleasure at the sight in front of him, before looking at you,
“Moonbeam, I really want to have a look at your friends pussy, but I want to see in between your legs first,” Bucky patted your friends knee, “don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m sure you’re real beautiful but I want my Moonbeam coming on my hand before you, is that okay?”
Bucky doesn’t give her a chance to respond, instead he comes back to you, and puts his palms on the couch cushions on either side of your head. His knees hurt a little from the prolonged contact with the floor, but he doesn’t mind, he’ll stay on his knees in front of you for the rest of time if that’s what you want. Bucky leans forward, taking in that pulse in your neck, the way your eyes shine in the dark, how heavily you’re breathing…
“Pretend you don’t want me to touch you if you want… but we both know that you want me inside your gorgeous body, don’t we?”
For ten long seconds, Bucky thinks that you’re going to deny it, make him prove what he knows to be true, but instead,ever so slowly, you open your legs around his waist. Bucky nearly comes in his pants as you do, and he reaches out and cups your cheek,
“You really are the best treasure I could’ve found here, Moonbeam.”
With that, he takes the straps of your top and tugs them down your shoulders, peeling the rest of the cotton to your waist so he can look at your now exposed chest,
“Fuck, you’re so goddamn pretty, tits just made to be in my mouth,” Bucky reaches up and holds you in his palms, rubbing his thumbs over your nipples, before leaning forward and capturing one in his mouth whilst he continued rolling the other in his left hand. He could hear your friend scold you in his ear, which made him smile against your skin, “Don’t tell off Moonbeam, you fiery little hypocrite. I know that when I open your legs in a few minutes I’m going to see you creaming. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Stevie and I are very generous lovers, ladies, we’ll both make sure you guys come first. Speaking of…” Bucky ignored your friend so he could kiss you long and slow.
Your mouth was intoxicating, you kissed him so sweetly, still a little nervous, probably a little overwhelmed, but that was fine by him. The point was you kissed him back.
“I d-don’t… oh…”
Your slight protest trailed off when Bucky let his right hand drop from your breast to between your legs, over the shorts that you wore. The heat he could feel made his mouth water, you were so damp already, Bucky took a gentle hold over your throat with his left hand, keeping his eyes on yours… and then he dipped under the material to run his index finger up and down your slit,
“Shhhh… you’re like heaven, Moonbeam, already drenched for me, you’re gonna be a tight fit, aren’t you? Let me just… fuck…” Bucky eased his ring finger inside, just up to the knuckle, and kept his thumb on your clit, “you’re already fluttering around me, are you that turned on, you little slut?” Bucky didn’t wait for a reply, instead he pulled his finger out from you, and sucked it clean, “Perfect. I’m going to look at you now, okay? Lift your ass for me, good girl.” Bucky pulled the shorts away, and then spread your legs as wide as he could, then he moved your friend slightly and did the same to her.
You were both beautiful, but his eyes were more drawn to you. He couldn’t explain it, but everything about you called to him. Bucky palmed himself over his cargo pants again, urging himself to calm down when he saw your hole clench around nothing, and rubbed his hand over his mouth,
“Okay, ladies, first one to come gets to suck me off, how’s that for a deal?” Bucky winked at you, “I kind of hope it’s you, Moonbeam, I really want to see those pretty lips stretched around my dick… both sets of lips.” To emphasise the point, Bucky ran his right hand back up your leg, and parted your lower lips with his fingers, “You have a perfect cunt, baby.” Bucky did the same to your friend, “Yours is beautiful too, but I think Steve is going to be more interested in your ass.”
Bucky then put both his index and middle fingers inside your mouths, waiting whilst you both swirled your tongues around the digits then-
“-fuck!” His phone started ringing, and Bucky hastily put it on speaker before carefully pushing his fingers inside both of you at the same time, the gasps of you both filled the space as Steve’s voice came on the speaker,
“Is the door open for me, Buck? I’m like two minutes away.”
“Nope, I forgot. I’m busy right now, Stevie - oh, I think your girl likes the sound of your voice, Steve, she just started dripping.” Bucky ignored the sound of Steve’s growl, choosing instead to lean down and lap at your clit - he really wanted you to win this bet. Bucky could suddenly hear the sound of the front door being broken into, “You want me to do anything else to your girl, Stevie?” Bucky grinned as he gently used his pinkie to test both you and your friend's back passages, “You’re gonna be happy, I think your girl is an anal virgin!”
The sound of smashing glass made both of you shriek, and Bucky frowned, “Fuck you! You made my girl jump!”
Steve bounded up the stairs, and kicked the door open. Bucky pulled his fingers from your friend, using the now free hand to pull you closer to him so he could go a little deeper inside you,
“Go take her to her room, Steve. I think we can take a day here, can’t we?”
Your friend stared open mouthed at Steve, his hair was dishevelled, his chest was heaving, and his sea green eyes had latched firmly onto your friend. Even Bucky could see that his friend’s reaction was immediate.
He definitely liked her.
“Yeah sure, Buck. I’ll see you in the morning.”
With that, Steve swooped down and grabbed your friend, who promptly started struggling, the sound of her complaints and Steve’s laughter making him grin.
Bucky turned back to you, his attention could finally focus entirely on you and everything he wanted to do.
“Alone at last.”
“Alone at last.”
Your head swam with all the chaos and insanity the last hour had brought you. All you’d wanted was a nice break away, and instead you’d ended up in the crosshairs of a pair of robbers, and the brunette's fingers bringing you way too close to what you could already tell was going to the best orgasm of your life.
You close your eyes when you hear the distant and distinct sounds of spanking, and your friends' breathy moans. Apparently this ‘Steve’ had figured out her kink and was using it against her mercilessly.
Too bad that ‘Buck’ had figured out yours as well. Or maybe not bad. Or possibly it was terrible, except it felt wonderful-
“Come for me, Moonbeam, then I’m going to come down your throat.”
It should make you terrified, you shouldn’t want this, but you let yourself fly apart on his fingers, riding them desperately as the feeling slowly fades and you’re left breathless and exhausted. You don’t fight as your captor undoes your wrists from the cable ties, and positions you so you’re on your front along the cushions of the couch. Energy zips through you when you see the man get as naked as you in front of you, you’re curious about his arm, but you’re too distracted by his cock that right in front of your face.
He gets on the couch next to you, dragging you upwards so your face is in his lap, and he pushes himself at your lips,
“Suck it good, Moonbeam, then I’m gonna fuck you all night.” You hesitate for the briefest second - he was larger than you had had before - but a quick tap to your ass brought your face closer, “Don’t keep me waiting any longer, you tease.”
“I’m not teasing you… I’m just nervous.” You chance a look up at him, “You come barging in, re-name me, finger fuck me and my friend and now you’re talking about kidnapping us and probably taking us out of the country, I’m allowed to be nervous!” Your nails dig into the muscle of his thigh - and you clench yours together at the strength in them, at the thought of sitting astride one and riding it until you’re spent… “Just take it slow? Please? I don’t even know your name.”
The man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he leaned down and kissed you again. He’s too good at that, immediately you’re relaxing into his lap as he holds you to him, like you belong there…
“My name is Bucky, Moonbeam.”
“Bucky?”
“Yep, get used to saying, soon you’ll be chanting it.” With that, Bucky gets up and stands in front of you, “Open wide. When I’m done, get on all fours on the bed.”
The sun rose hours later, with you draped over Bucky’s chest. Your skin tingles, even as you ached in all the best ways. The room smelled of sex, sex that was still going as Bucky held your arms at your lower back, and pounded into you from beneath you, his lips at your neck, and his free arm wrapped firmly around your waist keeping you flush against him,
“You feel me, Moonbeam, or is your pretty cunt numb yet? Answer me, baby, or I won’t let you come.”
He’d done this what felt like thousands of times over the last god knows how many hours, teasing you and tormenting you and pleasuring you in equal measure. You were drunk on the taste and feel of him, an addiction now that you didn’t think you could let go even if you wanted to. Good thing you didn’t want to.
Good think Bucky had no intention of letting you go.
“I f-feel you… fuck, Buckyyyy.” The orgasm punches through you, but you’re too fucked out to do more than whine and slump even further forward. Bucky drops your arms, and then throws you on your back next to him, spreading your legs wide and kneeling between them, his fingers spread you wide open, and his metal hand pumps his cock,
“Last one for a while, Moonbeam, all over this pretty body, you did so good, you look so fucking gorgeous- fuck!” On a bark, he finishes all over you, you feel warmth at your cunt, on your stomach, some even reach your tits and neck. You don’t flinch, not anymore, you kind of wish you had the energy to bring it to your lips to take more inside you, but you couldn’t move if you tried. Thankfully Bucky knows what you want, you feel his hands between your legs, pushing himself inside you, and then those same fingers tap at your lips, “Come on now, open up for me, then I’ll let you sleep.”
You groan at the taste of him as it hits your tongue, and smile when he gets back into bed beside you, draping the covers neatly over you and bringing you firmly to his side. You’re almost asleep when the door to the bedroom is opened on a creak and you hear Bucky talking to his friend, Steve,
“How is yours?”
You hear Steve chuckle, “Never had better, and I got the scratch marks to prove it.” There’s a jostle on the bed and you open your eyes to see a naked Steve place your friend, who is equally naked, on the bed next to you. She looks as blissed out as you are, and she reaches back to Steve on a whine, “Don’t worry, Sunbeam, I’m coming in too, let me look at your friend first, Bucky got to see you.”
It doesn’t even occur to you to be scared when the covers are removed and you feel fingers on your skin that definitely aren’t Bucky’s,
“Pretty. I’m glad we found some good ones finally.”
“Me too, buddy.”
“We’ll give them a couple of hours, then we need to get motivated and go.”
Steve gets in and drags your friend next to him, casually lifting one of her thighs so he can ease into her from behind. He grins when he sees you looking, “My little Sunbeam has a warm pussy, I never want to leave it.”
Your friend rolls her eyes… but she smiles, and after a moment so do you.
“Are you okay with this, Y/N?” Your friend whispers to you. You see Steve reach around and wrap a hand around her throat, but she’s not afraid, she just leans back into his touch. Bucky nuzzles against your neck, his right bicep under head like a pillow whilst his left hand fondles your breast… you’re not overwhelmed or nervous anymore.
“I really am.”
You knew going away for the weekend was a good idea.
SUMMARY: The mind has a way of playing tricks on you, images you thought to be real are just a figment of your past. But how to get back to the present?
WARNINGS: Angst, nightmares, PTSD, panic attack, cannon-level violence, torture, smidgen of fluff at the end
Word Count: 1239
A/N: soooooo this was supposed to be the start of my Febuwhump challenge but with the way my life is going right now I won't be able to finish all the prompts by the end of the month, BUT I will post the ones I have done, and I will keep working on some prompts as well but don't expect them to be in order at all.
Prompt: Helpless
Enjoy! <3
Divider by Rookthorne
The first thing Bucky realized as he came to was how incredibly cold he was. A shiver wracked his body, causing him to try and pull the flimsy material covering him closer to his skin as water poured down on him. Wait- water? He looked to find the source and realized he was in a shower. The cold water turned red as it ran across his body from all the blood there. Was it his or someone else's? Bucky couldn’t tell.
“SOLDAT.” A voice boomed from behind, causing him to flinch aggressively. He knew that voice, it was one of his handlers, and by the sound of the rapidly approaching footsteps, he wasn’t happy.
“Poydem s nami, soldat. Dok khochet tebya videt'” The voice growled and Bucky froze.
His frazzled mind still trying to work out where he was and what was going on. His hesitance must have been seen as resistance because the next thing he knew, a rifle butt was flying towards him.
Confused, Bucky blocked it with his arm, the clash of metal reverberated around the room causing more handlers to pour in, each one with a gun all pointing in the same direction. His pulse was starting to quicken, and every muscle in his body tensed.
He was so focused on what was going on in front of him that he didn’t notice the guard coming up behind him with a stun baton. The guard struck, causing Bucky to fall to his knees as he hissed in pain, the electric shock causing his arm to fall limp at his side he clutched the useless appendage in his right hand as he looked on in terror as they all started moving in on him. Two of the guards grabbed him and began to drag him out of the room. He knew where they were taking him and as those rusted double doors came into view he began thrashing as wildly as he could to get away but it was no use.
“Bucky?”
They flung open the doors, his senses on hyperdrive as the blinding lights of the room burned his eyes. Noise. There was so much noise, nurses scrambling around, guards shouting, and doctors preparing for whatever horrible things they had planned for him that day.
“Bucky!”
He tried to fight against them as they strapped him into the chair, but it was no use, he felt utterly helpless as they began tying him down. His metal arm, although useless, was cuffed in 4 different steel brackets to keep him from moving, the rest of his body bolted into place as the panels of the machine began to lower over his face and just as they were about to connect to his skin-
“JAMES!”
He sucked in a large breath bolting upright in bed and scrambling far away from where he was until he managed to situate himself in the corner of the room. His chest, slick with sweat heaved up and down as he tried to get oxygen to fill his lungs, but his heart was beating too fast for him to do anything but hyperventilate. There was a quiet sound from the other side of the room that made him realize he wasn’t alone, and he let out a whimper as their footsteps got closer, curling in on himself to appear as small as possible.
“Bucky?” This voice was soft and full of concern, a complete contrast to the voice he heard just moments ago. This intrigued him slightly, but not enough to make him uncurl himself to see who was speaking to him. There was a sigh from the other person and the floorboards squeaked as they moved their entire weight to the floor, sitting on the ground near him.
“Bucky? It’s me, baby.” The voice cooed gently, and with the next breath he took, the familiar smell of cedar and lavender invaded his senses. He peaked his head out from behind his knees and saw Y/n sitting on the floor looking at him with concern coloring her features and sorrow clouding her eyes. She noticed the small movement and smiled gently as her eyes caught his.
“There he is. Hello, my love.” She whispered, a gentle smile decorating her face. Bucky blinked owlishly at her, still not realizing who he was looking at, but still Y/n smiled.
Progress she thought before she started speaking again, “It’s just me, love. You are safe. We are in our bedroom, in our apartment, no one is going to hurt you.”
This made him cock his head to the side before looking around the room. There was no one else besides the two of them. Instead of the gurneys, there was a dresser. Instead of blood-stained floors, there was a soft, grey plush carpet. Instead of that chair, there was a bed, and her. Bucky took a deep breath, finally able to fill his lungs and when he did, his body began to shake. He would shake violently for a moment before his muscles would give out and relax before contracting all over again. Y/n watched him carefully and scooted a little closer.
“Can I sit next to you?” It was a simple question, and it might seem trivial to ask someone you were just sleeping next to if you could be in their space but it was important for Bucky to feel in control of his situation, if he was in control, he was no longer there. Bucky looked at her and gave a small nod and Y/n moved to sit next to him, her back plastered against the wall. Although she wasn’t touching him, Bucky could feel the warmth radiation from her body, another piece of proof that he wasn’t in the basement of a bunker in the Siberian mountains. The pair sat in silence for a moment, Y/n watching Bucky, and Bucky staring straight ahead at the wall. Y/n shifted, causing Bucky's eyes to leave the spot on the wall and look at her.
“Can I touch you?” She asked softly. Buckys hesitated for a moment, before nodding again. Y/n scootched closer to Bucky so that their bodies were pressed against each other and she reached over with a hand and ran her fingers through his shortened chestnut locks. That simple action seemed to bring new life back to Bucky and he began to uncurl, leaning into her touch. Y/n began humming a soft melody as she continued to massage Bucky’s scalp. His tremors became less and less until they were all but gone.
After some more time passed, Bucky wasn’t sure how much, Y/n stopped and gently stood up, offering her hand to him.
“‘C'mon love, let’s get back in bed. Your back isn’t going to thank you if I let you sleep in the corner.”
Bucky placed his hand in hers and allowed her to lead him back to bed. Y/n folded back the covers in a more orderly fashion before sliding under the soft grey sheets, motioning for Bucky to do the same. He did so, snuggling back into Y/n’s side listening to her steady heartbeat, reassuring him that he was safe. She began humming that soft melody again. Feeling warm and safe, his eyes grew heavy and he fell into a dreamless sleep. The last thing he remembered was the whisper of an “I love you,” in his ear.
bucky who always let you know when he wanna be touched you because he doesn't feel too comfortable yet, he'll gently touch your shoulder, or tug at the hem of your shirt, trace his fingers over your hand or poke you gently so you know he wanna be held
Request by @cherrywinedarling: fuckboy!Bucky, sex pollen.
Summary: Bucky, the man with a long list of girls on his roster, gets exposed to a sex pollen in the field. Will he fuck the first girl he calls or the girl he's wanted for the last two months?
A/N: Special thanks to @cherrywinedarling for submitting such an inspirational (fcking hot) request and coming up with the entire plot of Bucky being unable to get himself off with a random girl, and only being able to get what he needs from reader. Lowkey loved writing this. And thanks as always to @littlemiss-yeehaw for pre-reading and catching some errors.
Twice. No, maybe it was actually three times. Definitely three times. Bucky can remember being exposed to different versions of HYDRA’s sex pollen three times before. Each time was strictly for experimental or torture purposes rather than being done with the intent of breeding super soldiers, but it happened three times, nonetheless. So, this would be number four.
Bucky lets the cool water from the shower faucet splash over his face for a minute before beginning to scrub his skin with a wet, soapy cloth. He tried to tell you that it wasn’t anything to stress over, that he’d keep his distance from the rest of the team on the quinjet and then lock himself in his room once you were all back at the compound, but you insisted on doing things the right way. He didn’t have to take an order from you, but he did. He shot you a frustrated look before making a crude comment and trudging off to the safehouse bathroom to take a shower like you’d told him to.
“I’ll leave the door unlocked for you, don’t keep me waiting too long.” Bucky had said it with a smirk as he stood in the living room of the safehouse and stripped his shirt off with ease. But that smirk was gone the moment he shut himself in the bathroom and turned on the faucet. He’s been through this three times before but it was never enjoyable. It’ll start out as a sort of general discomfort, maybe some body aches and chills as his temperature rises slowly. Then it’ll progress to cardiovascular symptoms: his heart will begin to race, he’ll hear the thumping sound of blood rushing in his ears, his blood pressure will spike. In a normal person, the dangerous spike in blood pressure would be enough to cause a stroke, but Bucky’s vascular system has much more elasticity than a normal person. He’ll be fine. It’s the third stage of the drug’s effects that will really drive him mad. He’ll begin to feel the undeniable urge to fuck.
As you carefully piece together the gun that you’ve just dismantled, cleaned, and oiled, you’re lost in thought. You’ve done enough research over the years to know that HYDRA worked overtime to come up with various chemical compounds that would induce a near primal sexual drive in super soldiers. They wanted a sure way to grow an army of super soldiers over time without having to go through the process of wiping countless minds clean and reprogram them. You almost audibly laugh when you think about the irony of Bucky Barnes being exposed to one of those very sex pollens on your mission today. Bucky Barnes, the man who lately seems to be attempting to catch up on his eighty-something years worth of celibacy, has been exposed to a chemical compound that will make him even more insatiable than he’s already known to be. You have to wonder if he’s secretly thrilled that he has the drug coursing through his veins now.
“You’re not gonna go help your friend out with this?” Sam’s voice rings out from somewhere behind you just as you’re reloading your gun and sliding it into the side holster of your tactical pants. You laugh lightly, shaking your head as you begin packing up the last of your belongings from the kitchen table.
“He’s fucked every girl he’s met since he finished therapy, I think he has a long list of people who can help him out when we get back home.” Though there’s a lighthearted tone behind your words, you’re serious. Bucky’s been a ladies’ man since he stopped seeing Dr. Raynor for mandatory therapy sessions, and not just your average good looking, single bachelor type of ladies’ man. Bucky’s a fuckboy. Sure, he seems to be respectful about it. He doesn’t lead girls on, doesn’t make them think there’s ever a possibility for something more than one or two nights in his bed, and he leaves them all satisfied. But he’s still a fuckboy.
Your words didn’t hurt his feelings. Bucky can’t fault you for being perceptive. He really has fucked almost every girl he’s met in the last couple of months. Hell, he would’ve fucked you too if you’d just given him a chance. That’s how you ended up becoming friends. He tried like hell to get you into his bed shortly after you were assigned to the team and moved into the room next door to his, but you were adamant that you weren’t looking to be a notch on his bedpost. However, instead of telling him to fuck off, you put up with his shit and even seemed to have a good time doing so. So, you ended up being the only female friend of his that hasn’t been tangled up in his bedsheets.
Although your words weren’t necessarily hurtful, Bucky still finds himself a little bothered. He was just about to join you and Sam in packing things up and getting ready to head out when he overheard your conversation and swiftly turned back around, quietly shutting himself in the bathroom once again. You’re right, he does have a long list of people who can help him out when you get back home. God, you’re always right. If he wasn’t so inexplicably drawn to you, he’d probably hate you. But being friends with you is one of the few things that keeps him from comparing his life now to his life eighty years ago. The girl from the bar last week, that’s who he’ll call when he gets home. She was pretty. She had a nice smile, eyes that really drew him in, and she was easy to talk to. She could definitely be the solution to the problem at hand. The more Bucky thinks about her, the more he realizes she sort of reminds him of you. Shit. He’s done that too many times in the past month, brought home girls that seem so familiar but it isn’t until he’s fucked them that he realizes they remind him of you. Why the hell does that keep happening?
---
It’s just an hour later when you’re all arriving back at the compound. Sam excuses himself to go brief Fury and a few other higher-ups on everything that went down during your op, while you and Bucky head for the main tower, each of you ready to unwind in different ways. As you take the elevator up, your eyes wander over to Bucky, who stands to your right. His cheeks are flushed pink, a few stray strands of hair are stuck to his forehead with sweat, and he’s rubbing the back of his neck with his flesh hand like it’s sore to the touch. He acted like being exposed to a sex pollen was just another day at work for him, but you know him well enough to know that at the very least, he’s uncomfortable right now.
When the elevator doors slide open to let you both out into the main room of the living quarters, Bucky doesn’t even wait to let you off first like he usually does. He steps in front of you and exits quickly, walking a little faster than usual to get to his room down the hall. Maybe that’s what makes you feel bad for him, or maybe it’s the fact that he feels like he has to pretend like he’s unbothered in front of you and Sam instead of telling you how much it sucks to have such a vile chemical compound wreaking havoc within his body.
“Do you need anything?” You ask softly as you pass Bucky in the hall and near your own door, just a few steps beyond his. The sound of your voice breaks his focus and he drops his keys at his feet. Bucky stoops down to retrieve them and then turns his full body to face you from five feet away. You work on unlocking your own door, but cast a sideways glance in his direction. His usual smirk is notably missing, and a stormy, hard-to-discern look has taken its place.
“If I do, I can call one of the girls I’ve met since I finished therapy.” The words are like ice: cold and jarring, sending a chill down your spine. He overheard you and Sam earlier. You don’t know why you feel like a kid sitting in the principal’s office, not when you’ve teased him over his fuckboy ways for as long as you’ve known him. It shouldn’t have bothered him that much considering it was true. Why do you feel like shit for having said it now? More importantly, why does his response to your question feel like a rejection?
When Bucky steps into his room and shuts the door behind him, you hear him seal himself in with the resounding metal click of a lock. If only he’d known that a deadbolt wouldn’t keep you away.
---
You’ve just finished showering and getting yourself ready for bed when you hear the familiar sound of Bucky’s door opening and closing down the hall, followed by two sets of quiet footsteps heading in the opposite direction. Two sets of footsteps? Bucky must’ve called for one of his late-night guests a little early tonight, to help with his situation. You’ve lived next door to him for a couple of months now and if you’ve learned anything, it’s that the man has stamina. So, for one of his guests to have arrived and left in the short time that it took you to shower and pull on some pajamas, something must’ve gone wrong.
Bucky stands with his back pressed against the cool metal wall of the elevator and his arms crossed over his chest as he mentally kicks his own ass. He couldn’t go through with it. He called the girl from the bar, the one who reminded him of you. He invited her over, took her upstairs to his room, gave her a mind-blowing orgasm with minimal effort, but the moment he heard her cry out his name, he knew he wasn’t going to sleep with her. She sounded nothing like you, not even similar enough that he could’ve imagined she was you.
“Thanks for coming over on such short notice, it was good to see you.” Bucky forces himself to break the silence in the elevator. When his eyes land on the girl standing a few inches to his left, she offers him a genuine smile.
“Of course, I had a good time. I wish you would’ve let me make things even though.” She says, referring to the way Bucky had gotten her off but then briskly offered to walk her back downstairs. He nods slowly, tracing the backs of his teeth with the tip of his tongue.
“Yeah, maybe next time.” There won’t be a next time, not when he’s stuck thinking about how hard it was to imagine the girl being you. A few minutes later, Bucky’s guest is riding off into the night in the car he called for her. He’s left standing in front of the tower, feeling the full effects of the sex pollen as he enters the peak hour of its activity. There it is, that undeniable urge to fuck.
You’re sitting in an armchair by your bedroom window, munching on a bowl of strawberries that you settled on as a late-night snack, when you hear one set of footsteps coming down the hall. It’s the sound of Bucky returning to his room alone. You have to wonder if the sex pollen decreased his stamina. It must have, otherwise his little guest would’ve been here for at least another hour or two. You make a mental note to research that in some of the old HYDRA files tomorrow, out of sheer curiosity. As you sit there in your chair, licking a drop of strawberry juice off of your bottom lip, you can’t help but wonder what the hell Bucky’s doing. By your calculations, he should be experiencing the worst of the sex pollen effects right now, yet he’s alone in his room. You remind yourself that he doesn’t want your help, that he doesn’t need your help. You tell yourself that he probably took care of every urge he had with the girl that he invited over earlier, and then you try to focus on your snack and the TV show you have playing quietly on your TV.
When you hear the distant sound of a pained grunt coming from the other side of your bedroom wall, every muscle in your body goes rigid. You quickly pause your show and set your empty bowl on the small table beside your armchair. Only a few seconds go by before you hear another grunt, followed by the sound of what you surmise is Bucky’s fist colliding with something in his room. Before your mind has a moment to attempt a rational thought process, your feet are carrying you out of your own room and down the hallway to Bucky’s closed door. Your fist is rapping against his door softly at first, knowing he’s awake and you don’t have to be very loud for him to hear you. No answer. You knock again, a little harder this time, hoping he hasn’t stroked out from a spike in his blood pressure. Still, no answer. The third time you knock, you use the side of your fist instead of your knuckles, and you bang on his door so hard that you feel it rattle on its hinges.
Bucky heaves a deep sigh before unlocking the door and pulling it open, knowing you’ll be standing on the other side of it. Just the sight of you has Bucky’s already hard cock twitching in his sweats and he has to avert his gaze, choosing to look over your shoulder instead of right at you.
“I would’ve answered the first time if I wanted to talk to you right now.” Bucky says coldly. A chorus of go away’s play on repeat in his mind as he wishes with every fiber of his being that you’d do just that.
“You didn’t sleep with her, did you?” One look at Bucky’s disheveled state, his messy hair, the sheen of sweat making his chest and abs gleam under the dim lights of the hallway, and the way his breaths are coming in much more shallow than usual, tells you that you’re right. Bucky meets your gaze for a brief second, and his eyes give you the answer his mouth won’t. He didn’t sleep with her. “How bad is it?”
“I’ve been through this before.” Bucky reminds you, running a hand through his hair and squeezing his eyes shut. You’re standing in front of him wearing a pair of gray joggers, a little cropped tank top, and a light cardigan over your shoulders. He knows that tank top well. If the lighting was a little better, he’d be able to see straight through the thin fabric of it. God, he needs you to leave. “Like I said earlier, if I need help, I have people I can call.”
“You called someone and it clearly didn’t help, Bucky.” Just the sound of his name leaving your lips has him biting the inside of his cheek.
“Go to bed.” His tone is authoritative now. But of course, you’d never take an order from him. Especially not when he’s so obviously miserable. Your eyes drift down his torso, taking in the sight of the super soldier that stands before you nearly drowning in a chemically-induced state of arousal. You don’t really know why it pains you to see him like this, why it pains you that he keeps rejecting your help, but you’ve had enough. When you continue to stand in front of Bucky, defying his order for you to go to bed, he drops his hand from his hair and narrows his eyes at you. As you make eye contact with him, an unfamiliar warmth begins to spread along the surface of your skin. Maybe that’s what made you do it, maybe the warmth is what made you start taking your clothes off. You don’t really know what it was, but once you started you knew you wouldn’t stop.
Your fingers begin carefully tugging on the drawstring of your joggers, loosening the tied knot as you look into Bucky’s conflicted blue eyes. You continue watching him as his gaze darts down to the motion of your hands, his eyes widening as he realizes what you’re doing.
“What can I do to help?” You ask the question in a whisper. It’s obvious what you’re offering and it has Bucky’s mind racing. He’s wanted you in his bed since the day he met you, but you never gave in to his chase. He’s sure that you’re only giving in now because you think that he needs you to, because you’re ever the kind, helpful girl next door for him. You’ve finished untying the drawstring of your pants and you’re letting the cardigan slip off of your shoulders, baring even more of your skin to him, when Bucky has to stop you. He reaches out with both hands, catching the soft fabric of your sweater in his hands and pulling it back up to cover your shoulders.
“You can go to bed, that would be really fucking helpful.” Bucky rasps. The fingertips of his flesh hand graze over the skin of your shoulder as he sets your cardigan back in its place, and the contact sends a fresh wave of primal need throughout his body. That wave of need is quickly followed by a horrible ache that forces him to draw his hands back to his sides and clench his fists.
“Bucky, stop rejecting me.” A sudden boldness comes over you and you find yourself placing both palms against his chest and pushing him back into his room. He doesn’t fight you as you take two steps inside and shut the door behind you, letting the room engulf both of you in near-darkness.
“Rejecting you? You’ve rejected me since we met.” Bucky scoffs, falling back to sit on the foot of his bed. He brings his elbows to his knees and lets his head dip down to rest in his hands. He may not be watching you, but he’s listening intently as you strip off your cardigan and drop it in the armchair by his window.
“Yeah, I wasn’t going to sleep with the guy who slept with everyone. But now we’re friends, and I’m not going to sit next door while you suffer through this alone.” Bucky dares to sneak a glance at you through his hands. You’re standing a foot in front of him, now in just your sweats and tank top, with your hands on your hips. God, your hips. He’s imagined holding onto those hips while he fucks you from behind so many times. His eyes flutter closed as he lets out a groan. “Bucky, please.” You saying please in such a circumstance is what breaks him.
When Bucky pushes himself off of the foot of the bed and comes to stand only a few inches in front of you, you take half a second to wonder if you’ve just opened a dangerous can of worms.
“Think about what you’re offering.” Bucky’s voice is shaky, but his gaze is hardened as he looks into your eyes. “This isn’t just some favor between friends.” You stay quiet for a moment as you run through the scenario in your head. You imagine going through with it and having sex with him, fulfilling his needs and lessening the pain that he feels from the sex pollen. You imagine the sun rising in the morning and the two of you pretending like nothing ever happened. Why does that last part make you feel uneasy? The idea of sleeping with him tonight doesn’t seem to bother you in the least, but the idea of going right back to normal tomorrow doesn’t sit so well with you.
“I think it’s better if we don’t think about it.” Without letting another thought through your mind, you grasp the waistband of your joggers and begin pushing them down your thighs. As more and more of your skin is revealed to Bucky, his heart rate picks up and his breath hitches in his throat. When you stand up straight in front of him, with your joggers now lying on his bedroom floor, he has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grabbing you and throwing you down on his bed. You can see the wheels in his mind turning as he overthinks this. It’s the thing he’s wanted since he met you, being offered to him on a silver platter, but he can’t stop thinking about how this could ruin the most real friendship that he’s had since Steve. You do the only thing you can think to do to break him out of his thoughts. You step forward and take both of his hands in yours, guiding them up to your face. When his palms make contact with either side of your jaw, his thumbs are quick to begin caressing your cheeks, as if the gentle touch is instinct for him, as if the two of you have done this countless times before. “I said don’t think about it.”
His blue eyes search yours for any sign of hesitation, but he finds none. So, he takes the leap. Bucky leans in and closes the gap between the two of you, his lips finding yours in the darkness. With the first brush of his lips against yours, your eyes flutter closed and you’re at his mercy. You part your lips to accept him, feeling a rush of heat travel through your body as he sucks on your bottom lip gently. You didn’t expect a kiss from Bucky Barnes to be so gentle. You expected it to be hasty, used as a means to an end rather than for the simple pleasure of kissing. But Bucky kisses like it’s as vital to his being as breathing. His tongue glides along your top lip slowly, feeling his way into your mouth before fully tasting you. As soon as his tongue tangles with yours, he pulls back, his hands still cupping either side of your face.
“You taste like strawberries.” He says, licking his lips as he peers down at you with narrowed eyes. Blush creeps into your cheeks, you can’t tell if he’s saying that as a good thing or a bad thing with the hard-to-read expression on his face. Another lick of his lips and a smile begins to tug on the corners of his mouth. “You taste like strawberries.” He repeats, going back for more. This time, you experience the less gentle kiss that you initially expected from him. He wastes no time in sliding his tongue back into your mouth and letting it work in tandem with yours. As he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, his vibranium hand slides down and wraps around your waist, pulling you as close to him as possible. His flesh hand ghosts over your jawline, along the side of your neck, and then you feel him wrap it around your throat just lightly enough that you notice it. Something about having his hand around your throat sets a fire ablaze inside of you, and before you know it, your hands are flat on his chest. You almost wish he had a shirt on so you could grip onto the fabric and tug him further into you.
Bucky’s losing his mind. He’s losing his goddamn mind because you’re in his bedroom, your pants are on his floor, and you’re kissing him back. You’re kissing him and you taste like strawberries. The longer you let him kiss you like this, with one of his hands wrapped lightly around your throat and the other resting dangerously close to your ass, the more his fuckboy ways start to evaporate right through his skin. Kissing you for thirty seconds makes him rethink his entire lifestyle.
You’re the one to pull back this time, you pull back the moment Bucky shifts his stance and you feel the outline of his fully erect cock pressing against your lower stomach. This time when you part, his gaze is so much softer. As much as you’re enjoying kissing him, you know that’s not what he needs right now. Taking matters into your own hands, you move past Bucky and sit on the foot of his bed. His eyes follow every move you make.
“Are you sure about this?” He has to ask. He has to know that he isn’t taking advantage of you and your friendship before this goes any further. He isn’t so sure he’ll be able to stop once he’s really touched you, so he’s offering you an out now. When you nod, keeping your eyes on Bucky, he lets out a soft sigh of relief. Your eyes follow him as he moves around the bed to the nightstand and pulls open the top drawer. After pulling out a little square packet and dropping it on top of the bed, he looks over at you once more. “You’ll tell me if I’m too rough?”
“I trust you.” You whisper. Bucky’s eyes darken as his pupils dilate even more and he begins walking back to the foot of the bed, coming to stand right in front of you.
“You trust me.” He repeats the words slowly, savoring them. You trust him. He looks down at you with an even mix of lust and admiration, but you only notice the lust. Raising his right hand up, he tucks your hair behind one ear and then traces a line from the point of your jaw to the tip of your chin with his index finger. Bucky curls that finger beneath your chin and tilts your face upward. The way your eyes pierce his, he feels like you’re looking straight into his soul, like you’re seeing every darkened corner within him that he’s tried so hard to hide. Instead of feeling vulnerable, he feels at home under your watchful stare.
Bucky tilts his head to the side and his eyes flit behind you to the expanse of the bed, signaling that he wants you to move back onto it. You do just that, turning over so your back is to him as you crawl further up on the mattress. A soft groan from Bucky lets you know he likes the view already, and you smile to yourself. You always knew he was attracted to you, but having the extra confirmation now really feeds your confidence. You can hear the rustling of fabric behind you and when you turn over once again to lay on your back, holding yourself up on your elbows, you see that Bucky has tossed his sweatpants onto the floor beside yours. Now, you see your friend, standing before you in only a pair of black boxers. Your breath hitches in your throat when your eyes land on the bulge beneath the thin fabric.
“Oh my god, you’re so big.” Your eyes widen and dart back up to meet Bucky’s. Of course, he has a smug smile plastered across his face.
“You couldn’t have guessed that?” He asks, placing one knee on the foot of the bed as he looks you over.
“I never thought about it.” You find yourself staring at it again, but Bucky blocks your view when he starts crawling over your body.
“You don’t have to lie, sweetheart.” Bucky tsks, resting his body weight on you as he leans in and kisses your neck. You find yourself tilting your head to the side to give him more access, loving the way he alternates between licking and sucking your skin. “God, you taste like strawberries, you smell like strawberries.” Bucky grunts against your neck before sitting back on his knees between your legs. “I don’t think I can wait much longer.” He says quietly, analyzing your expression. You study his face for a moment, taking in his flushed cheeks, the way his chest is rapidly rising and falling, and even the way the tips of his ears are turning pink. His blood pressure is spiking.
You push yourself up to a sitting position and without thinking, you tug your tank top over your head, tossing it on the floor and completely baring your chest to Bucky.
“Fuck.” The curse falls from his lips as his eyes devour your nearly naked body. It takes him a few seconds to compose himself and focus. When you start shimmying out of your panties, he moves to stand on the floor beside the bed, squeezing his eyes shut as he takes his own boxers off. He’s worried if he gets one look at you completely naked in his bed, he’ll start cumming and because of the sex pollen, he won’t stop.
“Look at me.” Your voice is too kind, too sweet for someone so willing to be fucked. But Bucky listens, opening his eyes and meeting your gaze. His hand is fisting around his cock within a second, stroking it as he looks not at your body, but into your fucking soul. “You’re supposed to be letting me help you.” You remind him, fighting the urge to look down at where he’s touching himself. Bucky groans again but starts climbing back over you, his hard cock dragging along the skin of your thigh as he situates himself over you but slightly to one side, resting his weight on one elbow.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Bucky presses a kiss to your lips. It’s a kiss he meant to be quick and reassuring, but neither of you could resist deepening it. So, he licks into your mouth once again, loving the way you taste, and you feel his right hand sliding down your stomach. His fingertips ghost lightly over your thigh at first, testing the waters, but you don’t flinch away. He has to make sure you can take him. He knows he’s big, and he has no idea how long it’s been since the last time you were with someone. When his hand ventures between your legs, you spread them without hesitation, continuing to kiss him with a growing desperation. The moment Bucky lets his fingertips glide along your wet folds, he can’t stop himself from rutting against your thigh. “You’re so wet for me, fuck.” A soft hum leaves your lips but it’s quickly transformed into a moan when Bucky applies pressure to your clit and begins to circle the pads of his fingers over it. Sparks of pleasure ignite, urging you to spread your legs even more and break away from his mouth to take in a gasp of air.
“Bucky, you don’t have to—” You’re cut off by your own cry when Bucky abandons your clit and slips two fingers inside of you, sending them only halfway as he watches between your legs. He’s in awe of you. Your back arches off of his mattress and he’s so tempted to kiss and lick all over your breasts, but he can’t ignore the overwhelming ache in his lower stomach and cock for much longer. He curls his fingers against your walls slowly, turning to watch your face this time. He studies you as your eyes scrunch closed and your mouth parts to let a heavy pant past your lips. You look fucking perfect. He knows the longer he delays his own release, the worse he’ll feel physically. He can already hear the blood rushing in his ears and feels the pain throughout his body worsening with every sound you make, but he wants this to be good for you. He needs this to be good for you. So, Bucky begins dragging his fingers out and then pushing them right back in, over and over again. He works you up to being able to take them deeper and deeper until he can’t push them in any more. That’s when he leans into you and leaves light kisses across your right cheek and temple. You find yourself leaning into his touch.
“I can’t wait anymore.” Bucky grunts, as he pulls his fingers out of you slowly one last time. He wants so badly to lick his fingers and taste you, but he knows that if he gets a taste, he won’t ever be able to get over it. He’d spend every day doing whatever the hell he had to do just to get more. Instead, Bucky slides those two wet fingers over the head of his cock, mixing your arousal with his precum and spreading it down the shaft. He gives it a few strokes, letting his head fall against your shoulder as he begins to feel just the slightest bit of relief inside his body. But it isn’t enough. Bucky lets go of his cock and leans over you, reaching across the bed to grab the condom he placed there earlier. When he rolls onto his back and begins tearing the small wrapper open, you take matters into your own hands.
Bucky damn near feels butterflies when you move to straddle him, bracing your hands on his bare chest as you swing a leg over him.
“Just give me a second.” Bucky grunts, his eyes darting between the half open condom wrapper and where you’re lowering yourself down over him. He gets the condom out of the wrapper but freezes when he feels your dripping cunt grind along the shaft of his cock. “Shit, be careful.” He warns you through gritted teeth. You know you really should be careful. Hell, he’s slept with so many girls just in the last month that you should be using any and every form of protection out there. Not to mention the fact that both the super soldier serum and sex pollen really ramped up his reproductive system, increasing his sperm count and motility like crazy. The man could easily save the human race from extinction if he was the last viable male on Earth. But you’re not thinking straight. You’re not thinking straight at all when you begin grinding down and circling your hips against him, reveling in the feeling of his hard cock pressing against your clit. You drag your hips back and forth as Bucky’s hands move to grip you there, with the unwrapped condom still in his right hand. You can feel that little piece of latex between his palm and your hip. The thought crosses your mind so briefly, but once the seed is planted, there’s no going back. Feeling the condom all rolled up between Bucky’s hand and your hip is really what planted the seed. You want to feel him inside you, without a damn thing in between. So, you grind along the length of his cock once more, but when you near the tip, you continue sliding forward on it and grinding down until you feel it against your entrance, and then you grind down a little harder, angling your hips just right so it starts to slide in.
“Oh my god.” You moan out, letting your head fall back as you reach down with one hand and start fully guiding him inside of you. Bucky can only watch, his grip on your hips getting impossibly tighter. You’ve only taken in the head of his cock when you still yourself, trying your best to adjust to his ample size. You feel a mix of stinging pain and pleasure, but he did such a thorough job of preparing you with his fingers that the sting is minimal.
“I’m not wearing a condom.” Bucky pants, scanning your face as you slide down another couple of inches. He’s nearly halfway in now and it’s taking every single ounce of his self-control to keep from pulling your hips down and making you take all of it. Your eyes flutter open and lock onto his.
“I know.” You pair your two little words with the act of forcing yourself to take the rest of his length. Your clit brushes against the base of his cock and for a moment, you actually think he might be too big for you.
“Fuck.” Bucky groans lowly. His eyes scrunch shut even though he so badly wants to keep them wide open and memorize the way you look when you’re being fucking ruined by his cock. His balls feel so full and heavy, even more so than usual with the way the sex pollen is screwing up his reproductive system, and the fact that you’re the one he’s balls deep inside of isn’t helping. You really should’ve let him put on a condom, but he sure as hell isn’t going to stop you now. Bucky releases his hold on your hip with his right hand and lets the unused condom fall from his grasp, watching as it lands on the bed. When he digs his fingers into the skin of your hips once more, the sensation spurs you to attempt moving. You start with slow up and down movements, only fucking half of his cock, unsure if you could manage the whole thing at once. But when you get a look at Bucky’s face, at the way it’s contorted with pleasure yet restrained as if he’s holding himself back, you know you need to give him more. So, you take a deep breath and begin lifting yourself off of his cock. Bucky’s eyes follow, so focused on the way you leave his cock glistening as you pull off of it. When only the head is left inside of you, you breathe out as you sit all the way back down. Fuck, it hurts when he’s all the way in but you don’t want to stop. God, you don’t want to stop for anything. You go again, trying the movement a little faster this time, earning a soft grunt from Bucky and a few bruises on your hips as his hold tightens more.
“Bucky, you’re too big.” You finally say, after sliding down onto his length the third time. You want to ride his dick and do as much of the work for him as you can right now, but there’s just no way. There’s no way you can pick up the pace and set a good rhythm when he’s so fucking thick and long that you feel him in your stomach every time you sit down. You don’t have the time that you’d need to adjust, you don’t want to make him wait for you to be ready for it. So, you need a new position. Bucky understands immediately. As much as he was loving seeing you fuck his cock all by yourself, his insides are screaming at him to take control and do whatever he needs to do to get himself off.
Bucky eases you down onto his full length one more time, simultaneously hating and loving the way you cringe once you’re fully seated. Then, in one quick, smooth movement, he captures your hands in his and tugs you down to his chest, before rolling both of you over so he’s on top.
“We can save that for next time.” Bucky promises, positioning himself so that the majority of his weight rests on his forearms on either side of your head. As soon as the words have left his mouth, you realize what he’s just said, but he doesn’t. He leans down and licks your bottom lip while you’re lying beneath him, with his cock motionless inside you, as you remind yourself that there will never be a next time. Bucky’s a fuckboy through and through, you’ve never known him to sleep with the same girl twice, and you can’t imagine anything about tonight is going to change that. “Are you adjusted?” He asks, pulling back from your face to look into your eyes. You bend your knees a little and take in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as you focus on your senses. No pain. You nod your head and let your hands ghost along Bucky’s sides.
“Are you always this gentle and thoughtful in bed?” The question sneaks past your lips before you can stop it, but Bucky chuckles as he begins to pull his hips back, sliding his cock out of you inch by inch.
“You think I’m gentle and thoughtful?” Of course he’d take your question as a compliment. Or…maybe not. Bucky shoots you a mischievous look before biting down on his bottom lip and snapping his hips forward, thrusting into you so hard that your back arches off of the bed and your breasts press up against the skin of his bare chest. He took it as a fucking challenge.
“I take it back.” You whine. You dig your nails into the skin of his back hoping to draw a little pain from him, but truthfully, he loves it. He begins slowly dragging his cock back out of you while you’re wondering how the hell he’s still so composed and restrained. “I thought being exposed to a sex pollen would’ve made this a quick, sort of desperate kind of thing.”
“Is that what you wanted?” Another snap of his hips and you’re filled with his cock again.
“I didn’t say that, it’s just what I expected. Does it not make you feel like fucking the shit out of anyone you can get your hands on?” Your fingers dance up his sides until they’re tangled in his messy hair. Another slow drag of his hips and you’re feeling nearly empty.
“It does, but like I said, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Hurt me.” He freezes with his cock halfway out of you. Your own eyes widen at your unexpected request. Where the hell did your filter go? You didn’t even mean it the way it sounds, you just meant that you don’t want him to keep holding back for your sake. “I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” Bucky grunts, clearly turned on by the presumed meaning behind your words. He lowers himself down until his body weight feels like a warm, thick blanket covering every inch of your body. He’s giving you what you want. The talking part is over, you realize, as Bucky lets his forehead fall into the crook of your neck and slides his knees beneath your thighs, opening you up for him even more.
Then, he fucks you. He sets a rhythm and pace so desperate and unforgiving that every thrust causes the mattress to bounce you right back up against him. No matter how much he pulls out, you continuously feel the presence of his cock inside you. Every breath he breathes against your neck, every time his lips ghost over your skin, every needy grunt that meets your ears feeds you like a dose of ecstasy. The atmosphere is reduced to the sounds of skin on skin, panting breaths, and obscene curses and moans falling from parted lips. Bucky fucks you more thoroughly than he’s fucked anyone in the last two months. When he hears your moans increase in pitch and your breaths becoming more and more shallow, he drives his cock into you harder and deeper, making sure his name is the only thing on your mind. You give him no warning when your orgasm begins to tear through your body, but you don’t have to. Your cunt grips his cock so tightly that pulling out to thrust into you is damn near painful, so Bucky begins grinding into you, moving his hips in rhythmic circles. When your breaths begin to come a little easier, Bucky’s own release is threatening to spill over, so he starts to slow his hips and pull out of you. He isn’t wearing a condom and he knows this won’t be a small mess by any means.
But you, the girl next door, the girl who tastes like fucking strawberries, you slide your hands down and grab his hips every bit as harshly as he grabbed yours earlier, and you pull him further into you. An orgasm hits him like a fucking freight train. It wasn’t even the sensation of being inside you that sent him over the edge, as heavenly as that was. No, it was the fact that you wouldn’t let him pull out. The fact that you didn’t even let him wear a condom. The fact that you’re you and you’re so desperate for his cum that you’d hold him there and take it like you had a right to. After three seconds, Bucky’s surpassing a normal amount of cum, and both of you are fully aware of it.
“It won’t stop, fuck.” Bucky groans against your neck as he slowly ruts into you, trying to get himself through his orgasm. “There’s so much cum.”
“That’s okay, it’s okay, Bucky.” You whisper, moving your hands back up to his head and carding your fingers through his hair. “I can take it.”
Shit. He might be in love with you.
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