Summary: You're stuck sharing a bed with Bucky after a mission. Your subconscious clearly hates you because you have a wet dream starring the very man you're lying beside.
Warnings: basically porn without plot, cursing, use of pet names. SMUT, praise kink, dirty talk, oral (M & F receiving), face sitting, choking, slight metal arm kink (if you squint), unprotected sex (p in v), cum eating.
"Oh you have got to be kidding me," you groaned as you stepped through the door. You dropped your bag on the floor and gestured dramatically to the bed across the room.
Bucky stepped into the room, a deep chuckle reverberating through the small space. "At least there is a bed in this dump."
"I don't even think that's a queen sized bed, Buck," you grumbled.
"Don't worry about it, doll. I'll sleep on the floor."
You looked at the somewhat dusty floor and shook your head immediately. "There's no way I'm letting you sleep on the floor, James."
Your back was to him, so you didn't notice the way he froze or the strange look in his eyes. He cleared his throat noisily. "I slept on the floor for years in the Army, doll. I can handle sleeping on the floor for one night."
"I'm sure you can," you commented as you turned to look at him. "But I would feel terrible, so I can't allow it."
He chuckled again. "Can't allow it?"
"You heard me."
"What--you wanna sleep on the floor instead?"
"Of course not."
"So you wanna fight for it?"
"You're ridiculous."
He grinned. "Perhaps, but you love it."
"Yeah, yeah." You waved him off with your hand and a little smile of your own. "We're both adults. We can share a bed for the night." Even if it is an uncomfortably small bed.
"If you're sure. I wouldn't want to impose or anything."
You shrugged. "It's not an imposition. It's actually for my benefit. If you sleep on the floor, you'll spend the entire drive back tomorrow complaining about how badly you slept and how badly your back hurts."
"I never complain!" he insisted.
"Oh please. You complain almost as much as Sam."
Bucky put his hand on his chest in mock offense. "How dare you."
You laughed at his indignation. "I'm just teasing you. No one complains as much as Sam."
He let out a relieved sigh. "You got me there for a second."
You shot him a grin before turning your attention back to your duffel bag. You were digging through it to find something comfortable to sleep in. All you had was an oversized t-shirt and a clean pair of underwear, which you were now kicking yourself for.
Originally, Natasha was supposed to accompany you on this mission, but she'd caught a nasty bug, so Bucky stepped in to take her place. Unfortunately for you, you'd already packed your bag by the time you found out. You'd thrown in a few extra essentials, but neglected to remember pants.
You groaned audibly and your shoulders slumped in defeat. The last thing you wanted to do was crawl into that tiny ass bed with a giant, gorgeous man, in nothing but a t-shirt and your underwear. They weren't even cute underwear!
"Everything okay, doll?" Bucky asked from across the room.
"Yeah, uh--I just forgot to pack pajama pants. Or shorts. Or anything comfortable at all."
Bucky froze with his hand halfway in his own duffel bag. "Oh, uh. I-um-I might have something you could wear."
Your shoulders tensed at the suggestion--the mere idea of wearing his clothes made your fucking knees weak, which was mortifying enough in the best of conditions, and this was most definitely not the best of conditions.
"I have an oversized t-shirt and some, uh, clean underwear I was gonna throw on. If that's okay with you?"
"Uh, yeah-yeah, sure. That's fine."
"Great. So I'm just gonna go, uh, take a shower." You grabbed your necessities and practically ran into the bathroom.
Bucky let out a quiet curse under his breath as the bathroom door slammed shut. He felt like a bumbling idiot and was truly embarrassed for making you uncomfortable. "You just had to go and offer her your clothes, you idiot," he mumbled to himself.
In truth, it was a harmless suggestion, but it had certain connotations--ones he didn't want to make. You were his teammate after all, his friend...he couldn't allow himself to imagine anything more than that.
Meanwhile, you were nearly banging your head against the shower wall as the hot spray hit your skin. You couldn't believe you were in this position, and you silently cursed Natasha for putting you here. It wasn't her fault she'd gotten sick, nor was it her fault you were an unprepared packer, but you blamed her nonetheless.
It was no big deal to wear a baggy shirt and some underwear to bed when you shared a room with Nat or Wanda. It was another thing entirely to wear that whilst sharing a room with Bucky--and of course you'd managed to unintentionally take it one step further by sleeping in the same bed.
It wasn't your fault he was so goddamn attractive. He was undeniably hot--and all that moody brooding only made him hotter. Unfortunately for you, he was also a total softy underneath all that grumpy exterior. He'd managed to weasel his way into your heart a couple months into working together. Part of you hated him for it, but it wasn't his fault--and frankly, it wasn't yours either. You can't help who you love.
You could, however, control yourself. You opted to keep your attraction to Bucky entirely secret. You didn't even tell Nat. She was your best friend, but you didn't want to burden her with another secret she'd be forced to take to her grave. It wasn't fair to her. So instead, you suffered in silence. Forced to pair up with Bucky with increasing regularity.
Steve had noticed how well the two of you got along, and how well you worked together. So of course, he sent the two of you on missions together all the time, or paired you up on larger team missions. You loved spending time with Bucky, but you'd be lying if you said it didn't hurt just a little bit.
Being near him all the time, but not being able to have him was slowly killing you. You couldn't even get away from him in your dreams--that son of a bitch kept showing up there too. The frequency of wet dreams involving Bucky was so truly embarrassing, you could never admit it to anyone.
You shook off thoughts of Bucky as you finished your shower. When you stepped out of the bathroom, you felt incredibly self-conscious. You tugged on the edge of your shirt, trying to pull it even farther down your thighs. As long as you stayed facing Bucky, he wouldn't see your underwear.
Bucky had been leaning back in the crappy desk chair, feet up on the desk, reading a book. When he saw you come out, his breath caught in his chest. He kicked his feet back to the floor and closed his book without marking his spot.
"You're done?" he said quickly, jumping to his feet.
"Yeah. Your turn." You tried to sound light and cheery, but your voice sounded strained even to you.
"Cool--I'll uh, I'll take mine now." Bucky threw the book on the desk and went into the bathroom without another word.
You crawled into the bed, grateful to have the opportunity to get comfortable without Bucky being in the room. Gods forbid you accidentally mooned the poor man or something.
Bucky made quick work of his shower, but when he finished up, he realized he'd rushed into the bathroom without any clean clothes. He sighed in annoyance and tied the towel around his waist. Fuck.
He opened the bathroom door and stepped out, revealing his still damp torso--each line and curve of his perfectly sculpted body on full display for you to see.
Your jaw dropped slightly as you took him in--too shocked to be embarrassed by your blatant staring.
"I, uh, forgot my clothes," he muttered.
"Oh!" you exclaimed, quickly looking away, cheeks reddening as you realized just how intensely you'd been staring.
You dropped your head in your hands and groaned after he shut the bathroom door again. You wanted to scream in humiliation, but you managed to keep your cool--somewhat.
Bucky came back out of the bathroom a few moments later wearing a stupidly tight black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He normally slept in just his underwear, but he figured that would be unwelcome in the current circumstance.
You were already lying down, back facing his side of the bed. He sat on the edge, feeling slightly awkward. "Ready for bed already, doll?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah, I'm tired. Long drive tomorrow and all that. So we should get some sleep."
He noted you sounded a little unlike yourself, but he figured it had to do with the sleeping arrangements, so he didn't press you. "Okay. Goodnight, (Y/N)."
"Goodnight, Bucky."
He turned off the bedside light and the room was plunged into darkness--except for the glow of the alarm clock on the bedside table and a slight glow of light around the curtains.
You pressed your eyes tightly closed, desperate to just fall asleep and get this night over with. Fortunately, you actually were tired, so sleep claimed you quickly.
The same could not be said for Bucky. He was a light sleeper anyway, but every single slight movement you made or change in your breathing had him opening his eyes to check on you. He couldn't quite explain why, but it was a habit he'd formed years ago and he'd never managed to break it.
You seemed to be resting peacefully after the first hour, so Bucky finally drifted off. It was only a short while later he was awoken by a sharp intake of breath coming from your side of the bed.
He rolled over to face you, and was surprised to see you lying on your back. Your chest was rising and falling rapidly, the sheets gripped tightly in one hand, a light sheen of sweat on your forehead. You were shifting ever so slightly, as if you were desperately seeking a comfortable position, but it was very clear to him that you were asleep.
He quickly surmised you were dreaming--likely a nightmare by the looks of it. He debated whether or not he should wake you up, but all coherent thoughts left his brain the moment he heard you whimper his name in a breathy voice.
At first, he thought he'd imagined it, but when you arched your back and gasped out his name a second time, he knew he wasn't hearing things.
He quickly tried to rationalize it to himself--thinking perhaps you'd been calling out for help in your dream. But the way you arched your back made him think it was an entirely different sort of dream.
He shook his head quickly, desperate to get rid of such dirty thoughts. It was rude to think of you like that when you were lying beside him asleep.
He closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep, but you'd begun to move a little more aggressively, taking up even more space on the small bed.
He inhaled deeply, preparing to exhale a rather dramatic sigh, but the sound died in his throat. That inhale brought along the scent of your arousal--and he could no longer pretend your dream was anything but a sex dream. A sex dream about him.
He groaned softly. There was no way you were having a sex dream about him. Sure, you were obviously in the throes of a very intense dream, but just because you'd said his name didn't mean it was about him.
"Please, Bucky," you whined. "I need it."
"Fuck," he grumbled under his breath. He felt his cock harden with annoying speed--no longer able to keep his own arousal at bay.
He wanted to wake you up even more desperately now, but he wasn't sure if it would be welcomed. What if you were only having this dream because of his proximity, not because you actually wanted him? He'd die of mortification.
His cock throbbed painfully now and the smell of your arousal only seemed to increase. He'd spent years pretending he didn't want you, but all of that self-control, all of that resolve, was crumbling quickly as he laid beside you.
"Fuck it," he muttered. He sat up and reached out a hand to gently press against your shoulder. "Doll?"
Your breathing remained erratic, and he could tell by the expression on your face that you were still asleep.
"Doll?" he tried again. "Wake up."
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you heard his voice calling out to you, rousing you from your very enjoyable dream. The moment enough of your brain reached consciousness, you inhaled sharply, body freezing, and eyes squeezing even more tightly shut.
"Sweetheart?" he prodded softly. "Are you awake?"
You knew there was no use pretending, so you opened your eyes. "Yeah, I'm awake."
Bucky could hear the embarrassment in your voice and he wanted to reassure you that everything was okay. "You were...dreaming."
"Oh?" you feigned innocence.
"Yeah. You sounded...like you needed something."
"Oh, I--I don't recall."
"You sure about that, doll?" Bucky asked quietly.
The tone of his voice prompted you to look at him properly. He was staring down at you with an unmistakable desire in his normally bright blue eyes--their brilliant color almost completely drowned out by his pupils.
You began to breathe a little more heavily as you stared at him, but you didn't say a word.
"Would you like me to remind you?" he asked darkly.
You nodded slowly, lips parting slightly, eyes never leaving his.
"Well you were breathing rather hard," he began, "and you were gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white. Then there were the sounds--sweet, needy little sounds slipping past those plush lips."
You inhaled sharply, eyes widening in surprise.
Bucky leaned down so his face was mere inches from yours. "But you know what really interested me?"
You shook your head.
"It was the soft little moans of my name--those got my attention."
You exhaled heavily. "Bucky--"
"Yeah, just like that, only a little more breathy--maybe with a bit more need too."
You gasped as his flesh hand landed on your hip and began a slow ascent under your shirt.
"Tell me to stop if you don't want this, sweetheart," he murmured gently.
You shook your head rapidly. The last thing you wanted was for him to stop.
"Tsk. Words, sweet girl. Need to hear you say it."
"Don't stop, Bucky," you begged.
He grinned wolfishly. "That'a girl."
His hand continued to move towards your breasts as his mouth lowered to yours. Your lips met in a shockingly passionate kiss that sucked every drop of air from your lungs. You practically melted into the kiss, the feeling of his lips on yours an indescribable feeling.
You'd never been kissed quite like this. Bucky kissed you like his very life depended on it, as if you were the air he needed to breathe. His tongue sought entry against your lips, which you parted without a second thought. Metal fingers gingerly caressed your cheek as he deepened the kiss, flesh ones grazing the underside of your breast.
"Fuck," he groaned into your mouth. "No bra?"
You smirked slightly, fingers tangling into his hair to pull him back down to you. "I prefer comfort to sleep."
"Never wear one again," he implored, lips reattaching to yours.
His hand was warm and calloused as it slowly massaged your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, pebbling it further. Soft sighs of pleasure escaped your lips, each one caught by his kisses.
"Can I take this off?" he asked quietly, nodding down to your shirt.
You sat up slightly in answer, allowing him to tug the shirt up and over your head. You heard the sharp intake of breath as you laid back against the pillows. Bucky's eyes were scanning every inch of skin he could now see, his own erratic breathing betraying just how badly he wanted you.
"So fucking beautiful," he murmured, leaning down to press his lips to the soft skin of your neck.
He trailed kisses down to your exposed chest, taking a nipple into his warm mouth. You let out a little gasp at the sensation--the sound like music to his ears. His tongue swirled around the nipple, hand massaging the opposite breast.
Your nails scratched against his scalp, slipping down to the base of his neck. When your fingers brushed against the collar of his t-shirt, you whined lowly, causing Bucky to pause in his ministrations.
"Something wrong, doll?"
"Wanna touch you," you complained.
He chuckled softly. "You are touching me."
You shot him a glare that said he should know what you meant (which he most certainly did).
He laughed a little more heartily as he gripped the collar of his shirt and tugged it over his head in one quick movement. He tossed the cursed thing somewhere across the room and attempted to return to his previous activities.
Your palm pressed firmly against his chest paused his actions. At first, he was unsure of himself--maybe you didn't like what you saw? One look at your lust-filled gaze was enough to dispel him of such notions.
It's not like you hadn't seen his chest a couple hours prior when he got out of the shower, but this time you were able to properly observe him without any reservations. Every inch of his torso was sculpted muscle, a shocking display of Adonis perfection. It was downright disrespectful to look this good.
When you said as much, Bucky barked out a short laugh. "You wanna talk about disrespectful? Every single time I see you, I wanna rip your clothes off and ravish you. You're the one looking too good to be respectful."
You blushed deeply, unaware of his pre-existing desires. "How come you never said anything?"
"Didn't wanna risk you not feeling the same," he said honestly. "I'd rather pretend I didn't want more than risk losing you as a friend."
A breathy sigh escaped you. "I know the feeling."
"We can still stop, sweetheart. If you're not comfortable."
Your eyes widened and you shook your head vigorously. "Don't you dare, James Buchanan Barnes."
The groan that ripped from deep in his chest both surprised you and shot a wave of desire straight to your core. What you wouldn't give to hear that sound on repeat.
Bucky's lips slammed against yours with much less finesse this time. This kiss was messy and hurried, like he couldn't get enough and was short on time.
His hands gripped your hips, shifting you to properly lay beneath him. His body was massive, easily covering yours as he caged you in.
You couldn't reach his sweatpants from where you laid, so you pressed the heels of your feet into his back in an attempt to push them down. You wanted to feel every solid inch of him against you.
Thankfully, Bucky quickly picked up on your actions and sat back to remove them himself. He tugged his boxer briefs off with them, throwing both onto the floor before coming back to hover over you.
He caught sight of your wide eyes, a tinge of worry in your gaze.
If you were honest, he was the biggest you'd ever had--probably ever even seen. Long, thick, perfectly curved. Gods help you, but your mouth watered at the sight.
"Doll?"
You could hear the light hesitation in his voice and you wanted to reassure him in the only way you knew how. You hooked your leg around him and flipped him onto his back with surprising ease.
He stared up at you in shock from his new position. "Sweetheart, what are you--oh fuck."
You wasted no time wrapping your hand around his cock, tongue swirling gently around the large head. Bucky's head tipped back on instinct, a moan of pure need escaping his parted lips.
Your eyes flicked up to his face as you took him properly into your mouth, easing him farther in, relaxing your throat so you could take all of him. His head snapped up as your nose brushed against the base, eyes meeting yours for the first time.
"Jesus fucking Christ, baby--" he groaned, fingers wrapping around your hair, pulling it away from your face so he could see you properly.
As you began to move, Bucky's tongue seemed to loosen, words of praise slipping past his lips in between moans and broken gasps of your name.
"Never felt so good, doll."
"Taking me so well--fucking perfect for me."
"That's it, sweet girl. Just like that."
"Fuck--yes. Gonna come for you, baby. Feels so good."
You moaned around his cock, desperately wanting to taste him--feel his cum slide down your throat.
His hips bucked up against your mouth, the sensations of your moan vibrating around him almost too much to handle. His grip on your hair tightened to an almost painful level, but you couldn't be bothered to care.
"Baby--so close. Gonna--oh fuck." He groaned out your name as he spilled into your waiting mouth.
You swallowed every single drop, not willing to let any of it go to waste. You worked through his orgasm, tongue lapping gently against his slit to ensure you'd cleaned up every last bit. He shook beneath you, almost violently, with aftershocks, and the tug on your hair told you he couldn't take any more.
You released his cock with a sad little pout, which earned you a choked laugh from him. "C'mere."
You allowed him to pull you up to press your lips against his, tongues immediately fighting for dominance as the kiss deepened. Bucky could taste his release in your mouth, a surprising turn-on for him. He had a momentary thought about what your combined release would taste like--a thought he tucked away for later.
"Let me taste you," he begged.
You liked the sound of his pleading voice--it sent shivers of pleasure down your spine. "Where do you want me?"
"Sit on my face."
You'd always been hesitant to try it with your previous partners, always worried you'd suffocate them, but that wasn't a concern with Bucky. He could lift you with one arm, that super soldier strength something none of your other partners had.
You slipped off your underwear, pulled yourself up, and settled with your thighs around his head, pussy hovering over his waiting mouth. He breathed a heavy sigh against your core, the warmth of his breath sending chills across your sensitive skin.
You felt his arms wrap tightly around your thighs, pulling you down to sit flush on his face. A groan of pure pleasure slipped from his lips as he finally got a taste of you. The sound seemed to reverberate through your core, eliciting a moan of your own.
You grabbed ahold of the headboard as Bucky began to eat you out in earnest. His lips and tongue were everywhere--every single spot that made you see stars.
Bucky's thoughts oscillated between how good you tasted and how beautiful those little sounds of yours were. He'd set the world on fire just to keep hearing them. And your taste? Gods above--he knew he'd never get enough of that sweetness.
He catalogued all the sounds you made, making note of which actions seemed to evoke the most intense reactions from you. He didn't just want to fuck you--no, he wanted to ruin you. No other man would ever compare. He'd make sure of that.
If the state of this particular motel indicated anything, it was that the walls were most certainly thin as paper. You hoped no one was in the room next door to yours, because there was sure to be a noise complaint if there was.
You had never, ever, been eaten out like this before. Every swipe of his tongue, suck of his lips, nudge of his nose, had you gasping for air as you drowned in an ocean of pleasure. You weren't sure if Bucky'd had a lot of practice or if he was a natural-born talent, but gods did it feel incredible.
Your dripping hole clenched around nothing as Bucky sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue dancing against it perfectly. Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train, a cry of pleasure ripped from your throat at the impact.
Bucky held on like he was riding a bucking bronco. He wasn't ready to stop just yet--your taste akin to water in the desert. Even as you started to fight against his hold, whimpers leaving your lips as you pled with him to ease off, he continued to flick his tongue against your pulsing clit.
Had you actually wanted to stop, Bucky would have immediately done so, but those cries quickly turned into moans mixed with pleas to continue, as your second orgasm barreled towards you with surprising speed.
When you fell over the edge for the second time, Bucky once again helped you through it, but when you fought against his hold this time, he released you with a sigh.
You collapsed on the bed beside him, desperately trying to catch your breath. Your legs shook with aftershocks, and every inch of your skin felt like a live wire.
Bucky rolled on top of you, lips tracing invisible patterns against your neck, shoulders, and collarbone. His gentle voice whispered sweet words of praise into your skin as you came down from what could only be described as nirvana.
"So beautiful," he murmured. "So perfect."
"You're doing so good for me, sweetheart."
"I love your body. Made for me, wasn't it?"
"Coulda spent all night between those pretty thighs."
"Love those little sounds you make. Wanna hear them forever."
Once you'd caught your breath, Bucky looked up at your blissed out face. "You with me, sweetheart?"
You nodded. "I think so."
He chuckled warmly. "Wanna stop?"
"Gods, please no. Need you, Bucky. Need you so bad."
"Yeah? Tell me what you need, doll."
"Need you inside of me, Buck. Please."
You felt Bucky's cock brush against your folds as he shifted his weight, the sensation causing your back to arch with a breathy moan.
Bucky let out a low curse as he reached between your bodies to fist his cock. He lined it up with your entrance and pressed forward just enough for the tip to slide in.
Despite your wetness, Bucky's size was extreme, and the stretch was overwhelming. Your nails dug into his biceps (at least on the right side), and your mouth dropped open.
"Easy, baby. Gotta relax for me," Bucky whispered as he eased in another inch.
"So big," you whimpered.
"I know." Another inch. "That's why you gotta relax. Don't wanna hurt you." Another inch.
You lifted your head enough to see between your thighs. Bucky was only halfway in and you already felt stretched to the max. "There's no way you're gonna fit."
Bucky chuckled darkly. "Oh, baby, I'll make it fit. Don't you worry."
True to his word, he pressed in further, sheathing another couple inches in your warm, wet heat. Tears pricked at the edges of your eyes and you desperately tried to relax your body. The stretch was painful, but the pain was already easing into pleasure.
"Just a little more, sweetheart. Think you can handle it?"
Your grip on his arms tightened, but you nodded.
"Such a good girl for me," he murmured, bottoming out with a low groan.
You gasped his name, head falling back against the pillows. Bucky's forehead dropped to yours, breath mingling together as you slowly became accustomed to the stretch.
Bucky already knew he wasn't going to last long--not with the way your pussy squeezed him like it never wanted to let go. "You feel like heaven, doll. Never wanna leave."
"Need more, Buck--please."
"As you wish, sweetheart." He slowly pulled out so only the tip remained before plunging back in to the base.
You cried out, but you continued begging him for more, which he was happy to give you.
His pace started out slow and deep, the sounds of your love-making filling the small room. His thrusts soon picked up speed, the force of which would have sent you flying into the headboard if not for his grip on your hips.
Each punishing thrust slammed into your deepest spot of pleasure, sending wave after wave of unimaginable pleasure through your body.
While your vocabulary had been reduced to whimpers, moans, and his name, Bucky's didn't seem to be impacted.
"This pussy was fucking made for me, doll."
"So fucking tight."
"So deep," he groaned as he pressed his hand against your abdomen, feeling his cock beneath the skin.
"Could spend all night inside you."
"Gonna ruin you, pretty girl. You'll never want anyone else."
"You take me so well--gonna fill up this sweet little pussy."
You let out a particularly obscene moan and your core tightened around him possessively.
"You like that, baby? Want me to come inside you?"
"Please!"
Bucky couldn't get enough of the way you writhed beneath him, body contorting in pleasure--pleasure only he could give you. "You gotta come for me first, sweet girl. Gotta feel you soak my cock."
You reached blindly for his arm, and when your fingers collided with metal, you gripped hard and tugged him towards your throat. Bucky was hesitant at first--he didn't want to hurt you--but you placed his hand around your neck and gave it a little squeeze.
"Please, Buck," you begged.
He gave your throat a tentative squeeze, not enough to hurt, but enough for you to know he was there. Your hips bucked wildly off the bed and he realized just how much you liked it.
"Dirty little thing. Need me to choke you to get off?"
You nodded frantically.
Bucky's dark chuckle seemed to reverberate through your body. His fingers tightened on your throat once more and you gasped in pleasure. You were so close--you just needed a little bit more.
"You gonna come for me, sweet girl? Can feel you squeezin' me so tight."
His fingers remained wrapped around your neck. The cool metal a delicious juxtaposition against your heated skin.
"Wanna watch you fall apart, baby. Wanna hear you scream my name."
Bucky slipped his right hand under you, lifting your hips just slightly. The change in angles allowed his cock to repeatedly bully your most sensitive spot, sending you flying to the finish line.
You did, in fact, scream his name as you came, pussy spasming around him. Bucky groaned low and needy, thrusts beginning to falter as he chased his own high. He spilled into you moments later, ropes of hot cum filling your pussy and dripping out around his cock.
Being a super soldier meant he was more than able to keep fucking you, but he knew you were likely too sensitive for that. Besides, he had a better idea--one that might get you both off one last time.
You were still coming down from your high when Bucky pulled out of you. The emptiness was unpleasant and you let out a whimper of despair.
"Aww don't worry, baby," Bucky cooed. "I'm right here."
You felt him spread your legs apart as wide as he could, eyes fixed on his cum dripping from your abused hole. Your brain was fogged with all the pleasure you'd received and you were having a heard time focusing on what was happening, but your attention was immediately centered when you felt Bucky lick a thick stripe up your pussy.
You gasped at the sensation, hips jerking against his firm palms. He held you in place as he settled in, feasting on your shared releases. The sounds he made were the most sinful things you'd ever heard, and your own sounds of enjoyment soon joined in.
"Never tasted anything so good, baby," he groaned.
You gasped loudly as his tongue delved into your weeping hole. You'd never had a man eat you out after sex--it was undeniably hot.
"Fuck...gonna clean you up real good. Don't wanna waste a drop."
"Bucky," you whimpered.
"I've got you, sweet girl. Just gotta finish my meal."
You could feel another orgasm stirring in your gut--a feeling that shocked you straight to the core. You'd never had four orgasms in one night before, but something about this just made you so fucking desperate for him.
Bucky moaned happily as he continued to eat you out, but those moans began to turn a little deeper. You lifted your head to look down at him, and you were shocked by how fucking sexy the image was.
Bucky's head was between your thighs, eyes closed, mouth feasting on you, but it was his hips that surprised you. He was humping against the mattress with a speed that told you he was close to coming. He was moaning into your core, the sounds becoming louder and faster.
Your head fell back as your orgasm washed over you, a new wave of your release dripping onto Bucky's waiting tongue. You let out a cry of his name as he worked you through it.
You lifted your head back up to watch as Bucky's frantic gyrations culminated in a desperate groan against your core as he came. There was something so incredibly hot about him getting off solely from eating your shared releases. If your body had been able to, you'd have come again at the sight.
Instead, you collapsed against the bed, completely and utterly satiated and exhausted. Bucky lifted himself slowly and crawled up the bed, pressing kisses to your skin as he went.
"Hey beautiful," he murmured when he reached your face.
You smiled at him and pulled him in for a sweet kiss.
"That was incredible," he whispered.
"You were incredible."
He smiled. "So were you."
"I can't begin to tell you how fucking hot all of that was."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Especially at the end there..."
He blushed slightly. "You didn't think it was weird?"
"Baby, I came so hard I nearly blacked out," you assured him. "I definitely didn't find it weird."
He seemed to relax, the soft smile returning to his face. "Personally, I've never had sex that good--every second was incredible."
You smiled wider and brushed your lips against his. "I agree."
He kissed you softly. "We should get cleaned up and get some sleep."
"Mhmm," you hummed. "Or we could just shower in the morning--you already cleaned me up, after all." Your voice held a sleepy tone that told him you were already starting to drift.
He smiled and rolled his eyes playfully. "Alright, we'll shower in the morning."
He wrapped his arms around you as he rolled onto his back, tugging you along with him. You laid your head on his chest and curled into his side, a soft sigh flittering from your lips.
"Goodnight, Bucky."
"'Night, doll."
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and closed his eyes. You were asleep within seconds, your breathing evening out and relaxing his own. He knew it was too soon--hell, you hadn't even discussed what this was or if it was a one-time thing--but he'd loved you for so long he couldn't help it when the words slipped out into the darkness.
Somewhere in dreamland, you heard Bucky's voice whisper three little words that warmed your soul. You weren't sure if it was only in your imagination, but you responded in kind. "I love you too, Bucky." You could find out in the morning if you'd said those words aloud.
pairing: dark trucker!ari levinson x female reader
summary: you wake up alone for the first time since meeting your trucker, and it leads to an unexpected revelation about your relationship.
warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), brief dubcon, smut, piv sex, brief painful sex, unprotected sex, creampie, anal sex (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), sex toy, double penetration with a sex toy, rough sex, sadism/masochism, choking, breathplay, dacryphilia, painplay, face slapping, spitting/spit swallowing, finger sucking, biting, rough body play, rough breast/nipple play, brief food play, multiple orgasms, cock warming, pillow humping, scent kink, dirty talk, daddy kink, heavy degradation, some praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby, kiddo), possessive sex, possessive behavior, aftercare, controlling behavior, referenced abduction, referenced sex as payment, stockholm syndrome, a mean hot man—please please please let me know if i forgot to tag something!!!
word count: 14.2k
a/n: its been so long since i started writing this installment that i don't remember where the idea came from, but i think i wanted at least one more chapter about Ari and reader's relationship before the big finale where he takes her to see his friends. truthfully, i just don't want to finish this series because i love them so much, but i do think they needed to take this step before the ending. and i SWEAR the next update will be the finale (and the one where reader gets used by Lloyd and Curtis 🤭). anyway, i hope you enjoy this filth—with some surprisingly emotional relationship development!!
trucker king masterlist
Warm, dappled, late morning sunlight fell across your bare legs, which were twisted in well-worn sheets that felt like butter against your body. A deep, satisfied ache throbbed in your core while the rest of your limbs were loose and relaxed.
It was the perfect way to wake up, in your opinion, drifting lazily into the real world from the depths of sleep with a smile on your face, and a bone-deep knowledge that you were right where you belonged.
But, somewhere between sleeping and waking, you realized something: Something wasn’t right in your near-perfect world. Something was…missing.
Heaving a disgruntled little sigh, your hands went searching through the soft, tangled sheets and mussed blankets of the oversized bed, looking for the familiar warmth and weight of your trucker. But your seeking fingers came up empty, and the corners of your mouth tipped down into an unhappy frown when you realized what that meant.
Ari Levinson wasn’t where he was supposed to be—he wasn’t in bed with you.
You huffed a frustrated sound as you rolled onto Ari’s side of the bed, burying your face in one of his pillows and inhaled the musky, masculine scent that was all him. Your hands were still searching in vain for your trucker, because you had to be sure he wasn’t there, but refused to open your eyes just yet.
Another discontented noise slipped from your lips, muffled by the pillow, as you reached for him only to find nothing but cold sheets and empty air. The bed you shared with Ari at his cozy bungalow by the sea was large, especially compared to the bunk in his truck, but you knew before you raised your head and cracked an eye open that he wasn’t there.
For a moment, you were overwhelmed with yearning to be back in the cab of his truck, where there wasn’t as much space and Ari was always within reach. You’d taken it for granted that your trucker was always so afraid of you leaving that he never left you alone for long.
If there was one major difference about being in Ari’s home after he’d completed the long-haul route where he’d found you, it was the sheer amount of space the bungalow afforded. Even glancing around the modest-sized bedroom, which the two of you kept relatively neat despite all the clothes and things you’d begun to acquire since Ari brought you home, it seemed like more space than either of you really needed.
Closing your eyes again, sleep still tugging at the edges of your consciousness, you strained your ears for any sign of your trucker moving around in the bathroom attached to the bedroom, or the living room or kitchen beyond. But there was only silence, nothing to indicate where Ari was.
All of a sudden, a terrifying thought occurred to you: Was Ari…gone? Had he left you?
An inexplicable fear clenched in your stomach as you turned over, rolling toward the windows that overlooked the small backyard attached to Ari’s house. His pickup truck—the one he drove when he wasn’t steering a big rig around the country—wasn’t in the driveway or the detached garage.
The lazy weight of sleep cleared from your mind and body, quickly being replaced by panic and anxiety. Instinctively, your fingers lifted to your neck, and you breathed a sigh of relief when you felt one of your collars still circling your neck.
The chain was thin and delicate against your skin, but deceptively strong, unable to be broken without serious strength or tools. The heart-shaped pendant engraved with ‘Baby’ on the front, and ‘Property of Ari Levinson’ on the back, still rested in the hollow of your throat.
The collar looked like a normal necklace, but it had a locking mechanism that only Ari could unfasten. No one else could take it off—including you—and it was still on, which you took as a good sign.
Surely, if Ari had decided to leave you, he would’ve unlocked your collar first. Right?
Despite the reassurance you felt from the collar around your neck, a sense of unease still settled low in your stomach, making it churn. Something was off.
Ari very rarely left you alone, and when he did, he always chained you up first. In fact, the only time he’d gone out without you was when he’d taken the cab of his rig to be inspected by the company he worked for.
Before he’d left, Ari had looped your thick black leather collar around your throat and attached it to a chain tied to his bed, with enough slack for you to go to the bathroom if you needed. He’d left you with food and water and made the trek to the company’s inspection location on his own, since bringing you would’ve raised too many questions.
It was the longest the two of you had been apart since he’d picked you up off the side of the road—and you’d missed your trucker while he’d been gone. You’d happily accepted the collar and the chain and waited for him to return, because you’d known he would.
You knew how it would sound to someone else if you ever told anyone—you knew it was more than a little messed up, the lengths to which Ari went to make sure you stayed with him. But you’d asked for the collar, you’d consented to being locked up and chained to his bed while he was gone.
After a lifetime spent begging people to love you—even people like your parents, who were supposed to love you unconditionally—and clinging on to men who barely tolerated your existence until they finally got sick of you and dumped you from their lives (literally, in the case of your most recent ex), being with Ari was exactly what you needed.
It was what you wanted—a man who didn’t notice how needy or clingy you were because he was too busy clinging to you. He needed you just as much as you needed him, and he was so afraid of you leaving him that you never had to worry about him leaving you.
Even after all your time together, Ari was still worried you’d run. He was trying to get better about trusting you, and believing you actually wanted to stay with him, but it was taking time. Thankfully, you had plenty of patience, and a deep desire to prove you were nothing like the people who’d left you—or the ones who’d left him.
As far as you could tell, it had been going well. Since he’d brought you home, Ari had been getting better about letting you out of his sight. Sometimes he’d leave you to read in bed while he watched TV in the living room, or let you shower on your own while he cooked in the kitchen.
But those were small steps. Leaving you home alone without a chain keeping you there… You had to wonder if Ari had forgotten to chain you up.
But it was hard to believe Ari would forget such a thing. He wasn’t the type of man who’d care about waking you up to put your leather collar on, and he was possessive enough that it bordered on obsession. You couldn’t wrap your mind around the thought of your trucker forgetting to chain you up before leaving you on your own.
There was only one other explanation you could think of: It must’ve been a test. And if it was a test, it meant you could ace it—and you could show Ari that he could trust you enough to be there when he got back.
Still, you were curious about how much freedom he’d given you. You didn’t think your trucker would actually let you leave, and you were half-convinced he was hiding just outside the front door or around the corner in his truck, waiting for you to run.
You decided to poke around and find the limits of the false freedom Ari had given you.
Throwing on one of Ari’s flannel shirts, you padded through the bedroom door into the open plan living room and kitchen at the front of the house. Biting back a smile, you darted to the front door and quietly undid the bolt, then grabbed the handle.
Yanking the door open, you half expected Ari to be on the other side, waiting to pounce and haul you back inside. But when you whipped it open, prepared to surprise him and jump into your trucker’s thick arms, there was no one. Just the front porch of the bungalow, with its swinging bench and the many plants you’d accumulated since Ari brought you home.
A fissure of disappointment wormed through your gut, and your heart panged with longing—not for the world outside the bungalow, but for your trucker. It had been a long while since you’d woken up alone, since before he’d picked you up off the side of the road and didn’t let you go, and you decided, right then, you didn’t care for it.
Tentatively, still sure Ari was lying in wait for you, you stepped outside into the warm, spring sunlight. The chill of morning was still clinging to the smooth wooden boards beneath your bare feet, but the sun and the sultry breeze off the sea were ensuring it would be a beautiful day.
You took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of salt wafting in from the ocean, and let a smile settle on your lips. You really loved the place Ari called home, and you were glad you got to be there with him—that he’d let you make it your home as well.
Stooping down, you checked on some of your plants, still thinking Ari was probably watching you and waiting for you to run. But when he didn’t show, you shrugged to yourself. With one last look around the neighborhood, which had long since woken and settled into their day, you headed back inside.
You locked the front door behind you and skipped back to the bedroom, more than happy to wait for your trucker to return from the comfort of his bed. There was still a fissure of unease in your gut, telling you something was off, but you chalked it up to the unfamiliarity of waking up without Ari.
Shedding the flannel shirt you’d donned to go outside, you dove back into bed naked, the soft sheets tangling around your bare body. Your face found Ari’s pillow instinctively, and you breathed in deeply, inhaling the delicious, familiar scent of his musk. The thick smell went straight to your head, making your thoughts a little fuzzy while desire bloomed in your core.
Ari was, generally, cleaner while you’d been at his house and he could avail himself of his private bathroom, as opposed to when you were on the road and he didn’t get a chance to shower as often. But frankly, you missed the pungent, spicy scent of his sweat, the way his smell permeated every inch of the truck cab, surrounding you and seeping into your skin until you smelled like him, too.
You took another deep whiff of his pillow, where his scent was embedded deep into the fabric. A heavenly warmth flooded your body, settling between your bare thighs, wetness gathering at your slit. All from the mere scent of your trucker. It was pathetic, how turned on you were from Ari’s smell, but you couldn’t help it—and you needed more.
You whimpered into his pillow, your lips parting and drool beginning to drip from the corner of your mouth as you inhaled his smell again and again. Need rolled through you like a freight train, your body reacting instinctively to Ari’s scent and preparing yourself for his cock in your cunt.
But he was gone, and you didn’t know when he was coming back. You didn’t know how long his test would last, how long he’d give you to run away only for him to catch you. But you were determined to be ready and waiting for your reward when he inevitably returned and found you still in his bed.
Your pitiful whimpers devolved into needy whines the more you huffed Ari’s scent. It wasn’t long before your hips were rocking in a humping motion, though there was only air and the thin bedsheets for you thrust against. Neither were the thick cock of your trucker, and it made your mind even fuzzier with a desperate yearning for him.
Needing more friction, you rolled onto your front and dug your knees into the mattress. You shoved a pillow between your thighs that also smelled like Ari, and pressed your dripping slit down on the seam. You didn’t care if you made a mess of the pillow, it was the closest you could get to what you really needed.
You squeezed the pillow between your thighs and humped helplessly against it, grinding your greedy pussy on its softness so that every thrust of your hips rubbed your clit against the seam along the side. All the while, you kept your face shoved into Ari’s other pillow, inhaling his scent like you were getting high off it.
The delicious friction of humping Ari’s pillow was enough to keep you turned on, but the plush softness was too yielding for you to get off. So all you could do was chase your pleasure even as it remained constantly out of reach. You were writhing like a mindless thing while you waited for your trucker to return.
That was how Ari found you—with your ass in the air, hips humping his pillow, your face planted his other pillow while you moaned and drooled over the scent of his musk.
You didn’t notice your trucker at first, and you didn’t know how long he stood at the edge of the bed watching you, but when he spoke, his rumbling, familiar voice brought you out of the delicious daze you’d fallen into.
“Well, what do we have here?” Ari asked, a predatory grin in his deep voice.
You turned your head toward the sound of him, finding your trucker towering over your naked body, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a bulge already standing proudly in the front of his pants. He looked like a king—a god—and you were more than happy to be on your knees in front of him.
“I couldn’t leave you for an hour without you humping my pillow like a bitch in heat, huh, cock whore?” Ari teased, a cruel kind of mischief glinting sharply in his blue eyes.
That look sent a shiver of need racing down your spine, but you barely had a chance to let out a pitiful whine before Ari’s hand was wrapping around the front of your throat, just below your chin, and he was lifting your head from his pillow.
He manhandled your body into the position he wanted, sitting you up on your haunches, wringing a moan from your throat when the seam of the pillow rubbed against your sensitive clit. You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, noticing the moment his gaze fell to your neck.
Something like panic flashed in Ari’s eyes before they filled with rage, his gaze narrowing on the hollow of your throat.
“Baby, where’s your leather collar?” he asked in a growl, his voice lower and more dangerous than you’d ever heard it. “Where’s your chain?”
It was taking every single one of your braincells to resist the urge to paw at his cock through his jeans and beg him to fuck you, so all you could do was blink innocently up at your trucker, your lust-filled mind unable to understand why he was asking those questions. Surely, he knew where your collar and chain were.
“What d’you mean, daddy?” you asked. “I woke up like this.”
Emotions flitted across Ari’s face, almost too fast for you to understand them, but you recognized suspicion and anger. Then there was something that looked a lot like a tentative kind of hope—before it bled back into fury.
“You woke up like this,” Ari echoed, each word bitten off like he was using his teeth to tear through stone.
It was only then that his expression—stormier than you’d seen it in all your time with your trucker—and the tenor of his voice finally broke through the haze of desire that had still been filling your head.
You blinked rapidly, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Absentmindedly, your fingers brushed the pendant in the hollow of your throat, beneath where Ari’s hand still circled your neck.
“I thought…” you trailed off, coming to the realization that it hadn’t been intentional. Ari hadn’t been testing you. He’d genuinely forgotten to chain you up before he’d left.
But that didn’t make sense. He was terrified of you leaving him, of that you were absolutely sure. He’d never forget to make sure you couldn’t leave him. Unless…
Your breath caught in your throat and you hardly dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, Ari had begun to trust you. That somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he’d known he could leave you at home without chaining you up because he could trust you to still be there when he got back.
“It wasn’t a test?” you asked, your voice so full of hope it threatened to burst like a bubble in your face.
Ari’s jaw ticked with the force of him grinding his teeth, and he used the hand around your throat to tow you closer, his gaze unreadable as it roved over your face. His fingers dug into the sides of your neck, and for a moment, you saw something wild in Ari’s blue eyes, something that made excitement zip up your spine.
“Did you go outside, baby?” Ari rumbled, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice, a slight tremor in his words. “Be honest—be honest with me right now.”
It spoke to how unsteady your trucker must’ve been feeling that he needed to urge you to be honest. But he didn’t have to worry, you’d never even considered lying to him, especially not when you were so sure you were so close to earning a shred of his trust.
“Just to the porch,” you said, staring deep into Ari’s eyes. “Just to see if you were there.” You paused, remembering the disappointment you’d felt when he hadn’t been there, waiting for you. “I didn’t like waking up alone.”
Ari stared at you for a long, long moment. You held yourself perfectly still, your heart beating a quick, steady rhythm in your chest while you let him look his fill. You had nothing to hide from your trucker—he was your man, your king. Yours. And you were his.
And you were certain, down to your very bones, that he was right on the precipice of finally believing you weren’t going to leave him. You held that hope close to your heart and held your breath, imploring him silently to trust you.
“You didn’t run,” Ari forced out finally, his voice rough and gravelly as an unpaved road. “You coulda run, but you didn’t.” For the first time since he’d noticed your collar and the lack of a chain affixing you to the bed, Ari let his eyes wander down the rest of your body.
His gaze flared and heated as it roved over your naked form, lingering on the way your plush thighs were straddling one of his pillows. The corner of his mouth tipped up in a small smirk when he focused in on your pussy, pressed against the seam of the pillow, an obscene wet spot visible between your thighs.
“You didn’t leave—you got back into my bed and started humping my pillow,” Ari rumbled, a strange tenor in his tone, like he wasn’t sure if he believed the words he was speaking, even as he saw the truth of them right before his eyes. “Did you…miss me, baby?”
Ari’s gaze flicked back up to yours, and the smile he gave you was devastating. Not just because he was so handsome—it was, after all, the same smile that had lured into into his truck all those weeks ago—but because you knew him well enough to see the insecurity buried deep in the depths of his blue eyes. He didn’t believe you could miss him.
It occurred to you then that you’d never told Ari you missed him. Granted, he didn’t often give you an opportunity to miss him, but even after the trip he’d taken to get his rig inspected, you’d been too distracted by his return to tell him how you’d felt while he’d been gone.
You softened at his question, a sweet smile tugging at the edges of your lips. Your hands reached for him, not out of habit but because you wanted to touch him, your fingers curling in the cotton of his well-worn t-shirt. You pulled him even closer to the edge of the bed, his thighs pressing against the mattress.
It was all too easy and enjoyable to kiss your trucker, to press your lips against his and smile as his thick beard tickled your cheeks. Ari’s mouth was soft and yielding beneath yours, and you took the opportunity to flick your tongue teasingly against the seam of his lips, grinning when he rumbled a hungry growl deep in his chest.
“I like you, Ari,” you murmured against his mouth before pulling back and staring deep into his eyes, willing him to hear you—to believe you. “And yes, I missed you. I didn’t like waking up alone,” you repeated what you’d said earlier, your fingers tangling tighter in his shirt. “I didn’t like waking up without you.”
For the first time since you’d met him, Ari seemed at a loss for words. He was quiet, watching you while his mind worked, and you were close enough that you could see the emotions flitting across his gaze—anger and disbelief giving way to something tentative and fragile.
Ari’s hand flexed around your throat, fingers digging into the sides of your neck so deeply, you went a little lightheaded, swaying closer to your trucker’s broad body. He used your closeness to sweep a palm down your spine and grab your ass hard enough to make you yelp, your tits pressing against his firm chest as he hauled you closer.
Then his mouth descended on yours and he was claiming you with a kiss. There was a feral kind of possessiveness in the way Ari’s lips devoured yours, the way his teeth sank into the soft, plump flesh or your lower lip, and the way his tongue swept into your mouth, plunging deep like he was determined to lick your soul out from your throat.
Ari’s kiss was an assault on your senses, immediately overwhelming, and it was all you could do to let your body succumb to the sensations, giving your body to your trucker just as much as you’d already given him your heart.
He claimed and he claimed and he claimed your mouth until your head was dizzy from a lack of air, and even then, Ari didn’t stop until you were squirming desperately in his arms. Finally, he wrenched his lips from yours, leaving you both gasping for air, your trucker’s broad chest heaving in time with yours where you were crushed against his body.
“You missed getting woken up with my cock in your cunt, didn’t you, you filthy little slut?” Ari cooed meanly, pushing you back so he could grin at the kiss-drunk look on your face while he slapped your ass. “Show me how much you missed me, cock whore. Show me with that depraved little mouth of yours.”
His command was your only warning before Ari shoved you down to the bed, tipping your face up so it was level with his groin. Your nose nudged the bulge in his jeans, and you felt his cock twitch in response, making you smile and nuzzle deeper into his lap.
You weren’t surprised by the shift in your trucker’s mood, or by the fact that he was steering you both back to much more familiar territory rather than confronting the implications of what you’d said—or what he’d done by forgetting to chain you up before he’d gone out. Ari wasn’t the type of man to talk about his feelings, but that didn’t mean something wasn’t shifting between you two.
Ari was finally starting to trust you, to believe that you weren’t going to leave him. You were sure of it. You just had to be patient while he came to terms with it. And if that meant sucking his cock instead of talking more? Well, it wasn’t like you didn’t love having Ari’s cock down your throat.
You let the conversation go and pressed your face against Ari’s bulge, kissing and licking his hardness through his jeans, moaning when you inhaled the familiar scent of him straight from the source. Your fingers fumbled with the button and fly of his jeans, not bothering to pull your face away because you couldn’t bear to move.
Besides, you knew Ari would give you a hand when he was good and ready. So you focused most of your attention on worshipping his cock through his jeans, running your tongue along the thick length of him through the rough denim, mouthing and sucking on the tip until the fabric was drenched in your spit.
Eventually, Ari grew tired of you whining for his cock and fumbling with his fly, and he took over. He made quick work of undoing his jeans for you, shoving them down his thick thighs until his massive cock bounced free—right into your face.
The long, girthy length bumped your nose and you purred happily, kissing the base of his cock and flicking your tongue out to lap at his balls. Then you craned your neck up to look at your trucker, his cock laying across your cheek as a sultry smile spread across your face.
“I missed your cock sooo much, daddy,” you purred, giving Ari what he wanted—what he needed. You pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses along the line of his shaft while smiling up at your trucker. “Missed waking up to your fat cock splitting open my tight cunt, missed creaming all over your big dick first thing in the morning.”
You cut off your own gushing words by taking Ari’s flushed tip into your mouth and sucking him deep into your throat. The tension that had begun to bleed from his body while you spoke drained entirely as you bobbed your mouth on his cock. You gave him a sloppy blowjob, drool filling your mouth and leaking from the corners to make a mess of your chin.
Ari’s broad shoulders were relaxed and his big hands were holding your face while his head dropped back, a pleased groan tumbling from his lips as his hips shunted forward, forcing his cock deeper into your throat. You gagged, making wet gluk-gluk-gluk sounds as he fucked your throat, trying to loosen and let him deeper as your hips humped idly against the pillow still stuck between your thighs.
“Such a hungry little cock whore,” Ari rumbled, his voice rolling over you like the crashing waves of the near-distant ocean, sending pleasure down your spine and making you moan around his big cock. “Good slut, take daddy’s cock deep into that filthy mouth—lemme fuck your throat like it’s a pussy.”
Your trucker’s hips thrust forward and he buried his cock all the way to the base in your mouth, using his grip to hold you down while you choked and gagged and tried to get used to the thick girth of him. All the while, Ari groaned his pleasure, enjoying the way your throat clenched around his cock, until finally you managed to relax your muscles.
When you blinked tears from your eyes, you looked up and found your trucker grinning almost affectionately down at you, his eyes glittering like the bright sunshine off the blue water of the sea. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, then pushed it into the corner of your mouth beside his thick cock, feeding you your salty tears while he chuckled at the way his thumb distorted your face.
“Are you thirsty, too, kiddo?” Ari cooed condescendingly, barely waiting for you to even think about nodding before he was moving.
Pulling his cock from your mouth with an obscene wet sound, Ari lifted your head away from his groin, giving you a half-hearted glare when you whimpered pathetically at the loss of his heavy weight on your tongue. His hand wrapped around the underside of your chin, fingers digging into your cheeks as a slow, cruel grin curled his mouth.
“Open up, baby, and stick out your tongue for daddy.”
Obediently, you did as Ari commanded, opening your mouth wide and pushing your tongue out eagerly, waiting for what you knew was to come. You watched as Ari gathered saliva on his tongue, your hips wiggling excitedly while he pursed his lips. You stared up at your trucker with pleading eyes.
Ari’s warm spit hit your tongue and you swallowed it with a pleased smile and a happy humming sound. “Thank you, daddy,” you murmured, your voice husky from how roughly he’d fucked your throat. Then you opened your mouth again and stuck out your tongue, just like your trucker had trained you.
It made Ari chuckle, and the delicious rumble of it sent a shower of pleasure cascading down your body to settle heavily between your thighs, where your pussy clenched around nothing. A whine worked its way up your throat, and you squirmed in Ari’s hold, not able to ask for what you wanted with your mouth open and tongue out.
“Still thirsty, sweetheart?” he asked in that patronizing tone you loved so much.
You nodded your head as best you could with his hand still gripping your chin, but it was enough to make him grin and chuckle condescendingly at your eagerness. “That’s my good slut,” he purred, shifting his hand and pursing his lips, spitting on you again.
Instead of landing on your tongue, though, the glob of spit landed on your cheek, making you flinch a little. Blinking in surprise, opened your mouth wider and stared up at Ari, holding your pose even with his spit on your cheek.
“Oops, baby, I missed,” Ari cooed, his tone so unrepentant that you knew it hadn’t been a mistake. When he gathered more saliva on his tongue and spit on you again, you managed not to flinch even as he missed for a second time. “Fuck, I keep missing—guess I’ll just have to feed it to you, huh?”
Ari held your throat firmly in his grip while using the fingers of his other hand to gather up the spit on your cheek. Without warning, he shoved two of his fingers deep into your mouth, feeding you his spit while you choked and gagged on him.
More tears sprang to your eyes as he pushed the tips of his thick fingers against the back of your throat, making you struggle and squirm in his grip. But Ari was unrelenting, his blue eyes sparkling with humor as he pulled his fingers free, scooped up the rest of his spit and thrust back into your mouth.
“That’s it, kiddo, take daddy’s fingers deep in that pretty little throat,” Ari muttered, his gaze bright and intense as he watched you try hard to take his fingers. “Choke on them just like you gag on my big daddy dick.”
Warmth rushed through your body at his filthy, degrading words, and you loved it. You loved the way he treated, you the way he talked to you, and you wanted to be good for him, to do as he said. So you steeled yourself, learning Ari’s rhythm and starting to meet his thrusting fingers with a forward bob of your head.
Ari laughed when he realized what you were doing, the pleased sound washing over you as deliciously as any praise, and the corners of your mouth tipped up in a smile while drool and spit and tears streamed down your face.
You were a mess, but you knew your trucker loved defiling your face and body, so you didn’t make any move to wipe yourself clean. Your hands stayed curled in his t-shirt, clinging to your trucker while he had his fun with you.
“That’s my girl,” Ari purred, pulling his fingers from your mouth and laughing huskily as you sucked in air. His hand squeezed around your throat until your gaze met his. “I take such good care of you, don’t I, kiddo?” he asked, a wolfish smile spreading across his handsome face.
For some reason, Ari’s question struck a chord deep in your heart, and your breath caught in your throat. You weren’t sure if there was a deeper meaning to his question, or if you were just reading into it too much, but it didn’t feel like simple dirty talk anymore. Without thinking, you let the truth spill from your lips.
“Yes, you do, daddy. You know exactly how to take care of me,” you said in a rush, the words nearly tripping over themselves in their eagerness to tumble off your tongue. “You’re everything I need, you’re everything I want—you’re everything to me, Ari.”
It was the closest you’d ever come to saying how you truly felt about your trucker, and as soon as the words were out of your mouth, you went completely still, horror washing through your heart that you might’ve read the situation and his mood wrong. Your eyes went wide, like you couldn’t believe what you’d just admitted, and waited for Ari to react.
Everything in your gut told you he was going to dump you, that you’d pushed him too far and he was going to retreat into himself and do what everyone had always done to you—leave. As the seconds ticked on, with Ari’s unreadable blue eyes raking over your face, you were more and more certain he was going to pull away and leave you all alone.
“Fuck, I need to be inside you,” Ari muttered, something deep inside your trucker snapping.
Between one breath and the next, he was using his hand around your neck to shove you backward onto the bed, his big body chasing you down and climbing onto the mattress to cover you.
It wasn’t graceful, the way Ari bullied his hips between your thighs, and it wasn’t gentle, the way he shoved his cock into your cunt without preparation. A startled cry burst from your lips, but your trucker didn’t stop, pulling his hips back and plunging into your pussy again.
It felt like he was splitting you open with his thick girth, but you relished the sting because it meant Ari wasn’t leaving. Instead, he was pushing deeper and deeper into your body, like he planned to stake his claim on your heart, and build a home between your ribs.
“Ari, please,” you whined, clawing at the t-shirt he still wore until he paused long enough to tear it off over his head. Then you pulled him back down on top of you, so his big body was crushing yours into the mussed blankets of the bed. “I need more—I need it all, daddy. I need you, please.”
You pressed your face into Ari’s beard just under his jaw so you could whimper your desperate pleas and keening sounds straight into the pulse thrumming beneath his skin. Your ankles hooked around the backs of his thighs, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to your trucker for dear life as he worked his cock deeper into your body.
“That’s fucking right,” Ari growled, pulling his hips back until only the tip of his cock remained inside you, then his hips drove forward, impaling you completely with one brutal thrust on his final word.
You screamed your pleasure into Ari’s beard, the cry feeling like it was torn from your throat. Already, you were shaking and overwhelmed with the delicious mix of pleasure and pain only your trucker offered, but he didn’t give you even a moment to acclimate before he started fucking you, words spilling from his lips.
“You fucking need me, don’t you, baby?” Ari seethed, biting his words out through gritted teeth while he fucked you in hard, merciless strokes, making you feel every inch of his thick length as it pounded into your helpless, greedy pussy. “You need me and only me—and you’ll never fucking leave me, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Ari’s words were a condescending sneer, but you knew your trucker well enough to hear the need beneath his tone. He was just as scared of you leaving him as you were of him leaving you. He needed reassurance that you weren’t going to abandon him, and you were more than happy to give it.
“Yes, yes, Ari, I’ll never leave you—I need you,” you cried, tears streaming from your eyes as emotion and pleasure swirled dangerously in your belly. “I need you, daddy, I need you. Oh god, I need…”
You trailed off as a wailing sob of pleasure worked its way up your throat, spilling from your parted lips. You buried your face deeper into Ari’s beard, trying to muffle your pathetic sounds, even as they spurred your trucker on, his hips snapping furiously between your thighs.
“Come, cock whore,” Ari commanded, fucking you hard into the mattress. “Show daddy what a perfect little slut you are, kiddo, and come all over my big, fat dick.”
He was everywhere—his broad body covering yours, hips snapping between your thighs to bury his thick cock deep in your pussy, hitting a spot that had your breath hitching on a scream. He wrapped himself around you, his biceps bulging deliciously next to your head as he held you in the cage of his arms.
Ari pounded into you harder, one of his hands finding your throat and squeezing the sides until you could barely breathe. His teeth nipped at your neck, the sting of pain adding a delicious edge to the pleasure, before he was growling words in your ear that would ruin you.
“Come for me, baby,” Ari cooed meanly. “While I split this cunt open in the way only I can, so you’ll never forget that you fucking need me.”
With a strangled scream, you came undone, your very being unravelling at the unguarded emotion in Ari’s words and the perfect way his cock filled you, fucked you. Pleasure washed over you and through you, shaking you down to your soul while you came apart on Ari’s cock.
Black crept into your vision, and you didn’t even care, your mind too focused on the bliss spiralling through your body. But before you could pass out, Ari relented, a grunt spilling from his lips as he buried his face in your neck, sucking on your pulse point hard enough that your pussy clasped weakly around his cock.
Ari’s hips stuttered in their rhythm before he pressed himself deep in your cunt, but you didn’t feel the twitching throb of his release filling you. He squeezed you tight in his arms, a slight tremble wracking his body like he was exerting a great deal of effort.
As you came back to yourself, you noticed your trucker was still obscenely hard inside you. You felt strangely hollow without his come leaking out around his cock. A thread of unease worked down your spine, and you lifted shaking fingers to tangle in his hair.
“Ari…?” you asked, your voice small and anxious in a way you hadn’t heard it since you’d gotten into his truck. You hated how uncertain and vulnerable you sounded, but in all your time with your trucker, you couldn’t think of any time when he hadn’t come inside you.
Before you could wonder what you’d done wrong, Ari lifted up enough so he could meet your gaze with his dark blue eyes. He shot you a depraved little smirk, something almost affectionate in the way his eyes crinkled at the edges.
“You did good, baby,” he murmured charmingly, even as a little bit of condescension crept into his tone. “But I’m not done with you yet.”
His praise soothed the anxiety curdling in your belly, and you were so preoccupied by your relief, it took you a moment to understand his words. You didn’t think you imagined the perverted glint in his gaze, and an echoing smile tugged at the edges of your mouth.
Ari pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “I got something for you while I was out,” he explained, still remaining vague. “Something to prepare you for when I take you to meet my friends.”
That statement piqued your curiosity, and you brightened at the idea of a present. While living with Ari, he’d made sure you wanted for nothing important, and got you little gifts sometimes. But it was rare for him to get you something for a reason so mysterious, and it made you excited to see what it could be.
“What is it?” you asked, your voice still a little breathless from your release—and from your eagerness to see what he’d gotten you.
Extricating himself from your body, and ignoring the low moan that slipped from your lips when he pulled his still-hard cock from your sensitive pussy, Ari stood from the bed. He shed what remained of his clothes, and grabbed a paper bag from where he’d dropped it just inside the bedroom door.
You lifted your head, but couldn’t make out what was in the bag. To your surprise, Ari didn’t immediately rejoin you on the bed. Instead, he stalked into the bathroom, as if on a mission, leaving you to wonder what on Earth he was doing.
For a moment, you were distracted by the sight of Ari’s naked body.
After so much time on the road, when you only got to see bits and parts of his body—his bare chest with its thick coat of hair that felt delicious against your tightened nipples, or his tree-trunk thighs with their muscles flexing beneath your fingertips when he fucked your throat—it still felt like a treat to see his whole bare form so often.
And you were positively gluttonous for it. Your gaze raked down Ari’s body, appreciating the broad cut of his shoulders, every golden inch of his skin, every thick thatch of hair, every ridge and vein of his fat cock as it bobbed between his thighs, every sinew and muscle moving as he walked to the bathroom.
As he disappeared through the doorway, you got a good look at Ari’s ass, and you nearly whimpered at the sight of it. Wildly, you had the impulse to bite it, your core clenching and a sultry smile spreading across your face at the idea of what your trucker might do in retaliation. Whatever it was, you knew it’d be deliciously depraved…
Those thoughts kept you occupied while Ari busied himself in the bathroom, doing whatever it was he was doing. Distantly, you heard plastic tearing open and running water, but couldn’t fathom what it meant, not when you were imagining your trucker marking your ass in his own, filthy way.
You were so distracted by your fantasies, you almost missed Ari emerging from the bathroom. Once you noticed his appearance, you smiled at your trucker, your gaze sliding curiously to his hands. When you saw what Ari was holding, your eyes widened in surprise and your breath caught in your throat on a soft gasp.
“Don’t worry, kiddo,” Ari rumbled in response to the expression on your face, a sadistic smirk tugging at his mouth. “It’ll fit.”
Your gaze flicked between Ari’s ruthlessly handsome face and the positively massive dildo in his hands, not so sure he was right about that. Sure, your trucker had a big cock, and you’d even taken his fist before, but the silicone cock he was holding looked even more intimidating.
“On your knees.”
It didn’t surprise you that Ari wasn’t giving you a chance to wrap your mind around the idea of taking such a large toy for him, but still, you were too distracted to follow his command immediately. Impatient for your obedience, your trucker stepped closer to the bed, grabbed your ankles and flipped you onto your stomach.
You let Ari manhandle you into position while your thoughts remained caught on the huge dildo he held. Even without your eyes on it, you could still picture it. It was the thickest, fatest cock you’d ever seen—almost unnaturally so.
It was the kind of cock that could split you open, stretch you beyond belief, ruin you for anyone but Ari…
Somehow, that thought made your pussy pulse with renewed desire, more wetness gathering in your already messy slit and coating your already drenched folds. Your thighs were sticky from your earlier release, but already your body craved more.
Suddenly, you didn’t care if that included the fake dick Ari had gotten you, even if it was going to take some work to take it into your body. Your inner muscles clenched around nothing, begging to be filled—begging to be ruined by Ari’s cock and the toy he’d gotten for you.
As he arranged your body so that you were head down, ass up on the mussed sheets of the bed, you wondered which of your holes he intended to use the dildo on. Your body squirmed a little in excitement, your hips swaying slightly side to side as your heart beat excitedly in your chest.
Once you were in position, you heard the sheets rustling behind you, the slight creak of the mattress’s bedsprings, and craned your head to look over your shoulder to see what Ari was doing. You watched his large body climb onto the bed, moving as swiftly and gracefully as a predator as he got behind you.
Your trucker was wearing an evil smirk on his handsome face, which only deepened when he caught you looking. He laid the thick shaft of the sex toy in the valley of your ass cheeks, letting you feel the weight and girth of it while he grabbed your hips and positioned himself.
His knees dug into the mattress on the outside of yours, forcing you to press your thighs together. You knew the position would make you feel tighter for him, and make his cock and the dildo feel even bigger inside your body. Your belly swooped with another surge of excitement, your desire dripping from your slit and making a mess of your thighs.
“What’s the occasion for the present, daddy?” you asked breathlessly, trying to distract yourself so you didn’t whine for Ari to fuck you already. “It’s not my birthday,” you said saucily, lowering your upper body down to the bed, arching your spine and presenting your ass for your trucker.
“There’s no occasion, sweetheart, it’s to prepare you,” Ari reminded you, a depraved kind of humor in his tone. He gave your ass an affectionate smack, nearly dislodging the dildo from where it lay.
You only had time to giggle at the feel of your ass jiggling before Ari swiped the toy cock and shoved it deep into your pussy. Your laugh cut off in a scream, the thick intrusion of the dildo filling you up so suddenly, it punched the sound from your lungs.
In all your time with your trucker, you’d gotten used to Ari thrusting his big cock into your tight hole, but it felt different with the dildo. The feeling wasn’t necessarily unpleasant—you were plenty wet enough to take the thick toy, and it felt good to be stretched—but you still would’ve preferred to have your trucker’s cock inside you than the silicone dildo.
“Hnghh, daddy,” you gasped when you were able to suck in some air and breathe around the fake cock filling your cunt.
It wasn’t like Ari to give you time to adjust, and sure enough, your trucker began fucking you in short, deep thrusts with the toy. But you were still curious about why he was using the dildo and not his own cock—why he hadn’t come inside you.
“Prepare me for what?” you asked, dredging the words from the depths of your mind as you tried to continue the conversation.
Ari didn’t answer you right away, focusing instead on fucking you harder and faster with the silicone cock. You melted into the bed, basking in the pleasure the toy offered and letting loud moans spill uninhibited from your lips. You were halfway to mindless when he finally spoke, ignoring your question.
“Look at you, cock whore, you really were made for this—made for taking cock and enjoying it,” he rumbled, something close to awe in his tone. He pounded into you with the dildo, and you were so wet, your pussy was making obscene squelching sounds that had Ari chuckling. “Tell me, baby, d’you like this toy cock better than mine?”
There was a low, dangerous warning in the teasing way Ari asked the question, and your cunt clasped reflexively around the dildo, trying to suck it deeper into your body. Ari obliged, pushing the fake cock into your hole until it hit the end of you, then he bullied your cervix with it, adding a delicious edge of pain to your pleasure.
“No, never,” you cried into the sheets, drool dripping from your parted lips and tears leaking from your eyes. “Yours is the best dick I’ll ever have,” you gushed, the truth spilling easily from your mouth while your body took everything your trucker had to give. “I love your cock, daddy, I love it so much—nothing will ever compare. It’s all I ever want for the rest of my life.”
Ari laughed, the sound mocking and a little bit affectionate, sending pulses of warmth straight to your pussy and heart. He slowed the pounding of the toy cock, changing the pace to deep, long thrusts that had you gasping and making the most pornographic sounds that had ever come from your lips.
“There’s something wrong with you, baby, if you love my dirty, filthy trucker cock that much,” he teased in a patronizing tone that made you clench even harder around the fake cock.
Without warning, Ari brought his hand down on your ass in a sharp spank, but it wasn’t punishing—it was a reward, one that he repeated on the other cheek, slapping you hard enough for the sound to reverberate around the room. It made you moan so loud, you almost didn’t hear his next words.
“There’s something wrong with you if I’m what you want.”
Your heart squeezed in your chest and you whipped your head around to look at Ari over your shoulder. His dark blue eyes were fathomless as he stared into your face, a challenge in his expression. You realized, suddenly, that he expected you to fight him, to tell him there wasn’t anything wrong with either of you—and you knew that he knew it would be lie.
Instead, you told him the truth.
“There is something wrong with me, Ari,” you told him seriously, no hint of a joke in your tone. “And you’re a sick, perverted man for taking advantage of it—but I’m exactly where I want to be.” You folded your hands on top of each other and lay your cheek on them, giving Ari your most wicked smirk. “So do your worst, daddy. I can take it.”
With a feral sound, Ari fell on top of you, grabbing your face and pulling you into a wild, unrestrained kiss, his tongue plunging into your mouth and taking possession.
He kissed you as violently as he fucked you, pouring so much emotion into your mouth that it made your head spin. He was hungry, ravenous, and it was all you could do to meet him with your own desire and passion.
Finally, Ari pulled away and sucked in a deep breath, leaving you gasping. He patted your cheek patronizingly, more than a little fondness in the gesture.
“That’s my girl,” he growled against your mouth, nipping at your kiss-swollen lower lip before finally sitting back on his haunches. “Now, let’s hope you got this toy cock nice and slick, sweetheart, because I forgot to grab some lube while I was out.”
You knew your trucker well enough to know when he wasn’t telling the truth, and in that moment, you knew he hadn’t forgotten anything. He’d planned to use the dildo on your ass no matter how slick it was, and that depraved realization had you moaning low in your throat, the sound ratcheting higher into a whine when Ari pulled the toy cock from your pussy.
You barely had time to mourn the thick fullness in your cunt before the rounded head of the fake cock was pressing against the tight rosebud of your ass. You were no stranger to having Ari fuck your ass, and your body relaxed on instinct to make his entrance easier on both of you.
“Be a good slut and let me in, cock whore,” Ari urged, pushing the dildo into your ass. When the tip popped past the ring of muscle, you groaned obscenely, your body twitching at the thick intrusion. “Good girl, relax—I wanna see your ass take your new toy to the root.”
Little by little, your body yielded to the dildo. You let out a long, loud moan as Ari filled you with inch after thick, rigid inch of the fake cock. You panted while it slipped deeper and deeper, until the flared base finally pressed to your asscheeks.
When the dildo was fully buried in your ass, you let out an exhale of relief, feeling proud of yourself for taking everything Ari had given you. You felt so full, even as your pussy clenched weakly, your desire dripping down your thighs and making them sticky with your lust.
But still, you knew Ari wasn’t done. If he’d wanted to fuck your ass, he could’ve used his own cock. Your mind flicked back to what he’d told you earlier, about how he was trying to prepare you for something.
Suddenly, you had an inkling of what might be coming—especially with your trip to visit his friends looming so close on the horizon. Your theory was confirmed when Ari sat up on his knees and lined up his cock with your pussy. You only had time to suck in an excited breath and angle your hips higher before he began pushing inside.
“Fuck, kiddo, you feel so fucking tight like this,” Ari growled, his palms grabbing big handfuls of your ass, his thumbs holding the dildo deep in your hole. “Your cunt’s choking my cock—it’s fucking heaven,” he said, his words almost slurred with pleasure.
Ari used his grip on your body to pull you further onto his hard, thick length, wringing a pathetic whine from your lips while he groaned his pleasure loudly. It was right on the edge of too much, your ass stuffed full and his fat cock pushing deeper and deeper, filling you beyond what you thought possible.
“Maybe I should always fuck you like this, cock whore,” Ari rumbled, a hint of teasing in his tone. “Fake cock buried in one hole to make you tighter for me—or maybe I’ll fuck you with both in one hole and fucking ruin you. Gape you so wide you won’t be able to feel a single cock anymore.”
A desperate, helpless whine caught in your throat at his words, at the unbelievable stretch of being filled with two cocks and trying to imagine both in one hole. “Ari—oh my god, Ari,” was all you could manage as your mind was overwhelmed with sensation.
You felt your trucker everywhere—his cock drilling deeper into your cunt, his hands holding your hips like he never planned to let go, his scent invading your lungs from the sheets pressed against your cheek. It felt like he was damn near imprinted on your soul with how thoroughly he was possessing you. You’d never felt such exquisite ecstasy.
When Ari was finally fully buried to the root inside your pussy, he dug one of his arms underneath your chest, his palm skimming up the valley between your tits to wrap around your throat. Using his grip on your neck, Ari hauled you up, sitting back on his haunches so you were seated on his cock.
The position had his hard length and the dildo thrusting another inch deeper into your cunt and ass, his pelvis holding the toy plugged in your hole. You cried out, the pain-edged pleasure almost too much, making you squirm between Ari’s thick thighs at the impossible fullness you felt.
But your trucker simply banded his other arm around your waist, holding you pinned right where he wanted you, impaled on his cock and the toy he’d gotten for this exact reason. All you could do was pant through the mind-boggling sensation of being stuffed so full, your cunt dripping indecently as pleasure burned through your blood.
“Look at you, taking two cocks in your holes,” Ari cooed in your ear, his big hand wrapped around your throat like a collar. “You’re such a dirty, slutty cock whore, baby,” he hummed, rolling his hips and fucking you in one, long, languid movement that made it feel like he was thrusting impossibly deeper into your body.
“Ari, it’s t-too much,” you cried. You’d lost control of yourself under the onslaught of pleasure, your hips wiggling, body writhing, fighting to get away from the overwhelmingly fullness between your thighs. You were in serious danger of blacking out from the devastating euphoria.
A deep, rumbling chuckle sounded in Ari’s chest, teasing down your spine. Then, your trucker slapped your tits meanly, his fingers catching cruelly on your nipples.
Vicious zaps of pain joined the storm of pleasure raging in your body and you screamed, your shoulders pitching forward only for you to be forced back against Ari’s unyielding chest. The ruthless pain brought you crashing back down to earth and you were more aware than ever of Ari, of his cock and the toy inside you, and you succumbed to him.
“Nothing’s too much for you, cock whore,” Ari growled in your ear, a glimmer of pride in his words that was almost hidden beneath the roughness of his tone. “Besides, this is a fucking kindness.” He rolled his hips again, his fingers squeezing around your throat and choking you savagely while he used his other hand to abuse your tits.
You were helpless in Ari’s arms, and it felt glorious giving the entirety of yourself over to your trucker. You were his toy to use, and it made you feel good to be used, to be the filthy, depraved cock whore he called you. You were never happier than when your trucker let loose and truly did as he pleased with you, just like he was in that moment.
So overcome by your pleasure, you nearly missed Ari’s next words, but somehow they penetrated the lustful haze in your head.
“Next week, we’ll be paying my friends a visit, and I’ll pay them for their services by letting them do damn near anything they want to you,” Ari rumbled, punctuating his words with rough thrusts of his hips, fucking you deeper with his cock and pushing the dildo in your ass. “And if I know my friends, they’re going to get creative about how they fuck you.”
Your mouth was open, helpless whines and desperate moans spilling from your lips uninhibited. You couldn’t control the sounds coming from your mouth, just like you couldn’t control the way your body shivered and your cunt clenched hard at Ari’s threatening words. And he wasn’t done.
“They might split your cunt and ass open on their cocks, sweetheart, and they’ll care even less than I do about whether it’s too much for you,” Ari ground out, using his hand around your throat to tip your head back so he could meet your gaze out of the corner of your eye. “You should thank me, baby, for preparing you with my cock and your new toy so they don’t tear you apart.”
“Thank you, daddy. Thank you, daddy. Thank you, daddy,” you babbled, sobbing your pleasure, your tongue loosened by the sheer amount of delicious delirium surging through your body. “You’re so good to me, daddy, making me feel soooo good—I’ll do anything for you. I’ll do anything you say, Ari. Anything.”
That declaration, wrenched from deepest part of your heart, seemed to surprise Ari.
He slowed his brutal thrusts and pressed a finger to your jaw so he could look at your face more fully. He searched your expression, and you knew your devotion to him was plain as day by the way his eyes darkened in response. Depraved possessiveness twisted his features into something even more devilishly attractive.
“Anything?” Ari asked mockingly, a new edge in his voice. “What if I told you to leave, baby? What if I told you to leave me and never come back?”
You felt those questions like a punch to the sternum, stealing the breath from your lungs as your heart cracked in half. Panic like you’d never known before flooded your chest, tears springing to your eyes, and you couldn’t help the way your body fought against his hold.
But Ari’s arms tightened around you, nearly crushing you with his strength, and it finally calmed you enough to realize your trucker wasn’t trying to poke at your insecurities. He was laying his own vulnerabilities bare for you to see, and you knew your answer would make or break your relationship.
Reaching up, you cupped your handsome trucker’s face in your hand, your fingers threading through his beard until your nails could scratch lightly at his jaw. Normally, he might’ve leaned into your touch, but his eyes were fixed too intensely on your face, waiting too anxiously for your answer.
“If you told me to leave,” you said slowly, picking your words carefully, “I’d leave, and you’d never see me again, Ari.” You smiled sadly at your trucker, showing him the tenderest, most scarred part of your heart. “I’ve been with men who didn’t want me before—I’ve clung to them until they forced me to leave them.”
Your heart thumped heavily in your chest, remembering the man who’d tossed you out of his car on the side of the road. He hadn’t cared about you. He’d thrown you away like trash. And even though it had led to you meeting Ari, it still stung to know you would’ve given everything to a man who never would’ve appreciated you.
“I won’t make that mistake again, I can’t,” you murmured, your voice breaking on your last word as tears streaked down your cheeks. Ari didn’t wipe them away, instead he looked at them hungrily, like they fed something deep and dark in his soul. “I won’t ever leave you—unless you tell me to.”
Ari’s chest was heaving like he’d run a marathon, his breaths sawing in and out of his mouth and brushing against your cheek. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked too stunned for words. You took the opportunity of his silence to drive your point home.
“I am yours,” you vowed, pulling your fingers from his beard and trailing down to the pendant around your neck, the one that listed your name as Baby and defined you as property of Ari Levinson on the back. “For the rest of my life, I belong to you, Ari—or until you don’t want me anymore.”
That final comment seemed to snap Ari from the daze he’d been trapped in, and his hand shifted from your throat to wrap under your chin, gripping you ferociously as his eyes bored into yours with their intensity.
“I’ll never stop wanting you.” The words felt ripped from the very depths of Ari’s soul, his voice almost animalistic in its rawness. “You’re in my head, you’re in my fucking skin—baby, you live in the black hole where my heart used to be.”
Ari pressed his forehead to yours, and though the angle was awkward, you’d never felt more connected to your trucker. Your breathing synchronized, and it felt like even your hearts began beating in tune with each other. For a moment, Ari simply held you, like he was gathering himself, and you were struck speechless by how undone he was.
“You are mine, and I’m never fucking letting you go,” Ari rumbled, his voice sounding like the roar of the ocean during a storm. “I’ll never tell you to leave me. Do you understand me, baby?”
“Yes, Ari,” you said on a sigh of relief.
It was on the tip of your tongue to tell your trucker you loved him, but in your heart of hearts, you knew he wasn’t ready to hear it yet. So you held the words behind your lips and dragged Ari’s mouth to yours, giving him a filthy, messy kiss, conveying all the emotions that were too big for words.
When you broke the kiss, you pressed your forehead to his and, for a moment, the two of you held each other as tight as possible. You couldn’t tell Ari you loved him yet, but you knew it was true, and you were certain he’d love you as well, if he didn’t already. The thought made you smile.
Then, Ari was shoving you forward onto the bed, one of his hands curling around your throat while the other palm slid over your face, two fingers thrusting into your mouth and making you gag on them. He choked you and fucked you, making a mess of your face while you drooled around his fingers, muffled moans spilling from your mouth.
It wasn’t long before you could feel Ari’s cock twitching in your cunt, a sign that he was getting close. You were stretched so tight around him and the dildo, you could feel every throb of his hard length, could imagine every drop of his precum leaking into your hole.
“Rub your clit for me, cock whore,” Ari rasped meanly in your ear, shoving his fingers deeper into your mouth and making you gag loudly, only to squeeze his other hand tighter around your throat, wringing the dumbest, most obscene sounds from your lips. “Come on your daddy’s cock, kiddo.”
With how Ari had your head bent back, his hand gripping your face, the position was awkward for you, but the command from your trucker was one you especially wanted to follow. So you braced yourself on one arm and reached under your body, straining until your fingers found the puffy little bundle of nerves.
You rubbed your clit just the way Ari would—harshly, mercilessly—and even though your fingers weren’t as big or as rough as his, the delicious torture had you clenching even tighter around your trucker’s cock and the dildo in your ass.
He groaned, changing the pace of his thrusts to be long and hard, hitting that spot deep inside you that had your moans hitching higher into helpless whimpers. He drilled into you, chasing his release, and it was all you could do to rub your clit and chase it with him.
“That’s it, baby,” Ari growled roughly, bringing his head close to your ear so he could nip at the lobe before spilling even more filth into your head. “Come on the cock that made you into the dirty, perfect slut you’ve become since meeting me.”
With a choked, muffled scream, you shattered apart into a thousand glittering pieces of pleasure, nearly blacking out from the lack of air and overwhelming euphoria. You hung suspended in the endless moment of bliss, pleasure pusling through every nerve in your body.
Your muscles clenched down hard on the toy in your ass, and your cunt strangled Ari’s cock, dragging him over the edge after you. He came with a rough shout, burying his face in your shoulder, his teeth sinking into your skin as he bit his mark into you, no doubt leaving bruises in the shape of his mouth behind on your body.
Together, you writhed through your releases, wanton moans and whines spilling from your lips while Ari growled a litany of mean praise into your skin, telling you what a perfect cock whore you were for him, doing such a good job milking the seed from his balls while your ass was stuffed full of your new toy.
Finally, when you felt entirely wrung out, Ari let you slump to the bed, a boneless heap of sated pleasure. Your trucker was surprisingly gentle as he pulled the silicone dick from your ass, and somewhat less careful when he slipped his own softening cock from your cunt.
He ambled to the bathroom, giving you a perfect view of his broad back, thick thighs and perfect ass, making you smile dazedly at the delicious picture he painted.
Once he was out of view, you heard the sink running and assumed he was washing the dildo. When he returned, Ari deposited the fake cock on the bedside table, then flopped down beside you, his chest still heaving slightly as he caught his breath.
Instinctively, you scooted closer, curling into his side, throwing one leg over his thigh, neither of you caring about the mess when you pressed your well-used pussy to his hip. If anything, it made Ari rumble a happy sound, his arms curling around your body, and grabbing a possessive handful of your ass while he held you close.
“Tell me something,” you began, amusement and exhaustion clear in your voice. “Did you really want to prepare me for your friends, or did you just hate the idea that they might get to DP me first?”
Ari grumbled for a moment, and you thought he wouldn’t respond, though you were reasonably sure you knew what his answer would be. But your trucker surprised you by hauling you closer, until the entire length of your body was pressed against the side of his larger, stronger form.
“You’re mine, baby,” he growled against your temple, determination clear in his tone. “I’m gonna have fun watching those fuckers I call friends use you, but they don’t get to do anything to you I haven’t done already.”
A delighted shiver raced down your spine at the perverted kind of possessiveness in you trucker’s voice and you lifted your head enough to meet his gaze. A smirk curled the edge of your mouth, a depraved challenge in your expression.
“Didn’t you say something about how creative they are?” you asked, a teasing lilt to your words. As you watched your trucker’s face, his expression darkened. “You might need to work a little harder to make sure they don’t come up with something you haven’t thought of.”
In a second, Ari rolled you onto your back and pinned you to the bed with his massive form. He wrapped one big hand around your neck, catching on the delicate collar still circling the base of your throat. He paused, his blue eyes flaring, and an obsessive, possessive emotion flitting across his gaze.
The fingers of his other hand slipped beneath the pendant on your collar, touch the words there—‘Property of Ari Levinson’. He traced the letters like he needed the reminder that you were his, that you weren’t going anywhere.
A soft, affectionate smile curled the corners of your lips as you stared up adoringly at your trucker, patiently watching him work through whatever he needed to work through. Your fingers curled around his ribs, your thighs bracketing his hips and urging him closer, until his hardening cock pressed against your damp, swollen pussy.
After another moment, Ari’s eyes refocused on you and his mouth spread into a wicked smirk. He let go of the chain around your neck and reached for the dildo on the bedside table.
“If you think I can’t get creative, cock whore,” he began, pressing the tip of silicone dick to your lips until you opened and let him shove it into your mouth. It was so big, you gagged immediately, making Ari laugh meanly. “Then you don’t know me very well.”
Even though his words were a taunt, there was an underlying insecurity in Ari’s voice that you couldn’t let go unaddressed. Turning your head, you managed to spit the dildo out of your mouth and you reached for Ari, your fingers curling in his beard and bringing him close so you could look him dead in your eyes.
“I know exactly who you are, Ari Levinson,” you told him, conviction ringing true in your words. “I know who you are, and I’m happy to belong to you.”
You paused for a moment, letting what you’d said sink in. Ari’s eyes were almost unreadable, his expression a mask of stone, but the longer your words hung in the air between you, the more you saw that stone crack. There was a glimmer of something in your trucker’s eyes, something bone-deep and steady, something close to belief or trust.
It made your heart soar, thumping happily against your ribs, and you offered your trucker a soft smile. Your fingers threaded through his beard, nails raking lightly at the skin beneath. You brought him down for a gentle kiss—gentler than any kiss you’d ever shared—before your mouth curved into a small, devious smirk.
“And I know you’re going to fuck my holes every which way with that dildo and your cock,” you murmured into his mouth, bringing you back to safer territory. You didn’t need a response to your declaration, just for him to hear you. “And I can’t fucking wait for you to ruin me before taking me to see your friends.”
At that, Ari chuckled, the deep, delicious sound rolling over your lips and down your spine, making your pussy clench weakly around nothing. His cock gave an answering twitch and he pushed his shaft deeper into your slick folds, right against your puffy, swollen clit and dripping hole.
“You’re right, baby, you know me so well,” Ari purred, a pleased tone in his voice, as he grabbed the dildo and shoved it back into your mouth, fucking you shallowly with the silicone length. “I’m gonna demolish all your holes with my cock and your new toy so you’ll be ready to take good care of Lloyd and Curtis.”
Your trucker’s eyes sparkled with something dark and possessive as he watched your mouth take the fake dick. He pushed it deeper with every stroke, enjoying the way you struggled and gagged around it. Tears streamed from your eyes down your temples, and drool coated your chin, but you finally took the dildo deep into your throat.
“Good slut,” Ari cooed, brushing a kiss to your messy cheek before rumbling in your ear. “You’re gonna be a good toy for my friends next week, and you’re gonna make sure it’s worth their while to help us out, isn’t that right, cock whore?”
Ari lifted up so he could look you in the eye while you nodded awkwardly, and mumbled your sweetest, “Yes, daddy,” around the silicone dick in your mouth. Ari patted your cheek patronizingly, like you were nothing more than an obedient child and not a grown woman who adored him like he was your king—which only made your pussy leak more between your thighs.
“That’s a good girl, baby,” Ari rumbled, only a little bit of condescension in his tone. He wrapped his hand around your throat, squeezing it so you could feel your muscles clenching harder around the dildo. “Keep that dick in your mouth, sweetheart, while I destroy your pussy with my cock.”
With an eager nod, you pressed your fingers to the base of the dildo, keeping it buried in your mouth and throat while Ari focused on lining up his cock with your pussy. He pushed in with one ruthless thrust, making you scream as he filled your oversensitive hole.
The sound of your pain-edged pleasure was muffled around the toy in your mouth, but it only spurred your trucker on to wring even more noises out of you. Ari laughed at your silly, helpless sounds, fucking you harder and rougher while you choked on the fake cock, his grip around your throat making sure you never forgot it was there.
For the rest of the afternoon, Ari’s cock and the fake dick filled your holes in every combination your trucker could think of, devastating your ass, mouth and pussy until he was satisfied.
When the two of you finally gave in to exhaustion, it was with Ari’s cock wedged deep in your pussy, the dildo pressed between your tits and snuggled to your chest like a stuffie. His palm pressed the pendant on your collar into the hollow of your throat, and you knew you’d wake up with the words on the back—‘Property of Ari Levinson’—imprinted into your skin.
Even in sleep, your trucker staked his claim on your body, possessing you in every way possible—and you couldn’t have been happier. He was finally starting to trust you, and you held tight to that knowledge, falling asleep with a contented smile on your lips.
The next evening, after recovering from your afternoon marathon of fucking, the two of you were in the living room watching TV. You were curled up in Ari’s lap while he sat in the recliner, his hand gripping your bare thigh possessively beneath the hem of the sundress you wore. Ari’s other hand played idly with the delicate chain of the collar around your neck.
Even after accidentally forgetting to chain you up when he’d gone out to get the dildo, he hadn’t swapped the collar out for one of the others, which you took as a good sign. In fact, he seemed to take great pleasure in tracing the edges of the engraving on the back, the one that read ‘Property of Ari Levinson’, which was what he was doing.
For the moment, you were content.
You were still a little sore, but Ari had been feeding you well to help you recover, and you were still mostly full from dinner. But when you heard the song of an ice cream truck driving slowly down the street, your head perked up from Ari’s shoulder and you glanced outside.
The setting sun cast the oceanside neighborhood in golden yellows and warm oranges, and you could already see some of the other residents poking their heads out, responding to the call of the ice cream truck on the spring evening. A child ran toward the sidewalk, happy parents trailing behind, a couple dollar bills clenched tight in his fist.
“Ooh, ice cream,” you said, looking to Ari with your eyes wide and eager. “Can we get some ice cream, daddy?” you asked sweetly, only a little bit of mischief in your happy smile.
Ari huffed a sigh like he was put out, but you saw the corner of his mouth flicker and knew he was amused by your antics. He patted your thigh before grabbing your hips and helping you to stand.
“My wallet’s in the bedroom,” he said, giving your ass a little smack through your sundress. “Go grab it, kiddo.”
With a nod and a giggle, you scampered off to do as he said, plucking the leather wallet off the bedside table beside where Ari normally slept, and returned to your trucker. He grabbed a twenty dollar bill from inside and handed it to you before crowding you toward the door.
At the front door, you paused and looked over your shoulder, checking with Ari before opening it. When gave a quick nod, you turned back and undid the locks on the door before opening it and stepping out onto the porch.
Ari had been following you so closely, you’d assumed he was right behind you as you padded barefoot across the porch and began to descend the steps. But your shoulders were cold, Ari’s warmth nowhere to be found, and you froze, looking back.
Your trucker lingered in the door, arms crossed over his broad, bare chest as he leaned against the frame. His eyes were dark in the dimming light of sunset, and though you thought his mouth looked a little tight, he didn’t look angry or worried you might run.
When you stopped and waited for him, he gestured for you to go ahead without him.
Your heart thudded happily in your chest when you realized what Ari was doing—he was trusting you to go outside alone. Granted, he was watching you from the porch, and with the ice cream truck parked by the sidewalk in front of his house, you’d never leave Ari’s sight.
But it was still a big deal. In all the time you’d been with Ari, he’d never let you go outside unaccompanied. He’d always been with you, his hand holding yours, or his palm pressed against your lower back, or the back of your neck. And if he had to leave you alone, it was only because you were collared and chained up in his truck or to his bed—except, of course, the time he forgot.
So you knew it was a huge step for Ari to intentionally let you go to the ice cream truck by yourself, and you were more than eager to show your trucker he could trust you.
A smile flickered around the edges of your mouth and you turned, walking determinedly down the rest of the porch steps and across the grass front lawn toward the crowd swarming the ice cream truck. You were intent on showing Ari that he could always trust you to come back.
You waited in line behind a few kids and their parents, glancing back every few seconds to make sure Ari was still there—and he was, standing sentinel, watching you. It warmed your heart to know he was close by, none of the unease you’d felt that morning in your gut. You felt safe under your trucker’s watch, and you were happy to have him in your life.
Finally, it was your turn to order and you got two ice cream cones, paying with Ari’s money, then skipped back to the house, a bounce in your step. You launched yourself at Ari as soon as you hit the top step of the porch, and he caught you easily while you giggled triumphantly.
Your mouth found his in a bruising, possessive kiss, both of you claiming each other. It was apparently filthy enough for one of the older kids still waiting in line at the ice cream truck to shout, “Get a room!”
A surprised laugh burst from your lips while Ari shot the kid one of his darkest glares. Some of the other kids screamed and laughed, high on sugar, as they played in the lingering light. The warmth of the spring day was slowly slipping away, but everyone was happy—including you and your trucker.
Ari tugged you into the house and once you were safely out of view of the neighborhood, he tossed the change you’d given him on the kitchen island. Then he pulled off your dress, undid the fly of his jeans, and pulled you down to straddle him in his recliner chair. He settled his hands on your hips and impaled you on his cock while you held onto the cones in your hands.
The two of you ate your ice cream like that, not caring if it dripped down your chest or down his, taking turns cleaning each other up. When your ice cream cones were gone, Ari captured your mouth in a delicious, devastating kiss, and began to fuck you, bouncing your hips on his lap and dragging the most obscene sounds from your lips.
Your trucker’s hand wrapped around the front of your throat, just above the collar that designated you as his property, and he held you close while he filled you with his cock, and eventually his come.
Once you both came, you collapsed against Ari’s chest and let him use your body to keep his cock warm, reveling in feeling of being your trucker’s perfect little fuck toy. You were his cock whore, his baby, and he was your trucker, your king.
Even if your relationship didn’t have the most conventional of beginnings, with Ari finally starting to trust that you weren’t going to leave him, you were beginning to build the foundation of something real, something that would last for the rest of your lives.
You only needed to go see his friends—Lloyd Hansen and Curtis Everett—to get what you needed for the rest of your new life with Ari Levinson to truly begin.
trucker king masterlist
thank you for reading! reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!! ♡
word count | 12.3k words
summary | you suggest taking a break from your deeply attached boyfriend. he reacts poorly and things somehow get worse from there.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, age gap relationship, clingy!bucky barnes, loser!bucky barnes, crack fic, major co-dependency, dark humour, SATIRE, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, unprotected piv, pussy pronouns, tiny bit of noncon unprotected sex, noncon kiss, they’re both very physical, bucky is very touchy and grabby, lots of toxic behaviour, suicide threats, gun violence, manipulative bucky, toxic bucky, reader lowkey likes it, reader is toxic as well, mj, darcy and yelena cameo
a/n | yall this is a completely satirical and unserious fic, pls do not take anything that happens in here seriously. anyway i want to thank @superbassbuck @iamthatonefangirl @pinksplace and @houseofhyde for all being present and encouraging when i came up and spiraled with the concept of loser bucky threatening to kill himself to keep you. yall real asf for that, and especially paul for harassing me and lowkey motivating me to finish it. finally i am free from the shackles that bind me (this fuckass fic)
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.
Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.
James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.
He was older by ten years, and you’d been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.
Because you had.
You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didn’t realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.
Even with his corny ass mustache.
It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.
It was actually… kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”
Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.
And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.
Even more so, his big dick.
If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didn’t want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didn’t feel fake.
And, yes, there were red flags.
The texts, for one.
In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadn’t dated much, and he definitely hadn’t dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him “no” and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.
He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, “Hope your day is going okay.” Then, “No pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.” Then, “Sorry, that sounded weird. I’m not weird.” Then, somehow, you’d look down and realise he’d sent you five messages in a row and you’d been at work the whole time.
It was… a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.
It wasn’t even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didn’t understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.
And the clinginess didn’t exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.
You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasn’t your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old man’s feelings.
Unfortunately, you didn’t give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.
You really, truly believed that.
And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.
You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.
And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.
You couldn’t even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.
james barnes (bucky)
Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm
You
lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm
james barnes (bucky)
Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm
Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm
Doll? | 10:39pm
You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and he’d spiral. Too detailed and you’d be feeding it.
You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didn’t just feel your mood get tugged sideways.
But it didn’t stop.
By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.
You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.
More messages had piled in.
james barnes (bucky)
Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm
Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm
Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm
“Isn’t it past your grandpa’s bedtime?” Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.
You didn’t look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.
“Don’t call him that,” you muttered. “And he’s not that old.”
“Yeah, and the sky isn’t blue, and my boobs are real.” Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. “Being paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.”
You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you weren’t about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didn’t even like her.
“Come talk to me when you find a man who’ll eat your ass without having to ask,” you said lifting your eyes. “And not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.”
Nicole’s mouth snapped shut.
MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.
Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just gotten read.
“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.
You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.
You
just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm
he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm
and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm
james barnes (bucky)
Right. I’m sorry, honey. | 10:59pm
I just don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm
You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like this…. he’d pull, you’d give him an inch, and then he’d act grateful like you’d done him a favour by letting him breathe.
“Girl.” MJ’s voice cut through it.
You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldn’t fully hide the exasperation either.
“Michelle,” you said back, tilting your head.
She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.
“Just remember this is a girls’ night,” she said. “No hate. Just… saying.”
“Two minutes,” you muttered, eyes back on the screen.
Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. “I’m timing it,” she announced. “Like, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if you’re still in here, I’m coming back and I’m flushing your fucking phone.”
MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.
You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.
james barnes (bucky)
When are you heading home? | 11:02pm
Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm
It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.
You
im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm
and i literally slept over the other day 😭 pls stop | 11:05pm
You knew exactly why you’d put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.
You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.
Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didn’t even look.
james barnes (bucky)
I will, sorry. | 11:06pm
Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm
Message me when you’re safe at Michelle’s please. | 11:07pm
You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didn’t even want to fight it.
The second you got close, MJ’s eyes slid right to you.
Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”
You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. “Shame, shame, shame.”
They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didn’t even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.
“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. “Laugh while you bitches can.”
You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.
Then MJ, from your left, “You know I love you, right?”
You groaned into your drink on instinct. “MJ. Not right now.”
Darcy laughed beside you.
“I do,” MJ said anyway, undeterred. “I love you.”
“—Michelle, please.”
“Hey, I’m not trying to jump you. I’m just asking… what are we doing right now?”
You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. “We’re drinking right now.”
“Mm-hm.”
Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.
“Sweetie, we’re not judging you,” Darcy said, talking with her hands. “But your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.”
You couldn’t help the snort that came out of you.
Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. “No, I’m serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if he’s here right now. Somewhere we can’t see. Just… posted up in a corner and watching you.”
“Darcy,” MJ said, exasperated.
“What?” Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. “Men do weird shit like that all the time.”
You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.
MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “Darcy, please.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.
Then your shoulders dropped a little.
You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. “So what should I do?”
“Dump him.”
“Dump his old creepy ass.”
MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.
“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.”
Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. “You asked,” she said.
MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. “Then take a break.”
You turned your head slowly. “A break?”
“A break,” she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. “Now hold on now. Not a breakup. I’m not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. I’m saying… maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.”
You frowned faintly, listening.
“Because right now?” MJ continued, voice even, “that man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think it’s cute—”
You tilted your head. “It’s a little cute.”
“—but it’s not healthy,” she finished. “He needs to remember there’s a world around him that doesn’t revolve around you.”
Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediately—the thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.
Still… the rest of it sounded reasonable.
A break wasn’t a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.
“A break,” you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.
The conversation about a “break” had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldn’t quite scratch.
You knew you had to do it—sooner or later—but as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Bucky’s Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.
It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.
The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.
There he was.
Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.
He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.
He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.
When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.
The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.
“Bucky—please... just give it to me,” you whimpered.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.
“I know, baby,” he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. “But I’m just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkin’ about her...”
He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . “She’s so happy to see me, isn’t she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.”
A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Bucky’s thick fingers probing your entrance.
He didn’t rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.
Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.
“Another one,” you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Baby, please... another one.”
He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didn’t pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.
“Another one?” he murmured.
He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. “Look at her... she’s greedy, isn’t she? Just begging for more.”
“Bucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,“ you whined.
He let out an amused, condescending huff, “I know, honey. I know you’re desperate.”
Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.
He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.
He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.
You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.
“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me how much you need me to fill you up.”
“I need... I need you,” you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. “Please, Bucky, I can’t—I’m going to—”
“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he said hoarsely.
He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.
He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.
“Uh-huh... okay,” you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.
“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,” he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.
“Bucky, please—”
“Look at me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let go for me.”
As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!”
An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.
As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.
Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.
He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.
“God, you taste so good,” he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. “You are so weird.”
He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “You love it,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Now, tell me how much you missed me today.”
“Ha ha,” you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.
Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.
“How was your day, doll?” he asked casually.
Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.
“I really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him.
You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.
Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.
Bucky didn’t miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, “Still need me, huh? Good girl.”
With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long he’d been eating you out.
“You ready for me?” he murmured.
You didn’t even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.
Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.
You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.
He didn’t go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.
“So wet for me,” he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. “Been thinkin’ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.”
“Just—fuck, put it in,” you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.
“Patience, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.
You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.
“Need to see my baby’s face while I fuck her,” he rasped.
As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.
He didn’t let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. “God, stretched you out so many times, but you’re still so tight for me... s’like you’re tryin’ to squeeze the life outta me.”
He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. “You like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing I’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”
“Yes... please, baby, all the way,” you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.
“I got you, doll,” he whispered.
And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.
You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.
He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.
“Feel that, baby?” he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. “Feel how much I need to be inside you? You’re fuckin’ perfect... made for me.”
He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.
Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.
His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.
Bucky’s eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.
“Look at that,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Look how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. She’s so happy... she’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, like she never wants me to leave.”
You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.
“You like being fucked like this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You like knowing I can’t get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkin’ about burying myself inside you?”
“Yes... yes, Bucky...” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.
The frustration that had been simmering in Bucky’s chest finally boiled over—the desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.
He needed more.
Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.
The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.
Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.
For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.
But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.
He didn’t like that. He needed you with him.
He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.
“This house is always so big and quiet, baby,” he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.
You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.
“I miss you when you’re not here,” he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. “I hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.”
You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldn’t form words, only broken moans and gasps.
Then his next sentence caught your attention.
“Think you should move in with me.”
He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.
You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didn’t even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.
He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.
“I’ll fuck you every morning when we wake up—” He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. “—and every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.”
He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.
“And you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just come home to me. Let me take care of you.”
You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. “Bucky, what the fuck are you talking abo—Oh fuck!”
He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.
“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. “That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.”
The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Bucky’s chest.
His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.
“Almost there, doll,” he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. “So close. Fuck, you feel so good.”
You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.
Something important.
It took you a second to remember it—the empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadn’t started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of… which Bucky knew.
Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.
“Baby,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. “Remember to pull out.”
He didn’t seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.
He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.
“Bucky.” You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. “Don’t cum in me.”
It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.
His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.
“She’s gripping me so tight, honey,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “I don’t think I can pull out.”
Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“I can’t help it, doll.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. “I’ll die if I don’t cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?”
You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.
You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.
He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt it—hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.
He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.
When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.”
His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. “But what a way to g— ow!”
The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.
His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t so overly irritated.
“Clean. Me.” Your glare could’ve curdled milk.
It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.
Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.
He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.
“Right. ’Course. Yeah, I got it, doll.” He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. “Shit. Let me just—”
You said nothing.
Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.
You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew he’d pissed you off.
You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess he’d made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.
You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.
And so began the silent treatment.
Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.
He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.
You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.
He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.
“You know I love you, yeah?”
You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.
His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. “But you know, sweetheart... if you hadn’t been squeezing me so tight, I might’ve had a fighting chance. How’s a guy supposed to think straight when you’re milking him like that?
You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. “Are you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?”
He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. “No, no—I’m just saying—”
“Uh-huh.” You hummed, turning back to the TV.
He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. “I love you,” he murmured, trying a different angle. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.
At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit he’d been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.
You had no idea where that came from.
His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. “And you know you love me too. Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment like a brat.”
Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t rise to the bait.
You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.
Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.
But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.
Let him think that.
“A break?”
The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you weren’t staying, despite the way he’d lit up when you walked through the door.
Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. He’d made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when he’d heard your knock.
Perfect timing, doll, I just—
Except you’d cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldn’t stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now this—a weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if he’d just thrown the bowl at the wall.
He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.
“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and carefully measured. “What—what does that mean?”
You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. “Time to spend away from each other while we—”
“—so you’re breaking up with me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like you’d already handed him the pink slip.
“No, I’m not breaking up with you, I’m—”
“—then what are you saying?” His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.
He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, “Because it sounds like you’re saying you wanna leave me. Like you’re done. Like I’m—”
“If you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!”
You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.
You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four.
When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.
“A break,” you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, “means we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.
His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.
“Why?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Why do we need that?”
You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, you’d rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadn’t landed on a script that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.
“To... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.” The words tasted like bullshit coming out.
He stared at you like you’d just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. “But we’re not dependent on each other.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
No, you thought. I’m not. But you sure as hell are.
You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp he’d nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.
“I mean, sweetie, c’mon. Let’s be honest with ourselves right now.”
You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and that’s when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.
“Bucky, what are—hmph—”
Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.
His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.
What the fuck.
He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anything—before you could even catch your breath—his fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.
“Mmph—Bucky—”
“I love you,” he emphasised.
Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.
“And you love me.”
Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.
“I need you, doll.”
And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldn’t breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.
Slap. Slap. SLAP.
Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.
You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.
“What is wrong with you!” you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.
It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.
“Don’t.”
The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.
Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.
“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he said, and the laugh that followed wasn’t a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. “I’ve done everything for you. Everything.”
You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.
“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”
Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.
“—I’ve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.” His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. “I don’t look at other women. I don’t think about other women. I don’t even notice other women exist unless they’re blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?”
His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.
You opened your mouth to correct him—it’s a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakup—but he bulldozed right over you.
“Tell me.” He stepped closer. “What did I do?”
You scoffed.
Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.
And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.
You lifted a hand like it was obvious. “The texts,” you said, flat.
His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like you’d just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. “What texts?”
You waved your hands around like you were crazy… because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.
“The gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. ‘Good morning, doll.’ ‘What are you eating for lunch, doll?’ ‘Did you see the sunset, doll?’ ‘Thinking about you, doll.’” You dropped your hands. “It’s a lot.”
He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. “You’re breaking up with me because I text too much?”
Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.
“Okay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?” You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “When I’m—when I’m literally so distracted and can’t form a coherent sentence?”
“Sue me for getting lost in the moment,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. “I don’t hear you ever complain when I say I’m gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.”
“Oh my God.” You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids.
Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”
And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.
Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.
“For the last time, it’s a break, Bucky,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks… maybe a month or two… I don’t know, we’ll see.”
He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that you’d helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.
“It doesn’t have to be this big dramatic thing. I just need—I dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if I’ve eaten or if I’m still mad or what I’m wearing.” You waved a hand at his back. “Lots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.”
He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. “Can’t do a break, doll.”
You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. “Well, that’s not really your choice to—”
He turned around.
And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.
You didn’t even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.
“What the fuck!”
But Bucky didn’t look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, “Why do you have that right by the door?”
He ignored you.
“You can’t leave me if I’m dead.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.
You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.
“Bucky. Oh my God.” You rubbed your forehead. “Put that down!”
“No.” His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler who’d decided he was done with vegetables.
And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct you’d ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.
He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. “I swear I’ll kill myself. I will. Don’t test me, doll.”
“Oh my God.”
“I love you so much. I can’t live without you.” He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. “I can’t live without you. You know that. You’ve always known that.”
You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, “We’ve only been dating for seven months.”
Bucky’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.
But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “Seven months and twenty-five days.”
“You counted?”
“I know what I’ve got, sweetheart. And I’m not letting it go.” His voice dropped, low and serious, “Not even if it kills me.”
You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.
His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, “I’m about to put a bullet through my skull and you’re laughing?”
You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, “I wanna say I’m too old for this shit,” you said dryly, “but you’re a hell of a lot older than me, so… what do we do now?”
“I—” He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. “That’s not how you’re supposed to talk to me.”
Your brows knit together. “How am I supposed to talk to you, then?”
The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.
“You’re supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. “That’s how this works.”
You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.
Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, “Well. I gotta go.”
“Wait—what?”
You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. “I’ve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that I’m probably gonna be late for.”
His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just… shifting.
“I’m about to kill myself,” he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, “and you’re leaving for a nail appointment.”
“Yeah,” you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. “And you know how expensive Yelena’s late fee is.”
“You can’t be serious.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. “I’m standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and you’re worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?”
“I am completely serious,” you said, ignoring the barb.
Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.
Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.
“For fuck’s sake—”
He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.
You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.
Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.
He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.
You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Your tone was calm, almost kind. “We’ll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.”
His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man who’d just threatened to blow his brains out—
But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.
In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.
Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. He’ll be fine. He always is.
“He pulled out a gun?”
Yelena didn’t look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.
The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months you’d been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.
Yelena’s station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for “loyal customers only.”
“Yeah,” you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. “I won’t lie—for a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.”
Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. “I see a lot of white American men do that on the news.” She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. “Where do they get such easy access to guns?”
You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. “When you figure that out, please let me know.”
She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension.
“So,” she said, not looking up, “you are done with this mad man, da?”
You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelena’s eyes snapped to yours.
“Girl.”
“What?” you said defensively.
“You have that look,” she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. “That look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.”
You pointed a finger at her. “He’s not ugly.”
Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, “Da. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.”
“It is not that simple,” you said a bit hopelessly.
“Then make it simple so I understand,” she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. “Explain to me like I am child.”
You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating?
“See, being with a man—it’s like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, I’ve invested a lot.” You gestured vaguely. “Time. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. I’ve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. That’s work, Yelena. That’s equity. And as a result I’ve grown very comfortable with him.”
She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. “And you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?”
“But he wasn’t threatening me,” you emphasised, straightening up. “He threatened himself to keep me. There’s a difference.”
Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.
“There is no difference,” she said flatly. “Gun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.”
“I probably sounds insane.”
“It is insane,” she corrected, picking up the glue again. “But I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.”
She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. “Or maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, ‘I told her.’”
You stared at her.
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.
Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.
“He must have a big dick, huh?”
The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.
You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Yes he does.”
“Of course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.” She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. “Big dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.”
“But he’s kind,” you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. “And thoughtful. And attentive—”
“And crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,” she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.
You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.
She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. “You are just as crazy as him.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are,” she repeated, “You like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.” She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. “And horny.”
You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.
You thought about the way Bucky’s texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.
“Oh fuck,” you said, the realization settling over you, “I’m a cliché.”
Yelena shrugged, reaching for the topcoat. “Da. But you are cliché with very nice nails. So at least you look good while being pathetic.”
“… Thanks,” you muttered dryly.
Then your phone rang.
You reached for it automatically, half expecting Bucky’s name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didn’t recognize.
You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.
“Hello?”
Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.
“He what?!”
The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salon’s white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a woman’s perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.
“Uh huh. Mhm-mhm.”
Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.
“Seriously? Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.”
You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. “What was that?”
You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.
“Fool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?”
Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.
“That is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,” she said. “Not even in my country.”
“Tell me about it.”
Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.
You still didn’t know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your head—swearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.
The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.
But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.
The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.
Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.
He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.
His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasn’t speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess he’d been a few hours ago.
Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didn’t look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.
And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.
There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldn’t even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.
The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.
Bucky’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.
The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.
“Now before you say anything,” he started. “I really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and I—”
You didn’t let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.
He made a surprised sound—a muffled mmph—but it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.
The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.
When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “No break.”
His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. You’d never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.
And that’s how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.
Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, he’d shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.
You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.
“Pretty,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.
You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. “Yelena had a lot to say about us.”
“Yeah?” He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Like what?”
You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. “Just very true things.”
“Such as?” he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.
You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.
“That we’re both crazy,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “And i agree.”
A beat of silence.
Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. “Whatever you say, doll.”
summary: when bucky comes home to his girl all done up for no reason he takes matters into his own hands to show you just how pretty you are.
pairing: bucky x gf!reader
content warnings: 18+, fluff if you squint, porn with plot, established relationship, brief mentions of self doubt/insecurity, smut, praise kink (with a sprinkle of degradation), fingering, light anal play, pet names (i.e pretty girl, bunny, babygirl), slight overstimulation, blowjob, (dumbification?), spanking, mirror sex, light cum play, dirty talking bucky barnes, not beta read we die like men
w/c: 5.6k
a/n: dont ask me where this came from or where i went with it... idk man.
It hadn't been a long day, but it felt like it. Each joint in Bucky's body, flesh and metal, ached under each stretch and pull of his limbs. Every step weighed him down further and further to the floor, shoulders sagging forwards as he stepped into the apartment. Soft hints of eucalyptus and mint filled the air around him, softening the crease of his brows as he made his way through, following the sound of gentle music playing from the bedroom.
Melodic piano keys of an old record wrapped around Bucky's shoulders as he came up to the ajar door, watching the slight shimmy of your shoulders as your hands rummaged through a small container next to you on the vanity. For a short while he just stood there, watching the way you played the air piano or double bass along to the song, slight off beat scatting to the bluesy tune.
"Hey pretty baby." his voice breaks the musical silence, making you whip around at the speed of light, hand over your heart as if it would hold in the jumping pace of it.
"Jesus Buck," you breathe out with deep sigh, sinking back into the chair as you seemingly settle. "You scared the hell out of me, make more noise when you walk."
He lets out a rough chuckle, setting his bag down at the edge of the bed as he makes his way over, leaning down to wrap around you and press a kiss to the shell of your ear. "I wouldn't be very stealthy if I made noise when I walked, now would I?."
"And why would you need to be stealthy in the house? Trying to hide something from me tough guy?"
"Me? Hide something from you? Never."
The two of you let out a synchronous laugh, even though Bucky was being sarcastic there was nothing but truth behind his words, there isn't a thought or feeling he would hide from you. Not that he really could, you always had your secret ways to get Bucky to spill his guts, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
"What's the occasion?"
"Hmm?"
He made a gesture to your vanity, the splayed array of makeup across the wood surface, strange tools and compact containers all completely unfamiliar to Bucky.
"Oh," you murmur with a faint shrug as you turn back to the mirror. "No occasion, just felt like it I suppose."
"Just felt like whipping all this out for no reason?"
You threw him a playful narrow eyed look in the mirror. "Didn't realize I needed a reason, why don't you take me out so I can have a reason?"
"Don't get smart with me bunny." he met your eyes and held them for what felt like an eternity, your lips parting with an attempt at defiance until he crossed his arms. Those stupid big arms folded over his stupid broad chest making your stupid stomach flip.
Your lack of response is satisfactory enough for him, as he lets out a pleased hum and walks over to the closet, toeing off his shoes as you turned back to your mirror. Quiet fell over both of you, Bucky going about his usual routine when he gets home as you continue your makeup, the gentle clatter of your brushes filling the gaps in between each song.
As he comes to a finish on his part he wanders back over to you, glancing over your shoulder to the messy display of what only looks like 'weird stuff' to him.
"I don't understand any of this."
You let out a small laugh as you set down your eyeliner, waving air over your eyes to help it dry. "What do you mean?"
"This stuff," a confused gesture as he reaches down to pick something up. "I mean, what is this? Some weird lip pinching torture device?"
"That's an eyelash curler babe."
His lips form a small 'o' as he wearily set it back down, fingertips brushing over each brush, palette and gloss with curiosity laced confusion.
"So you use all of this for your face?"
"Most of it, but they all are for different things. This is for your eyes," you hold up the eyeliner you had just finished with, then pointed to the black makeup on your waterline. "See it leaves behind these lines that help make your eyes pop, or narrow or make your lashes look fuller."
He gets lost after the first wave of the small tube but he nods as you keep going, being an eager ear for you to ramble on about all your little sticks and tubes. You keep along with your explanation as you do your makeup, morphing your words into a visual description.
"Then I just line my lips with this," you mutter through a stiff upper lip, tracing them with the blush pink stick you had shown him earlier. "Just enough to get some color on there but not too much."
When satisfied you set it down and grabbed one of the shorts tubes that Bucky remembered as a 'gloss', he used to call it 'that sticky stuff you leave on my lips after a kiss' but now he's an educated man.
"Just a light layer," a small swipe across your bottom lip and along the bow of your top. "And that's it."
You let your hair out of the clip it had been held back and turned around to give him a full view with the sweetest lip shining smile. "So? What'dya think?"
Even though he had just sat there and watched you do half of it, questioning each step of your lashes whether the glue you were using was safe and if he needed to go buy some solvent, you looked absolutely stunning.
It wasn't anything super extravagant, you had told him, just a simple look, he denied that you could be anything 'simple'. And he was right, if it wasn't a biological need he would've stopped breathing right then and there. Between the slight flutter of your added lashes, the way the light gleamed off your shining lips, the faint pink tint across your cheeks, it was all almost too much for him.
"Damn baby," he mumbles just above a whisper, shock and adoration ever-present across his face. "You look gorgeous. Not that you normally don't, this is just," a soft breath pushes past his lips in admiration. "I mean, I knew you were out of my league before but now, starting to feel like you're doing charity work."
You push his shoulder with a laugh, turning back around to shuffle all your makeup back into the drawers and bags when Bucky reaches forward, thumb and index fingers hooking your jaw to turn back towards him.
"I'm serious. You look… heavenly."
The push to his shoulders this time wasn't from playful retaliation, but from the need to duck your face from his line of sight before you melted to nothing on the spot. He lets you shy away from him. This time. You busy yourself with putting the rest of your makeup away, lining up each tube and tool into its allocated spot, letting your fingers drag just a little slower as you listen to the shuffling of Bucky getting up behind you.
He dips out to the living room for a moment, too quiet for you to hear what he's doing but loud enough to know he's moving something around, likely the chair or the couch based off the slight scrapes you hear against the ground.
Facing forward you sneak a glimpse at him in the mirror of your vanity as he walks back in, he's rifling through the hangers of your shared closet, carding through both yours and his side. You snap your eyes away before he can catch you watching, hearing the sound of clack of plastic landing on the bed your curiosity gets the best of you and you're twisting your spine to see what he's doing.
A pair of his black slacks along with a button up shirt are laid across the edge of the bed as he flips through your side, specifically the section with your dresses.
"What're you doing?"
He doesn't reply, just pulls out the dress you got for your anniversary a couple months back, a simple black satin cocktail dress that took him less time to tear off you than it did to put on, and sets it next to his clothes on the bed.
"Bucky I was just kidding earlier about going out, besides I'm not really feeling up to it tonight."
His eyes finally meet yours and his hands move to his belt buckle, the all too familiar jingle sending chills down your spine. "Get dressed."
Your own eyes narrow in weariness, but curiosity filled suspense trumped suspicion and your feet were moving before you realized, fingers brushing the light fabric as you pulled it off the hanger. Bucky kept to his side of the bed for once rather than hi usual tactic of taking any chance to skate his hands over each inch of skin that is revealed as you get dressed.
He's buttoning up the last few spots on his shirt when you finish, adjusting each strap to sit just right as you walk over to him, hands taking over his as you slide the small buttons through each gap, your smaller deft fingers making quick work of them.
"There, now will you please tell me what's going on?"
Keeping up with his little silent game he extends his hand, watching as you slipped your hand into it with a small smile before he began to backwards walk into the living room, his eyes never leaving yours for a second.
When you walk in it almost feels like the wrong house, the furniture moved around in an unfamiliar set that makes your brows furrow as you look around to open space he's made, the chair you always curl up in as you wait for him to get home pushed far back against the wall, along with the coffee table off to the side of the couch. The lights have been dimmed low and a few tealight candles have been sparsely set around, the gentle flicker of the flame adding an intimate warmth to the air.
"What is all this?"
He comes over with the pair of heels you leave by door. 'Just in case' is what you would reply when he asked why they were there and not in the closet, truth be told not even you know what case would require you to quickly slide into a pair of heels, but you don't plan on confessing that anytime soon.
You lift your ankle to slide into them, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as his hand drifts up your calf to steady you, the heel slips on with ease and he presses a quick kiss the the bend before moving to the nest shoe.
Once seemingly dressed to his desire he takes step to admire, eyes shining in the orange candle glow.
"Dance with me."
"What?"
With a small click of a remote you didn't know he had, the crackle of soft music fills the air as he stands to in the inviting stance, one hand behind his back as the other extends out to you.
"Dance with me," he echoes with a soft smile. "Please?"
Well how are you ever supposed to say no to that?
Your hands melds into his as he pulls you in, his free hand enveloped around your waist as yours rests on his chest, the faint thud of his heartbeat rising through as he slowly guides you around the room.
"This is what you were getting up to?"
"Can't have my girl looking like a star in the night without some sort of appreciation."
Your eyes roll on instinct but there's a newer, deeper shade of pink fading in under the blush dusted on your cheeks. Bucky was nothing if not an everlasting flirt, and you swear you'll never get used to his suave styled words.
He lets you out for a small spin, bringing you in back against his chest as he ducks his jaw into the crook of your neck, the slight stubble that had grown in tickling your skin. The song fades into a next and you feel his cheeks curl with a smile, the light vibration of him humming along as he swayed you side to side.
"I remember when this song came out." you smile at his words and steal a glance over to the speaker to see what it was as the tune didn't sound familiar.
𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴:
"My Blue Heaven - Gene Austin"
0:09 ━●────────── 3:34
ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ
With a soft twirl he spins you to face him again as he softly sings aloud, the shaky yet smooth baritone of his voice warming your heart. It wasn't often you got to see Bucky like this, so at ease and carefree, yet if you had it your way this would be his natural state.
Little nest that nestles where the roses bloom
Molly and me, and the baby makes three
We're happy in my, in my Blue Heaven
"Use that line on all the girls back then?" you tease with a dramatic wistful sigh as you feign a swoon. "Oh Sergeant, what'sa dame to do without a dance from you?"
He let out breathy chuckle, pulling you in close to 'save you' from your swoon. "Not exactly how it went."
"Don't play coy with me Barnes, I know you were the ladies man back in the day." you murmur in a low lilt as you lean into him, your fingers tracing the line of buttons on his shirt.
"Only 'cause you weren't around yet."
He punctuates his claim with a smooth spin, holding your hand above you while you twirled slowly, his free hand traveling up your back in between your shoulder blades to hold you as he slips you down into a low dip. Holding you there for a moment you feel your skin burn under his gaze, the air around you simmering as you met his eyes.
"So beautiful." he mumbles, gently lifting you up without taking his hands off of you, rather letting them wander across the smooth exposed skin of your back, no doubt feeling the goosebumps that trail after his touch.
"Don't know what I did to deserve such a pretty girl but goddamn am I glad I did it."
"Bucky…" your attempt at a deflection was lost the second you tried it, unable to avoid his laser targeted affection, the soft warmth of his hand cupping your chin melting your defenses in an instant.
He follows the line his hand traces with his lips, soft and chaste kisses up the side of your jaw as his hand settles at the nape of your neck, thumb brushing up into your hair as you tilt your head back, immediately falling pliant under his touch.
"Pretty baby," he mutters in between kisses. "Such a pretty face, soft lips and those adorable little 'fuck me' eyes."
"I don't have fuck me eyes." you weakly protest, hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that tug with a pout when he pulls away, eyebrow arched in disbelief. You want to argue with him, declare you don't, and have never, used 'fuck me' eyes on him but the second you relaxed your face and saw him smile you realized he was right.
"Just shut up and kiss me."
"Yes ma'am."
Like the good little solider he is, he lovingly obliges, lips capturing yours like a man behind enemy lines, quick and brutal. You surrender with ease, body melting against his like ice in the summer, soft and slow and undeniable.
Any movement was blurred by the slight nip of his teeth into your lip or his hands dipping into the small of your back with a gentle squeeze, your body hardly registering the change in scenery until you felt the soft dip of the mattress under you.
"I shoulda' taken you out," Bucky breathes against your lips as he hovers over you before kissing down your neck, both of your hands skating across each others bodies in a fervent search for the warmth of skin, your once deft fingers fumbling with each of his buttons as his hands traced the hemline of your dress. "Should've shown the whole world how beautiful my girl is. Make 'em all look at what they can't have."
Short and soft whimpers hide behind your lips as his hands moved from your dress to your thighs, kneading the plush flesh in his wide palms before sitting back on his haunches to look down at you.
"God I'll never get over how gorgeous you are." his praise, while sweet, always made you squirm, being under his heavy gaze with nowhere to run or hide sends a searing heat of lust and embarrassment down your spine that wraps into a bundle in your lower stomach.
"Don't do that," He mumbles just above a whisper, his thumb making small circles on your calf. "Don't shy away from me."
"'M not." you counter softly, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you fought to hold his eye contact. "Just not good at taking compliments."
With a devilish smirk he unclasps his belt, thumb and index finger dragging it out and tossing it aside before he crawls over you, meeting your lips in another burning kiss as his hands wander south. Each inch he touches makes you twitch, your hips canting upwards with each brush across them.
His hand dips under your dress, settling right at the waistband of your panties with a pause of permission, you answer in kind as you lift your hips up just enough for him to slide them down. The cold air hitting you sends chills down your spine that Bucky only adds to as his thumb traces the curve of your cunt, your breath hitching when he just barely brushes the peak of your clit.
"Tell me baby," he questions as he pulls away from your lips, propped up on one arm to look at you. "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours that makes you think you can't take a compliment?"
You blink yourself back to reality and focus on anything but the teasing trace of his hand, holding in each whimper that threatens to spill when he dips his thumb down.
"I don't know." you force out as your eyes flicker from his to his hand. "Just not good at it I guess."
He hums in contemplation for a moment, watching you fight off the ever growing urge to grind down onto his hand like he knows you love to.
"Guess we'll have to fix that."
Without warning he pulls away, you would've whined in protest but he was moving you too fast to make any noise other than a small yelp. When your body stills you're sat on the edge of the bed with him sitting behind you, thighs encasing yours with your back flush to his front, you don't realize why you've been moved until you look forward… to the vanity ahead of you.
Your eyes immediately drop down, finding anything else to look at other than yourself. Bucky isn't having any of it, his sleek vibranium hand finding your jaw and pulling it forwards.
"Eyes forward baby." he commands, voice firm and low in your ear leaving no room for argument as his free hand lifts up one of your thighs and drapes it across his, spreading you open farther than before.
"Don't want you looking anywhere else." his hand moves down your thigh and back to the glistening mess between your thighs, your eyes creasing in the corners as you fight to keep them open.
You lose the fight, eyes snapping shut with a faint shake of your head as your voice wobbles with cringe and legs start to close. "Bucky I can't."
"Hey," the softened tone of his voice brushes across your ears, already easing the tightening knot in your shoulders as he tilts your head back to his. "Look at me."
With a slow peel your eyes open, landing on his and nothing else.
"You are the most beautiful girl I've seen in my life," he whispers softly, thumb stroking your cheek. "Inside and out, I mean it. I'll spend everyday for the rest of my life convincing you of that. I love every part of you."
He presses a soft kiss to your lips, leaning you back to fall father into him. "Love seeing you smile when you wake up in the morning, love those cute little dances you do when your food tastes good."
A smile curls up on your lips against his, any tension seeping out of you with ease until your body is lax in his.
"Love the way you sound when you're face down in the sheets begging me for more," the way his voice drops makes your heartbeat stagger, his free hand pulling your legs back apart yet this time he holds your other leg under his, forcing you open with no retreat. "God do you even know how breathtaking you look when you take my cock?"
Your whine is caught with his lips and he licks yours open, consuming your every breath until you're sharing every inhale, every exhale filling the air with a mix of you.
"Let me show you baby," he whispers when you pull away for air, nudging your head forwards with his nose as his hand dances downwards, bunching your dress up to expose you once more. "Let me show you how pretty you are. Please?"
With hesitant eyes you slowly nod, forcing yourself to look forwards as Bucky hums into your neck with approval, his fingers wasting no time in their mission, pulling a small gasp from you as he dips his index and middle fingers into your wet entrance three knuckles deep.
You're pushing into them before you even realize, your hips rolling against hand unabashedly in complete contrast to your face which you're fighting to not bury into Bucky's neck as he curls and thrusts his fingers in time with your hips.
"That's it, bunny," he praises as his free hand pulls a strap down from your dress, sliding his fingers under the material to knead at your tits. "There's my good girl, keep grinding on my fingers. Look at how good you're doing."
Fluttering eyes focused ahead follow his movements, watching yourself practically hump his hand as he nips at the edge of your earlobe. The added layer of watching what you're feeling warps your mind into a pile of mush, your body dangerously close to falling apart.
"Bucky," you breathe out shakily, thighs twitching with the urge to shut. "Bucky, please don't stop, feels too good."
His other hand leaves your chest, the cold sleek vibranium gripping your jaw and holding it still as his other picks up their pace, tilting his wrist up to curl against that one spot he knows you love. "Keep your eyes up baby, watch how pretty you look when you cum."
The sounds that fill the room go from soft to symphonious in seconds, Bucky's name tumbling from your lips enveloped in moans that would make a porn star blush as you cum on his fingers, slick dripping down onto the bed under you.
"Fuck." he groans as if he were the one coming down from a climax, his fingers gently coaxing more of your wetness out, pulling them out to spread it around your clit making you shake against him.
"B-bucky—" you barely get out before a ragged moan cuts you off when he presses his fingers harder on your still throbbing clit. "'S too much."
"Shh, don't worry bunny, I got you." he mumbles into your neck, his eyes boring into yours as he speeds up his tight circles. "Taking it so well, just breathe baby."
You try your best but every swipe of his fingertips knocks the air from your lungs and you're writhing and dripping as your hips buck through a second orgasm. Your head is spinning as it falls back against his shoulder, hardly feeling the soft kisses he's pressing to the crook of your collarbone.
He's moving before you can even catch your breath, your body slumping without the support of him behind you as he settles in his new spot between your thighs.
"Eyes up pretty girl."
You're too weak to disagree, your eyes falling to the reflection of him on his knees as he pulls you closer, hands grabbing the back of your hips as he takes a greedy lick up the seam of your cunt. Hungry like a starved man he gives you no respite, through each shudder and squirm of your hips he holds you down, switching between sucking at your clit and curling the tip his tongue deep inside you.
"Taste so sweet bunny," he purrs against you, punctuating his claim with a kitten lick to your clit. "Could stay here all fucking day long."
True to his word he does stay there, pulling each orgasm out of you like plucking fruit from a tree, choosing exactly which one he wants, when he wants it. Your dress got lost somewhere been orgasm three and four, your hands finding purchase in Bucky's hair and the soft curve of your tits, pulling at both for stability. There's no doubt of a damp spot on the blanket when he's finally had his fill, leaning back to look up at you shuddering in place with every little burst of aftershocks, mouth covered and glistening with a disgustingly delicious mix of your spend and his saliva.
"Buck… can't…" your words are barely audible to yourself when Bucky stands up, cupping your jaw to pull your focus back.
"Can't what baby?"
Your flushed face and watery eyes send an ache to Bucky's heart and cock, his thumb tracing the jut of your bottom lip as you barely shake your head. "Can't cum again."
He hums with a small smile, dipping down to press a kiss to your lips, the taste of yourself on his lips making you melt.
"That's okay baby, we can take a break, I'll get you some water." Before he gets two steps away you're grabbing his wrist and pulling him back, making his brows furrow. You muster up any remaining strength to slide off the bed, settling on your knees in front of him as your hands run up the sides of his thighs.
"Never said you couldn't." you tease coyly, hooking your thumbs into the belt loop of his pants, pleading for permission. With a slow curl of a smile he unbuttons the top of his slacks, letting out an amused huff as he watches you eagerly pull the zipper down, pushing the fabric down just enough to bare some skin of his thighs that isn't covered by his boxers.
Each of inch of skin you find your lips cover, across his thighs with a playful nudge of your nose to the curved bugle in his boxers, looking up at him to watch his jaw clench. His hand finds the nape of your neck and cradles your head as you reach up to the waistband and free him from his confines, mouth instantly watering as his cock springs free.
You, like him, waste no time in tasting what you want, licking a long stripe from base to tip before wrapping your lips around him and taking him to the hilt. A deep groan leaves his lips, head lulling back as you suck his cock keenly, eyes watering and mascara running, his pretty girl reduced to nothing but a mess-making mouth filled slut.
"Fuck, that's it bunny," he moans when you flick your tongue over the slit on his tip. "Just like that, doin' so good for me."
You hum around him as you try not to gag when he hits the back of your throat, nails digging into the backs of his thighs, body buzzing with every drop of praise that leaves his mouth.
"Feels so good, lookin' so pretty on your knees for me." he grunts and through your water lined eyes you see it. The way his brows pinch together and his jaw falls slack, the involuntary buck of his hips further into your mouth. Just when you hollow out your cheeks to make him cum his hand bunches your hair and pulls you off, a string of spit leaving the two of you connected.
"It's okay," he assures when he sees the look of confusion on your face, reaching under your arms to lift you up and back onto the bed. You're thrown off by the position until he flips you over, and you realize you're right back in front of the vanity.
Pliant as a rag doll he moves you around to his desires, lifting your ass up and back against him before he unbuttons the rest of his shirt, leaving it on yet open to expose the toned abs decorating his stomach and broad planes of his chest.
"There you go baby," he praises when he sees you already watching him in the mirror. "You keep those pretty eyes on me, okay?"
You nod against the sheets and crane your neck to keep a good line of sight, watching and feeling his hands roam across your lower back down to your ass, dipping his thumb across your folds, lightly circling your clit as he lined himself up.
A slight squeeze to your ass cheek is the only warning that you get before he's pushing inside, the familiar stretch making your mouth fall open in a silent cry while you watch him pull his bottom in between his teeth as he sinks in fully.
Two slow teasing rolls of his hips lead you in with a false belief of gentleness, feeling him pull out until just the edge of tip sat in the wet warmth of your cunt before snapping back in, starting to pace of quick and deep thrusts that stokes a fire under your skin.
"That's my good girl, look so good taking all of me." you cry out his name, eyes so close to shutting but the look of Bucky's contorted face as he plowed into you was too good to not watch. "So fucking tight, such a perfect little pussy."
You're practically withering away under him, hands fisted into the blanket as you arch into his touch, hips pushing back in time with his thrusts making him groan with realization.
"Fuck yes baby, atta girl." he accentuates his approval with a piercing slap to your ass, making you mewl with pleasure and push your hips further against his. Every cry you let out is met with another slap, your ass no doubt bearing the red mark of a hand print.
"Goddamn I love this ass," he grits out, kneading the sensitive flesh in his hands, slowing his pace to deep rolling thrusts as he spreads your ass just enough, licking his lips before spitting down onto your tight hole, circling his thumb around before lightly pushing it in.
You don't even try to hide the shameless moan that leaves your lips, your back arching and writhing as your eyes slip shut for a moment too long.
"Nuh uh, pretty girl." he demands, free hand grabbing a fist full of hair and pulling you up against him. "You keep those eyes open or I'll stop right now, leave you empty and aching all night, that what you want?"
With a vigorous shake of your head you force your eyes open, the new view and angle making you weak inside and out.
"Rub that pretty clit for me and make yourself cum, cmon bunny be a good girl and cum all over Bucky's cock."
A broken whine leaves your lips as you oblige, a shaky hand slipping between your thighs, the first brush of your fingers making you thrash, but you power through until the bursting shocks soothe into a simmering heat that blooms from the inside out.
It's not long until you're squeezing down on him, pussy fluttering as you cum and leak down your thighs, babbling incessantly as he ruts into you, clenching around his cock and thumb with every tidal wave of your orgasm.
"Please, please Bucky—"
"Please what baby?"
"Cum inside me, please Bucky, wanna feel it— need it so bad." you beg brazenly.
That's all he needed to hear, his hips piston up into you at a pace so fast it's nearly bruising and within seconds he's faltering and stilling deep inside you, popping his thumb out to sit you flush against him.
The world buzzes around you and you wait for the ringing in your ears to stop and before you even attempt to speak, Bucky's beating you to it.
"You okay bunny?" he asks as he meets your eyes in the mirror, one hand coming around to rest against your lower tummy. You nod your head with a soft hum, leaning back into him and letting your eyes flutter shut, before a small pinch opens them up.
"Just watch," he mumbles with a gentle lick to the shell of your ear, your eyes following the movement of his hips, watching as he slowly pulls out, a mess of his cum and yours dripping out.
With a soft groan he dips his hand down, middle and ring finger scooping up your mix and spreading across your soaked and sensitive cunt.
WARNINGS: Dub-Con/Non-Con, blood, murder, power imbalance, exhibitionism
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies
summary: You expected to sign away a piece of your soul when you were hired on to serve the Danforth family, but Titus Danforth wouldn't be satisfied until he owned you in mind, body, and spirit.
⛧⃝
When you were hired on to serve the Danforth family—or the Danforth Clan as many liked to call them—you knew that you were stepping foot into the devil’s lair the moment a huge stack of papers were placed before you to read and sign. You knew there’d no doubt be things you’d witness and be privy to that you’d be legally barred from ever speaking about. You hadn’t known then just how depraved and differently the top 1% of the world behaved, but you’d known that you were signing a piece of your soul away in a sense.
…but when you impressively scrawled your name in cursive on that dotted line, you hadn't known you’d be signing your body away too.
Titus Danforth was a gentle brute, if such a thing ever existed. He was one half of the Danforth legacy, a title and inheritance he shared with his twin sister Ursula. He was gruff and crass and possessed a child’s demanding nature despite not having been one for decades. With all of the money in the world in his pocket—and an army of people ready to answer his every beck and call and request at the drop of a hat—he could behave however he pleased without fear of consequence.
An unfortunate fact he took great advantage of.
“This one’s new.”
That was how you were formally introduced, the older man eyeing you in a way that felt extremely distrusting. It didn’t necessarily offend you, understanding the protective nature of some rich asshole to guard his assets and livelihood. Still, the screening process to get hired onto the Danforth estate was a tedious and rigorous one, hardly a walk in the park, so he should’ve known that no one passed through these doors without the utmost confidence they could be trusted.
Your superior, Pernilla, had taken on the task of showing you the ropes, and she’d stopped any and all focus on anything else to give the grey-haired man her undivided attention. It was your first example as to how to act around the immediate family members, and you’d followed her lead, straightening and focusing on nothing else but him.
Such a small act had his full attention.
“Yes, Mr. Danforth,” the other woman confirmed despite the fact that it wasn’t a question. “She’s one of two new editions to the staff, fully screened and hired on only a week ago.”
You hadn’t moved a muscle as he eyed you, looking down his nose at you in a way that had you reminding yourself what you’d signed up for. The money you were getting just to wait on some privileged jerks had you ignoring the glint that passed through his gaze as he ran his eyes over you, slowly as if not to miss a thing.
Mr. Danforth only hummed, a low and deep sound from within his chest.
“Let’s hope you last.”
He was gone without another word, completely dismissive of your presence, and that was the last time you saw him for a while. Two months, in fact. The job didn’t require much more out of you than you expected, and that wasn’t to say that it was easy, but you’d been prepared for the demanding nature of your new employers. Two months. That's how long the wool stayed over your eyes, how long you’d been under the impression you were working for normal rich assholes.
…but then Ursula announced her engagement and then the wedding seemed to happen only a month later and then the wedding night changed everything.
The screams that rang throughout the estate gave you nightmares for months, assaulted by the visions and memories of mopping up fresh blood off of the hard wood floors. You hadn’t been able to stop shaking, a heavy weight settling in your chest as the reality of your new employer crept in. The mountain of papers you’d been forced to sign made more sense than ever in that moment, and you’d only been able to ask yourself one question.
What had you gotten yourself into?
You’d had no way to guess that cleaning up crime scenes would be the least of your problems. Your bloodstained hands took up all of your attention as you slowly and dazedly walked back to the servants’ quarters, cheeks damp from your tears and wondering if there was any way to get out of this. The contract was legally binding, legally preventing you from saying a thing, so surely you could just…leave, right?
So distracted by the physical evidence of your part in all this, you almost ran into one of the few people who could decide your fate in this household. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from gasping in shock, stopping in your tracks and lifting your gaze to his face. The first time you ever met him felt like a whole other life ago, the events of Ursula’s wedding night serving as some paradigm shift.
There was only before and after, now.
Titus Danforth stood before you in all of his intimidating glory, made doubly so by the bloodstained shirt he was still wearing, and you forced yourself not to linger your gaze on it. He seemed to notice your discomfort—your fear—and if you hadn’t known better, you’d say he relished in it. When he took a step towards you, it took everything in you not to take one back.
“What’s your name?”
You forced your mind to work, blinking as you started to mumble the throw away name you’d been told to choose. However, before you could fully get it out, the older man was interrupting you with a bark of a tone. He sounded upset.
“Your real name.”
At that, you frowned, uncertainty tainting your chest. You furiously wracked your brain, accepting that you had never been trained on such a situation before. No one in the family was supposed to even care to know your real name and anything pertaining to your personhood outside of your role as their staff, let alone go out of their way to ask for it.
You nervously swallowed.
“Pernilla said…”
Your quiet words died in the air as Titus Danforth slowly shook his head, stepping towards you with an unyieldingly stern look on his features. You tried and failed to ignore the way your heart raced, keenly aware of the blood on his person and the confirmation of a violent disposition. The terrifying man before you clasped his hands behind his back, and you were forced to stare into his eyes as he held you hostage in this dimly lit corridor.
“What’s my name?” he asked you, that gruff tone of his making the question sound like a growl.
“Titus Danforth,” you answered without hesitation.
“Exactly, and that means this is my estate you’re working on, my money that employs you, and my person that your boss answers to. Do you know what that makes me?”
He didn’t give you a chance to answer.
“That makes me your boss. That means that anything Pernilla or any one of these other disposable staff members ask of you is irrelevant as far as I’m concerned. If she tells you to go left and I tell you to go right, you fucking go right,” he said to you, and you nodded. “Do you understand? Say you understand.”
“I understand,” you forced out, finding it hard to breathe.
Your shaky breath was noticed, and you didn’t like the way he straightened, eyeing you differently now. There was the faintest twitch to his pink lips, and something resembling a faint yet cruel smile lingered.
“Now…what’s your name?” he repeated, his voice softer now.
You quietly told him without hesitation, and he mimicked it.
“Y/N,” he said again with a nod, voice louder now. “Go get yourself cleaned up, and bring a bottle of brandy and a fresh set of towels to my room.”
“Yes, Mr. Danforth.”
At that, he finally moved again, hand coming up between you and you weren’t able to stop yourself from flinching. He only held it there, and when he stepped towards you again, this was the closest he’d ever been. The silence was suffocating as he merely looked at you, a thoughtful look behind those hazel eyes.
“Sir. I want you to call me sir, Y/N.”
You really hated the way he said your name, and you regretted ever telling it to him.
“Yes, sir,” you whispered, and he slowly nodded, a satisfied look washing over his features.
With a simple nod, he dismissed you, and in a short time, you found yourself increasingly more worried about Titus Danforth than the bodies piling up on this estate.
“What about this one?”
You hesitated for only a moment before answering.
“That one’s nice.”
Mr. Danforth threw you a look at that to which you glanced away, and his deep laugh had a shiver crawling up your back.
“You said that two shirts ago,” he distractedly replied, reaching behind his head to slide it off.
“They’re all very nice, sir,” you told him, an honest response.
You avoided looking at him as he searched for another expensive shirt that looked like any other regular shirt, wondering if you would ever stop feeling so…afraid around him.
You didn’t know how nor why, but some kind of way, Titus Danforth decided that it would be you who would see to his every beck and call no matter how small it seemed. It felt like so long since you were even able to fulfill any other kind of household duty, recalling that every time you had a broom or a duster or a load of laundry in your hand, you were being summoned by the older man.
He needed a drink or he wanted a caddie as he golfed or he needed someone to lay out an outfit for him while he showered. You were hired on to answer to the every whim and need of the Danforths, but somehow it was only Titus who consumed most of your time. It was a strange position to be in, having to constantly be around this man who frightened you, but in a way…sometimes you felt like his friend. Or something like it.
The man grew up with the shiniest of silver spoons in his mouth sure, but all of the money and expensive education and best nannies the world had to offer just couldn’t refine the man. They couldn’t make him…fit. The expensive clothes and the handsome face could not hide how rough he was around the edges, how much he seemed to struggle with…behaving.
You, a seemingly nameless staff member, barely counted as a person in their eyes, and so…Mr. Danforth talked. He talked about any and everything to you, some of it interesting and some of it disturbing, but forced to be his confidant regardless. You were a nobody with no one of consequence to repeat it to, and he treated you like your sole purpose was to amuse and humor him.
When you heard him approaching you again, his voice pulled you from your thoughts.
“...and this one?”
He was just barely pulling it on when you looked up, and you ignored his watchful gaze as he moved closer. Sometimes Mr. Danforth watched you like he was looking for something from you—expecting something—and you really wish you knew what it was at times so that you could give it to him and end that observant little stare he liked to fix you with.
“That one’s my favorite,” you honestly told him, and he liked that.
You could tell by the way he tilted his head at you, a secretive smirk on his pink lips.
“Then I’ll wear this one.”
You nodded at that, just wanting this to be over.
You were sure the other staff members thought you got it so easy being forced to spend so much of your time sucking up to and answering to Titus Danforth, but it was worse than scrubbing the kitchen floors to you. The man terrified you beyond belief, even more than Chester Danforth who you’d met only on occasion, the elderly man confined to a bed most days.
Mr. Danforth was quick to react—quick to anger—and in the time you were forced to spend with him, it became clear that the man couldn’t be controlled. Ursula tried, oh she tried, but even you knew that she only had as much control over her brother as he allowed her to. Her hold over him wasn’t real, very easily broken, and you tried not to linger on the things you’d seen in your time here.
“What will you do while I’m gone?”
His gravelly voice had you giving him your attention, and you wracked your brain.
“Your father wants the main garden replanted, and it’s something I’ve been assisting with in between other duties.”
Mr. Danforth had a look on his features like he didn’t like that, lips turned up ever so slightly as he turned his back to you, arms spread out. You rushed to grab his suit jacket from a nearby chair, helping him slide his arms through the sleeves. You didn’t like the low hum that reached your ears, and when he abruptly turned around to face you, you flinched. He was so close, and his gaze slowly dropped, and you took the silent hint.
It was scary how much you grew to know him.
“I want you to wait here…until I get back,” he slowly said as you buttoned the piece of clothing.
His words gave you pause, and he noticed.
“I don’t like these stupid gatherings, and I don’t want to have to hunt you down when I finally return.”
When his jacket was buttoned properly, you took a few steps back, forcing yourself to nod. You regretted it almost immediately, briefly squeezing your eyes shut.
“You know I hate that…”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I understand,” you said to him. “I’ll be here.”
He fixed you with a look that you couldn't name, and then he was gone, and you let out the breath you’d been holding.
It wasn’t the first time Mr. Danforth demanded you basically die of boredom in his bedroom while you waited for him to come back. Sometimes you had to when he was meeting with his father or having a drink with a friend in one of the studies or even when he went out for the night and brought some strange woman back to one of the many guest rooms. He’d offhandedly mentioned once that he didn’t like bringing women back to his bedroom.
You only guessed why when you had the unfortunate task of cleaning that previously occupied guest bedroom one day, disturbed by the alarming amount of blood on the sheets.
Too many times did you find yourself fetching him a fresh towel or something to drink or even eat in the middle of the night, doing your best to ignore his state of undress while some other staffer handled the task of escorting his woman of the night off the property. You felt like a mere object with the sole purpose of serving him in some way, like a letter opener patiently waiting in his desk drawer until it needed to be used.
You told yourself that you could be spending this time doing worse things, acknowledging that at least his bedroom was five times the size of every apartment you’d ever had. During moments like this you mostly sat around in a chair, occasionally poking around in something innocent. Even rarer, you sometimes nodded off, hard to fight sleep when Mr. Danforth had you waiting around like some dog.
…and it didn’t help that he required so much of you.
You sometimes thought that it was fortunate you didn’t get to accomplish many other household tasks because waiting after the older gentleman took so much out of you itself. It never sank in just how much you’d been running around until it was time for bed and your body felt weighed down by sand. This being one of those times.
Approaching his bookshelf, you pulled one at random and plopped yourself into a chair.
You were at the estate for a year when Mr. Danforth made you cry for the first time.
It was a miracle really that you lasted a year before he ‘broke’ you, but the circumstances didn’t call for any other reaction. A year of doting on him and validating his every choice and fetching him his every desire no matter how ridiculous ultimately amounted to nothing. Well…it wasn’t nothing, but more so the complete opposite of anything you’d ever expected.
Titus Danforth was a protective and selfish bastard when it came to anything he deemed as his. His fortune, his house, his car. Resource guarding is the term you often heard used for animals, and Mr. Danforth—not all that removed from an animal—was very guilty of such. You were a frequent witness to the way he snapped and growled and protectively curled over anything he thought someone was trying to take from him. That description didn’t seem like an exaggeration in your mind, thinking to yourself that that’s exactly how he came off.
It didn’t scare you until the thing he was viciously guarding was you.
A year of answering his every beck and call had certainly garnered you the unofficial title of Titus Danforth’s servant amongst your coworkers. His food was always handed to you, his rooms were left alone by anyone but you, and it was only you who handled his every need and request. So much so that when he needed to travel, he wouldn’t hear of taking anyone but you to accompany him.
You’d gotten sick once, and hearing that it wouldn’t be you fetching his towels, he hadn’t wanted assistance from anyone else. Of course, he’d made that known at the time in a way that was less than polite, but the message had gotten across loud and clear. You thought he just saw your labor and your time on the clock as his—his right, you supposed—but you hadn’t realized that he saw you the person, not the employee, the same way.
You made a mistake by getting distracted.
Mr. Danforth’s food wasn’t quite ready when you went to retrieve it, and so you’d occupied the wait time by exchanging silly bullshit with one of the cooks you saw often. He was younger than you, but still handsome nonetheless in that boyish charm sort of way. You two weren’t best friends or anything, but you were no strangers to each other. A soft laugh had been on your lips when the kitchen grew so silent so quickly, it couldn’t help but to be noticed. The young man in front of you had swallowed the rest of what he was saying, looking over your shoulder now with a back so straight that you knew who was back there before you even turned around.
Titus Danforth wasn’t looking at anyone but you when you faced him, and you swallowed at a look in his eyes you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of. His hands were behind his back and his legs were spread just enough to firmly plant his feet, looking more like a strict military man than some spoiled heir. The relaxed slouch of your frame dissipated, and the older man before you took notice.
You could hear a pin drop.
“Is this how you choose to spend your time when you’re supposed to be waiting on me?” he slowly asked, a sarcastic lilt to his tone.
“No, sir,” you hurried to answer. “Your food isn’t ready yet–.”
“So you come back to me and tell me that,” he sternly interrupted with a nod. “...and then you come back down here and get it when it is ready.”
You swallowed, starting to nod before thinking better of it.
“Yes, sir.”
Those hazel eyes of his eyed you for what felt like a long time, and you’d gotten better at not squirming beneath his gaze. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking at this moment, but you knew that you didn’t like it, and you didn’t relax at all when he turned his attention to the man behind you instead.
“What’s your name?”
He accepted your friend’s response, slowly nodding.
“When my food is ready, you bring it to me,” Mr. Danforth pointed at him, and you fought to keep the frown off of your face.
The grey-haired man sharply cut his gaze back to you, jerking his head, and you moved quickly, not wanting to upset him further.
His footsteps were heavy behind you as you exited the kitchen, and the walk back to his room was silent. For the most part. You could hear his breathing, that's how close he was, and you could feel the heavy and heated weight of his gaze on you. You mentally scolded yourself, torn between wanting to call yourself all kinds of idiotic names and giving yourself grace for arguably the smallest fuck up you could make.
…and it was your first offense too.
“I want to apologize again, sir,” you said to him once the door was closed behind you both. “I didn’t think it would take more than a few minutes.”
He didn’t respond right away, merely looking at you as he moved about his room.
“Ursula has taken it upon herself to be a gracious host to some friends tomorrow night,” he finally said, completely ignoring your apology. “Find me something…nice to wear.”
You felt somewhat relieved at the direction of the conversation, a soft ‘of course’ leaving you as you made your way to his closet. You knew what he liked and what colors suited him best, so you were completely immersed in your thoughts when he followed you. You hadn't even heard him approach, normally so careless about the sound of his footfalls.
“Do you like him?”
His voice surprised you, and you jumped slightly before turning to face him.
Mr. Danforth was staring at you with an expectant look on his face, brows furrowed just the slightest. He was closer than he normally stood, head tilting just a tad as you processed his words.
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you like him?” he repeated, saying your friend’s name.
Understanding washed over you, and you blinked.
“He’s my friend,” you answered with a shrug. “I see him a lot whenever I have to go down to the kitchen.”
Mr. Danforth’s only response was a low hum, seemingly satisfied with that answer, and he took a step back just as a knock sounded on his door. You had no doubt that was the food that he’d just made such a fuss over, proven right moments later, and as you tilted your head to gaze into the bedroom, you watched the way the older man eyed the younger one. Mr. Danforth stood close to him as he watched him set down his food, thick arms crossed over his chest, and when those hazel eyes rose to meet yours, you quickly looked away.
You found it odd that he both asked for your friend’s name and asked him to bring him his food. It was unlike him, and while Mr. Danforth could be unpredictable on occasion, he was a pretty consistent man who liked his routine. That’s why no one was more surprised than you to be woken out of your sleep by Pernilla, the other woman telling you that Mr. Danforth—your Mr. Danforth—was requesting the presence of you both.
“It’s probably some poor woman he’s brought back to the estate,” she’d mumbled as you both hurried through the corridors. “He must need a clean up.”
Her wording gave you pause, and you recalled the blood you saw on occasion after he spent a night in a guest room. You had naively assumed things got a little rough, perhaps a nose bleed or some kink gone wrong, but it hadn’t occurred to you that anyone in this family could be killing people outside of a wedding night gone wrong. Your stomach churned at the thought, but you frowned as you thought to yourself that you never knew Mr. Danforth to bring women back to his room.
Your uneasy feeling only increased when you made it through his threshold.
The older man stood there in a bloodstained shirt, reminiscent of that night of Ursula’s wedding, and his hands weren’t too much cleaner. He looked so calm, like he wasn’t standing before you as some bloody mess, and you found yourself shaking much like you had that night. As you moved closer, your vision was drawn to shiny black work shoes just barely peeking out past the foot of the bed.
“Pernilla, give that to Y/N so she can start wiping this up. Go bring us a mop too.”
He said the words so nonchalantly as you slowly moved further into the room, the frown on your face dropping completely.
The scream that left you sounded like something out of a horror movie, and you couldn't stop yourself from stumbling back against a nearby chair. Your hysteric reaction had Pernilla following you before listening to him, and you even heard her gasp. If she was just as shocked and horrified as you, she didn’t show it, and you could feel her eyes on you as you stared at the body—the familiar body—through tearful wide eyes.
“Pernilla,” Mr. Danforth snapped, and she didn’t hesitate any longer…leaving you alone with him.
He tossed the towel at you, and it bounced off of your chest and onto the floor.
“Clean this up,” he spat, but you couldn’t move.
The body of your friend was facing away from you, facedown but the way his head was turned on his cheek allowed your eyes to connect with his empty lifeless ones. There wasn’t much blood beneath him, most of it on Mr. Danforth’s shirt, and you couldn’t stop yourself from shaking. You could hear him speaking, but barely so, the sound muffled to your ears.
When he was in your line of sight again, you just stared at him in a mixture of horror and disbelief. Your body kept going back and forth from hot to cold, growing more lightheaded by the minute as the room started to sway. You hadn’t even realized that your legs had begun to shake until you reached out for the chair to steady yourself.
“Y/N,” he finally said your name, voice gruff and bordering on angry. “Clean. This. Up.”
You just stared at him, unable to move and asking yourself why, using your eyes to ask him why.
Pernilla returned before you could move, and you could feel her looking between you both. Logically you knew that you needed to listen to him unless you wanted to lose your job or worse, but you physically couldn’t move. He was giving you a demand, and you couldn’t bring yourself to obey. A sob climbed out of your throat, and you tried to blink the tears away.
“Mr. Danforth, I’d be more than happy to–.”
“No, Pernilla,” he barked, keeping his eyes on you. “She will clean this up.”
Your gaze turned pleading as you looked at him, slowly shaking your head.
“No?” Mr. Danforth wondered, leaning in. “Are you telling me no?”
Your breath was coming out in chops, now, and you were finding it so hard to breathe.
“Please…please,” you softly said. “I…”
You felt like you were going to be sick, but before you could be, Mr. Danforth lunged for you. The shriek you let out was loud, a pained whine escaping you at the harsh grip he had on your arms. He was sadly just as strong as he looked, and you couldn’t swallow down your cries as he all but threw you to the ground…right next to his body.
You were an inconsolable mess as you attempted to stand, but the older man was right there, harsh hands on your shoulders as he forced you back down to your knees. He forced the towel into your hands, his own hands wrapping around your wrists as he physically made you move yours back and forth along the bloody floor.
“Pernilla, get it out of here,” he told her, and your sobs grew louder as she did just that, dragging the body of your friend towards the door. “Y/N will clean up this mess.”
You could barely see through your tears, crying out every time more blood got on your hands. Mr. Danforth knelt over you the whole time, fingers harshly pressing into your skin and nose gently at your ear as he forced you to do what he demanded. When the towel had served its purpose, he repeated the actions with the mop, harshly yanking you to your feet.
Mopping up the rest of the blood felt like an out of body experience, his hands over yours and his chest at your back as he forced you to participate in the disposal of your friend. When the floor was spotless, Pernilla returned to retrieve the cleaning supplies, and again you could feel her eyes on you.
You knew what she was thinking.
What did you do? How had you offended Titus Danforth to deserve this? And how had you dragged your coworker into it? The man had so much as never laid a finger on you, and in one hour he’d yanked you around and threw you to the floor into a pool of blood. You were covered in it.
With her gone, and with the floor clean, Mr. Danforth kept a firm hold on you as he forced you into the bathroom. The bright lights had you blinking and squinting, looking down as you stumbled forward. His firm chest was still at your back, and you couldn’t even linger on the oddness of that, too distracted by the blood on your hands.
When he turned on the sink, it felt almost…romantic as he put both of your hands under the water. The hot liquid and soap broke up the bodily fluid, and you could only tearfully watch the pink water swirl down the drain. Mr. Danforth meticulously washed both of your hands together, his even breathing in your ear such a contrast from your own. You absentmindedly noted how warm he felt against you, the smell of cigar smoke and cologne filling your nose.
When he was satisfied, he turned off the water, and he took half a second to grab a towel and push it into your hands. He held it there, and you slowly lifted your tearful gaze to meet his evenly cold one, pink lips pressed together. The grey stubble around them moved slightly as they twitched, and he eyed you with a look that made your blood run cold.
“I hope that now nothing else will distract you from me.”
An unintelligible sound left your throat at his words, and for the first time ever, you shrank away from him in unbridled fear.
Mr. Danforth watched you keenly as you wiped down his desk, and you pretended not to notice.
You’d always been a little terrified of him, but it was different now. Seeing the aftermath of his brutality or watching him manhandle some other staffer hadn’t prepared you for being on the receiving end of it yourself. Especially not in the manner you had that night, and you swallowed at the thought.
The memory of blood and a body haunted you for months, plaguing your mind with nightmares night after night. It made it hard to find sleep, and many days you might as well have been dead on your feet. Your friend had been killed because of you, that much you knew whether Mr. Danforth came outright and said it or not. He never did even try to give some half assed excuse that explained how an employee ended up dead in his bedroom, but this was the Danforth Clan—a family that practically controlled the world—and what was one body of some insignificant employee?
Your friend’s fate often brought tears to your eyes.
Sometimes you wondered if you’d be next should you piss him off enough, but there was a part of you that vehemently denied that. Mr. Danforth seemed very…intent on you—intent to watch you, intent to have you near him, intent to keep you. Funnily enough, that knowledge scared you more than anything, keenly aware of the way he studied you any time he so much as told you to get him a drink.
Tonight, it was several drinks.
“I’ll be back late, but I want two glasses brought to my room,” he said to you.
“Yes, sir.”
The greying man simply eyed you at that, so close and so silent as he ran his hazel eyes over your face, drinking you in. That air of distrust he’d first expressed when you first met was long gone, the older man more than sure that he’d scared you into submission, scared you so much that you would never even dream of crossing him.
You hated that he was right.
When he was around, the hours seemed to drag on for ages, but when he was gone, time seemed to fly by. Between cleaning duties and fetching a thing or two for Ursula, the hours passed swiftly, and you were informed when he was back at the estate well into the night. You were alone as you fixed the drinks—always alone these days—and you tried not to linger on the aftermath of that night.
None of your coworkers wanted to get too close to you, the rumors spreading amongst the staff, a mix of speculation and the truth swirling around you. Pernilla often sent you a sympathetic look when no one was looking, she being the only other witness to that horrible night and Mr. Danforth’s treatment of you. Only she had witnessed the second defining night of your time here, and as you made your way upstairs, you were unaware that a third was in the making.
So focused on pleasing him and not wanting to be on the receiving end of some other traumatic treatment, you hadn’t realized what you’d walked into until you were right in front of it. You almost dropped the tray of drinks, a full bottle of some expensive Cognac in the other hand. You were quick to steady your grip, squeezing your eyes shut and turning your head away.
“I apologize, sir Danforth, I had not realized…”
Your words died in the air as you completely turned away from the scene before you.
You weren’t currently looking at them, but the sight of his taught form brutally pushing into the woman beneath him was at the forefront of your mind. You could still hear her soft moans and his heavy breathing, and you briefly looked towards the ceiling, wondering if this could get any worse.
“Set it down,” you heard him say, voice strained and tone thick with an unsatisfied appetite.
You did as he said, placing everything just as he liked it, fully prepared to leave.
“Did I say you could go?”
His question had you halting your steps, and your lips parted as you stared at the wall in front of you. The woman he was with made a slight noise filled with frustration and confusion, and you noted that you didn’t hear the soft movement of the bed anymore. A chill passed through you as you internally wondered if this was actually happening, and you felt you should’ve known this night was going to be off when he brought a woman back to his bedroom.
You knew Mr. Danforth was entirely serious, and your shoulders sank.
“Turn around.”
The huskiness of his tone has you shuddering, and you hesitated for half a second before doing just that.
You stared at the wall behind them, forcing yourself not to cry at the trajectory of your night. The room was filled with silence, and you could feel his gaze on you, watching you and watching your reaction. You didn’t understand why he was doing this, but then he told you to look at him, and your frown deepened.
When you did, he held your gaze for a few seconds before he started moving again. Your brows twitched as he fucked some woman you’d never seen before, her tan skin contrasting against his pale hue. She didn’t seem to mind, at all that you were an unwilling voyeur to this, and when the older man looked down at the woman beneath him, you looked away.
That lasted for all of four seconds.
You heard her gasp in shock and when you looked over he was up and coming towards you. You couldn’t stop your eyes from widening, keeping your gaze on his face as Mr. Danforth approached you in all of his naked glory. The muscles in his arms and chest moved with every step, and your employer didn’t stop until he was right in front of you.
His bare chest heaved as he stared you down, nostrils flaring.
“What did I say?”
Your face was on fire, but your eyes were anything but, looking at him pleadingly.
“Sir–.”
Your words were cut off as he roughly grabbed your chin, holding it in his hand as his gaze passed between your own. You glanced behind him briefly, noting the way the woman was propped on the bed, an impatient look resting on her face. When you looked at him again, his thumb brushed along your skin, and you were sickenly aware of his state of undress and his close proximity.
“You will look at me, and if I catch you looking away, I’m going to be very unhappy,” he gruffly told you.
When you gave him the response you wanted, a tear skipping down your cheek, he turned his back on you.
Forced to watch this, you couldn’t do anything but wring your hands together, flinching every time his palm sharply came down against her skin. She seemed to like it, and you wished you could disassociate on command, but alas you were acutely aware of everything. Every groan he made, every curse that fell from his lips, and every animalistic noise that climbed out of this throat. You were even aware of the way his tongue touched his lip as he watched himself disappear into her and the way his stomach tightened with every push of his hips.
You felt yourself shudder every time his gaze lifted to you, and you knew that Mr. Danforth had no doubt you wouldn’t disobey him. He just wanted to watch you watch him fuck this woman. Those hazel eyes of his wanted to watch you squirm with discomfort, wanted to look at you as you observed him in his most bestial—yet vulnerable—moments.
Your skin was warm and your head was spinning and to your great dismay, there was tightening that had begun in your lower stomach. You hated this, and you’d only been more miserable one other time in your life, but even still the sight before you had you squeezing your thighs together, wholly ashamed of what was happening.
…and when he came inside of her with a brutish grunt, pinning her beneath him and a thin layer of sweat coating his frame, you couldn't have run away faster, consequences be damned.
The trajectory of your relationship with Mr. Danforth—with Titus—shouldn’t have surprised you.
…and yet it did.
It seemed that he didn't want to deal with the hassle of a body every time he wanted to break you a little more, so his new favorite pastime was getting his rocks off with you as a witness. Nameless woman after nameless woman was brought onto the estate, and night after night, you were forced to stand there and watch as he fucked every single one. You wondered if this was your punishment after running out that first night, or if this was inevitable and staying put wouldn’t have changed a thing.
Every time he finished inside of them, he crudely sent them on their way, promising that someone would see to it that they get home. They would leave while still struggling to get their dress zipped up or their underwear completely on, and Mr. Danforth would stride around you as naked as the day he was born, telling you to turn his shower on while he nursed his drink.
This psychosexual torture he liked to engage in was messing with your head, and he knew it, and you often wondered what the end goal was. Maybe he took pleasure in just messing with the staff, with you, or maybe this was all part of some drawn out punishment for offending him months ago. You often wondered when it would end, when he would grow bored of tormenting you or bored of even just having you around.
It had never occurred to you that he was purposely fighting against something that was inevitable.
Titus Danforth wanted you, and not just in the way that a spoiled child wants his favorite toy all to himself. He wanted every part of you in his hands and beneath his lips. He wanted all of you in every way he could get you, and the countless women he fucked underneath your terrified gaze served a purpose of satisfying the twisted sexual craving he had for the very same woman he was forcing to be a witness to his depravity.
You didn’t know any of that though.
Not until he was gruffly telling you to sit on his bed one day.
You’d hesitated, glancing at the untouched dinner you brought him, and you could tell by the darkening look in his eye that he didn’t want to have to tell you twice. Your heart was in your stomach as you slowly walked towards the impressive piece of furniture, legs shaking with every step. You didn’t want to believe what your mind was lingering on, but something in the back of your mind scolded you, calling you a fool for never considering this is where you’d end up.
Any man that could kill without so much as a blink or ounce of remorse was a deviant, and any man that could force you to watch him have sex with countless women with no care to how uncomfortable it made you was a sexual deviant. It made sense in the moment that he wouldn’t just stop there, and still you hoped. His eyes never strayed from you once, and giving him one last glance—looking for anything that might ease your worries—you leaned your hands and backside against the mattress.
You didn’t miss his slow exhale as you pressed down, sliding back.
“Right there is just fine,” he said, forcing you to stop, just seated on the edge.
The silence surrounding you was deafening, and Mr. Danforth only stared at you for a moment or two before slowly walking towards you. You couldn’t stop yourself from swallowing at his approach, and you had no doubt that he noticed. You didn’t take your eyes off of him as he stood this close to you—too afraid to—and you only had a few seconds to mentally prepare yourself for whatever was about to happen.
He was slow to kneel in front of you, and your fearful confusion morphed into just plain old fear when his hands found a home on your knees, slowly pushing. You couldn’t stop your lips from trembling as he parted them slightly, hands sliding up your thighs to meet at the button in the center.
“I don’t want you wearing these pants anymore,” he quietly said to you from in between your legs as he unbuttoned them. “A skirt. You’ll look nice in a skirt.”
Your gaze slowly lifted to the ceiling as he curled his fingers over the top of your slacks, yanking and jerking them until he was sliding them off of your legs. If he noticed the tears in your eyes, tears that eventually fell, he didn’t say anything. He likely didn’t care.
When he leaned in, you could feel his breath on your clothed skin, your legs trembling when he slowly parted your thighs further. His rough fingers gently brushed along your flesh, and you heard him deeply inhale the closer he got. His fingers were getting dangerously close to your underwear, and you could only close your eyes as he hooked a finger into them.
The tip of his tongue touched you as he held the fabric to the side, stretching it to give him access. It was a featherlight touch, and yet you jerked all the same. Your nails dug into his bed as a means to cope, wishing that you could just push him away and run off of this estate without fear of consequence, never looking back. As it were though, all you could think about was bloodstained shirts and dead bodies and a family with enough money to make you disappear a thousand times over.
Mr. Danforth gently touched you with his tongue again…and again, and when he did something unexpected, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your mound, you couldn’t hold in your gasp. It seemed to trigger something in him, a switch turning on as he practically growled against you before leaning back and roughly ripping the thin scrap of fabric past your thighs and off your ankles.
When the older man fully pressed his mouth to your cunt, you tried to control yourself. One of your hands slid to behind your back, struggling to remain sitting up as his stubble scratched against your thighs in a way that had you squirming. His hold was tight on you as he ate at you, tongue sliding between your folds so slowly and in a gentle way you didn’t expect. When he yanked you just a little more towards the edge, your arms faltered, and you desperately wanted to remain as unfazed as you could.
…but Titus Danforth was good at what he was doing.
When he sucked at your flesh in time with pressing his tongue to your walls, you let out a shuddering breath against your will. The longer he moved his tongue inside of you, the harder it was to remain sitting up, lashes fluttering as you desperately pressed a hand to his head. He didn’t budge, and you sank your teeth into your lip.
You wanted him off of you.
No such thing was going to happen though, you knew that, and you whined in frustration. When he spread your thighs further, your arms finally caved, failing you and you stared at the intricate designs on the ceiling when you fell back. Your thighs were trembling, and steady moans started to crawl out of your throat, each one louder than the last.
You could hear yourself pleading, sometimes pleading for more, sometimes pleading for him to stop. His fingers dug into your thighs painfully as he held you open for him, and your head slowly moved from side to side in time with the heaving of your chest. When you dared to look down, all you saw was a vision of silver in between your thighs, and you threw your head back once again.
When you came, it was with an embarrassing whimper, eyes squeezed shut and thighs pressing against his head. You came so hard it almost hurt, and Mr. Danforth didn’t pull away until he felt like it, mouth completely pressed to you as you fell apart onto his tongue. When you tried to crawl away, he just held you in place, lazily curling his tongue into you and making your toes flex.
When he finally pulled away, letting you go and allowing your legs to drop, the tears finally spilled over. You laid there on his bed with tears running past your ears as he stood over you, and you didn’t know where to go from here. You didn’t want to look at him, just waiting for him to dismiss you so you could be free to lose your mind in peace.
When he eventually did, you couldn’t get away from him fast enough, grabbing your underwear and your pants with a quickness that surprised you. Your speedy exit however was stopped by a harsh grip on your arm, and when that harsh grip became outright painful, you were forced to meet his gaze, shrinking away at his close proximity.
You didn’t know what he was thinking as he intensely eyed you, and you flinched when he jerked his head.
“My food is cold,” was all he said, making you deflate.
When he let you go, you took a few shaky steps away from him, struggling to organize your thoughts.
“Yes, sir,” you forced out with a nod. “I’ll get you a new plate, right away.”
You felt nauseous as you grabbed the tray, legs unsteady as you walked towards the door. He didn’t stop looking at you once, and you felt deeply uncomfortable with every step you took, cringing at the wet feeling between your thighs as you made your way back down to the kitchen.
Titus Danforth was an insatiable man.
That one evening in his bedroom triggered a chain reaction of events that weren’t surprising to you, just disappointing and terrifying. The number of women he brought back to the estate decreased until he eventually brought none back at all. Why would he now? That was what you were for—a ‘willing’ and bought body that couldn’t fight back or refuse him.
You didn’t know if you’d ever get used to the sound of his heavy breathing washing over you, a rough and tight grip in your hair as your lips covered his cock. That was mostly what you did at first, suck him off during just about every visit, and that seemed to be all he wanted for a time. That and spending the occasional afternoon with his face between your legs, making you fall apart again and again when you were supposed to be steaming his clothes or dusting his furniture.
It almost seemed like he was holding himself back from crossing another line—the final line—but you knew that it would be crossed eventually. He was never going to be satisfied with just the feel of his cock in your mouth, inevitably giving into that hunger for more. It was an every day thing, his hands on or in you, curling his fingers into you and massaging your walls, whatever task you’d been in the middle of long forgotten.
It went unnoticed. After all, it wasn’t unusual for Titus Danforth to take up so much of your time, and it’s not like the sexual abuse was taking place anywhere outside of his bedroom. For the time being anyway. The toll it was taking on you, however, did go noticed, and Ursula merely pursed her lips at the third piece of china you broke this week.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Danforth,” you hurried to say, looking for something to clean it up with.
You didn’t even bother giving some excuse, only struggling to avoid her thoughtful gaze as she looked down at you. A soft hum left her throat, and her heels slowly clicked against the floor as she circled you.
“My brother isn’t working you too hard, is he?”
You almost laughed at the loaded question, schooling your features and looking up at her with a tight smile.
“No, Ms. Danfoth,” you lied. “I just haven’t been sleeping very well.”
That part wasn’t a lie, and the half truth seemed to satisfy her although it did nothing to lessen the frown on her face. Ursula was by no means a good woman, but you knew that she didn’t appreciate her brother’s brutal nature. Especially when it came to women, and she only watched you for a moment more before telling you to be swift in cleaning up the mess.
Ursula was smart, and you knew that she didn’t fully believe you, but clearly she didn’t feel unnerved or worried enough to press it further. Her brother’s attachment to you was no secret, and truthfully, she’d probably long seen where this would inevitably lead before you had. Even if you did tell her the truth, you knew that she couldn't stop him, Ursula having no real control over Titus.
She wouldn't have been able to stop him from killing your friend just to scare you into submission nor stop him from forcing you to be a witness to whatever depravity he was up to at night nor keep his hands off of you. She especially wouldn’t have been able to stop him from fucking you.
There was nothing special about the day he first pushed his cock into you.
The sun was shining and the food you brought him was only half eaten and he’d only taken a few sips of the brown drink you brought him before he was roughly reaching for your face. He’d never kissed you before, and the action took you by surprise, a noise of shock escaping you. His hands were tight on your face, holding you so fiercely that you couldn’t even think about getting away.
Your hands against his chest meant nothing as they became pinned between you, and as he pressed himself against you, you could feel him. You could feel his arousal, feel how hard he was, and you knew then that he had no intention of stopping. He had no intention of letting you walk out of that door without knowing what it felt like to be stretched around him—to be dominated in the way that mattered most.
You hadn’t been prepared for all the biting.
Titus liked to leave little nips along your neck and shoulder and even breasts, hands painfully tight on your skin as he drove himself into you again and again. The bands of muscle that were his arms rippled with every movement, and you hadn't been able to swallow down a single noise as he fucked you into his bed, his bare skin slapping against yours.
However brutish you thought he was during the day was nothing compared to what he was like when he had you wrapped around his cock. He was borderline feral, noises leaving his lips that sounded a lot like the growl of some predatory animal enjoying the taste of its prey. Every movement from you resulted in him tightening his hold on you like some constrictor, satisfied at the way you could barely move beneath him, serving your only purpose of taking the length of him with ease.
Titus fucked you well into the evening, coming into you with loud groans before catching his breath in the crook of your neck. You laid beneath him shaking like a leaf, chest heaving and skin glistening with sweat. When he eventually pulled out of you, any thoughts you had of leaving were shut down as he gruffly told you to get his shower going for him.
You hadn’t expected him to pull you inside with him, feeling wholly out of place as he showered with his back to you. You’d glanced at the exit through the glass shower door, turning back only to find his intense gaze on you. He said nothing—his eyes saying it all—and you’d swallowed as he moved closer, handing you a bar of soap and turning back around.
“My back,” was all he mumbled, and you listened to the unsaid request.
When you were done in the shower, you hadn’t been prepared for him to force you to your knees, a harsh grip in your hair as he pulled you closer.
Titus loved the sight of your lips wrapped around him, sometimes more than satisfied with just that, sending you on your way for the time being with the taste of him lingering on your tongue. But he didn’t love it more than being inside of you, looking the most at peace you’d ever seen him when he was watching his cock disappear into you.
Every chance he was presented with, he was fucking you with a vigor that always left you so worn out. When he summoned you to his room at night or when he bent you over his desk and even when he had you on his bathroom counter, your lips parted and head forced back as he yanked on the hair at the nape of your neck.
“Look at me, Y/N,” he breathed, thighs pressing against yours. “Look at me.”
There was an edge creeping into his voice when he repeated himself, and you obeyed him, tearful eyes on him as he pounded into you. Your uniform was haphazardly thrown somewhere, and one of your hands was pressed against the hard wood of his desk, the other pressing into his defined chest. Your breathing was choppy and your eyes were fluttering, the weight of unfinished tasks and all that came with Titus’ demanding appetite catching up to you.
“Keep them on me,” he told you. “I want you to look at me when I fuck you.”
The desk shook beneath the force of his thrusts.
“I want those pretty eyes on me when I take you apart.”
His nose brushed against yours with every movement, and you fought to hold his gaze, recalling the last time you disobeyed him. Your backside had been sore for days, shuddering at the memory of his hand coming down again and again onto the sensitive skin of your ass cheeks.
Titus always talked to you during like a normal couple—telling you what felt good, telling you what he wanted you to do, praising you. It was an interesting position to be in because hours later, he’d be treating you like the servant you were, but somewhere in his twisted mind, this whole arrangement was…nice. To him, this was wholesome.
So much so…that when Chester Danforth demanded a marriage and an heir under threat of revoking the fortune, Titus Danforth would not consider anyone but you.
…what…?” you breathed, frowning at Ursula, tears collecting in your eyes.
She looked just as distraught as you though she did a much better job of hiding it.
When she requested your presence in her study one morning, you’d had no way of guessing what this could possibly be about. All sorts of possibilities ran through your mind, your unconventional dynamic with her brother being at the top of the list. You’d been wracked with nerves the whole way there, and the words she said to you were the absolute last thing you'd ever expected.
“It’s…not going to happen,” she slowly told you, leaning against her desk and gazing down at you. “Titus is no better than a child with his favorite toy of the week.”
You took no offense to her analogy, often repeating something similar yourself.
“Although I shouldn’t be surprised at the true nature of your…rapport.”
She made a slight face at her choice of word, and you swallowed. The blonde woman didn't miss that, and she pursed her lips, something akin to a look of sympathy on her beautiful features.
“My brother has never had any qualms about getting what he wants, no matter how frowned upon or uncouth it may be. I can’t imagine what you’ve endured.”
You blinked back tears, looking away and shaking your head in disbelief.
“Father’s putting his foot down and giving us an ultimatum and Titus is lashing out,” she assured you. “That’s all this is.”
That's what she said, but somehow you still found yourself standing before Chester Danforth in all of his sickly glory, having a discussion with him you never thought you’d have.
“What is the nature of your relationship with my son?”
You said nothing to the ailing man, pressing your lips together as you fought the urge to tell him that his son was a depraved rapist, fully aware that the man in question was just outside of that door. When your lips quivered and you looked away, the older man made a noise.
“Ah.” he quietly said. “I feared that was the truth of it.”
You weren’t some gold digging whore after the Danforth fortune, and you weren’t some wanton maneater looking to get your claws into Titus Danforth. You were a woman who realized too late that she signed every single part of her away on that fateful day, and that was the gist of what you said to him.
“I’m sure you can find some other woman—any woman—willing to be his bride who he will be satisfied with.”
The other man coughed, an awful hacking sound, and you flinched.
“He demands no one but you,” he finally breathed. “He is entirely willing not to fight me on this…so long as it is you.”
You looked down at that.
“That is the only satisfaction he seeks.”
You wracked your brain, fully prepared to come up with some other argument when he spoke again, completely quieting your fears.
“It will not happen,” he said with so much conviction that it should’ve offended you, but you were only glad to be in agreement with the dying oligarch. “I will not give into his childish whims.”
The old man told you that, and you certainly believed it, but even he hadn’t been able to predict the ruthlessness Titus could possess when he felt like he was being controlled.
Chester Danforth died peacefully in his sleep, and for a long time, that's what mostly everyone believed, but only you and a few others had been privy to the screams that night. Only an unlucky few heard the sound of Ursula’s panicked voice bouncing throughout the corridor walls, asking Titus what he’d done. Only you had the luxury of stripping the old man’s former bed, shaky gaze locked onto the small spots of blood on his pillowcase.
It wasn’t long before Ursula was singing a different tune, and you didn’t know what Titus said to her, but she’d only watched in perfect silence and an unspoken disapproval as her brother presented you with a ring. You’d stared at it in horror, stomach churning to a painful degree, and you made the mistake of looking to the blonde woman for help.
“Don’t fucking look at her,” Titus snapped, and he forced your gaze back to him. “What are you looking at her for?”
He tilted his head at you, that hazel stare of his so intense, and you could feel your legs shaking.
“Titus,” you breathed, a few tears finally spilling over.
You could tell he was getting angry, his chest starting to heave, and when he pressed his chest to yours, all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut. The ring carried the weight of the world as he slid it onto your trembling finger.
The wedding was a small intimate affair, only close family in attendance, many of whom you’d met before but under completely different circumstances. On one hand, you felt like you should’ve counted yourself lucky to be marrying into the Danforth family, but you knew you held absolutely no power even though you carried the name.
The ring, the dress, the ceremony…none of it was proof of your transition from a nobody to someone with a hand in the biggest influence over the world. It was not a ceremony that propped you up as an equal, worthy of walking side by side with Titus Danforth as he controlled the seat in tandem with his sister.
You were official property now.
The ring may as well have been a collar, the dress a noose, and the name a brand placed upon your skin. You were not Titus Danforth’s wife now, but his property with nothing to your name that wasn’t acquired through him. He owned you with pride, and as you said ‘I do’ and allowed him to fiercely press his lips to yours, there was no escaping him.
Your only hope was the wedding night.
The fucked up tradition was no secret to you, and as the defining moment drew closer, you could only hope that you’d pull the one bad card. You practically prayed for it, knowing that you’d only escape your new husband through death, and some part of you wondered if he would have what it took to do it should fate have other plans for you that didn’t involve a married life with Titus.
You begged and begged and begged for it, desiring death over this.
You considered it an act of mercy, one you hoped you were granted, and as you all sat around the table, no one was more nervous than you as that old intricate card dispenser was passed from hand to hand and then finally you. Your left hand felt weighed down by the ring you didn’t want, and as you turned the box in your grasp, you briefly glanced up at Ursula.
You knew if it came down to it, she’d have no trouble killing you.
The thought almost made you smile, but you didn’t, glancing over at Titus as he leaned back in his chair…waiting. You looked around at your other new in-laws too, your veil grazing your cheek as your heart raced. You could tell by the sound of him shifting that Titus was growing impatient—anxious to see how this night would progress—and you flinched a bit when the box clicked, the sound of your fate ringing in the quiet room.
You felt yourself go stiff when the card was finally in your hand.
You could hear a pin drop, that’s how quiet it was, and the longer you stared at the card, the more your heart started to race. Your lips trembled, and you couldn’t stop yourself from collecting tears in your eyes, wanting a hole to swallow you up.
“What does it say?” Titus impatiently asked, and when you didn’t answer he took it from you.
The tears finally spilled over just as you looked up at Ursula, a familiar deep laugh reaching your ears.
“She got Old Maid,” he huskily said, flipping the card around to show everybody
Light laughs reached your ears, and you tried to hide just how upset you were, but when your gaze met that of your husband’s…he saw. He saw the sadness and fear and even disappointment, disappointment that you wouldn’t be killed tonight, and his jaw clenched.
You paid for it later when it was just the two of you, consummating your marriage in true traditional fashion. Your dress was a bundle of white on the floor, and Titus had your legs wrapped around his waist. His strokes were slow and torturous, his heavy breathing mixing in with yours—his excited and yours pained.
His hand was tightly curled around your throat, thick fingers harshly pressing into your skin as he leisurely fucked you. He didn’t take his eyes off of you once, wanting to witness every part of you tonight, basking in the spoils of his victory.
Titus had you, officially and legally and bloodbound and all. The heaviness of your vows still rang throughout your mind, and you’d wanted to faint as you agreed to ‘the possession of each other’. Maybe in some sick twisted way you’d never understand, Titus did belong to you, but all that mattered was that you belonged to him. The ring on your hand was proof of such.
His other hand pressed into the mattress as he curled his hips unto yours, basking in the feel of you clenching around the length of him, moving inside of you with ease. It still embarrassed you how wet you could get when he was fucking you, desperately wishing that your body could be as repulsed by him as your mind.
His facial hair gently grazed your skin, almost like a kiss, when he leaned closer. He didn’t look away from you once, and you winced when he tightened his hold on your neck.
“I know you wanted to die tonight,” he whispered to you, and you bit your lip. “I know you wanted to pull that card and just wait for one of us to kill you…to take you away from me.”
A particularly hard thrust had you gasping, and Titus hummed.
“...but Mr. Le Bail wouldn’t do that to me. I’ve always followed the rules, always played the game well, and you’re my reward.”
You sniffed at that, struggling to breathe under his grip.
“You are my pretty little prize, Mrs. Danforth, and you are never getting away from me.”
summary: you're distracted during movie night with your best friend, and when he convinces you to tell him what's on your mind, it leads to so much more...
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, tit play/nipple sucking, dry humping, dirty talk, some degradation, some objectification, referenced dumbification, vaguely referenced free use, praise kink, begging, teasing, kissing (so much kissing), Bucky's a lil possessive, pet names (doll, pet, baby), aftercare, friends to lovers
word count: 4.7k
a/n: how many times have i written a bucky barnes friends to lovers fic on a couch? SO many times! and will i write it again? probably!!! anyway, here's my contribution for week 2 of @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer! i didn't use allllll the prompts but i still had a lot of fun writing this one, so i hope y'all enjoy it ♡
prompt: “Did I give you permission?” | [Cock Cage | Orgasm Delay/Denial | Master/Pet Roleplay]
Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist
“That’s a mean frown ya got over there, doll.”
Bucky Barnes’ comment broke you from your thoughts, and you blinked, realizing you’d been staring unseeingly at the TV in your living room. Shaking yourself lightly, you glanced over to the other side of the couch, where your best friend was lounging comfortably for your movie night.
Even with the vaguely concerned expression on his face, Bucky looked far too good in a plain black t-shirt and a simple pair of gray sweatpants. You’d always known your best friend was handsome, but there was something about seeing him sprawled out on your couch, taking up so much space in your home, it had you feeling a certain type of way…
“Do you not like the movie I chose?”
You startled slightly at Bucky’s question, and abandoned the trail your thoughts had been wandering down. They wouldn’t lead anywhere good. Bucky was your best friend, not some guy to scratch an itch that you could probably just ignore.
“No, no,” you assured him, looking back at the TV. He’d put on some 90s action movie that you normally would’ve enjoyed, but you’d seen it so many times, you hadn’t been able to stop yourself from getting distracted. “I’m just thinking,” you said on an exhale, rearranging yourself on the couch so your legs were tucked underneath you.
“Must be serious to have you frowning like that,” Bucky teased, shifting his body so he was facing you, ignoring the movie as it played on, even though it was one of his favorites. “C’mon, doll, tell your best friend what’s troubling you—it’s what I’m here for.”
Bucky flashed a charming grin your way, and you couldn’t help but melt a little. Your best friend always had that effect on you. He could convince you to do anything he wanted with just some sweet words and that dazzling smile.
Thankfully, Bucky didn’t use his superpowers for evil—just for a little bit of trouble. Like that time he’d talked you into getting some finance guy at a bar in Tribeca to buy you extra drinks so Bucky could drink for free too.
The guy hadn’t been very happy when he learned he’d been bankrolling you and your best friend for the night, but you’d ditched him and the bar before a fight could break out. You and Bucky had collapsed against each other on the subway ride home to Brooklyn, laughing together, your breaths mingling until you didn’t know where yours ended and your best friend’s began…
Wrenching yourself out of that memory, you forced yourself to focus on Bucky.
“I just…” you began and trailed off, suddenly realizing how pathetic you were going to sound when you gave voice to what you’d been thinking about. Chewing on your lip, you wondered if there was a way to phrase it so you didn’t sound quite so pitiful.
When inspiration failed to strike, your helpless gaze met Bucky’s eyes across the couch. He ducked his head and looked at you from under his lashes, giving you an encouraging nod.
“I won’t judge you, doll, you know that,” he said, his voice low and rumbly in a way that made your stomach flip and a little tingle to flutter between your thighs. His expression was so open and sincere, you squirmed, ignoring your body’s reaction.
“I know,” you said, nodding, and letting your gaze drop to your fingers in your lap. “It’s just a little silly.” You tried to laugh, but it came out strained. Your fingers picked at your nails—a nervous habit your best friend had pointed out to you years ago.
Bucky scooted across the couch, until he was close enough to place one of his warm hands over yours, stopping your nervous fidgeting.
You knew you were being ridiculous. You knew Bucky wouldn’t judge you, you didn’t know why you were so nervous about talking to him. So you told yourself to be brave. You took a deep breath and looked at your best friend, meeting his bright blue eyes.
“I was thinking about…kissing.”
Your words hung in the air for a moment, then two. Then Bucky cocked his head to the side and a little line formed between his brows, his expressions morphing into confusion. Before he could ask his question, though, you rushed on, suddenly eager to get it all out once you’d started.
“It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed,” you explained, your voice breathless from the flood of words spilling from your mouth. “And I was thinking about how nice it would be for someone to take my face in their hands and just…kiss me softly—kiss me like they mean it.”
The whisper of your words trailed off, leaving the muted sounds of the movie and the city beyond your living room to press down on your shoulders. At some point, you’d dropped your gaze again to your lap, where your hands had turned over, fingers slotting between Bucky’s. As you watched, his hand gave yours a little squeeze.
You didn’t see Bucky move, but you heard him. You heard the couch creak and the rustle of fabric as he slid across the cushions until his gray cotton-clad thigh was pressed against your bare knees.
Just like Bucky, you’d dressed comfortably for movie night, wearing a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt that might’ve belonged to him once. But you’d commandeered it so long ago, you thought of it as yours.
“Is that what you want?” Bucky asked, his voice even lower and rumblier, sending the butterflies in your stomach spiraling.
The fingers of his other hand were gentle when they slid against your jaw, tipping your face toward him. Your best friend’s blue eyes looked practically electric in the dim light of the room, and there was something, something like hunger, wading deep in their depths. The emotion called to something deep inside you.
“Do you want me to kiss you, pet?”
That nickname—the one Bucky only used when you were half asleep, snuggled up close, your heads huddled together, your limbs entwined while you lay in bed or on the couch after a long night of watching movies or drinking at the bar—sent a warm flush through your body.
You hadn’t been thinking about Bucky when you’d been thinking about someone kissing you, but in a matter of moments, it had become all you could think about. Suddenly, you were all too aware of your best friend.
His breaths were coming a little faster, and his blue eyes had darkened, his pupils blowing wide as his gaze searched your face. You could smell the faint hint of salt and butter on his lips from the popcorn you’d eaten earlier, and you could see every grain of the dark stubble shifting on his clenching jaw.
There was a hesitance, a nervousness, you rarely, if ever, saw in your best friend, and it made your breath hitch in your throat. He wanted this. He wanted it as badly as you did, and knowing that made you brave.
“Please, Bucky,” you begged on a whisper, meeting his gaze with your own, your eyes wide and pleading. You leaned into his touch, his thumb stroking your cheek rhythmically.
For a moment that seemed to last forever, Bucky stared into your eyes, as if searching your soul for any reason to pause. When he found none, the edge of his mouth curled in a smile.
“Well, since you asked so nicely…” he rumbled in a teasing tone that had your heart fluttering in your chest.
Then Bucky leaned forward, and you did the same, until your breaths mingled and you could feel the warmth of him on your lips.
Your mouths met in a tentative brush, so soft you would’ve thought you imagined it if it wasn’t for the shock of electricity that zipped down your spine. You tilted your face, searching for more, and Bucky’s lips met yours again in another cautious kiss.
Heat bloomed in your body, unfurling in your chest and taking root low in your belly, your racing pulse thrumming between your thighs. It was a slow-building pleasure, but then, all of a sudden, you were ravenous for more. You pressed closer, fingers curling around Bucky’s shoulders, tongue flicking experimentally against his upper lip.
He groaned like he was in the greatest pain, but then his hands were wrapping around your waist, spanning your ribcage, and he was hauling you closer. His mouth covered yours and he deepened the kiss, giving you exactly what you needed without you having to ask.
Bucky devoured you, his lips moving against yours in a greedy push and pull that had you moaning wantonly into his mouth. When your lips parted, his tongue plunged inside, taking control of the kiss while his fingers tightened on your body.
Your best friend held you like you were priceless, and kissed you like you were inescapable. Bucky kissed you like he’d been waiting years—decades—to get his mouth on you, and you’d only needed to ask.
It was dizzying, overwhelming and wonderful in the best way. You kissed him back with all the pent up yearning that had been locked away in your heart, consuming him just as much as he was you.
Only when your lungs were burning for air did you wrench your lips from Bucky’s with a gasp. Over your desperate, panting breaths, you heard him growl, his hands cupping your face as he kissed the corner of your mouth.
“Did I give you permission to pull away, pet?”
The possessiveness in Bucky’s tone made you melt, and a whimper of desire slipped from your lips. You’d never seen this side of your best friend, but it made you nearly feral for more.
“Bucky,” you whined his name pitifully. Your fingers were clinging to his t-shirt and trying to tug him closer on the couch, but you were already as close as you could possibly be while you sat next to each other.
At your desperate whimpering, Bucky softened, a smile flirting around the edges of his mouth. “C’mere, pet,” he purred, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke.
Then your best friend was manhandling you into his lap, arranging you so your legs straddled his thighs. Your ass was perched over his groin, where you could feel a thick bulge pressing into the center of your body, making heat cascade down your spine as wetness dripped from your slit.
“Oh god, Bucky,” you mewled, rolling your hips instinctively and grinding against his cock through your clothes. “Did you—did you get this hard from kissing me?” you whispered, stumbling over your words but forcing them out because you needed to know the answer.
“Yeah, baby,” Bucky rumbled, affection in his tone as his hands dove beneath your oversized t-shirt to skate up and down your spine. You felt electric heat burst everywhere he touched. “My best friend’s sweet kisses made me this hard.”
He lifted his hips, digging his bulge into your soft mound, dragging a helpless moan from your lips. He pressed his grin into the underside of your jaw.
“You feel so good, pet,” he murmured into your skin, like he was confessing a secret. “Your mouth is a dream that’s haunted me for years, and now that I’ve had a taste, there’s no going back for me. You’ve wrecked me, baby, and I need so much more of you.”
With one hand cupping your jaw, Bucky dragged your mouth back to his and he kissed you like a starving man—like he’d been lost in a desert for days and you were his first sip of water.
You kissed him just as greedily, launching yourself off the ledge the two of you had been dangling from for years, neither one wanting to be the first one to jump. But now he had, and you were happy to follow him in his freefall, knowing he’d catch you and hold you safely in his arms.
When you needed air, Bucky’s mouth trailed down your jaw to your neck, his lips finding your thumping pulse and sucking on your skin until you were whining. While you gasped for breath, he found every spot on your neck that made you hotter and needier, until you were squirming your hips impatiently on his lap.
“I need more, too, Bucky,” you huffed, spreading your legs wider over his thighs so that you could press down more firmly on your best friend’s cock. You fingers sank into his soft brown hair, holding his face to your neck while you rolled your hips in a dizzying frenzy. “Are you gonna do anything about it?”
Bucky stilled beneath you, and it was only then that you realized what you’d said. You sucked in a surprised breath, not sure where that boldness had come from—though you suspected it had something to do with the fact that you felt safe and comfortable enough with your best friend to freely speak your frustrated mind.
Leaning back, you caught sight of Bucky’s face, his eyes meeting yours as humor and lust roiled in their blue depths, like he was eager to meet your challenge. He wore a dark and hungry smirk, and his hands tightened where they held you, pulling you close until your chest was pressed tight to his.
“Does my pretty little pet need my cock?” Bucky asked, his tone agonizingly condescending, and making you drip so much you began to worry you’d leave a wet spot on his gray sweatpants. But then he distracted you with more filthy words. “D’you need your best friend to fuck that achy, greedy pussy between your soft thighs, huh?”
“Jesus, Buck,” you gasped, a little surprised to find out your best friend had such a filthy mouth.
But you didn’t hate it—far from it. You wanted more, you wanted him to fuck you and talk you through it, so you went on, hoping that if you were vocal, he’d keep talking dirty to you.
“Y-yes, I need you, need you to fuck me, Bucky, please!”
Not needing to be asked twice, Bucky flipped you down onto your back on the couch, taking care to make sure you didn’t knock your head against anything but the pillows. Then his hands were manhandling your legs together, dragging your sleep shorts and panties over your hips and off in one swift movement.
While he reached behind his back and yanked his t-shirt off, you pulled yours over your head, discarding it and your bra as quickly as you could manage. Once free, your hands immediately went to your tits, groping your soft flesh and rolling your nipples between your fingers as you stared up at the muscular chest of your best friend.
Bucky’s big body pushed between your thighs, which you spread eagerly for him, your knees hugging his ribs while he shoved his sweatpants down. When his cock bounced free, you gasped softly at the sight of him—so thick and hard and perfect.
For a moment, the two of you paused, like you’d both just realized you were naked in front of each other for the first time. Your gaze roamed hungrily over Bucky’s body, appreciating the breadth of his shoulders, the slight taper of his waist, the soft trail of hair leading down to his hard cock.
The moment dragged on for so long, you managed to tear your eyes away from your best friend’s cock to look at his face. Bucky’s handsome face was slack with desire, his darkened blue eyes roving over your body with the same kind of awe you’d felt when looking at him.
His gaze lingered on your chest, watching your fingers idly play with your nipples. You squeezed your tits harder, making yourself gasp and arch up off the couch. Bucky’s cock gave an answering twitch and he grabbed it in one fist, pumping himself slowly while he marveled at you.
It felt good to be the object of your best friend’s lust, but you could feel your pussy leaking and pulsing, begging to be filled. You decided Bucky could watch you all he wanted—but later, after he’d fucked you.
“Buck, please, I need your cock,” you whined, your hands leaving your body to reach for him. Your fingers curled around his shoulders and you dragged him down on top of you, his knuckles brushing against your soft mound and making you moan.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, before capturing your lips in a kiss.
His mouth was hot and demanding, his kiss slow and drugging, stealing your breath until your head was spinning. When he pulled away, it was only to speak more filth against your lips.
“Your tits are so pretty, pet,” he murmured, using his thumb to press his cock between your soaked folds, dragging his shaft through your lower lips to make himself slick with your juices. “Can’t wait to suck on ‘em while my dick’s buried in your cunt. Wanna hear your pretty whines while I suck your tits and you clench around my fat cock.”
“Fuck, Bucky,” you huffed, fingers carding through his hair and dragging him to your mouth for a messy kiss.
“What, ya like it when I talk dirty, baby?” Bucky asked teasingly when he pulled away. There was a ridiculously charming grin on his face, like he already knew the answer to his question. Which, of course, he did.
You couldn’t help but shake your head in amusement, your lips curving in a smile. “I love it,” you mumbled, pulling him in for another deep kiss before finishing your thought. “Love hearing all the filthy things you wanna do to your best friend.”
Bucky groaned, his cock throbbing against your pussy, and then he was pulling his hips back until the tip was notched at your hole. He paused, lifting up enough for his eyes to search yours.
In that moment, neither of you needed words. The hunger and desire and need swirling through your body was reflected in Bucky’s dark blue gaze, and though your lips parted to beg him to finally slide inside, all you had to do was nod.
Bucky thrust forward slowly, carefully, and yet you still gasped when the head of his cock pushed inside your tight hole. It had been a while since you’d had anyone or anything inside you, and even though Bucky wasn’t intimidatingly big, you still felt the stretch of your body accommodating him.
“Y’alright, pet?” he murmured against your cheek, his scruff tickling your skin, his mouth never straying far from yours.
“Yeah, just—just go slow,” you whispered back, fingers hooked around his shoulders, nails digging into his warm muscles.
“You tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop, alright?” he rumbled in a stern voice that had the butterflies fluttering in your belly again. He pulled back enough to give you a serious look. “I want you to enjoy this.”
The corner of your mouth kicked up in a half smile and you pulled him down for yet another kiss. Even though your lips were swollen from kisses, you didn’t think you’d ever get enough from Bucky, especially the ones where you were both smiling too much to brush your lips against each other’s.
He pushed forward, using your distraction to slide a little deeper. You tensed at the stretch of feeling him fill you more, waiting for the pain—but nothing came. Bucky’s hands soothed over your bare skin, using his words to distract you again.
“I want you to want to do this again, baby, because I already know that I will—I’m gonna wanna fuck you again and again and again, until you’re nothing more than a dumb, mindless pet who’s drunk on my cock, your cunt squeezing me tight every time I make you come. Wanna drain my balls in your pretty pussy until you’re overflowing with me.”
A moan slipped from your lips at Bucky’s words, you cunt clenching tight around the tip of his cock. Instinctively, you spread your thighs wider around your best friend’s body, allowing him to sink even deeper into your cunt, until he was buried halfway to the hilt.
“I want that, Bucky,” you whispered against his scruffy cheek, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging on him until you could see his face. “I want you to fuck me dumb, make me your pretty little fuck toy—want you to fuck me whenever and wherever you want. Wanna be your perfect fuck pet.”
“Fuuuck, you’re so fucking perfect, baby,” Bucky groaned, pushing the rest of his cock into your pussy as slowly as he could bear, the self-restraint evident in every tense muscle of his body. “You’re such a perfect, pretty fuck pet—fuck, you feel good.”
The words were stolen straight from your lips, because it was Bucky who felt good. It was Bucky who felt so hot and hard and perfect inside you, filling you up enough to feel the stretch without hurting you.
Unable to stop yourself, you wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him tight inside you while you buried your face in his neck and moaned. He grunted, feeling your pussy gripping and squeezing and sucking on his cock. Every slight movement sent pulses of pleasure through your body.
“You feel so good inside me, Buck,” you murmured, tilting your face until it was pressed into his scruffy jaw. “God, your cock is just—so good.”
At your words, you could feel the slight tremors wracking Bucky’s body as he held himself still, fighting against his instincts to give you the chance to adjust to the feeling of him filling you up. But that’s not what you wanted. You wanted more, you wanted him to fuck you.
“Need more now,” you whimpered, rocking your hips and urging him to move, but he remained still above you.
“Gimme a minute,” he huffed, kissing you to distract you.
Despite his best efforts, your hips kept rolling lazily beneath his heavy body, so he lowered his weight until you were pinned beneath him and all you could do was whine into his mouth. He huffed a self-deprecating laugh.
“If ya keep doing that, ‘m gonna empty my balls in your cunt sooner than I planned, pet,” he warned, though there was an edge of a smile in his warm, teasing tone.
A giggle erupted from your lips even as your inner walls clenched tight around Bucky’s cock, your body liking his words more than you probably should’ve. But seeing Bucky struggle to keep his composure while he was buried inside you made you want to be a menace to your best friend.
“You gonna turn me into your cumdump, Buck?” you teased, dragging the blunt edges of your teeth down his neck, feeling his cock twitch inside your tight channel. “You gonna fill me up until I’m leaking your come all down my thighs—you gonna fuck it back into me, huh?”
Bucky’s head dropped to your shoulder with a pained groan and he pulled his hips back, pushing against the tight hold your legs had on him before snapping forward. He started fucking you in short, punishing thrusts that had you moaning mindlessly as his cock pounded into you.
“Christ, your dirty mouth is even worse than mine, pet,” he growled, but there was an edge of exhilarated laughter in his tone that made it clear he wasn’t mad about it. Instead, he lifted his head and flashed you an impish grin, before ducking down to your chest.
When Bucky’s lips wrapped around your nipple and he sucked hard on your tightened peak, you cried out. Your back bowed off the couch, shoving your tits into your best friend’s face while your fingers clutched his head to your chest.
“Oh my god, Bucky!” you gasped, the words devolving into an obscene moan. You squirmed beneath his bigger body while he chuckled at the helpless sounds you made.
Bucky was everywhere, his mouth sucking greedily on your tits, hands groping the soft curves of your hips, his cock spearing into your cunt over and over again in hard, brutal thrusts. It was too much, and yet not enough.
Your legs tightened around Bucky, ankles hooking around the backs of his thighs to try to hold him inside you as you met his every thrust. Pleasure was winding tighter in your lower belly, and you were desperately chasing your release, your fingers tugging uselessly on your best friend’s hair as you whined.
“Please, Bucky, please, please, please,” you chanted, until he finally rose up and met your lips in a furious kiss. “I need more, I need—” Your words cut off on a gasp when Bucky drove his cock into you so hard and so deep, you felt the tip brush against the very end of you.
“I know exactly what you need, pet,” he growled, that possessiveness back in his tone that sent your heart careening in your chest. “You just be a good little slut and take your boyfriend’s cock like a perfect fuck pet.”
He picked up his pace, fucking you into the soft cushions of the couch like a man possessed. His hard body loomed over you, his muscles shifting gloriously beneath his skin everywhere you touched, and even as his chest heaved, he kissed you. His mouth devoured yours, greedily drinking down every sound of your pleasure.
It wasn’t long before you were on the edge of your release, your cries growing higher pitched and more desperate as your body fluttered around his pounding cock. Bucky murmured encouragement into your lips, his hips grinding against your soft cunt, the base of his cock rubbing your clit until you were lost to the pleasure.
You came with a shrill scream, every muscle in your body clenching so tight that you dragged Bucky over the edge right after you. Your best friend buried his face in your chest, sucking idly on your soft tits and grunting his pleasure.
His hips kept thrusting wildly, spilling rope after rope of his seed deep in your pussy as your body clenched around him. You moaned unabashedly, basking in wave after wave of pleasure as they washed over you.
For long, endless moments, your bodies writhed together, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from each other as your mouths kissed messily.
Finally, when you were both spent, Bucky collapsed on top of you, crushing you with his weight for one blissful moment before he rolled to the side. His hands were gentle on your body as he rearranged you so that one of your legs was thrown over his hip, keeping his softening cock buried in your pussy.
“Kiss me softly, baby,” Bucky murmured against your lips, echoing your earlier words with a smile curving his mouth. There was a teasing edge to his tone, but you didn’t get the sense he was making fun of you, just being playful with you the way he always was.
It made your heart clench to think that nothing truly had to change between you and Bucky even after you’d given in to the mutual desire you felt.
He was still your best friend, and now the two of you could become something more—together. You hadn’t missed the way he’d called himself your boyfriend in the heat of the moment, but that was a conversation for later.
So you huffed a little laugh at his teasing and kissed Bucky. You kissed him as softly as you could manage while you both caught your breath.
It was different, more decadent, both of you taking your time to learn the other. It was like you both knew you had plenty of time—the rest of your lives—to discover everything there was to know about each other. Everything you didn’t already know.
For the rest of your movie night, you and your best friend, Bucky Barnes, took turns kissing each other softly, and fucking each other hard. Eventually, you fell asleep together, entwined on the couch, both wearing smiles on your kiss-swollen lips.
pairing: scientist!bucky barnes x experiment!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, daddy kink, dark!bucky, slight steve x reader, dubcon bordering noncon, stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation, drugs, masochism and sadism, obsessive and possessive behavior, verbal abuse, mental illness, isolation, self-harm, mentions of the word "rape", angst, fingering, praise kink, innocence kink, medical malpractices, surgical inaccuracies, pet names, spanking
word count: 11.3k
main masterlist
a/n: please read the warnings listed before reading. i am not responsible for your media consumption. thank you to @danysdaughter and @iamthatonefangirl for giving me the courage to write this. clutching my shovel real close tonight ♥️
synopsis:
You are Bucky’s most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own hands—he gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined he’d feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”
If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”
If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.
Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.
From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.
No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.
“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.
He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.
There was no sound.
Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.
After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.
There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.
He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.
You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.
“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”
He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.
“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.
When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”
You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.
He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?
Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.
After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.
Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.
Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”
Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.
“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”
You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.
“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.
Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”
He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”
“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”
Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.
“You mean the books?”
You nodded.
He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”
“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.
Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”
Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.
“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.
“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”
Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.
Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.
“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”
“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”
He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”
“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?
He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.
“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”
You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.
“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”
That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”
You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.
Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.
He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.
“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”
You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.
When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.
“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.
But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.
A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.
He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.
“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.
But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.
“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”
Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?
“No,” you protested weakly.
Bucky tilted his head. “No?”
You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”
Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”
When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.
You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.
“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”
Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.
But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.
Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.
“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”
You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.
“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”
“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”
“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”
He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.
Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.
“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.
He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.
“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”
With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”
He wasn’t leaving.
He was going to fix you.
You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.
Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.
“Lay down, doll.”
The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.
You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.
“Easy, doll. Easy.”
A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.
He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.
Which… in a way, you had.
Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.
“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”
You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.
“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.
Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.
“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”
You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”
“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”
Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.
“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”
You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.
“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”
He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.
“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”
You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.
Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.
His mind was always on you.
His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.
“Woah, easy there, Buck.”
Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.
“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”
Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”
Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”
Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.
“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”
Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”
Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”
Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.
“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”
A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.
It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.
Christ, you were probably starving.
He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.
You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.
He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.
Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.
His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.
“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”
The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.
“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.
“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.
Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.
So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?
“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”
Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”
Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.
“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”
Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”
“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”
Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.
“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”
“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”
Steve let out a long breath.
He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.
“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”
“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.
He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.
“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”
It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.
The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?
The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.
Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.
But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.
You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.
“Bucky! You’re back, I—”
You stopped.
The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.
Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.
“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”
The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.
Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.
“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”
“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”
You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”
He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.
You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.
“Not poisoned. Trust me.”
He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.
After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.
Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.
Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.
As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.
You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.
It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.
“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”
He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.
“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.
“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”
You stayed silent.
“Have you ever been outside this room?”
Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.
“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”
With each word, he moved closer.
Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.
He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.
“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”
He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.
“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.
“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”
Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.
Ah. There it was.
That was how he could get through to you.
Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.
“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”
You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.
That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.
“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”
You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.
To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.
The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.
Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.
“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”
He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.
“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.
That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.
“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.
He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.
His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.
You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.
“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”
As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.
You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.
Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.
“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”
You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.
“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”
“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.
“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”
The air left Steve's lungs.
His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.
Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.
“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Did he rape you?”
Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.
But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
“What does that mean?”
Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.
“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”
The door shut quickly as he left.
But the lock didn’t click.
The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.
Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.
You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.
It looked like an obstacle.
You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.
The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.
You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.
Then, a shadow fell over you.
“Going somewhere?”
You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”
The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.
His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.
“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”
He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.
He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”
“I just wanted to see—”
“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”
“No, Bucky, I—”
“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”
You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.
“No one saw me—”
“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.
When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.
“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”
He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.
“You did this to yourself, darling.”
You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”
“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”
You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.
“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”
Bucky didn’t move.
The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.
“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”
“I didn’t—”
“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”
“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”
Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.
“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”
Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.
Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.
The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.
“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”
He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.
“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”
He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.
“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”
The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.
“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”
Another whack.
“Ow!”
“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”
Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.
He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.
With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”
He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.
“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”
Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”
Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.
Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.
But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.
“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”
He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.
“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”
Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.
You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.
“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”
Bucky hummed in approval.
He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.
He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.
Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.
You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.
“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”
His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.
“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”
You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.
“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”
“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”
One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.
Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.
The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.
The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.
“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”
He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.
You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.
You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.
“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”
Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.
His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.
“Oh—my!”
The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.
He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.
“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”
His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.
“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”
He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.
“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”
You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.
The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.
Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”
Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.
He loved you.
Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.
“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”
Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”
He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.
“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”
He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”
You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.
“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.
Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.
It was hot. It was too much.
He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like a clock.
Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.
“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”
The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.
Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.
You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.
Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.
His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.
“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”
Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.
“Morning,” he rasped.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”
He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.
“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”
And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.
But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.
The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.
Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.
“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”
“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.
He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”
The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.
“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”
Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.
Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.
“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.
“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”
Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.
All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.
“Bucky—”
Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.
He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.
“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”
The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.
“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.
“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”
Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.
As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.
He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.
“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”
Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.
Was this all your fault?
Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?
“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”
All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.
“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”
Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.
Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.
You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.
With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.
Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.
“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”
And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.
The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.
Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.
“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.
His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.
Bucky hated it.
The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.
“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”
Bucky stayed quiet.
“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”
Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.
“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”
Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.
“What was she to you?”
Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.
“Did you love her?”
Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.
“More than anything,” Bucky replied.
He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.
Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.
It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.
He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?
He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.
He’d find you.
It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”
The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.
“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”
For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.
Insane?
What kind of question was that?
“No.”
anyway how writing this fic found me
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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special: thank you bri for being my number one fan. she really do be thatonefangirl @iamthatonefangirl
Summary: You only wanted a quick autograph from an Olympic Gold Medalist, but your admiration has him showing his gratitude instead.
Content Warning: 18+ {MDNI}, smut, porn without plot, semi-public sex, Lance Tucker (he’s a warning, okay?), power imbalance? (fan encounter turned sexual), improper use of gymnastics equipment (or maybe the correct way? 👀), Lance is a strong boi, mild (?) verbal degradation, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), creampie.
A/N: This probably makes no physical sense, but fuck it, a girl can dream. Special thanks to the Discord chat for helping with ideas for this one (my brain literally wouldn’t function). Banner and divider by me. Written and edited on my phone; any and all mistakes are my own.
Masterlist || Series Masterlist || AO3
The flourescent bulbs high above buzz in the quiet of the local gym as you step inside. The mixed smell of sweat and cleaning solutions hit you, making your nose crinkle slightly, but it was not about to stop you on your mission to meet the self-proclaimed God of Gymnastics.
Rumors heard through the grapevine indicated the one and only Lance Tucker was in town for a small regional competition for Team USA, and you were not about to miss an opportunity to meet the man you had been idolizing for years. Someone would quite literally have to hold you back.
With a sharpie and a picture of him in his Team USA gear—hair perfectly coifed, arms folded across his chest, and a look on his face of pure determination—you enter to find him dangling upside-down on the gymnastic rings. His muscles ripple beneath the tank top, veins visible in his arms and hands, leaving your throat dry.
It was truly a sight to behold.
The click of the door behind you alerts him to your presence as he dismounts, wiping his hands on the blue sweatpants clinging low on his hips.
"Gym's closed."
The little bit of confidence you had before walking through the front door was quickly vanishing in his presence.
You don't notice the way his eyes roam over your figure before he turns to grab his water bottle off the floor.
"Lance Tucker?" you ask tentatively. It's him. Without a doubt in your mind, you'd know that face and hair anywhere.
He pauses, quirking an eyebrow and glancing back up at you. A part of him must decide this interaction might be worth his time because he carefully stands up straighter and wipes some sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
"Who's asking?"
Butterflies erupt in your gut, palms suddenly sweaty. He looks like the statue of David, picturesque in every way, and your mind begins to wander straight into the gutter as your eyes follow the toned muscles down to a sliver of skin peeking beneath the tank top. You can just barely make out the Adonis belt that dips below the waistband of his sweatpants.
Your eyes snap back to his as you swallow hard. "J-just a fan," you stammer. "I hope it's okay I stopped by."
His pink lips curl into a knowing smirk. There's no way he didn't notice you looking. "A fan, huh?" He strides over, cool as a cucumber, and you have to fight not to shrink into yourself.
This was a bad idea.
"I didn't realize I still had fans, let alone one so damn stunning."
Huh?
Did Lance Tucker just compliment you?
You blink once. Then a second time.
Once your mind finally catches up, you release a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Face now burning, you awkwardly offer the photograph and sharpie towards him, deciding to ignore the compliment completely before you faint from the mere idea of him enjoying the sight of you.
"Would it be too much to ask for an autograph?" you ask, voice small. You offer a smile and pray it's enough to convince him.
Lance looks at you for a moment, seemingly a little taken aback by the request, but he obliges without a word. He smiles, dazzling and perfect, as he takes the items from you, callused fingers brushing against yours and sending electricity up your arms.
The silence in the gym is deafening as you watch him sign the picture, adding a note of 'Go for Gold!' before handing it back to you.
A quick thank you slips from your lips before the silence hits again, unnecessarily tense. Or maybe it's just you. "I'll leave you alone, sorry for interrupting."
"You sure that's all you want, beautiful?" His tone is low, sultry, and it does something to your insides. Is he really—?
The thought is interrupted when he speaks again, seemingly sensing hesitation.
"You know," he says, voice low as he takes a half-step closer to you, his fingers reaching up to brush against your arm and sending shivers up your spine. "It's been a long time since anyone has recognized me."
The urge to bolt out of the gym hits you like a truck, but the way he's looking at you keeps you firmly rooted in place. Having the full, undivided attention of Lance fucking Tucker himself feels like winning a lottery—and something tells you you're about get quite the payout.
His hand continues its upward movement until it's gently caressing your cheek, his callused thumb softly stroking the soft skin as his eyes flick from your eyes to your lips.
"No one appreciates me anymore. But you do, don't you?"
You nod, unsure what to say in the face of the man you've been such a big fan of for years, and it hits you just how much more handsome he is in person than in pictures or on TV.
Your teeth find your bottom lip, worrying at it in your nervousness. He tsks in disapproval, his thumb moving to carefully tug your lip free, before leaning forward and lowering himself to better meet your gaze.
"Do I make you nervous, sweetheart?"
"A little," you say softly before you can stop it. Nervous isn't quite the word you're looking for, especially when he's looking at you like that. The butterflies have only become more frantic as your stomach twists and a strange heat begins to pool low in your gut.
He studies you for a moment, his gaze slowly roaming over your features before he speaks again. "You really admire me that much, huh? All these years and you're just a dedicated fan?"
A quiet, nervous laugh escapes from between your lips as his hand slips to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. He's so close that his breath ghosts over your lips.
"I always have been. You should've gotten more recognition for your routine, it's a real shame Hope Ann Greggory got all the attention."
He hums, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "I should thank you for keeping my reputation alive, then."
"That's really not necessary," you squeak.
"No? But I really want to," he mutters, leaning ever closer. His nose is nearly brushing yours now, your breath catching in your throat. His smirk grows wider when you don't move away and takes it as a sign to proceed.
Frozen in place, you're completely taken aback when his warm lips meet yours, completely unhesitating. His boldness, while it shouldn't be a surprise, has your brain at a standstill as it tries to process what's happening. But as his free hand snakes around your waist and pulls you closer to his broad chest, you find your arms slipping around his neck.
The last thing you ever expected was to be in his arms. In fact, you were fully aware of his reputation, having followed his career since he won gold all those years ago. But nothing could've prepared you to experience the charm or cockiness the man exuded firsthand.
Lips moving against his, he quickly takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue swiping across your lip until you open up enough to let him in.
His hands become greedy, wandering until they both travel down to the swell of your ass, giving it a squeeze.
You break the kiss in surprise, eyes wide as you look up at his blue eyes, now dark with hunger.
"Couldn't resist."
Your mouth opens and closes, wanting to say something, but your mind is still reeling from the short make out session with your favorite gymnast.
"I have an idea. To thank you properly for being such a big fan, if you're willing." He winks, which feels like a shot straight between your legs. An idea from him in this exact scenario can't be any good…but you nod anyway, body humming with excitement.
His grin widens. With a single nod of his head, he moves back beneath a set of gymnastic rings that dangle lower than the others and patiently waits for you to join him.
It happens quickly. Lance is on you once more, lips devouring yours, hands feverishly roaming the curves of your body, and before you know it, he's lifting you into his strong arms with his hands braced under your thighs.
Feeling more confident now than ever before, you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, arms encircling his neck, and pressing yourself closer to his toned form. It takes a second to realize you can feel the hard line of his erection pressed directly into your core, making your stomach flip.
You pull back in surprise again.
"Something wrong?" he asks, eyes glued to your face as he watches you slowly realize what he's silently suggesting with the rings easily reachable next to your head.
You swallow hard, the ache between your legs becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
This is stupid. Reckless, even.
But does that stop you? When Lance Tucker himself is not only looking at you like that, but holding you up so easily with his cock pressed against you?
No. No, it doesn't stop you.
"Nothing's wrong," you finally reply. Glancing up at the rings, you tentatively reach up and grab them, testing your grip. Hanging on was not something that would last long if he lets go.
He wastes no time, adjusting his grip on you and pulling you just a bit higher; just enough that your heat presses into his lower abs. The hem of the sundress you almost regret wearing is so high at this point, there's no doubt he can feel how wet you already are, soaking through your panties and onto his tank top.
"You sure?" His breath ghosts across your throat, sending shivers along your spine again.
All you can do is nod before his lips are finding yours again, hard and insistent.
You're not sure when it happened—too lost in the feeling of his lips, the smell of his cologne, his arms that are somehow holding you up like it's nothing (is he superhuman?)—but you suddenly realize he's pulled your panties to the side, exposing you to the cool air of the gym while your legs grip him tighter in fear of falling.
A single thick, callused finger finds your pussy and makes you gasp.
"There she is, hello." He bites his lip as he looks at you, trembling already as he slides his finger through the soaked folds. "Already so wet. Fuck. You always this ready or is this just for me?"
You're not even sure how to answer that, strictly focused on trying to breathe and keeping yourself upright. When you don't answer, he chuckles, the cocky grin spreading once more across his face.
"It's okay, I understand. Starstruck, sexiest gymnast in the world…I've been hard since you walked through those doors—eyes wide and innocent. Coming in here just looking for an autograph."
His finger leaves you just long enough for him to—somehow, someway, you're still in too much shock to understand how he's physically able to do any of this—pull his sweatpants down just far enough you can feel the tip of his cock nudge your ass.
Lance kisses you again, adjusting you in front of him so his cock now drags through your core, gathering your arousal. Groans fill the quiet gym.
"You've probably dreamt of this for years, you're so loyal. I'll take care of you, baby, don't worry. Unless…?"
He raises an eyebrow, giving you one last chance, one last out. And you're not taking it.
"Please, Lance. I want you. I want to know what a gold medalist feels like."
He nearly growls. "Best fan in the fucking world," he mutters as he lines himself up with your entrance and slowly pushes in.
The stretch burns, his thick cock already pulsing against your fluttering walls.
"Fuck, she's sucking me in. You feel incredible," he groans, inching himself further inside your cunt.
Once he's completely buried, he doesn't give you a moment to adjust before he's slamming into you. The momentum of the rings act like a swing, simultaneously pushing you further away and helping you slam right back onto his cock.
Lance's name slips from your lips as you try desperately to hang on.
"You're a good little slut, aren't you? You do this with all your favorites? Or am I just this lucky?"
"J-just you, Lance," you whimper as he continues pounding relentlessly.
He chuckles, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, using them to aid in his thrusts. "Damn right. Perfect little whore, aren't you? Taking my cock so well."
He once against adjusts his stance, angling you just enough that he's now reaching places you never thought possible. Moans float through the air, filling every inch of the open gym.
Gold medalist is right, the strength of this man is seemingly unending.
The pleasure is overwhelming, coiling low and tight as his pace never falters. Just as you squeeze your eyes shut, he looks up and tsks.
"Uh uh, no. Eyes on me. I want to see your eyes when I make my number one fan cum all over my cock."
Fuck. Your gaze meets his again as your grip on the rings begins to slip, just in time to feel the pressure building, your climax rapidly approaching.
"Lance, please, I—"
"I know. She's squeezing me. So fucking tight. Just—eyes on me."
You try. You really do. But he's splitting you open as your hands fight to stay on the rings and he somehow fucks into you even harder than before.
A scream rips from your throat as you fall over the edge, cunt clenching around him and earning a guttural moan from deep in his chest.
He throws his head back as he shoots cum deep inside your pussy, thrusts now sloppy as he continues to pump himself inside, forcing his release back in before it can spill out.
Your arms are weak when he finally lets you down, knees shaking as you try to stay standing. He's already shoving his softening cock back into his sweatpants and snatching his water bottle off the floor.
"Nice pussy, by the way," he grunts with a nod and a smirk. You bite your lip and quickly pull the hem of your simple sundress back down in a futile attempt to hide the mess dripping down between your legs.
You swallow hard, unable to meet his gaze. "Thanks for the autograph."
He chuckles, and steps closer, looking down at you like prey. "Thanks for being a fan!" He says with a wink before reaching around and smacking your ass. "Now get out of here, I have to clean this place again."
A squeak escapes between your lips, face heating up. Quickly glancing at the floor to find the things you must have dropped at some point, you snatch them up with the autographed photo—the whole reason you came here in the first place—before scurrying out the gym door and into the cold night air.
It's not until you're sitting in the comfort of your car that you realize what just happened—and he didn't even know your name.
summary: you're the youngest member of the newest family admitted to the high council—a world built on blood, power, and rituals older than the country itself. a world where killing is tradition, loyalty is currency, and the annual hunt is the closest thing these people have to religion. after surviving two hunts, you're chosen for the champion's hunt. the heirs are older, faster, hungrier, and as the youngest you're expecting to die... until titus danforth corners you in a storm and offers you a deal that's far more dangerous than death.
pairings: ready or not 2: here I come - titus danforth x reader
word count: 11.1k (I don't know where this came from)
warnings/notes: minors DNI (18+ please), murder!plot, killing for fun, violence, gore, blood (like mention of it a lot), choking, age!gap (reader mid to late 20s), ultimatum/blackmail (?), predator/prey dynamic, murder fantasies, titus being a freak, p in v, no protection, breeding kink, slight blood kink, reader lowkey loving it, cursing, possible inaccuracies (haven't seen the movie)
Mud lined the Danforth entryway, the hand-woven rugs from centuries ago splattered with footprints, rain…blood. It was an art in itself, the way the scene after a hunt revealed the true humanity of people—their fears, their character, if they were one to fight, or accept defeat. Beauty is truth, and truth is most evident in death—when they are desperately trying to live, killing for each incoming breath, falling in and out of the natural relationship of predator and prey. And there was nothing more rewarding than being the one to put an end to all of that, take away someone’s breath, feel their heart stop, drain it of all of its oxygenated warm blood.
Titus Danforth was a man who got off on a moment like that, playing god.
A “petulant child” who has gotten everything he’s ever wanted in life, and yet he wanted more. Revenge. Power. Control. Blood. Everything.
Control over their family’s “High Council,” his father dead, and an heir that can carry on not only his genetic makeup but the power of the Danforth name. He wanted all of it, and before Ursula could get it first. That all began with the ritualistic Hunt that was taking place weeks from now. The first in two solar eclipses, this one signifying a sort of champion’s game. Those who had been surviving for years, killing since they were old enough to hold the weight of a weapon, carved out of stone and darkness. The last one standing sure to be promised the most influence and power among the High Council. And this year Titus would win—there was no other option. Kill or be killed, and he promised that as soon as it was decided, he would be the one seated at the forefront of that table come dawn.
The only thing that stood between him, that title, and from killing the other ten high council heirs was you. Belonging to one of the newer elite families that hadn’t been around as long as all the rest—those who still needed to prove themselves—and you were their youngest. Far younger than him, decades younger, with soft, unmarked skin and a certain naive spark that intrigued him more than he would ever admit. Which is why he didn’t, not when Ursula would never let him hear the end of it for going after a young thing like you.
But some things are inevitable, written out in the stars, promised by the hands of Satan, sure to be sealed by the spillage of blood. Whether that meant you lived or died, he didn’t know yet, but he was sure he’d have it figured out by the time of the Hunt—when dusk finally fell, leaving the acres of land into a playground of darkness for the monsters to come out and play.
And so as weeks passed, social events being shoved down his throat by his father and the other high elite parents, he took the time to take in his opponents, to take in you. Among the glinting chandeliers and flutes of champagne as black market investors looked on, seeing which of the elite hunters they wished to invest their money into, he watched you.
In weeks, he came to understand your routines, mannerisms, expressions—claiming he was looking for weaknesses to use during the Hunt, but a selfish part of him was trying to find the right moment to approach you. An opportunity that never came until one night, a week before their game of hide and seek, at a gala no less, where parents spent the night speaking highly of their children in anticipation of the slaughter, and those participating in it drank.
Drank in celebration.
Some in grief.
He found you late into the evening, tucked away in a corner, an emerald dress fitting you in all the right places, hair pulled up, revealing the smooth skin of your neck. Titus was unable to look away, couldn’t stop himself from devouring you while you remained oblivious. With two or three flutes of champagne having been washed down, your cheeks held a gentle rosy hue to them, the alcohol taking shape and form in your body. You stood talking to a server, a man who Titus killed later that evening with the man’s own serving tray, just because of the sight of you blinking up through the thick wisps of your lashes, smiling in such a way that he knew he was entirely fucked. If it wasn’t his brain that had made the realization, his dick definitely did in how it twitched, hardening slightly as you rolled your eyes.
Hours later, while sandwiched between Ursula and Tobias, another heir they had known since their childhood, he watched you slip out in between dances down the hallway. How he stared even when you were no longer in sight, only brought back by the cool touch of Ursula’s fingers slinking around his wrist, nails digging into his skin lightly. She raised a menacing brow, a warning—don’t even think about it.
She noticed more than he had given her credit for. Titus pulled his arm free, downed his fourth flute of champagne, and sent his sister a tantalizing smile, one she was quite familiar with in all their years growing up with one another—one that said I don’t give a fuck. Tipping his head to Tobias, he excused himself and walked in the direction you had disappeared, with the sound of his sister spitting insults following him.
He found you on a balcony, sitting in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, dress blowing in the wind. Stray pieces of hair blew into your eyes as you peered down, picking at your fingernails, deep enough to draw blood.
Your doe-like eyes looked up through the shadows at the sound of the door opening, shoulders stiffening at the sight of him—all broad and serious—so Danforth-like, intimidating you to a point that you felt you couldn’t move. As he stepped outside, his silver curls caught in the moonlight, and his deep gaze traced you up and down silently. You had never seen him like this—so close, so intimately—and you couldn’t help but just stare and keep picking at the torn skin around your fingernails. Blood smeared around your thumb, and he watched the crimson bead from the wound.
With his hands tucked behind his back, there was a certain curiosity laced between his wandering gaze and the tilt of his head. “Not having a good time?”
“What makes you think that?” you asked, voice steady, steadier than either of you would’ve expected. “Have you been watching me, Mr. Danforth?”
God, he hated the way his surname sounded coming from your parted lips—the way his cock twitched again—realizing that you played into the innocence card, molded yourself into exactly what everyone else saw you as. The youngest elite heir—lucky, inexperienced, too pure to survive all of this.
“Mr. Danforth?” He chuckled, the sound deep, honest. “You must think you’re speaking to my father.”
“As if you don’t like it.” You mused, raising an arched brow up at him.
He cleared his throat. “Titus, is fine.”
You sighed, looking away, over your shoulder, over the estate—one that was beautiful, but far too small for the Hunt. One that you knew better than the Danforth’s, having spent more time here than there.
Your mind turned on itself then, as you thought about it with the eldest and future board member of the high council standing there—you, the outlier, the youngest, least experienced, having only participated in two hunts before this one. Everyone was expecting your death.
Even you.
“I heard you won your last two hunts. Quiet on the ground, like a cat, experienced with a bow and arrow. You killed Senator Calcius’s son at the last hunt, right? He was what? 6 '3? And roughly 210? And you took him down one shot, one arrow, right to his heart.”
You picked at another piece of skin, feeling it give away, blood forming immediately as you refused to look back at him. Your shoulders were raised and the images from that hunt came back, clearer than ever despite it having been over a year ago—a hunt that had taken the lives of your cousin and brother, each with a 3 inch hole in their skulls from another elite who had turned on the rest of the party. You had killed him right after you had taken care of the senator’s son.
“That’s impressive,” Titus admitted, his voice warm, pooling in your stomach. “You know, for someone who’s twelve.”
Your head snapped towards him then, glaring in a way he found neither intimidating or serious. But your lips curled in on themselves and while he hoped for you to say something back, insult him, you only sighed and turned back to the garden below.
“You’re not excited for the Hunt?” he asked, the sound of his steps loud in your ears.
You hummed softly standing and brushing your hands across the bottom of your dress, a few droplets of blood staining the silk material. Titus’s eyes dropped to the action before drifting back up your body, past your lips, and to your eyes.
“How can you tell?” You crossed your arms, tone becoming snappy with him faster than he anticipated.
He gestured to the balcony as if you escaping outside wasn’t telling enough but your expression did not shift, if anything it deepend further. Looking once over his shoulder, Titus stepped closer and then again when you didn’t move back. He moved until the tip of his shoe was touching yours.
His hands were still behind him, not even tempted with the idea of touching, but he leaned forward, enough that his chest brushed up against your arms. Then your last name was falling off his tongue sweeter than you had ever heard it.
“You’re the youngest,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting so softly, just for you.
Your walls fell just a little bit, your head tilting in a way that he was eating up—so innocent, naive, so enticing. Your tongue slipped out to wet your lips, and his eyes followed it.
“Yes,” you admitted softly.
Another step forward. This one coaxing you to take one backwards, your pulse rising, and you hating how he was able to catch it. Your back met the cool metal of the balcony railing, hand suddenly darting out to meet his chest, anything to keep some space between the two of you. His lips curled up further into a smirk, a dark look evolving across his face.
“So pretty,” he whispered.
A gasp slipped from your lips, eyes narrowing up at him as the warm tip of his finger trailed up the side of your thigh, so gently, you weren’t sure if it was even real, until his palm grabbed the railing, caging you in entirely.
“So young,” he continued, breath suddenly colliding with your lips. “A waste of a life to have in the Hunt. But it’s never fair is it? Hm, I am sure your blood will be pretty too, especially drenched across my hands.”
Titus was used to people cowering, the air shifting in a room at his mere presence, those groveling if he threatened their life. But you didn’t shudder or react, and it annoyed him that you were as lock and key as ever—hidden away from him—your humanity not there for the taking. You merely stared at him, just as intensely, not a lick of fear within you, not prey-like one. Single. Bit.
But this wasn’t the first time you had been threatened by one of the large men of the elite family heirs. Your family hadn’t been around as long as the others, but around long enough to have a knife pressed to your jugular once or twice, and wandering hands trying to reach up your skirt. This life you were familiar with, and it had become a part of you at this point, your first hunt being when you were sixteen, and then the second when you were twenty.
And you were still alive.
So you smiled, instead. “I guess that all depends on if you can find me, Titus.”
“You mean when I find you?”
You tutted softly up at him, your expression cracking only when you felt his knee wedging itself between your thighs. “I am sorry, but am I forgetting a time when you and I have been a part of the same hunt? Oh, right. We haven’t.”
“You think that means I can’t hunt you down?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know, Titus. I tend to pick the best hiding spots. It’s done me well so far.”
His dick was completely hard at this point. The way you were saying his name over and over again, creating a response out of him that he couldn’t control.
Leaning forward, his mouth hovered over yours, his stare so dark now as they flickered between your mouth and eyes. “Except that I know every inch and crevice of the Danforth estate. You’re right, we haven’t been a part of the same hunt before, but you also have never done one on my property. So tell me, what’s going to happen when I find you?”
You thought about it for a second, heart beating loudly in your chest. Then you jutted your chin out, planning to defy him every second you could while alive. “We settle up and strike a deal.”
Chuckling, he smiled down at you softly, a new challenge forming in his eyes as he took a step back, body peeling away from you altogether.
“I’ll see you at the Hunt, little lamb. I wish you luck. Rest assured, I will find you, and when I do, prepare to beg for your life.”
Then, as if the great Danforth’s eldest son had never been there at all, he slipped back inside, the glass door shutting softly, hinges creaking in a call and response. He disappeared down the hall, not looking back once, as he retreated into the boring party, to the lies that had beseeched everyone into a life of death and murder, but with more money than anyone could ever fucking imagine. His black suit reflected across the walls like a loose shadow, one begging you to run—run so far that the big bad wolf couldn’t get you.
You knew what kind of hunter Titus Danforth was—he was intense in everything he did, ruthless, and most importantly, he didn’t fear death. He dances around, waiting for the day his blood will return to the earth, all of the darkness within him going back to where it came from. It was what made him the scariest contender out there. And although you were fairly certain he would catch you eventually—hopefully not before dawn, before the light can bargain for your life—you’d die trying to kill him before he could kill you.
The night of the hunt, you got ready, ate with your parents and your older brother, the last one of the two, as clouds billowed and moved through the area. The wind was picking up, and the air was humid, water droplets bubbling on your skin from the increase in temperature.
“Great hunting weather,” you said, standing on the back porch of the estate, the screen windows revealing the shadows that loomed outside. “Easier to hide in. Covers up scents, tracks… won’t have to do as much to conceal my presence.”
Your brother stood in the room, taking in the side of your face as you stared out at the dark green fields, already dressed in a dark long-sleeved shirt and black pants that hugged your body tightly. Eyes glassy, your fingertip traced over the scar at your collarbone, the first one you had ever gotten during your first hunt.
Elias wasn’t chosen for the hunt this time around—it was a plus when families had lost multiple children and were running low on who could keep the lineage alive. He had tried to have them pick him over you, but Le Bali wouldn’t permit it.
You were mumbling now under bated breaths, feeling yourself spiral the closer to the witching hour it got, the closer you got to the start of the Hunt and the promise that Titus had made you. He wanted your blood, and what a Danforth wants, a Danforth gets.
Elias whispered your name, it deep, drawing your attention back to him and the table full of weapons. Guns, knives, crossbows, an axe—anything you can imagine on one table. Your brother gestured towards the bow and the bag of arrows. It had been your chosen weapon for the first two hunts—the thing that had ultimately kept you alive.
But this wasn’t just any other hunt.
You walked around the table, fingers tracing handles, blades, the way triggers felt under your touch. Suddenly, as the first raindrop fell, your hand stopped near a five-inch hunting knife, the handle wooden and engraved with your family emblem.
Picking it up, you tested its weight before slipping it into the guard at your thigh.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking of switching it up this year." You shrugged, trying to dissociate as the clock got closer.
“Are you crazy, sister? Take the bow.” Elias reached for the knife at your hip, but you stopped him.
“This isn’t any other fucking hunt. Risking the bow would be risking my life.”
“And you think the knife is any better? Look, I know you’re stronger now, but you should stick to what you know. That bow got you through your first two hunts.”
You smiled sadly, running your palms over his shoulders. “When have you ever believed in superstitions?”
He pleaded then, in a way you would’ve never expected from him—you knew what kind of life you guys were getting into when your parents were picked to be an elite family. Death would be a commonality, murder even more so. He even used to enjoy the hunt, enjoy how it felt to end someone’s life. No one had ever been innocent—not even you. But when Linus was killed by Titus’s cousin, something in Elias changed that day. Something shifted how he felt about the hunts.
“Elias, this is the champion’s hunt. Everyone here is either older than me, stronger, or has more kills than I probably ever will. The bow can’t save me if I get caught in close combat.”
He paused, frame relaxing under your touch, a few seconds passed, only to drift away at the sound of your father entering the room. The car was here.
Squeezing Elias’s shoulder, you parted, only for him to call out your name as you reached the threshold of the doorway.
Turning over your shoulder, you met his melancholy gaze. “Go for the throat, ribs, and the base of the skull. The hunting triad. I remember.”
You didn’t look back again and followed your father down the stairs of the estate, taking in the smell, the way it looked under dim canary lights, the staff who had been nothing but loyal for almost ten years—all just in case you wouldn’t come back. With one squeeze to your shoulder from your father—signaling that he didn’t even believe you’d live—you stepped out into the stormy dark abyss of the night, the light diminishing behind rolling clouds. Slipping into the black, sleek car sent for you, you leaned back into the seat, head rolling to the side, and you watched your home until it disappeared completely from view.
Ready or not, you would be participating in a hunt tonight.
One weapon, one night, survive until dawn…again—how hard could it be?
The first crack of thunder came a few mere minutes after the sky erupted in a bright light. It rolled across the Danforth estate like something alive. The trees shook against the windows, the darkness of the sky matching what darkness would commence on the ground. Clutching your knife against your thigh, you listened as the grandfather clock ticked away—the rest of the heirs standing around you with their weapons of choice.
Chester Danforth was more than a member of the high council; he was the greatest—cold, detached, lacking an ounce of empathy that would stall his order on the world. He stood at the top of the entryway steps, a dark suit buttoned up with a bright maroon tie—hair white, he sneered down at the competitors, at the children of his most trusted associates, sure to have their blood spilled.
His eyes flickered over you, the youngest of the heirs, having already survived two of your own; it didn’t create any more favorable odds the third time around. You knew he would beam, maybe even laugh at the sight of you dead, especially if at the hands of his eldest son.
Titus stood next to him, leaning up against his axe, grinning as if he were a kid who had just stumbled across a carnival. Like a predator stalking his prey, he scanned the crowd, the cusps of his teeth chewing on his lip as every dark fantasy flew in and out of his mind—blood, so much blood, god, he wanted to be drenched in it by the end of it all. There was no smell, no feeling better than it.
Something in you stiffened as Titus’s pupils locked onto you, dark and unblinking. His smirk widened, slow and predatory, as his gaze dragged down your frame, pausing at the hunting knife strapped to your thigh. Mr. Danforth’s voice droned through the hall—rules, warnings, the same ritualistic speech you’d heard twice before—but Titus didn't look away. Not once. His stare was ruthless, hungry in a way that made your pulse stumble. The words went in one ear and out the other, only appearing in shortened phrases.
…One weapon.
Dawn or until there’s only one…
Different release points onto the estate.
…Bell sounds, hunt begins.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you couldn’t look away. Not until a staff member brushed your elbow, drawing your attention from Titus. They were to guide you to your release point on the far side of the estate. You nodded and followed, not missing the small wink Titus sent your way as you passed him—a silent promise, or a threat, you couldn’t tell—deeper into the Danforths’ world that you were sure was about to swallow you whole.
And then Ursula’s voice cut through the marble hall like a blade, echoing off the high walls as she gagged in disgust. “Really, Titus? We’re minutes from the bell, and you’re already hunting the wrong thing.”
You didn’t hear his reply.
And you didn’t want to.
The staff member led you through a side door and out into the storm. The air hit you hard. Thunder rolled across the estate grounds as the Danforth mansion loomed behind you, its windows glowing like the watchful eyes of Chester Danforth.
The older staff stopped at the edge of the treeline.
“Here,” they said. “Wait for the bell.”
You peered up at the sky and slipped back into the shadows of the forest, rain soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your breath fogged in the cold air as you waited, trying to hear past the storm. The first thing that came to your mind was what always had, it getting you through the first two hunts—hide, wait, survive. Let the others kill one another while you disappear deeper into the dark.
The bell tolled somewhere from the direction that you came—low, resonant, like one that you used to hear at church. It vibrated in your ribs, your teeth, in the wet air around you. For a moment, everything went still.
And you ran.
The storm swallowed you within seconds. Rain soaked into you and blurred the world around you. Your boots tore across the lawn, the mansion shrinking behind you with every stride. Thunder clapped overhead, close enough to make you jump.
You ran and ran, not stopping until the shapes of the estate garden rose out of the dark. The old stone fountain was overflowing with stormwater, the row of greenhouses standing like glass skeletons under the stormy sky. You slowed there, hands meeting your knees, lungs burning.
But then the lightning split the sky again—a white, violent flash—and in that instant you saw them. Another one of the hunters could be Vance’s son, aged thirty-eight. He wasn’t far. Back turned and scanning the dark for threats that weren’t you.
Your breath stalled, and then your fingers were curling around the hilt of your knife. Clutching it tightly, you felt your pulse quicken, and for a moment you hesitated. That childlike old instinct tugging at you, the one that said run, don’t stop, let them kill each other first.
But something in you was stalling. It could’ve been the storm, the exertion, or the fear that hiding wouldn’t save you anymore. It was a Champion’s Hunt—they would find you.
It could’ve been the realization that this was your third hunt, two since Leo was murdered. But whatever it was, it had you moving forward, timing your steps with the storm, moving when the sky spoke, holding your breath when it was silent. The rain masked your approach, suddenly becoming so close you could see the rise and fall of their shoulders, close enough to smell the wet fabric of their jacket.
When the next crack of thunder tore through the sky, you struck. It was quick, clean, up through the back of their skull, finding that sweet spot like it wasn’t the first time. The hunter collapsed into the mud, and the storm covered the evidence. Standing over them, rain running down your face, your knife slick in your hand, for the first time in any hunt, you felt no remorse.
You didn’t shake, and you didn’t feel the guilt.
Only a cold understanding.
Eliminate them one by one. The more you killed, the sooner it'd all be over.
Wiping the blade on the grass, you began to move around the perimeter of the estate, moving close to the trees, you let the shadows of the night swallow you whole. The storm worsened after your first kill; it was more grueling, coming down like soft pellets. As you passed along the garden path and toward the old orchard, somewhere in the distance, someone screamed.
The Hunt was already eating people alive.
You kept moving. The ground was slick, the mud sucking at your boots. You slowed for a second time and listened, trying to steady your breath. There, a few feet away, you see another figure crouched by a tree, the lightning revealing their position to you, and you followed it like a beam. Waiting for the thunder, you reached around without any hesitation and slit the person’s throat, angling it to hit their carotid.
It was quick, instinct, and gravity brought them down. You stood there, chest heaving, rain dripping from your hair, staring down at the body. This one felt messy. Desperate.
Your hands were shaking slightly now.
Two kills—two people suddenly unalive and no longer breathing.
After that, you didn’t make it much further, just passed the orchard towards where the trees thinned when the ground suddenly sloped upward. Your energy was waning, but still strong, but that’s when you heard it.
The voice deep, taunting, and cruel—a Danforth through and through.
“Look at you,” he called, stepping out from behind a twisted apple tree. Lightning flashed, illuminating his smirk. “Didn’t think you’d make it this far.”
Your ears perked up, chest stalling for a moment.
Titus’s cousin.
He stalked closer, looking you up and down and lingering on the cut on your arm and the blood that covered your clothes. He laughed; it was sharp, loud, and absolutely terrifying. “Looks like someone got you there.”
You tightened your grip on the knife, jaw clenched because there was no way you were going to die at the hands of this asshole. Tilting your head ever so slightly, your tone came out threatening, “Move out of my way, Arlo.”
He grinned wider. “You know I can’t do that.”
He lunged first, and you barely dodged him, slipping in the mud. At the same time, his blade came up and grazed your cheek, a hot sting that made your vision spark. He laughed again. Then he went for you, this time taking a hold of both your hips and slamming you down on the ground. You slipped, boots flying out from under you, your back hitting the ground, knocking the air out of you. The knife fell from your hand, and Arlo’s hands found a place around your throat.
You kicked and struggled, but he only squeezed harder, his fingertips pressing into your windpipe. He exhaled heavily, his weight crushing you. Your lungs burned, and you flailed your arms, trying to free yourself, trying to find something, anything that you could use to get him off of you. But as seconds passed, the air filling your lungs slowed, and with the feeling of a nearly crushed windpipe, the only thing you could think in that moment was I’m going to die.
It was then you saw it out of the corner of your eye. Your hunting knife. It was too far for you to reach, but still close enough if you were just able to move. As you struggled to get the air in, Arlo’s face was red above, his hands tightening again and again. You thrashed against him, hands clawing at his hands, moving from side to side so frantically that you managed to get your knee free from under him. You thrust it hard into his groin.
His hold loosened and fell away altogether, only for a few seconds, but enough for you to slip out slightly from underneath him, palm meeting the handle of the knife. The next thing you knew, it was twisted underneath Arlo’s ribcage, up and towards his chest cavity.
He gasped, surprised as you drove him into the mud. He tried to grab your wrist, but you were already moving, pulling the knife from his chest and going in again and again.
He tried to push you off of him, but you were stronger in this moment than you had ever been in your entire life. And you didn’t stop, until his body had crumpled beneath you, until his breathing ceased, and the rain was washing over you both—like a cleansing of your sin. You sat there for a long second after that, chest heaving, hair plastered to your face, hands trembling.
Your throat screamed as you still struggled to get air into your lungs.
But you were alive.
And you had managed to kill three of them.
But that’s when you heard it, the wind shifting, settling just for a moment, and the sound of ground moving under a footstep. You turned, and then you saw him.
Titus.
Standing at the edge of the orchard, soaked, blood-splattered, his axe resting casually on his shoulder. His eyes flickered from the body at your feet to the cut on your cheek, to the knife trembling in your hand. His brow arched up like he was almost impressed.
Almost.
Light flashed behind him, turning him into a silhouette of death.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, a certain darkness in his eye that told you he had killed too.
You sighed. You were exhausted. Your muscles were trembling, and the energy that carried you through the first few hours of the hunt and through three kills was running out. Still, you stood, wiping the blood from your cheek with the back of your hand. Reaching down, you pulled the knife from the body of Titus’s cousin at your feet, and you met his gaze.
He smiled. Slow. Cruel
It was a smile that was meant to unravel you. Scare you into submission.
“How many have you killed?” he asked.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Three.” Your voice cracked, and your throat ached.
He nodded, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. You raised your knife, something in your chest hardening at the playful glint in his expression. He was such a mind fuck.
“You?” you asked.
His grin widened, “Four.”
The number caused a shiver to run down your back.
You tried to shift right but he lunged—moving faster than you—and his hand closed around your wrist before you could react. The world tilted as he yanked you off balance, the storm even louder in your ears now as your boots slid in the mud. Titus’s weight crashed into you, his broad body sending you down to the ground.
The knife dropped from your hand.
And you fell on your back, hard, breath knocked from your lungs. Before you could scramble away, Titus was already on you, hips pinning yours and one knee braced in the mud. One hand held your wrist to the ground, pressing down hard enough to keep you from escaping.
His other hand wrapped around your jaw, holding it steady, forcing your gaze up to his.
Rain dripped from his hair onto your cheeks as you struggled underneath him. His breath was uneven, eyes dark and searching. His hand was around your jaw, causing you to whimper out in pain. Keeping you still, his pointer finger found your lower lip. He brushed it so gently, his eyes boring down into yours, something in him softening just a little bit.
His grip tightened around you, but he didn’t rush.
He wasn’t angry.
Merely waiting.
“Just fucking do it, Titus,” you snapped, breath shaking, voice hoarse. “S-Stop dragging it out.”
He pinned your arms harder into the ground, but he didn’t say anything. Not one word, not a shift in his expression either. His eyes narrowed in a way that would’ve made you listen if you weren’t dying either way. “Be quiet.”
“No, no, Titus,” you cried out against him, lip trembling in a way that had his chest tightening ever so slightly.
“Shut up,” he groaned, feeling a subtle shift in the air.
“Just... just kill me.”
But something changed in his posture then. His body pressed down harder, pinning you completely. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
Your mouth parted but no sound came as he clamped his hand over your mouth. He lowered his head and you could feel the hardness of him poking into you. It made you stiffen, the pressure of him, the heat of him becoming too much to bear quickly. His hand stayed over your mouth, his grip unyielding, as he looked out at the darkness around you.
There were footsteps. And they were close.
You felt his breath against your temple.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you hoped in that moment he would make it quick, but it was a feeling that never came. The footsteps lingered only for a moment before moving and fading up near the back of the estate.
You exhaled but still refused to open your eyes. If death were to come, you didn’t want to look at Titus as it did. But as a strike of lightning illuminated behind your eyelids, you never felt the blade come; the feeling of coolness, his touch remained where it had been before. Slowly, you peeled one eye open and then the other. He stared, eyes suddenly black as his chest heaved up and down, rain sliding down his face and his neck, curls matted to his head.
He managed to reach your knife, and suddenly it was pressed into your side. You felt his hardening shaft poke harder, even harder than the hunting knife, only for a moment before he was loosening his hold. With his hands still tightly holding your wrists, he managed to haul you up onto your feet. The blade returned to your side, poking into the last intercostal space of your ribs.
“You’re going to move, and you’re not going to make a fucking sound,” he whispered against your ear, his breath hot.
He pushed you deeper into the forest, the land going back so much further than you thought it did. Over rough terrain, creeks, you felt all patience dying on your tongue—he was making his own little game out of this, and it was fucking cruel. Whereas he could end this, he could win this. But he let it stretch out, counted the minutes with you pressed up against him, the way you were so close as the storm raged on.
But then he hauled you to a stop—in the distance the bell rang once, then twice, and finally a third time—signalling that there were only three of you left now. You were sure the third being was Ursula. She never missed out on a hunt.
Releasing your arms, he pushed you forward, and you cringed at the soreness that you felt from how long and how tight he’d had your arms bound behind your back. He gestured with the knife towards the ground in front of the two of you.
“There’s a hatch, open it!”
You crouched down, fear taking hold of you now. The hours had long since passed from the start of the Hunt, but you had no way of knowing just how much, or if dawn was close. You also had no way of knowing what Titus was up to, but you were so tired, so hopeless. Your fingers matted into the soft ground, hands sinking into the mud. Pushing back soft ground, twigs, and branches, your heart stuttered as your skin felt the coolness of metal.
You scrambled to move the branches, and you could hear Titus behind you tapping his foot impatiently. The rain was only getting worse as time went on, blurring your vision into shadows of silver and black. Managing to clear off the hatch, you pulled at it, but it didn’t budge.
You tried again, but Titus stepped forward, gave you a look that had you staying put as he grabbed the handle, managing to open the hatch door away from the ground, the sound a soft creak amongst the storm. He motioned you forward, and you hesitated for a moment, peering down into the tunnel of darkness.
He sighed, your name falling off his tongue menacingly, your knife still clenched tightly in his fist. “Go.”
You listened because what else were you going to do? Running didn’t feel like an option. He was more likely to kill you sooner the less you cooperated. If you played into his little game, the closer you could get to morning. And if you had to decide between which of the Danforth twins to encounter, you’d pick Titus.
You saw the way he looked at you, how attentive he was; with him, you could buy yourself time. Ursula would’ve struck as soon as she could—with him, you at least had a chance of survival, no matter how slim.
As your feet found the hard ground beneath, you shivered as you stared into the dark tunnel. The latch fell shut above you. Titus locked it and dropped down behind you. A ringing echoed in your ears, the storm above still loud and deadly, and for a moment, you wondered if you were already dead, confined in the darkness now forever.
But then the sound of a click filled your ears, once and then twice. A small light birthing through the blackness illuminated Titus’s face, a smile twitching as he took in the sight of you, soaked through and with fear flickering at the edges of your irises.
He looked like a lion through and through on his final hunt, having discovered his last prey. Stepping closer, the tip of your knife poked into your back, his other arm with the lighter winding around your shoulders, illuminating only a few feet in front of you. His hard, wet chest pressed into your back, his breath falling short along your ear as he urged you forward, slowly, one step at a time.
“Titus.” His name slipped past your lips in a soft whimper.
“Shh, pretty. Just keep walking,” he replied, the knife kissing your skin a little closer.
The further into the lion's den you crept, the more sure you were he was going to kill you—in what way you weren’t sure, but if you knew anything about Titus, he liked blood. The dark tunnel walls opened up, the air cooling with every step. The storm faded from above, replaced by the low hum of generators buried somewhere in the stone. When he finally pushed open the heavy steel door, the room inside suddenly felt like another world entirely.
Titus pushed you forward into the dark, the knife leaving your side. You tripped slightly but caught yourself as the light began to spread, forming across the walls and the floor.
He lit a lantern while you struggled to gather your bearings. Silence echoed, confining you as the concrete walls were smooth to perfection. A cot with a thick mattress, crisp sheets, and a wool blanket was tucked into the corner. Metal shelves lining the other side of the room were stocked with water, food, and a Danforth jacket hanging up on one of the nails. A map of the whole estate was pinned up on the wall, and the most unsettling thing of all was a drain centered in the floor. You wondered if that’s where your blood would end up, under the Danforth estate, soaking back into the ground.
You turned to see Titus still near the door. He leaned his axe up against the wall, then dropped your knife down onto a metal table. His stare never left yours, not as he shrugged off his jacket, water droplets dripping onto the concrete floor below.
He wore a black shirt, which stuck to his body, revealing even in the shadows, hard lines underneath. You wondered then if everything about Titus was sharp.
You inhaled deeply, pressing yourself back against the cool concrete wall, stare darting back and forth from him to your knife. But then he was too close, as close as he had been the last time you saw him, his toes meeting yours. The only sound filling the room was the two of you breathing.
Hair stuck to your face and neck, your arm still bleeding, beads of red mixing with the water to become a muted pink. Despite the goosebumps that arose on his arms, you could feel the heat radiating off of him, feel the tension that was threatening to snap.
“Titus, this is cruel,” you said, finally speaking, the exhaustion in your voice palpable.
He tilted his head at you, taunting in more ways than one.
“You’re being fucking cruel.”
“Am I?” he teased.
Your stare hardened then, chin tilting up defiantly. “What are you doing? Just why won’t you kill me?”
He didn’t respond but only moved even closer, a gasp falling from your lips at the way his wet chest pressed against yours. Titus’s eyes were glazed over with a lens of darkness that softened ever so slightly. His hands hovered as if unsure of where to touch you. Seconds passed, and they remained raised at his sides, weaponless. He could feel your heart beating, meeting his, and he wondered if there was ever a way to have them, without all the mess, all the blood, conjoining into one.
“Entertain me,” he mused, his nose nearly bumping into yours. His finger reached up and traced the cut along your cheek, collecting the dried blood there. “You’re young, but I know you’re smart enough to connect the dots.”
Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he sucked it clean. You gasped, every part of you equally afraid and intrigued. He was close enough now that you could see a scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt, specks of blood staining his skin, as a certain sort of reverence settled in his eyes. Your head pressed back into the stone wall, as far as you could, looking up at him so honestly, every raw part of you showing. He could see it all—your fear, your humanity, your soul.
It was laid out bare.
This was his favorite part of killing—you knew it was. And yet he didn’t strike, didn’t reach for your throat, your skull. He just stood staring, hands still hovering, and you realized then that if Titus was really going to kill you, if he wanted to as much as he did, he would’ve done it—out in the open without shame, showcasing his prize if it meant getting the recognition he always craved.
“You’re not going to kill me.”
The words scraped out of you, thin and uneven, like they’d been dragged across broken glass. You hated how afraid you sounded. You hated that he heard it.
Titus didn’t answer at first. His hand lifted to your jaw, thumb tracing the line of it with a focus that made you stutter. Not gentle—just deliberate. Assessing. Studying you the way a predator studies something it hasn’t decided the fate of yet.
“This,” he murmured, tilting your chin up, “is why you think I couldn’t.”
Your breath caught.
He smirked then, slow and sharp, brows lifting.
“I could kill you,” he admitted, voice low, matter-of-fact. “You know that. And I won’t pretend I wouldn’t take satisfaction in it.”
Your stomach twisted. He wasn’t bluffing. He never did.
“But,” he continued, “I need an heir. And you’re more useful to me alive than dead.”
Your lips parted, the feeling of him pressing into you mixed with his confession, had heat pooling at the bottom of your stomach.
The merging of families—the merging of power—the idea of you becoming Mrs. Danforth, both delightful and delicious. The Lawyer advised you before, at one of the galas, of a loophole—if you were to offer up marriage, offer up a union between two of the high power families, your survival was almost imminent. The elite families were addicted to the smell of blood, feeling someone wither under their touch, but there was something they would always crave more… power.
“You said you wanted to strike up a deal. This is me offering you one.”
It seemed Titus had beaten you to the punch.
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh—sharp, disbelieving, exhausted—your patience having completely thinned after this hellish night. “A deal? You want me to…what? Become some kind of vessel for your legacy.”
He actually chuckled. “Not just that. No.”
His eyes flickered over your face, reading every reaction.
“I would’ve thought you knew me better.”
Your pulse hammered.
You didn’t know him at all.
That was the problem.
“You’d be more,” he said. “Much more. Mrs. Danforth.”
The title hit you like a bow. It was heavy, suffocating, impossible.
You swallowed hard then. “And if I say no?”
He didn’t hesitate, tilting his head, a glint forming at the mere thought of it. “Then death is still on the table.”
The words landed with a cold, heavy finality. But there was something else beneath them—something he wasn’t saying out loud. He could kill you, but he didn’t necessarily want to. Not anymore. Not after everything that has been revealed tonight.
Your gaze dropped for a moment, it all becoming too much too fast, as if this hadn’t been building between the two of you. You forced your stare back up to meet his.
And you couldn’t deny it then—how handsome Titus was, even a few decades your senior. His authority, while terrifying, was doing something to you now, and you knew that if the heir of the Danforth name and estate was offering up everything under the sky, you’d be an idiot to say no.
“I don’t trust you,” you admitted instead.
It wasn’t a refusal.
It wasn’t an acceptance of any kind but it was honest.
His mouth curved—not a smile, not quite. It was more like an acknowledgement. His thumb pulled at your bottom lip, humming at the way it snapped back into place. “You don’t have to trust me. You just have to survive. And with me, you will.”
Titus didn’t move, letting his hands mold around your body. He didn’t blink, just watched you, the way he always did. Your breath hitched, thinking about the options as you had them, a life as Mrs. Danforth, a life with power, money, with Titus as your husband…or no life at all.
He could see them weighing on you.
“You’re afraid of me,” he said softly. “You should be. But there's more than just fear.”
Your pulse stuttered at his words, the way his hips hitched forward, meeting yours, pulling out a gasp with ease. His eyes narrowed slightly, doing it again to get another reaction out of you. “I know there’s more you’re hiding in there. A want, a desire.”
Your chest tightened.
Heat rose up your neck. You looked away again—instinct, maybe self-protection—but he guided your face back towards his with some force.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did, unable not to. And it all hit you in that moment, after all this time denying, refusing that any of this could be true, it shifted deep into your chest. It wasn’t because he touched you, not because he leaned in, but because you finally understood what had been weighing so heavily all this time.
You weren’t just afraid of him.
You were drawn to him.
You always have been.
Your breath trembled and his did too. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke—the hunt was nearly complete above you, but down here, it felt as if it was just beginning.
It was then his knee wedged between your thighs, pressing up in a way that you had you leaning into his warm touch. You bit down on your bottom lip to conceal the whimper, and Titus grinned at the sight of it.
“So, what do you say, pretty?” he asked, voice lowering, reaching down into places you didn’t think he had access to. “‘Til death do us part.”
His lips brushed along your jaw, his knee pressing up further against your center, the pressure making your head spin. Holding your breath, your chest was rising and falling quicker than before. As his knee met the spot where you wanted him most, a small moan fell, and you were nodding then. Nodding, you bit down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
His thumb hooked the side of your mouth, stare blown out, and cock twitching within his pants. “Words, I need words.”
His knee pressed against your clit again.
“Y-Yes…fuck,” you sputtered. “Yes.”
Something in him broke then, his hand fisted your hair and pulled you forward, your chest pressing further into his. His lips fell messily on yours, consuming you in just the way that was so Titus, it had your head spinning.
You kissed back, mouth falling open, teeth colliding as if this wasn’t the first time. And he took you within seconds, his tongue slipping into your mouth. He groaned at the taste of blood that bloomed on your lower lip, mixing so well with the sweetness that was you and only you. He pulled back, just enough to suck on your lower lip.
It felt like sin, having him touch you like this. But you knew in the way you sighed, and you arched into him, that all your defenses were falling away. Hands wandering like loose canons, they slipped up under your shirt, finding bare, damp skin underneath. Your head was reeling, body flooding with every ounce of energy and feeling you had left—all of it suddenly screaming for Titus.
Secretly, this had crossed your mind for years, starting after your second hunt. You had caught sight of Titus after the other heirs came to admire the winners. He had less grey in his hair then, but he was still just as beautiful as he was now. He was deadly, a name that held more power than you would ever touch, and it became a dying thought when you thought he wouldn’t go for you because of the age gap or that he would have more interest in killing you than fucking you.
You were pulled back by the feeling of him groping at your hips, your sides, any skin he could grab—nails leaving crescents as his lips continued to kiss bruises into your lips.
“You smell like blood,” he mumbled as his lips found your jaw.
“I thought you liked that,” you teased, and as he chuckled, you felt it in your chest—almost as if the sound came from you instead.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he reached down, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you as if you weighed nothing. Resting you on top of his hips, your feet hooked around his waist, and you smiled down at him—a real smile.
The side of his mouth twitched as he lay you down on the cot, his thigh once again parting your legs. He kissed you again. This one slower, deeper, wetter.
His hands dove under your shirt again, kneading, his lips moving across your jaw and down your neck, hesitating once they met the raw skin of your throat, two red handprints glinting back at him under the low light.
Arlo’s hands.
He glanced down at your shirt stil matted and damp from rain water and blood.
Arlo’s blood.
He had only gotten there as you had managed to free yourself, hand wrapping desperately around the handle of the hunting knife. It was your kill, and he’d let you claim it. Instead, Titus stood back, watching with satisfaction as you thrusted the knife up and under Arlo’s ribs, gasping for this earth’s sweet, sweet air as you did.
He had never liked Arlo anyway.
Didn’t like how his touch was left on your skin.
Titus moved slowly as he stared down at the marks. Hand hovering for a mere moment, his fingers traced them. You stiffened first under his touch, his hand so close to your throat, you cringed second at the feeling. A part of it excited him, how wide your eyes got, the spark of fear that appeared in them.
His hand drifted up higher, finding the side of your head instead, brushing hair behind your ear.
“Sh, it’s okay,” he lowered his voice, hips pressed against yours, his hardness pressing through his pants into your thigh. “What kind of man would I be if I hurt my wife?”
You met his steady gaze, the way it traced over your features, hand resting at the side of your head. Wife. The word was so foreign, so thick, so enigmatic. Was this the right thing? Marry a man who proposed with ‘will you marry me, but if you don’t say yes, I will kill you.’ But you’d be a Danforth, married to the very man who had fantasized about your death.
And yet you got it.
Completely.
After all, you had thought about his death, too. The Hunt made you envision everyone’s death. How would you do it, for every possible scenario you could think of. You had wanted to kill him, too.
But not now. Not as he reached up, hands grabbing at the back of his wet shirt. Not as he pulled it up and over his head in one swift motion, leaving him bare underneath. Your eyes dropped to the expanse of skin—broad-shouldered, freckle-coated chest, taut muscles under scars and wounds both old and new.
You traced your fingers over the scar that was peeking out of his shirt before. It was so much larger now, extending from the top of his shoulder, along his collarbone, ending where the bone met sternum. He shivered, and it only made you want to push further. Dragging your pointer finger down his chest, you moved lower and lower. His stomach clenched as you found the waistband of his pants.
“Fuck,” he swore, head dipping to meet yours.
“What was that?” you teased.
Titus shook his head, brows furrowed. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”
His hands pushed your shirt up and over your chest.
“So fix it,” you smirked, leaning up and nearly kissing him.
He grinned then, pulling the shirt the rest of the way up and over your head. Titus’s stare dipped at the new expanse of skin, at the blood that stained through your clothes, your own scars, your own stories of near encounters with death. He took you in slowly, then, slower than he ever had, orbs taking you one inch at a time.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, fingers thumbing at the button of your pants. He popped them, and you involuntarily arched into his touch.
“All I’ve ever wanted.”
Titus chuckled, and you lifted your hips just enough for him to get the material under your butt before pulling them the rest of the way down, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. His fingers twisted in the material, and you rubbed your thighs together. He noticed it, took in the sight of the wetness gathering at the center of your grey panties.
Pulling his fingers free, he stared down at you, pupils blown, chest heaving, and with a look that made you realize he was about to ruin you—ruin you for anyone else. He reached for the front of his own pants, the zipper, and then the button.
“You know,” he paused, eyes tracing the skin and bones of you, following them with his lips. “There is nothing I want more than to devour you.”
His lips found the space right above your underwear. Your breath stalled, hands fisting around the sheets. He moved up further, placing another one below your navel.
“What I would give to taste you, over and over. Stretch you out with my fingers until your legs are shaking.”
Then, between the valley of your breasts, just above the band of your bra. He pushed his pants over his hips and down his knees. He kicked them off just as his lips met one of your nipples, your bra dampening under the hot wetness of his mouth.
You whimpered, hips pressing up into his.
His smile widened further. “There’s nothing more you deserve after tonight than to cum—”
“Titus,” you moaned.
“Uh, uh, I haven’t even done anything yet,” he quipped, fingers dancing up your thigh to the front of your underwear. “And you shouldn’t interrupt. If you’re going to be my wife, I need to teach you a few things.”
His finger moved up along your lips, finding your clit with ease even over the cotton material. He pressed down, and you arched into him again, palms wrapping around his arms, nails digging into his biceps.
“So rule number one, don’t interrupt your husband,” he ordered, his finger beginning to move in steady circles. As seconds passed, he circled faster, harder—head tilting as he took in the way your face moved, eyes squeezed shut, fingers digging into his arms that he hoped you drew blood.
“I would make you cum again and again,” he whispered against the shell of your ear, pushing further and further towards the edge. “But wouldn’t it be more interesting to leave that for the wedding night…”
Just as the coil in your stomach began to tighten, maybe even close to snapping, he pulled his fingers away. You gasped and swore, nails digging in deep then. He groaned at the pain, his lips falling down onto yours, saliva finding your tongue as he took everything that he could give.
“Titus, I swear to—”
Your words died at the feeling of his fingers tangling back into the sides of your underwear, this time pulling so hard, it dug into your skin before ripping altogether. The relief from the pain and the garment breaking away made you whimper.
“You were saying?” he smirked, his hands leaving yours to push down the only thing left between you.
His hard cock twitched as it slapped against his stomach. Leaking pre-cum onto your thigh, your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head, until his hand was back around your jaw, thumb pressing firmly into the divot of your chin.
“Lose your voice, pretty?” His voice was condescending, dick warm and eliciting your walls to flutter, as if they could suck him inside of you.
He didn’t move, content in that moment to take you just how he had you—your nipples peeking through the fabric of your bra, chest rising and falling, lips slick with his saliva and your own blood.
You were getting impatient, and as the hours had waned into the early morning, you were desperate to seal this deal with him before the hunt was over. Before the blood dried and the storm ceased.
His lips parted, and you knew he was about to make another remark, anything to make you suffer—because you could tell that Titus was the kind of guy who liked his partner like he liked his kills: desperate and begging.
But you had lost your patience, body shaking, energy slipping out of your pores from the extent of everything you had been through. So before he could tease you further, you leaned back and spit in his face—pink and bubbly, it splattered along his cheek and at the corner of his lips.
Titus’s hand tightened around your jaw, and you whined. His eyes darkened, but with his lips curled in satisfaction, he licked the side of his mouth clean.
“Titus Danforth, if you’re not inside of me in the next few seconds, don’t think I won’t find a way to cut it off. Forget your heir—”
Your words died suddenly at the feeling of his cock slamming up against your clit, then down through your folds. He thrusted inside, everything all at once, basking in how you clenched around him, jaw falling as a cry ripped free from your throat.
The tip of him met your cervix, and you arched into him just at the rawness and the fullness alone—the heat from his body making you melt into a momentary bliss. His breath was heavy, meeting yours in a tangled mess of tension and near confessions.
Titus then pulled back all the way before thrusting right back in, his tip hitting the same spot he was just resting. So like him to take in that moment, and you would let him. His fingers laced into your hair and pulled your lips up to meet his. He hummed then, setting a rough pace that already had you seeing stars.
“You’re already taking to the role so nicely, Mrs. Danforth,” he grunted and then hissed as you clenched just as the name slipped off his tongue.
His other hand slipped down to find your clit. Your fingers found his shoulders and dug in nicely. “You like that, don’t you? Mrs. Danforth.”
You nodded, nails leaving creases close to breaking skin. “Fuck, Titus.”
“It’s got a nice ring to it,” he continued, hips snapping forward, meeting yours with a soft chorus of skin meeting skin. “There are so many things I thought about before tonight’s hunt—your smooth skin, the way it could slit open with the sharpest blade. How your body would feel going limp in my arms, my name the last thing you’d say on bated breath. Fuck, I thought about killing you in every possible way.”
You moaned, head thrown back as your nails finally broke skin—blood seeping into your nailbeds. Earlier, you would’ve cowarded, spat at him in disgust for this admission, and now it was bringing you to the point of an orgasm.
His index finger pressed harder on your clit, cock twitching inside of you as your gummy walls pulsed and shook, desperate to suck him in as deep as he could—desperate for his seed, his DNA, him in any form you could get.
“But I would also be lying if I hadn’t thought about this—if I hadn’t been thinking about this for months, you under me, taking my cock so well, so deep… in every which way, after a hunt, during a hunt, covered in someone else’s blood—claiming you as mine and only mine.”
Your head was spinning at this point, stomach clenching, that coil in you tightening further and further—the pressure building in a way you had never been able to get with your own fingers.
His pelvis met yours rougher than before, and you knew you were both close—bruised, panting, bleeding. “Mine.”
Just as he whispered the word across your tongue, his finger circling your clit one more time, that feeling in you snapped. Your body tensed, legs quivering as your walls fluttered, the euphoria pulsing through you in a way you had never experienced.
Titus didn’t stop but only thrusted hard into you over and over, your slick on his cock propping him forward, walls clenching him once and then twice as he tried to drive his own orgasm into you. “What do you say, we get ahead, put an heir in your womb right here, right now… getting you pregnant before the wedding, god that’d drive them all crazy.”
Your bloody fingers laced into his hair, and you pulled him down as close as you could. Your eyes were lidded, your fucked-out expression paired with your pouting lips, had him tiptoeing across that edge. You pressed an open-mouth kiss against his, tongue rolling over his before the words left you with ease, with so much certainty, it had him.
“Come inside of me, Titus. Fill me up—you, I only want you.”
That was all he needed to hear. Paired with your wet mouth, it had him stalling above you, his warm release shooting inside of you, mixing with your own. His head collapsed into your neck, his body crushing yours into the mattress. Silence filled the room then, both of you trying to catch your breath as the evidence of what the two of you had done, agreed on, began to slip out of you.
It felt almost like a binding contract—as if you had already been at the altar, already cut your hand and released your blood into the golden chalice—as if you were already connected to him both body and soul.
As he grew soft in you, he lifted his head, dark gaze meeting yours still somehow just as full of lust as before. Your stomach turned as the reality of it all washed over you slowly and then all at once—how had you gone from being the hunted, the one he wished to cut open, to being the one pinned underneath him who so willingly offered herself up to a life full of killing and devil worship?
Worst of all, why did it feel like this was exactly where you were supposed to be?
18+ - MDNI, friends to lovers, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, um multiple rounds so suspend your disbelief bro (aka idk when to stop), not a lot of plot, smut smut SO MUCH smut......... send a priest to my location
author's note: i don't know what to tell you... the demon came for me tonight, so here you go. this might actually be trash because it's well past my bedtime. <3 um also this is NOT proofread like i usually do so...
The first sign that Bucky wasn't alone was the sound of his bedroom's door creaking open. He didn't need to panic yet, from his place under the covers. He just had to listen for the other signs, the ones that would tell him exactly who was in the room.
There was the faintest shuffle of socked feet on the hardwood.
Then the slight dip of the bed, the rustle of sheets. He stayed still, breathing still even, facing the ceiling, until the intruder had made herself comfortable. Then— "Hey. Couldn't sleep?"
"Oh! Jesus, I thought you were out cold." You whispered, jolting in the bed beside him.
He chuckled, a quiet sound in the darkness. He knew you were laying on your stomach right now, both arms folded under the pillow, head turned towards him. He knew, because that was how you always started out when you snuck in here. You did it when you couldn't sleep. You had what you liked to call 'intermittent insomnia'. Most of the time, you were fine, but for about a week every month or so, you either couldn't fall asleep at all, or you'd wake up some time after midnight, unable to re-enter dreamland again, your access barred.
Bucky, who slept easier now than he used to, still had nights like that sometimes. He still remembered a lot of them as well. He'd only found out about your own problem when you'd had to share a room during a mission. Tiny twin beds, and you'd been tossing and turning in yours for hours. He was a light sleeper, especially during ops, so he'd noticed and asked, which had led to you spilling your guts.
It wasn't weird to him that you snuck in here at night. You were friends. You'd been his shoulder to lean on more times than he could count, and he was just returning the favour.
Well, maybe it had been weird the first time. Bucky had said that if you ever found yourself awake when you shouldn't be, you could bug him, pass the time. He hadn't meant, 'figure out my door's passcode and waltz in here', but you had. It felt a little like when he and Steve had been kids, allowed to have a sleepover. You'd talk about silly things, light things. Sometimes the job. Sometimes the team. But most of the time, you'd school him with movies you deemed 'classics' and pop culture moments that he 'just had to be there' for. He didn't mind. He liked the sound of your voice, hoarse from lack of sleep, soft like the colour of the dawn sky.
"You know that if you'd been a real intruder, I would have dropped you before you'd even gotten the door open halfway, right?" He said lightly.
You scoffed, and he imagined you were rolling your eyes. The room was pitch black, but he could see you in his mind's eye, clear as day. "Okay, Sarge. Sure. I'm wily. I could've gotten around you. Natasha's been showing me a couple tricks."
He just hummed, unwilling to question you. "Whatever you say."
He felt the light push of your hand, half-hearted, against his bicep, but you remained silent, contemplative.
"So, what's on the agenda tonight?" He prompted, waiting for your seemingly endless story time to start. You always had something to say.
"Hmm… I dunno. Didn't come prepared tonight. I really thought I was gonna be able to sleep." You mused.
He heard the shift of the sheets, your body. You were turned on your side to face him while you talked, he knew. Probably had your hands tucked under your cheek. Your foot poked lightly at his leg under the blankets. "Maybe I want you to talk, this time."
"Me?"
"Yeah, you." You snorted a laugh. "Hit me with that gravelly voice, Barnes. Maybe it'll lull me to sleep."
He cleared his throat, though he didn't really need to, but to signal that he was playing along, settling in. His arm brushed your elbow under the covers. Your foot still pressed lightly to his calf.
"Alright," he said, voice hushed like it might wake the memories he’d long since buried if he spoke too loud. "Let me think. You want war stories? Childhood tales? Something stupid that Sam did today?"
He was sure you were grinning beside him. "Dealer's choice. Surprise me."
So he began.
"Winter of '41," he murmured, eyes half-lidded, though he was still staring at the ceiling. "Real bastard of a winter. Snow was thick as a blanket, made the whole world seem quiet. Like the kind of quiet that makes you think God’s holdin’ His breath, waitin' for something."
He felt you shift closer, like you needed to in order to hear him better. It was easy to picture your fingers curled near your mouth, gaze fixed on him even if you couldn't see a thing, listening, paying attention.
"It was around Christmas, had a few days after that weren't busy. Mostly hangin' out with my family. Steve was flat on his back in the hospital with the flu, and I'd said I'd check in. It was worse than it had been, because he'd been helpin' people clear their walkways half the night, even though he could barely stand without puking."
You let out a breath of laughter. "Classic do-gooder."
"Right?" He huffed. "Idiot couldn't even hold a shovel without a struggle. But he had that spark, even back then. That kinda burn in his eyes that said he was gonna do something important, or die trying. He was like that with small stuff, too. Always lookin' out for everyone else."
You were quiet after that, and he let the silence linger for a moment, watching it settle between you like mist.
"…I stole the last slice of my ma's peach pie that day, to bring him." He could still picture it now, the white pie dish with the flowers painted on the side, the clear top of it. The way he'd had to be very careful not to slip on ice, to make sure that he didn't drop it and smash the whole thing to pieces.
Your voice was softer now, closer to a whisper as you prompted him forward, out of the memory. "What happened next?"
"Gave it to him, had to hide it from the nurses. Almost dropped it right before I handed it over. He said it tasted like sunshine." Bucky chuckled, low and throaty. "I told him to get his poetic ass back in bed before his lungs collapsed."
You made a quiet sound, too soft to be a real laugh, your fingers brushing his arm, the contact more deliberate.
Then came the whisper, hesitant. "You think about those days a lot? The before?"
His response was a beat late. "All the time."
Your thumb traced the curve of his bicep absently, your hand settling more firmly, with more purpose. "Even when though it hurts sometimes?"
"Especially when it hurts." His voice dropped, thick with something else now, the passage of time, of everything he'd experienced, coloring his tone. "Because I know it's all I have left from that time."
You turned then, the mattress creaking as you scooted closer, chest brushing his side. Your body heat radiated through his skin. His arm moved to allow it, lifting up, then settling tentatively around your waist. Your body fit against his like a second skin, warm through the fabric of your sleepwear.
"I'm glad you're here," you mumbled, nose brushing against his jaw.
Bucky made a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sigh. "You always say that when you're almost asleep."
You lifted your head just enough that your lips hovered near his ear. "That's because it's only safe to say when I'm half-asleep."
He didn't move. Didn't breathe, for a second.
Then he rolled, slow and easy, until you were under him, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, his forearms bracketing your head. It had been instinctual, before his brain could catch up with him. He suddenly couldn't remember if he'd been close to sleeping before you'd come in, or if he'd been waiting for you.
"I'm awake," he said, barely a rasp. "So say it now."
Your breath hitched, eyes wide in the dark as you stared up at him, his features a murky silhouette against the moonless void. "I'm glad you're here."
The silence stretched again, but this time it buzzed with something else, like static under skin. His fingers brushed your cheek, your jaw, his thumb sweeping over your lower lip like he was testing the shape of you, like he was making sure he remembered the composition of your face, even under the cover of darkness.
"Don't say that if you don't mean it."
"I do," you said, lips parting around the words. "I just didn't think I should say it. Not here, not like this."
"You're in my bed," he stated, voice like gravel and heat. "You figured out my passcode. You've been sneaking into my nights and my dreams for months."
You swallowed. He dipped closer, your noses brushing, your breath mingling.
"If I kiss you," he murmured, "it doesn't go back to how it was. It changes."
You reached up, fingers threading behind his neck, anchoring him. "Then don't stop at kissing. Change it for good."
He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it. You were in his bed, for God's sake. You fell asleep here. He had lost count of how many times you'd snuck in, quiet as a mouse, and slipped in beside him like you belonged there.
It had crossed his mind once or twice, the idea of rolling over, pulling you into him. He had been told once that it was called 'spooning'. He'd thought of doing more, too, but he'd never acted on it. You came here to sleep, and failing that, for company, for closeness, for the comfort of another person awake at the wrong time. Never for this. So he usually let those ideas flit across his mind like a shooting star before extinguishing them, dousing them in water, listening to the lilt of your voice instead.
But now…
Bucky could only just barely make out the outline of your face, and that was with his superior senses. You definitely couldn't see him at all. He wondered for a second, about turning on the lamp, but then worried it would ruin things. Maybe the darkness was what you needed. But he wondered exactly what your expression looked like, right now.
Your hands on the back of his neck were warm, a pleasant sensation. He cupped the side of your face, your skin so soft, so smooth, like porcelain. Don't stop at kissing, you had said. Well, he had to start somewhere.
His breath ghosted over your lips, and he felt yours in return, could smell the faintest bit of your toothpaste. He kissed the corner of your mouth first, a test, like checking to see if bath water was too hot before climbing in. You didn't turn away, just let the kiss land. He was sure your eyes would be blinking up at him, expectant. That was when he lowered his mouth to yours.
Your lips met his without hesitation, soft and warm and just the faintest bit parted. You'd been waiting, sure that he would act on it instead of pulling away, and you'd been right. Bucky kissed you slow, deliberate, searching, his mouth tilting just enough to deepen the contact, draw out that tiny hitch of breath you gave when his tongue brushed yours. It was clumsy in places, tentative, like he couldn't quite believe this was happening, but the way your fingers curled tighter behind his neck said it was real. You weren't pulling away. You were anchoring him to you, keeping him there.
He felt your legs shift apart, your body arching to meet his weight, and he let himself press down, bracing one elbow against the mattress. His other hand stayed at your face, thumb grazing the line of your jaw as he kissed you again. Fuller this time, hungrier. He allowed himself the luxury.
You tasted like mint, and something distinctly yours, something he knew he'd crave forever, now that he knew the flavour of you. Every movement of your mouth against his sent a sharp pulse down his spine. It wasn't just desire in the moment. It was everything that had been simmering beneath the surface of those nights you'd come to him, sleepless and tired but safe, because he made you feel safe. Made you feel like you could fall asleep and not be worried about whatever plagued you in the dark. And now you were kissing him like that safety had become something more, something charged and vulnerable and real.
His hand slid from your jaw and down your neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat where your pulse thudded a quick beat. He paused there, lips just barely brushing yours as he murmured, "Still with me?"
Your answer was immediate, a breathy "Yeah," followed by your mouth finding his again, firmer now. More sure, like you'd checked the waters and found that they weren't infested with sharks, but were safe to swim in.
He moved lower, lips trailing down your neck in open-mouthed kisses, pausing just long enough to nip lightly at your collarbone, exposed by the flimsiness of your shirt. You gasped, the sound catching in your throat, and your fingers flexed against his neck.
"You don't know what this is doing to me," he whispered, and it was true. Feeling you writhing so slightly under him, breath coming faster, completely present in the moment—it was almost overwhelming. You weren't afraid. You wanted this.
You wanted him.
"Then show me," you murmured, your voice like a beacon in the black.
He shifted to lie fully between your legs, grinding down just enough that the hard line of his cock met the cradle of your hips through your pajama clad bodies. Your body jerked under him, a sharp inhale escaping your lips.
"Fuck," he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel…"
Words couldn't really describe how you felt. The ones that did were foreign to him, at least.
You rolled your hips up into him. "Mhm."
His hands found the hem of your shirt, pushing it up slowly, giving you every chance to stop him. But your arms lifted, letting him pull it over your head and toss it somewhere off the bed. He stared down at you blindly. He couldn't see much, more than the faintest outline of you on the bed, but he could feel you. His hands skimmed down from your shoulders to your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.
"You good?" he asked, voice hoarse.
You nodded, but that wasn't enough for him. "Words."
"Yes. God, yes."
He palmed your breasts, thumbs teasing over your nipples until you arched into him again, letting out a soft gasp that made his cock twitch against you. He bent to take one into his mouth, sucking gently, feeling your fingers slide into his hair and tug. That sound you made was high and breathy, desperate, and it went south immediately. He rocked against you without thinking.
"Jesus, you're perfect," he muttered against your skin, voice fraying at the edges.
He moved down your body slowly, taking his time, kissing your stomach, your hips, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your stupid little shorts. "Off?"
"Please."
He tugged them down, along with your panties, measured and careful, exposing you inch by inch. His breath hitched when he settled between your thighs. He could smell you.
"Fuck…"
You squirmed, self-conscious under the intensity of his attention. It didn't matter that you couldn't see him—you could tell you were his sole focus. "Bucky—"
"Shh." His lips brushed your inner thigh. "Let me take care of you."
His tongue traced the seam of your folds, barely a taste, just enough to make you shiver. Then he dove in with more pressure, more precision, dragging his tongue up to your clit and circling it in slow, maddening spirals.
"F-fuck," you stammered, hips jerking. He held you steady, both hands anchoring your thighs, and he didn't let up. How could he? You were intoxicating.
He groaned into you, low and guttural, as if the act of eating you out gave him as much pleasure as it did you. He licked into you with certainty, though he was acting like he had all the time in the world. You were panting now, fingers digging into his scalp.
"Bucky—I'm gonna—"
He didn't stop. He latched onto your clit, sucking, his fingers sliding up to tease you. One pushed in, almost lazy in his action, and your whole body locked up. "Oh, God—" you cried out, thighs squeezing closed, trapping him there.
Your orgasm hit you hard, a wave crashing through you, and he kept his mouth on you the whole time, easing you through it, murmuring praise between licks. "That's it, sweetheart… fuck, you taste so good…"
When you finally went limp, chest heaving, he kissed your thigh one last time, then crawled back up your body, pressing his mouth to yours again. You tasted yourself on his tongue, and you moaned into it, the sound muffled.
"You okay?" he asked, cupping your cheek again.
You laughed breathlessly, pulling him down on top of you. "You're not stopping, are you?"
He nosed at your neck, cock grinding slow against your slick folds. "Not unless you want me to."
"Not done with you yet," you whispered against his mouth, biting his lower lip gently.
Bucky felt partially like his head was spinning. Well, both of them were. He felt dizzy with want. He almost couldn't believe it. All these nights you had been coming here, and you had neglected to tell him how delicious you tasted. Well, he couldn't blame you, he supposed. That wasn't exactly fair—he doubted you had known.
And the sounds you had made, God… The silence in the room was loud, and you sounded louder, like his own personal playlist, one he'd like to hear on repeat. And what was better, you wanted more. Satisfied by what he'd given you, yes, but you wanted to give him something, too. And he was grateful for that. You'd dampened the front of his pajama pants when he'd ground down on you, and now he freed himself somewhat clumsily in his haste. You giggled a little, and he had to laugh too, the sounds breathless.
He brushed his cock along your folds. He was panting, you were groaning, and he hadn't even gotten inside you yet. "Bucky…" You trailed off, like the thought had started and ended there, just his name in your head, and the heat of the moment, and nothing else.
"You want me inside?" He asked, dragging the head along your slick again, his head bowing to hit your shoulder. The sensation was already almost too much for him.
"Mhm…" You nodded your head, frantic. He could feel the movement. He was about to ask for words, but it seemed you'd remembered from before, because you mumbled, "Yes, please. Please."
"'Kay," he said into the skin of your neck. "Gonna stretch you open nice and slow, yeah?"
He nudged at your entrance, cock thick and heavy in his grip. The heat of your core pulsed, greedy for him, your thighs quivering as you tried not to roll your hips too hard. But God, you wanted to. He felt it, how ready you were, how desperate.
"Breathe, baby," he whispered against your throat, kissing along the skin just beneath your jaw. "I've got you. Gonna make it count."
He eased in, just the tip at first, and your body clenched in response, instant, immediate. Bucky gritted his teeth, hand tightening on your thigh. "Fuck, you're tight—"
You whined softly, head tilting back as your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him in. "More…"
He gave you more, inch by inch, groaning, helpless as your cunt swallowed him, snug and wet, almost too much. His cock throbbed with the effort of holding back. He didn't want to hurt you. He wanted you to feel every stretch, every pulse, every inch of him fitting deep inside where no one else had. At least, not like this. Not with you clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you coherent. He wanted it to matter.
"S-shit, you feel—" he broke off with a strangled breath as your walls fluttered around him. He bottomed out with a trembling breath, forehead pressed to yours. "—like you were fucking made for me."
You were gasping now, arms tight around his shoulders, nails dragging lightly down his back through the fabric of his shirt. "Bucky…"
He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, kissing your cheek, your temple, your lips—all the places he could reach. His voice came out rough, like he'd forgotten how to use it. "Tell me when."
You did. "Now. Move. Please, can't take it—"
He started slow, just pulling out halfway and easing back in, watching your face even in the dark, listening to every breath you gave him. Your mouth parted with a broken moan, and he felt your legs tighten around his waist.
"Oh my god—" you whimpered.
Bucky groaned against your skin, hips rolling into you again and again, each thrust deeper, smoother, your body sucking him back in like you never wanted to let him go. He felt drunk off it. Off you. The way you squeezed around him, your heat, the slick glide, it was obscene and beautiful and everything he'd never dared to hope for.
"You feel so fuckin' good," he rasped, forehead to yours, his breath shaky. "Like heaven, baby. Like—shit—you're mine. Like you've always been mine."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, and he could feel your rhythm hitching, tightening, your little gasps getting sharper, needier. He slid one hand down between you, found your clit with deft fingers, and started circling in time with his thrusts.
"Ah—Bucky, I'm—" you broke off, voice catching.
He pushed harder, deeper. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Wanna feel you fall apart on me."
It was like he'd given you permission. Your whole body arched beneath him, your cries broken and needy as your climax tore through you again, inner walls spasming around his cock, milking him. He barely managed to hold himself together, fucking you through it, hips stuttering.
He wasn't going to last. Not with you like this, ruined and shaking, clinging to him like he'd keep you whole. Your nails dug into his shoulders as he fucked you a little harder, a little faster, chasing that edge.
"Fuck—gonna—baby, I can't—"
"Inside," you whispered, still breathless, a beg, a plea. "Want you to."
His control shattered. With a groan deep in his chest, Bucky slammed into you one last time, spilling inside you with a strangled groan. His whole body jerked with the release, cock twitching as he filled you, your bodies pressed together, slick with sweat.
Neither of you moved for a long time. Just the sound of your breathing, tangled limbs, your fingers brushing gently through the hair at the back of his neck. He kissed your shoulder, your cheek, then your lips, like he was chasing a constellation.
"You sleepy yet?" he murmured.
You smiled against his mouth. "No."
He pulled you tighter against him. "Good. Don't wanna dream if I've got you right here."
It wasn't like he could even imagine that this was a dream. Nothing, dream or not, could ever beat how good you felt clamped around him. He was surprised he even lasted as long as he did—as soon as he'd bottomed out, felt your tight, gummy walls clutching around him like you were trying to keep him there, he'd been a goner.
And to think, you'd darkened his doorstep, stayed in his bed, fell asleep beside him so many times. And he'd never dared, never even thought to dare. But here you were, underneath him, seemingly happy as a clam, though maybe a little fucked out.
Both of you breathed through it, coming down, relishing the feeling. You, of being so full. Him, of being held so tightly. He stroked the side of your face, the touch tender. "You want more?" He asked, whispering the question against your cheek.
"Mhm." You murmured, your breath hitching when he shifted. "Want this off, though. Not fair that I'm the only one naked." You were likely pouting as you tugged at his shirt.
He laughed, a low, throaty chuckle, and obeyed your command, sitting back and pulling out of you in the same moment, tugging off his shirt, then his pants. Then he touched the curve of your hip, gentle, grounding. "Turn over. Like you do when you normally come in here."
You complied, shifting onto your stomach, arms sliding under the pillow. He traced the line of your spine, felt you shiver at the touch. Then both of his hands trailed from your waist to your hips, smoothing over your ass, spreading you open. "You ready?" He asked, a formality, because he knew you were, as confirmed by your breathy, "yes." He just wanted to be sure, wanted you to want it as much as he did.
Then he lined himself up, one hand firm on the mattress to keep himself propped up over you.
He slid back inside with one slow, deep thrust, no teasing this time, no breathless hesitation. Just the unbroken glide of his cock pushing through your slick folds, into your soaked, dripping cunt. You gasped into the pillow, your back arching, ass lifting to meet him, like your body already knew exactly how it needed him.
"Fuck," he groaned, jaw tight, head bowing as he buried himself to the hilt. "You feel even tighter like this."
And you did. Lying flat, arms tucked beneath the pillow like you had so many nights before, you were almost too snug for him to move at first. He could feel every inch of himself hugged by your walls, your pussy clenching greedily around his cock. It was addictive. He'd barely started and already he was fighting the urge to come again.
He braced himself with one arm, the other planted on your lower back to keep you in place, and drew his hips back, just enough to let the thick ridge of his head catch at your entrance, then drove back in.
"God, Bucky," you whimpered, muffled against the pillow, your face buried in the feather-down. "So deep like this…"
"I know, sweetheart. Fuck. You're taking me so good. So good for me…"
He fell into rhythm, almost lazily at first, savoring the way you reacted under him. Your body jolting forward with each thrust. The little noises you couldn't hold back, the pillow no longer doing anything to keep you quiet. The way your legs flexed, your toes curling as he hit something deep inside you that made your whole body tremble.
He shifted, adjusting the angle, lifting your hips just a touch higher with a firm grip on your waist, and your moan cracked out of you, loud and helpless, like you were alerting anyone who would listen that that was it.
"There it is," he muttered, voice strained, lips grazing your spine as he leaned down over you. "That spot, right there, huh…?"
He pounded into you harder now, the slap of your bodies echoing in the room, raw and untethered, drowned only by the choked little cries you made with every stroke.
"F-fuck, Bucky—yes—right there—please—"
Your voice broke as he reached under you, slipping his fingers between your thighs again, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he thrust into you from behind. You were practically drooling into the pillow, hair a mess, body trembling under him, and you were so fucking wet, he could feel it dripping down your thighs, coating his cock, making everything filthy. The sheets would need to be changed first thing tomorrow.
"You gonna cum again for me?" he choked out, fucking you rougher now, chasing your sounds. "Want you to. Want you shaking around me, squeezing me tight."
Your hand shot back to grab blindly at his wrist, fingers clutching at him, your body tensing under him. He could feel you spiraling again, clenching harder, your thighs trembling. He whispered your name into your hair, and that was it.
You came again with a cry, body locking up as your pussy fluttered around him, drenching him even more. He hissed at the sensation, hips jerking erratically, chasing his own release.
"Fuck, baby, can't stop—"
He slammed in hard one last time and came with a broken groan, spilling inside you again. His hips stuttered as he fucked it into you, every twitch of your muscles squeezing more out of him, until he finally stopped, trying not to suffocate you when he collapsed against your back.
It was just the sound of your heavy breathing, followed by his, each inhale matched by an exhale, before you said, voice sounding like it came from far away, "This might just cure my insomnia…"
He let out a huff of laughter, still buried inside you, chest pressed to your back. "Glad I could help."
You wiggled your hips gently, enough to make him groan. "You wanna help again? One more time? Just to be sure."
It was impressive—that was the only thing Bucky could think. Again, you said. You wanted to go again, like he hadn't just brought you on multiple round trips to a higher plane. It was one thing for him to have the stamina, but you were surprising him with your… endurance. But if you could handle it, he'd give it to you. Whatever you asked, it was yours.
Bucky pulled back from you, delivering a light, affectionate slap to your ass when he did. Him pulling out made you sigh at the loss, like you hadn't just been stuffed full. He shifted to the side, stretching to pull the heavy curtains back. Just an inch or two, enough to let in the moonlight, enough to let the light spill onto you enough that he could finally see you, in all your soft, cockdrunk glory.
Then he sat back against the headboard. "Okay, c'mere."
You pushed to your hands and knees first. Despite your bravado, he knew fatigue was setting in. This would be the last one tonight, one to send you off to sleep, with a bang, quite literally. Then you were shuffling over until your knees dug into the mattress on either side of him. Now he could see the mess he'd made of you, cum dripping out of you, leaking down your thighs, glistening in the glow. You settled in his lap, your hands on his shoulders. "God, you're pretty like this." He said, honesty making his voice clear as a bell.
And you were, bathed in silver. He could finally see you, every curve, your smooth expanse of skin, your dazed but fond expression, your messy hair. He rubbed his hands over your thighs. "You gonna be able to handle this?"
You nodded, eager, though your eyes had taken on a little bit of a sleepy, half-lidded quality. "Okay, sweet girl." Bucky leaned forward, kissed you once, then helped you seat yourself fully on his cock.
You were moaning, mewling, your head thrown back as you sank down. It was insane, how tightly you still held him. Like it was the first time, all over again.
Bucky’s breath escaped from between clenched teeth, hands firm on your waist as you slid down his length, inch by perfect inch. "Fuck—yeah, that's it. Just like that. Good girl."
You whimpered, knees tightening on either side of his hips, your whole body trembling as you sank until your thighs were flush against his. He was buried to the hilt inside you, balls snug against your ass, your walls wrapped around him like a welcoming vice, still hot and wet and pulsing. He could feel how spent you were, your muscles fluttering around him like your body didn't know whether to beg for more or to collapse. But you wanted it. You were taking it. And fuck, you looked good doing it.
The moonlight made your skin glow, radiant in a silver outline, like you'd been lit from the inside. The arch of your body, the curve of your neck, the sheen of sweat and slick and cum gleaming between your thighs, all highlighted in a soft pewter shine. He stared up at you, completely entranced, hands roaming up your sides, tracing the softness of your stomach, the lines of your ribs, until he cupped your breasts in both hands and squeezed gently.
"You're unreal," he murmured, his thumbs brushing your nipples. "Look at you. So full of me, so perfect. Never seen anything better."
You whimpered at the praise, leaning into his touch, nails a light scratch against his shoulders. He could feel your thighs tremble again, and the way your cunt clenched down told him you were close already. After all of this, it wouldn't take you long to see stars.
"Bucky—" You breathed his name like it was the only word you remembered, eyes glazed and heavy-lidded as your hips started to rock.
"That's it, baby. Ride me, you got it." he urged, lifting his hips slightly to meet your movements. It was too much to ask you to do all the work. He'd get you there. "One more. Just one more, yeah? You can give me that."
You whined a yes, your body obeying even as exhaustion started to cling to your limbs. You moved slow at first, grinding down on him in smooth, small circles, letting him meet you halfway, again and again. The stretch was still just enough to make your eyes flutter, for your mouth drop open, moans spilling out in sweet, helpless little sounds.
You were reduced to gasping out his name and nothing else as he thrust up into you again, his cock thick and heavy, dragging against every sensitive part of you. Your hands clutched at his shoulders tighter. You pressed your forehead to his and gave a shaky little cry as he matched your cadence.
"Keep going, sweet girl, you're almost there," he murmured into your skin, pressing kisses to your jaw, your throat, your chest, an assault of the sweetest variety. "Want you to fall asleep with me still inside you, stuffed full."
You whimpered again, body shaking, your hands dragging through his hair as you bounced weakly in his lap. You weren't strong now—your muscles too tired, your mind too fogged—but he didn't care—he'd help you. He was holding you up, his arms wrapped around you, guiding you up and down on his cock, slow and steady.
Your walls started to flutter again, your voice breaking as you clung to him. "Bucky—Bucky, I can't—!"
"Yes, you can," he breathed softly, biting gently at your shoulder. "Cum for me, baby. You're so gorgeous when you break."
You came again with a long, silent cry, your jaw slack, hips seizing, walls clenching around him so tight he nearly lost it right there. Your whole body shook in his arms, and you were limp and gasping, your thighs trembling as you tried to ride it out. He didn't stop, just kept rocking into you, working you through it, peppering kisses wherever he could, telling you how good you were, how beautiful, how proud he was of you.
Then, with one more thrust, he was spilling inside you one last time, his head falling to your shoulder, a loud moan rattling from his chest.
You were shaking in his lap, both of you slick with sweat and cum, foreheads pressed together. He didn't pull out. He didn't want to. He just wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, your body slumping into him like it always belonged there.
"I've got you, baby. I've got you." Bucky kissed the top of your head. The moonlight still bathed your skin in that silver glow, but your breaths were slowing now, your muscles loosening.
He felt it, the exact moment your weight sagged fully against him, boneless and spent, your breathing even. You were asleep. Still full of him, exactly like he promised.
He shifted you both down slowly, careful not to wake you, though he thought you might sleep like the dead now, You were laying over his chest, a dead weight, but a welcome one. He pulled the blanket up over your bodies, kissing your forehead once more.
Bucky was drifting now himself, tumbling into sleep like Alice through the rabbit hole. The weight of you in his arms was comforting, better than any sleep aid he'd ever tried. Your head was tucked under his chin, your breath warm on his skin. You were totally knocked out, curled around him like a cat in its favourite sunspot.
It was a wonder how perfectly you fit there. How had he never noticed before, when he hugged you after holidays apart, when he shielded your body from blows during combat? And now you were here, fitting like a missing piece from a broken vase, smoothing out the cracks, making the ceramic one entity again.
His eyelids grew heavier by the minute, each blink having a longer pause than the last. He was still nestled deep inside you, and every time he shifted, you did too, like even unconscious, you wanted to make sure he stayed there. He would, for you.
He sank deeper into the mattress, deeper into sleep. Counting sheep wasn't necessary, not when he had you. He knew it then: he'd never be able to slumber peacefully again if you weren't nearby.
It was the last thought he had when the sand man finally took him under, captured by the same spell as you had been, snared in the grasp of dreams, arms wrapped tightly around you, like you'd always belonged there and he'd just been waiting for you to notice.
A/N: this entire series is dedicated, specially, to my beloved @chateaubarnes
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, eventual Steve x Reader x Bucky
Word count: 12k (completed)
Warnings: reader, Bucky, and Steve have very vivid imaginations, SMUT, p in v, vouyeurism, captain kink, metal arm kink, blindfolds, authority kink, brat taming, oral (m&f receiving), fingering, cum eating/cumplay, overstimulation, masturbation, threesome, SLIGHT DUBCON BUT NOT REALLY BUT IF YOU'RE UNCOMFY DO NOT READ!!!!!! MINORS DNI! 18+
Summary: Tale as old as time. Steve is righteous and he couldn’t, for the life of him corrupt such a sweet thing like you, right? Except that’s the only thing you want and you could only be more upfront if you made him motorboat you.
Vocal - Steve Rogers x Established Relationship Reader 🍆
Summary: Steve has a reputation for giving orders and commands as well as his unfiltered opinion. Little does the team know, the only place he’s silent is the bedroom. You decide to change all that and encourage him to become more…. vocal.
Warnings / contains: Teasing and denial. Slightly submissive Steve. A lot of moaning and talking during sex. Bit of begging and pleading.
Words: 1,700
“God, you really never stop yappin’ huh.”
Tony rolled his eyes and leaned back in the leather office chair, his arms crossed. He glanced towards you for solidarity. “Does he ever stop? God it’s giving me a headache. If I wanted this much self-congratulatory yackin’ I’d watch reruns of Oprah.”
You smirked. Steve had been stood in the middle of the boardroom talking about the next mission, peppering his monologue with justifications of why his strategy was superior. He punctuated his points with sharp gestures of his palm cutting through the air. Hearing Stark's words, Steve shook his head in the billionaire's direction and sighed, folding his arms. "Tony."
Stark placed a hand over his own face for dramatic effect. All of a sudden he sat upright and pointed at you as though he was struck with divine inspiration. “Muzzle ‘im. Ball gag. Yeah that’ll do it.” He stood up, firm hands on thighs. “Well, glad that’s settled.”
You grinned to yourself as Tony walked off. The soles of leather loafers squeaked on the polished floor as he stopped next to Steve. “Think a ball gag’ll work?”
Steve tilted his chin down, incredulity dripping from his deep tombre. “I wouldn’t know, Tony.”
Romanoff sensed the change in the air and followed Tony out. Auburn hair caught the light as she looked at you then at Cap. “If she was my girl, I wouldn’t keep quiet. Gag or no gag.” With a wink, she was gone. Steve cleared his throat.
A sharp intake of breath from you was all he needed to put you in your place.
“Don’t, honey. Just don’t.”
Two hours passed and the next time you saw him his perfect tush was resting on the top of a server box. He was engrossed in a briefing on the new comms system. Wires lay strewn about the floor with the odd screwdriver or two. Despite his industriousness, Tony’s comments hung in the air like a particularly obnoxious air freshener.
God, does he ever shut up?
Tony would never guess. But the bedroom was the only place that rendered Steve quiet. The only sound that came from him would be little sighs and the occasional hum of pleasure. In your less confident moments, you wondered if he enjoyed it at all.
Steve’s internal experience was quite different. When he came the feeling exploded through every artery, fire rushing through his veins, overwhelming him, overpowering him. But he never let himself verbalise his pleasure. Whether it was down to stoicism or military training, he wasn't sure. It felt uncomfortable, awkward maybe, to be loud when he was with you, as though his masculinity would escape through his own groans like gas from a Coke bottle. Your sounds drove him insane. He felt dizzy as he watched you throw your head back, moaning, letting go, completely free and uninhibited. In the heat of the moment, he had to admit - he wanted a little piece of that.
“You’re not gonna gag me, are ya?” Steve’s quip left his lips without him even looking at you. He heard your footsteps and smelled your perfume the second you set foot in the sever room.
You looked around at the tools on the floor. “No.”
“Then what are you doin’ here?” He dropped the briefing down to rest on his thigh.
“I was just… thinking.”
“Oh yeah? Me too.” He placed the papers down on the top of the server box. “Come ‘ere.” A cock of his head caused your feet to move forwards without any conscious thought. In a heartbeat you were standing between wide open thighs. “Thank you for not sayin’ anything to Tony. Thing is, I… I know it’s an issue, and - ”
“Steve, it’s okay, really - ”
A gentle finger rested on your lips. “Let me finish honey. Please.” Even when he shushed you, he was respectful. It was incredibly on-brand. He paused, gathering his thoughts. “What I wanted to say is, I want you to… to help me.” He swallowed down on his nerves. “To help me use my voice.” He glanced around the server room. It was soundproofed. It had a locked door.
Ordinarily you would have jumped at the chance. Unfortunately for Steve, you had formulated a plan of your own in the hours you had been apart.
“Baby, I would love that. But I’ve been thinking too. The best way to have you use your voice is to make it extra pleasurable. And - ”
“Well I like the sound of that.”
You tilted your head. You hadn’t finished. “And to do that, we’ll need to wait.”
His lips parted. “Wait? Honey, for how long?”
“Three days. No more. No less.”
“You’re gonna withhold sex from me for three days??” To the untrained ear, he sounded reasonably calm. But by the soldier’s usually grounded standards, he was hysterical. You justified your reasoning and doubled-down on your promise. He placed his hand on your lower back and pulled you into him. His voice was husky in your ear. “Honey, I can’t. I’ll explode.”
“You won’t explode, Steve. God. Always so dramatic.”
He ignored your teasing and doubled-down on his theatrical bid for your sympathy. He rested his forehead against yours. “Honey, please. I need you. I need you right now.”
The warmth of the server radiated through Steve’s jeans. He kept you pulled close. You heard him whine.
“I’ll withhold too. So we’ll be in it together,” you bargained.
“Uh-uh, absolutely no way. You’re not gonna suffer too.”
You grinned. He played right into your hands.
He would still be allowed to get you off. But he couldn’t, under any circumstances, let himself release. Not with you. Not with his hand. He agreed to your plan, though the wisp of his sigh kissed your ear.
You had never seen Steve so worked up. He followed you around campus, taking every opportunity to kiss you in the elevator, to hold you and squeeze you in a tight hug in the kitchen, to press himself against you in the gym. He was starving. And he was grateful for crumbs. The morsels of your body, your scent, the very feeling of you was the only thing keeping him going.
On day three he woke up hard. He climbed on top of you, bucking into you with the excitement of what was to come. When you reminded him he had to wait until tonight, he looked as though he might sob.
He actively avoided you all day. You were certain he was furious, done with your deal, and had broken the pact with a particularly vigorous hand job in the gym shower. The bumbling, stuttering, slightly clammy-faced man who arrived at your bedroom door that evening told you otherwise. He had kept his word. And he was desperate for you.
He was overly polite, accommodating, extra sweet and compliant. This wasn’t Steve.
“Look I’m not gonna edge you if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“You’re… you’re not?”
“Unless you want me to - ”
“No no, please God no!” Two palms faced you in desperate surrender. Hysterical Steve had returned. He bit his lip and softened his tone. Glassy blue eyes looked up at you. “Please, baby. I need you so bad. I can’t wait.”
You reached up and held the back of his neck and pulled him into a passionate kiss, your tongue easily dominating his. “Take all of your clothes off. And lie down on the bed.”
“Yes ma’am.”
You had never seen a pair of jeans and a tshirt hit the floor so fast. He lay down as instructed. He was already hard. Of course he was.
You wasted no time in mounting him, keeping your dress on. Seeing him this worked up had you slick and ready.
“T-tell me what to do, honey. I wanna use my voice for you.”
His sweet words earned him a kiss.
“Can I touch you honey? Please?”
With your permission granted, the soldier’s strong hands rested on your hips. He sighed, mixing in a breathy moan.
“Good, Steve. You’re using your voice already.” You positioned yourself above him, reaching into your dress to pull your underwear to the side. “There are no rules, okay? I just want you to be as loud as possible. Moaning, groaning, dirty talk, it all counts. I want you to let go. Got it?”
“Yes honey.”
“Good boy.”
Your words made him bite his lip. His mouth opened into a deep oval as you guided him into you, the feeling of your warmth around his cock making his head spin.
“Oh god, baby, god you feel so good… honey, oh god….”
He wasn’t even trying. The words were tumbling out organically. You felt so good, so tight, so incredible around him that expressing his pleasure felt natural. You rode him slowly and he tilted his head back, eyes closing, moans falling from his lips like promises. It wouldn’t be long until he peaked and you wanted to relish hearing his pleasure just as he was lost in experiencing it. You offered him prompts, asking how he felt. You were met with praise and loving words and more moans.
“You feel incredible around me, your body is just perfect sweetheart, it feels so good. I wanted this so much, I’ve been goin’ crazy. I need you honey, god, I need you so bad….”
You sunk down onto him, masterfully grinding your hips as you rode him. One palm rested on his strong chest, the other stroking his bicep.
“Ohhhhh sweetheart, this feels incredible, don’t stop….”
Within minutes he began groaning. Wide eyes met yours, apologetic, searching for forgiveness or permission, he wasn’t sure.
“Come for me, Steve. Come for me and tell me how good it feels.”
“Ohhhhhh baby I’m coming, I’m coming for you honey oh goddddddd…..”
The most animalistic groan punctuated his words and he came harder than he ever had, groaning over and over, his climax lasting longer than either of you were used to. You rode out his high and when he was done, you rested your head on his chest. He stroked your hair, looking dreamily at the ceiling.
“You know what, sweetheart? I think I enjoyed bein’ a little more vocal.”
What was supposed to be my take on a regular kinktober has developed, thanks to whoresome @stargazingfangirl18's enabling (and the title of the event! 💦🤭), into a twisted event of kinks with monsters. It will sate the horny vibe of kinktober and mix it with Halloween vibe for monsters.
There will be actual monsters, but also men acting like monsters (masked men, brutal mafia, stalkers). You can expect mostly short pieces, but also at least one full fic 👀
Hope you'll have fun with me! and praying we all survive
List of kinks
day 1. praise kink - Double effort (naga!Lloyd Hansen x female reader)
day 2. face riding - Sweet addiction (minotaur!Ari Levinson x female reader)
day 3. cnc + primal - Abandon all hope (Alpha!Steve Rogers x female reader)
day 4. subspace - Deep under (cecaelia!Ari Levinxon x female reader)
day 5. bad boy - No good deed goes unpunished (Beta!Jake x Omega!Reader x Alpha!Curtis)
day 6. spanking - Savoir-vivre (mafia!Andy Barber x female reader)
day 7. sensory deprivation - He who brings the night (vampire!Bucky Barnes x reader)
day 8. waxplay - Melt in your hands (fire demon!Nick Fowler x female reader)
day 9. sex tape - Smile for the camera (striga!Ransom Drysdale x succubus!reader)
day 10. edging - No rest for the bad girls (incubus!Hal Carter x female reader)
day 11. pet play - Unusual familiar (warlock!Lloyd Hansen x female reader)
day 12. cockwarming - Deals veiled in dawn (dark elf!Drew Deviln x female reader)
day 13. facefucking - Fern's creek (leshy!Steve Rogers x female reader)
day 14. creampie - Good things come to those who beg (Alpha!Curtis x Omega!female reader)
day 15. spitroasting - Blessing of the season (Steve Rogers x female reader x dark elf!Drew Devlin)
day 16. bondage - Leatherbound (orc!Curtis Everett x female reader)
day 17. masks - Trouble comes in threes (dark!Ransom Drysdale x female reader x dark!Johnny Storm x dark!James Mace)
day 18. double penetration - Of spirits and creatures (dryad!Cole Turner x dryad!female reader x satyr!Jake Jensen)
day 19. collaring - All the better to lead you (werewolf!Steve Rogers x female reader)
day 20. cum play - Lunch break (orc!Bucky Barnes x female reader)
day 21. free use - Dark delight (dark fae!Ransom Drysdale x female reader)
day 22. somnophilia - Tuck you in (stalker!Cole Turner x female reader)
day 23. anal - Masquerade (faun!Lloyd Hansen x female reader)
day 24. object insertion - Wake thy power (dark mage!Nick Fowler x female reader)
day 25. breeding - Resin warmed by fire (dragon!Andy Barber x female reader)
day 26. overstimulation - The greatest fall (fallen angel!Steve Rogers x female reader)
day 27. breathplay - Breath and bone (dark general!Curtis Everett x female reader)
day 28. fucking machine - Life Essence (doctor Frankenstein!Bucky Barnes x female reader x Frankenstein's monster!Steve Rogers)
day 29. cuckolding - Fine print (demon!Ari Barber x female reader)
day 30. degradation/humiliation - Potential uncovered in darkness (vampire!Andy Barber x female reader)
day 31. public sex + corruption - Holy (priest/demon!Nick Fowler x female reader)
*size kink isn't on the list because it'll be included in most of these stories anyway 😏
As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.
Chapter Summary: After finding out you're pregnant with his child, Titus must secure his family's approval in order to make you a unique proposal: Become the new Mrs. Danforth.
Tags/Notes: marriage before romance, established sugar relationship, also ft. ursula and daddy danforth, meeting the family, possessiveness & protectiveness, obscene wealth, predator/prey dynamic, brat!reader, piv, mating press, creampie, oral (f receiving), messy sex, edging, denial, spitting, mouth covering, titus lowkey whipped already
Content: pregnant reader, canon-typical content, a brief instance of body shaming
A/N: since I already posted most of what was initially chapter one as a teaser during my 3k celebration, i decided to be silly and give you a mega chapter one instead!
Word Count: 14.1k
Ursula Danforth slaps one perfectly manicured hand across her twin brother’s cheek. He doesn’t even flinch; he’d been expecting worse. “You’re so selfish. Stupid and useless like a child. Knocking up a sugar baby, of all things.”
Father paces across the large sitting room with a clenched jaw. Eventually, he stops in front of his son. “How dare you do this to us? Right before the most important hunt of this family’s life, too. I can’t believe you’d be so irresponsible.”
Ursula sneers, “I believe it. This is what happens when a spoiled brat grows up. Poor baby Titus always has to have everything exactly how he wants. Probably never bothered with condoms because ‘it just doesn’t feel as good, sweetheart.’”
“Don’t be so crass, Ursula,” Father spits in her direction before returning to his son. “I assume you’ve communicated that abortion isn’t an option.”
“Of course,” Titus replies, keeping it curt to avoid a verbal lashing. Or a physical one, given the tension thick in the opulent room full of blades and guns. Father demanded the conversation be moved to the innermost room of the estate when Titus told them in front of a few members of staff. This sort of thing is best discussed in private, even with the most discreet staff money can buy.
The abortion discussion had gone better than expected, considering you told him you’d be keeping it before he could even get to the ‘my family would sedate you through delivery and then discard you before they let you abort a Danforth’ thing. He’d given you a line about supporting you however you needed in order to stall you while he discussed what to do with his family. Ultimately, your fate wasn’t his decision but a collective decision for the betterment of the Danforth name.
But Titus does, admittedly, dislike the idea of abandoning you. Despite your lack of status, money, or power, he feels an…affection for you. Similar to the affection one might have for an injured bird. He’d been raised to put creatures like that out of their misery, but your only brokenness was being part of the masses. That could be improved upon. So, to advocate for you, Titus swallows hard and offers, “This may not be a bad thing. Our family needs an heir, after all.”
“Not under circumstances like this,” Ursula scoffs. “You should marry advantageously. Within the seven families, at least. How could you even think-”
Father raises his right hand.
Silence falls.
“You may be right, Titus. We’re long overdue for a new generation of Danforths and neither of you seem particularly close to finding anything akin to a real relationship. Your mother would be horrified.” Father drapes himself in his authentic Jacobean austere velvet armchair in the corner, beneath a grand window he’s spent hours and hours ruminating out of through the years, especially since his wife died. Without looking at his son, he asks, “This…girl of yours: Is she good stock?”
Titus considers that. He imagines how very lovely you look obediently presenting yourself for him on the hotel beds where he’s taken you multiple times a week for the last six months, gazing up at him with reverent eyes and an innocent sort of expression that doesn’t necessarily match your occupation of choice. “I’d say so. She’s young. Pretty.”
Ursula rolls her eyes. “Of course.”
Father gives her a lethal gaze. “Don’t interrupt. This is important.” His eyes turn back to his son and he asks, “Her personality?”
“Sweet,” he answers right away. That’s the first word that comes to his mind. It’s the thing he likes most about you; you’re so, so far from everyone he knows. Kind and tentative and eager to find reasons to smile. The kind of girl who brakes for pigeons. After a moment of thinking, he relents, “A bit stupid, at times, but charming. Docile. I’ve never seen her disagree with someone.”
That seems to please Father. He doesn’t like women who fight back, even his own daughter at times. He probes further, “Does she have any family?”
“She’s estranged from her parents. No siblings.”
“Good. How about education?”
“She’s getting a master’s degree.”
“In what?”
“I don’t know,” he replies with a chuckle. “Something with books, maybe. I’m not usually with her for the stimulating conversation, Father.”
“Don’t be vulgar. Does she have a criminal history? Any connections in our world?”
“No. I vetted her thoroughly before selecting her as a…companion.”
“Boring. But that could be useful in its own way.” Father thinks it over as he watches the gardeners outside tending to the hedge maze across the pond. Winter is beginning to melt off the extensive grounds and they’re preparing for the glory of spring blooms. For vibrant fresh blood, too, in the coming months with the vernal equinox and other traditional celebrations fast approaching. He asks the final question, the only one that matters: “Could she be a Danforth? Or will we have to be rid of her once the baby is born?”
Titus thinks of your laugh, your ease, your total lack of darkness. It’ll be difficult to balance the reality of his world with you, but he’s intrigued by the challenge. With a steady voice, he admits perhaps the deepest secret of this whole situation: “I’d like to keep her.”
The tension eases at that. Keeping up appearances will be best. And if there’s one thing the Danforth family does well it’s keeping up appearances.
With the first smile of the day, Father stands, embraces Titus, and announces, “We can make this work, son. We will.”
Titus stiffens at the rare show of affection, trying not to reveal that he’s pleased with the decision. That would only show a chink in his armor. He would’ve handled the other option, keeping you in the dungeon as a toy of sorts until the birth, but it’ll be better for everyone if he has a wife and his child a mother instead of a nanny. “Thank you, Father.”
“She’s going to have to move in,” Ursula tsks as she, too, gives her brother a short but earnest embrace. “We can’t take risks with the baby.”
Father adds, “And there will have to be a wedding, of course. With all the families invited.”
“A wedding?” Titus gripes, “Isn’t it enough to just-”
“No,” Father interrupts. His fingernails dig into his own palms. “Just because you started this improperly doesn’t mean you’ll continue it that way. In two months’ time, before she starts showing, we’ll have a wedding.”
“Everyone will know it’s a shotgun wedding,” Ursula points out. “Even the most asinine of our associates can manage basic addition and subtraction.”
“That’s irrelevant,” Father insists. “It’s the 21st century. The baby will be born with its mother sharing the Danforth name. Nothing else matters.” He levels his gaze at Titus. “Go and tell her. I expect to see her moving in here before the weekend’s up.”
“Yes, Father,” Titus agrees, already taking his phone from his pocket to dial you. Before leaving the room, he takes a deep breath and says once more, “Thank you. I won’t disappoint you.”
Father gives him a wink. The thought of the first baby born to the Danforth family in four decades lifts everyone’s spirits. It’ll be a good change. “Careful, or you’ll make us think you like the girl.”
He expects you to make a fuss about it. Fully prepares himself to have to drug you, tie you up, kidnap you, and make it clear you don’t actually have a choice in the matter, as distasteful as that would be to him. At the very least, he anticipates resistance. For it to take more than one brunch. Modern women want careers, don’t they? It’s part of why he’s always sworn off girlfriends and dating in the standard sense. Ever since it became relatively acceptable for the elite, he’s strongly preferred paying for the company of simple, complication-free women procured by the family lawyers. He doesn’t want a girlfriend. He wants…a pet. A well-trained companion. Something reliable and reliant. A pretty, obedient creature to recline on the couch who makes no demands and listens with rapt attention to his every order.
So he’s pleased beyond belief at your reaction to his offer, outlined to you at your favorite chichi breakfast place in one of the nicer hotels downtown.
You gaze up at him over your streaming mug and ask bluntly, “What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one,” he lies. Smooth as butter. “I want to take care of you and the baby and I have the means to do so.”
“You’d already be doing that just by paying me at the rate you already do. With my job and your payments, I can afford a comfortable life,” you point out. “But you want me to marry you. Move in with you. So I have to assume there are rules. Catches.” You take a sip of the caffeine-free tea he’d ordered for you, savoring the spicy and citrusy notes. The ginger helps soothe your stomach. “Look, you’re obviously very wealthy. And I know you’re not rich because of something…normal, if you don’t mind the word.”
Titus snickers, “Not at all. Go on.”
“Before you made us exclusive, I’d been with a lot of secretive, rich men,” you explain slowly, “but you don’t seem like most of them.”
The waitress approaches your table. Titus rattles off quickly, clearly annoyed at the intrusion, “We’ll both do the three-course menu. I’ll have the foie gras torchon with prosciutto and figs, the filet mignon as rare as you’ll serve it, and the caviar trio in lieu of dessert.”
The order doesn’t surprise you after countless meals spent together. His food is always expensive and tastes of life cut short.
The waitress gives you a warm smile. “And for you, darling?”
“Don’t call her that,” Titus says, curt and emotionless. “She’ll have the yogurt parfait with the pistachio granola, lobster eggs Benedict, and the baked apple strudel.” Then he gives you a glance that borders on affectionate. “And I’m guessing she’d also like the gelato flight after.”
“You spoil me,” you lilt with batting eyelashes. Then you tell the waitress, “And a ginger ale, if you don’t mind. Thank you.”
As she disappears, Titus’ typically flat expression transforms into one of concern, which you haven’t seen on him often. He observes, “Ginger ale. Ginger tea. Morning sickness?”
You sigh and confirm, “That’s been the theme of week seven.”
“Seven weeks,” he muses, sounding almost wistful. “Does that mean you’ll have your first ultrasound soon?”
“Monday morning,” you tell him with a tentative smile. “You can come, if you want.”
“I will. Definitely.” Titus sits up straighter and adjusts the sleeves of his charcoal-gray button-down, a nervous habit since his custom-tailored clothes always fit perfectly on his chiseled body. “You were asking about rules. Saying I don’t seem like most men.”
“Right, yes.” You touch his hand across the table and he lets you. Titus never asks for affection, but you know he craves it. Deeply. Otherwise he would never have sought you out in the first place. Sex is cheap; companionship is priceless. While rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb, you muse aloud, “You don’t brag about your money, which means you’ve always had it. It’s just a part of you; you’ve never been without it. Your schedule has too much freedom to be a doctor, you don’t dress like a lawyer, you’re too private to be a CEO or anything you’d want to peacock about, and you’re not annoying.”
He smirks at your analysis. “What does that rule out?”
“Tech bro. Anyone who works in blockchain or AI.”
“Smart girl,” he praises with a short chuckle. “What’s your theory, then?”
“Something dark and secretive,” you tease, clearly joking with the low, spooky voice like a Halloween recording you put on. He doesn’t react like it’s a joke, though. So, more seriously, you say, “Maybe private security? Something with weapons; I know you try to be subtle, but I’ve always seen your carrying a gun.” That pleases him; you’ve already noticed his danger and didn’t flinch away. “I doubt it’s really illegal, like drugs, because you’re so clean about everything. I mean, my main point of contact the first three months was your lawyer,” you remind him with a laugh. Then you lean forward and continue, “Regardless, I can tell you have the kind of life where you’re not just going to marry and whisk away the first girl you knock up without some rules.”
Sounding amused, he sips his expensive cocktail and teases, “I can’t just want to be an honest man for the mother of my child?”
“You can, sure. But that’s not you.”
“You’re right about that,” he concedes after a moment. With a deep breath, he sits back in his chair and tells you, “I wouldn’t call them ‘rules’ so much as, perhaps, guidelines. Expectations. I won’t force anything on you. And I won’t abandon you if you go against them.”
That’s a patent lie, but he doesn’t think you’ll defy him, so he keeps it to himself.
You cross your arms over your chest. “Let’s get down to it, then, because I can imagine worse fates for this baby and me than having a rich, handsome daddy to take care of us. But I want to know what I’m getting into.”
“Very sensible. I can appreciate that.” The first round of food arrives and he gestures for you to dig in while he begins, “Your first priority would be growing a healthy pregnancy, of course. Go to all of your doctor’s appointments, follow their recommendations to the letter. You’d quit your job. Continue your classes if you’d like, but you’ll need to cut out any unnecessary stress. You’d move into the family estate; you can decorate and rearrange our building however you’d like as the lady of the house. I don’t care about things like that.”
“What do you mean by ‘the family estate’?” You give him a teasing raised eyebrow; you’re the only person he allows to look at him like that. “You live with mommy and daddy?”
“My father lives in the primary mansion on the grounds, yes. Mother is dead. There are a lot of different outbuildings along the property; it goes on forever. I don’t even know how many acres anymore; the lawyers buy up adjacent properties whenever they go for sale. We’d be in my private house, which is further back on the estate.”
“Like a guest house?”
“An eight-bedroom guest house, but yes.” Without giving you much time to process that, Titus goes on, “You’d have some social responsibilities as Mrs. Danforth. My mother’s passed now, so you’d be the official host when our family holds events, which we do often. You’d just have to look pretty, though, which you’re phenomenal at already.” As your cheeks warm, he assures you, “We have a whole team to handle the planning side if you aren’t interested in those sorts of things.”
You give a timid smile. “I like planning and hosting parties. It’d be nice to have some occasions to show off all the fancy dresses you’ve bought me.”
That makes him smile. Really smile. Like he can see you slotting into his life. “Good. Great. Well, you can have as much or as little involvement in our social circles as you’d like as long as you’re willing to put on one of those dresses and sit next to me adoringly when needed.”
“So far, that fits my resume to a tee.”
“And, in that vein, there are certain standards of dress and, let’s say, etiquette, for lack of a better word, that my sister can help you with getting used to.”
“You have a sister?”
“Yes. Ursula.” He toys with his fork, hovering it over the decadent spread. “I suppose we still have a lot to learn about each other.”
“I’m an open book,” you retort with a cheeky smile. “You’re the one with the secrets. I don’t even know your last name.”
“Danforth,” he says quietly. Like it’s a secret. Maybe it is. “Titus Victor Danforth.”
“Very stately name.” You wrinkle your nose a bit. “Does our baby have to have a name like that? It’s hard to imagine calling a newborn Titus Victor.”
“We’ll agree on a name like any other couple,” he chuckles. “But, for the record, I have family with much worse names than Titus.”
“Like Ursula,” you joke, earning a conspiratorial snort. You nod and drink some more of your tea as you consider everything thus far. “So I have to learn to sit pretty and do tricks. Got it. What else?”
His voice darkens and so do his hazel eyes. “The most important thing is that you’ll allow me to keep you safe and protect you. Against anyone and anything. By any means necessary.”
Your own voice drops to a whisper. “You say that like I’ll be in danger.”
“Sometimes you will be.”
Not taking it all too seriously, you check. “But you’ll always protect me? And our baby?”
He puffs up his chest and insists seriously, “With my life.”
No matter who or what tries to get in my way.
You narrow your eyes at him. “And you’ll take care of everything financially?”
“Yes.” Zero hesitation. “Always.”
You don’t doubt he can keep that promise, at least. When you take on sugar clients, you make sure to have proof of funds before agreeing to any arrangements. Titus passed that test with flying colors; you’re sure there’s incalculable wealth behind the many, many zeroes you’ve already seen. He’s always driving around in tinted luxury cars, wearing suits by $10,000-a-piece designers, handing over heavy black cards for quadruple digit dinner dates with no dobut on whether they’ll clear.
With a tiny smile, you press, “And you’ll marry me?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Can I have a real wedding?”
“Here I was thinking I’d have to convince you of that,” he laughs. Something unfamiliar is knocking around pleasantly in his ribs. “Our wedding would be very, ah, socially significant. You’ll be impressed by the guest list, I’m sure.”
“Give me a teaser.”
“Let’s just say if a bomb were dropped on it, the world’s economy would collapse.”
“Yeah, alright,” you giggle. He’s looking forward to the day you realize he’s telling the truth on that matter. “So I’d be a wife. Hm, okay.” You jokingly tap your chin and squint like you’re really thinking hard about it. “Does that mean I’ll have to cook for you?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“How about cleaning? Laundry? I hate doing laundry.”
“That’ll all be handled.”
“So we’ll have…servants?”
Titus can’t help but notice the way you’re already saying ‘we.’ He doesn’t mind the sound of it; you’re right where he wants you. Needs you. “We prefer to call them staff, but yes, we do.”
Curiosity piqued, you press, “How many?”
He starts running through the mental rolodex; the estate’s goings-ons don’t interest him much, so they’re at the periphery of his mind. “Full-time, on-site staff? We have three chefs – one in each house’s kitchen, of course – and an estate manager who oversees a handful of groundskeepers, gardeners, and housekeepers. There’s an incredibly effective security team. Part-time? Lawyers on retainer, naturally. And we have connections for anything you’d want. Ursula has her tennis coach and her pet pool boy. Father has his favorite mixologist and, ah, massage therapist. I’ve got my golf caddy as well. Each of us has our own driver, but you’d probably share mine a while. That’s a high-trust position; I’d want to personally hire yours for the safety of the baby. You’d also have your own personal assistant to help with whatever you need day-to-day. And you’ll be in charge of hiring out any childcare support you want, when the time comes. Nannies, tutors, those sorts of things.”
“Wow.” Your fork is stuck mid-air. “So you and your family are…rich rich.”
His lips curl up slightly. It’s nice to be around someone who isn’t used to snapping their fingers and having whatever they want in moments. Charming. “That would be a fair assessment, yes.”
Titus notices a selfish, almost cute little shimmer lighting up your eyes as you ask, “So I can have whatever I want?”
He cocks his head to the side and considers that. What it might mean to someone who didn’t grow up in the world he did. “Within reason.”
Your eyes narrow. “How about a car? Like a really ridiculous one – a neon yellow Lamborghini?”
Almost offended at the idea, he scoffs, “A car? Of course you can have a car. I thought you were going to say something ridiculous like an elephant.”
You pout and cross your arms playfully over your chest. “So you’re saying I couldn’t have an elephant if I really, really wanted one?”
Feeling indulgent beneath your delight, he sighs dramatically, “I suppose I could reopen and repurpose the stables for the mother of my child.”
“The stables?”
“My mother loved horses. We were raised on dressage but never really took to it. When she died, my sister and I-” let those wretched horses free and hunted them with arrows “-decided not to keep up the responsibility.”
“Could I have a horse?”
He almost winces at the memory of countless on-site animals becoming casualties in the family games, intentional or otherwise. Still, because it’s important, he relents, “If you want, sure. I don’t see the appeal, but you’ll have whatever hobbies make you happy and keep you occupied.”
“Don’t worry; I hate horses. Just curious.” You can tell he’s amused by your version of an interrogation, so you go on, “Will you still take me on dates?”
That puzzles him. Do you like these dates with him? He’s always assumed you just see him as a paycheck, which he doesn’t mind, but the idea of a real relationship does tantalize him to a certain extent. So he says, “If you’d like that. I do enjoy your company, after all.”
“And sex whenever I want?”
A laugh punches out of him. They’re rare from Titus, so it makes you grin, too, for a second. He rolls his eyes and nods. “Of course; that’s one of my favorite parts of your company.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to give that up with you, considering the, ah, quality.”
Blush tinges the apples of his cheeks and you know better than to point it out. Titus has never been shy about his sexual prowess, but he also grew up in a family where it’s not acceptable to talk about those things over brunch. Titus clears his throat and checks, “What else do you want to know to decide?”
“To recap, I’ll be fed and housed and safe and spoiled beyond my wildest dreams?”
He nods, pleased. “Exactly.”
You bite your lower lip and ask, “But what if something happens to you? I’d be giving up all my independence and relying on you. I don’t want the baby’s security depending on whether or not you’re around for us.”
He doesn’t assure you that nothing will happen to him the way you’d anticipated. Instead, he admires your practicality. You can tell his life is dangerous, but you aren’t flinching. “You’ll be written quite handsomely into the family estate. Above my sister, actually, since you’ll be the mother of an heir. That’s permanent, even in the event of death or divorce.”
“An heir?” You almost choke on your food. “You’re not royalty, are you?”
He laughs, “Not in the sense you’re thinking of, certainly.”
Softer and more seriously as you consider the implications of everything said so far, you touch your lower abdomen and ask him, “Will our baby be safe?”
“Safer than you’ve ever been in your life here in the ‘real world,’” he says with actual sarcastic finger quotes. Then he squeezes your hand, meets your eyes with a new kind of warmth in his, and affirms, “I swear that nothing will ever harm our children.”
You smirk and tease, “Didn’t realize we had more than one on the way.”
He shrugs modestly. “I always liked having a sister.”
“And I always wished I had siblings.”
“Sounds like you agree.”
You let out a sharp laugh, the ridiculousness of the conversation hitting you at once. This is the kind of arrangement people agree to in the dark romances you read when you’re ovulating and here you are actually considering it for the rest of your life. After a minute of eating and thinking, you tell him, “I just have one more question.”
“Anything.”
“Will you love me, Titus?”
He takes his time thinking about the answer, which you appreciate. He isn’t just going to tell you what he thinks you want to hear. Honesty is more attractive to you than his silvering curls or glass jawline, though those definitely do it for you. Always have.
You’ve wasted a lot of time on men who lied to you, who strung you along, who took advantage of your lack of security. As strange as it may be, the thought of someone being very clear about their expectations and giving you everything in return has an appeal after all of that. You’d never have to worry about the things that currently absorb 90% of your time again.
You’ve finished your dish by the time Titus collects his response. Slowly and carefully, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses each finger; you can’t stop the fluttering of your heart in response. Titus murmurs, “You may have to teach me how, bunny.” Gradually, he meets your eyes and offers, “If it matters, in the time we’ve known each other, I’ve already grown quite-” he struggles to find the word; you wonder if he’s ever been given ones for this variety of feelings “-fond of you. Which is unusual for me.”
A smile blooms over your lips. Relief punches Titus in the gut and he’s not so sure why. You take your hand from his and press it gingerly to his silver-scruffed cheek. “Fondness will do.”
“Are you sure about this?” Your best friend, Natalie, asks for the fiftieth time as you finish packing your suitcase. Titus had arranged for professional packers, movers, and cleaners for your entire apartment over the weekend, so all you had to do was pack for a long weekend. “It just seems a little fast to me.”
You shrug and try to brush it off, “I’ve known him for six months already.”
She balks, “As a client.”
“Well, unplanned babies tend to rush relationships,” you cut back. “It’s not like he’s a murderer or something; he’s just a rich guy who needs company. Plus, look at these pictures he sent me.”
You unlock your phone and toss it to her where she’s rifling through your closet, taking her turn to pick over it since you’re going to be switching to maternity clothes soon enough and, it seems, designer after that. Natalie scrolls through the grand Danforth estate and her mouth slowly falls open the same way yours did when Titus showed you. Water features both natural and man-made, meticulously maintained flower gardens, a hedge maze, marble sculptures around the grounds. Not to mention the interior. He’d only sent pictures of his residence on the property, which was styled minimalistically compared to the opulence elsewhere, but you could already imagine outfitting it exactly how you want.
Natalie scoffs, “Are you serious? I didn’t even know places like this still exist. Are you sure this isn’t all, like, a catfishing scheme and he’s just going to lure you into the woods and keep you chained up in a cabin or something?”
You roll your eyes and tell her, “After he made the offer, he showed me everything on his iPad. Titles, holdings, all the legal stuff. I guess his great-great-times-a-million grandparents built half the trade infrastructure in America and then used the money for real estate and investments and now they just have mega money. He told me that there are a lot of families like his that have old money managed by lawyers that’s just accruing more and more money by being in banks.”
She raises a curious eyebrow. “So he doesn’t have to work?”
“Sort of.” You try to explain to the best of your understanding, paraphrasing from the spiel Titus gave that you admittedly kind of zoned out during, “Since his dad retired, he’s got a seat on the board of basically every company in the country, so he has a lot of meetings and travels a lot.”
Natalie changes into one of your dresses and inspects herself approvingly in the mirror. “Does that mean your baby is gonna have to be a boring businessman?”
“Or boring businesswoman,” you laugh. “This one’ll be the oldest, so they’ll have responsibilities, yeah.”
“The oldest?” Her eyebrows go up again. “You and gramps are having more than one?”
“He’s not that old,” you start, a bit more exasperated now, “and he’s going to be my husband. If I want more kids, who else would I have them with?”
“Jesus, you’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”
“You’re here pilfering my closet, aren’t you?” The intercom buzzes by the door and you tell her, “Finish up; that’s my ride.”
“Is that him? Mr. Moneybags?”
You peek out the window and see the dark-tinted black Rolls-Royce idling in front of the door. The white-gloved, black-capped chauffeur who’s driven you around a handful of times before stands by the passenger side with his hands linked in front of himself. You mutter, “No, it’s his driver.”
“His driver? Damn.” Natalie takes the things she wants off their hangers and starts to walk you out. “When do I get to meet this guy, anyway?”
The two of you take the stairs together and you suggest, “At the wedding, I guess. Two months or so.”
Natalie scoffs and shakes her head. “Two months to plan a bachelorette party for a pregnant bride.” She squeezes you into a tight, warm hug. “It’s a challenge, but I’m up to it.”
“I know you are,” you giggle. “I can have the driver drop you off somewhere, if you want. I’m sure Titus wouldn’t mind.”
“No, thanks; I’ve got a job interview right up the street.”
Natalie insists on bringing your suitcase down the stairs, setting it on the stoop and scampering away before she has to ‘pretend to be fancy in front of one of your servants.’ As she disappears around the nearest corner, you wave and smile at the driver, hopping off the raised entry to meet him by the road. “Hi, Chip, thanks for coming to get me.”
“Good morning,” he says warmly. He hefts your luggage easily into the trunk and assures, “It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Danforth.” At your curious look, he explains before you can question, “Master Danforth instructed all the household staff to refer to you with your new title so you get used to hearing it.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Master Danforth?”
Chip cracks a rare conspiratorial smile. “The usual title for the eldest son while his father is still alive. His father is Sir Danforth, but I’m sure you’ll call him Father like Titus and Ursula do.” He opens up the back door for you and assures, “It’s a lot to get used to, but you can ask any of the staff for help with anything.”
You slide onto the smooth leather, lowering the partition between the driver and the back, which Titus never does. As the car leaves the city and starts the winding path into the countryside, you glance at Chip and pose, “I’ve wanted to ask before, but now that I’m gonna be family I think I’m allowed to know: How much do the Danforths pay you?”
Surprised by your frankness, he just laughs, “More than enough.”
“C’mon, you can tell me,” you lilt like you’re doing a heist together. “I can dig it up anyway; Titus says I get free rein of the whole property.”
“Really?” Chip chuckles under his breath. “You must be awfully special to him.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Not even Miss Danforth has full access to the entire estate. Their father mainly stays in the front house these days, too,” he explains, “so Titus must think highly of you to allow you unsupervised access.”
You joke, “Or he’s lying to make me feel safe and thinks I won’t meddle.”
Chip glances at you in the rear view mirror, no joking in his expression. “That’s also a possibility.”
You chew on that for a second and then press, “That doesn’t mean you get out of answering me, by the way. If I’m marrying into a family where the staff are underpaid, then-”
Chip almost wheezes out a laugh, caught off guard by the assumption. “I suppose I shouldn’t let you think that about your future husband.” He takes a long breath and explains, “Discretion is expensive. Security is expensive. And loyalty is priceless. I’ve worked for this family since Titus started high school and needed his own driver. Most of the staff have been with the Danforths for a decade or more. I’m sure the hiring process for your personal employees will be rigorous – background checks, security clearances. My starting salary was $80,000. By year ten, that had doubled. I’ve never had to ask for a raise; my salary just gets silently adjusted at the start of the year. Especially since Titus took over the family’s management, their generosity has been staggering. If you include all the above and beyond benefits – he pays for my daughter’s private school tuition outright, covered every penny when my wife went through chemo a few years back – and the bonuses, it has to be about a quarter million by now.”
You let out a low whistle. “Jesus.”
“Security all makes twice that,” he goes on as he pulls the car off the main road through a massive automated iron gate. Your skin prickles at the knowledge of getting closer. The view is shrouded by thick trees, making the whole estate feel hidden. “Trust me: You’re surrounded by the most loyal, discreet staff in the world.”
You huff out half a laugh. “Should that make me less nervous?”
“Nothing to be nervous about,” he lies lightly.
As the car finally breaks through the trees, the magnificent grounds come into view and the air leaves your lungs. You press your forehead to the glass to get a better view of the property. At the base of the grand front house with its storied old stone and hand-carved Grecian details being devoured by brilliant green ivy, you see the unmistakable shape of Titus in one of his usual charcoal gray suits, strong and broad in a soldier’s stance. He’s waiting at the bottom of a staircase which opens onto a large half-circle drive that reminds you of something out of The Princess Diaries. A man you recognize as a member of his security detail flanks him; you’ve only spotted him at the periphery before, lingering at the entrances of the restaurants Titus takes you to or waiting in the lobby of hotels. He makes a point of being unnoticeable, but you make a point of rarely letting your guard down.
You hear the gate shutting behind you, a thud instead of a click. Deep. Final.
Stopping the car a few feet from Titus, Chip slides out, opens your door, and smiles earnestly. “Welcome home, Mrs. Danforth.”
The moment you’re out of the car, Titus is lifting his arm for you to slip into, which you do.
“Hello, darling.” Titus loops his hand around your lower back and pulls you close enough to smell his brisk, masculine aftershave. He plants a chaste, claiming kiss to your forehead and then holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “How are you feeling?”
“Good. Nervous,” you tell him sheepishly. Before he can jump on that, though, you add, “Nausea hasn’t been too bad today.”
He nods slowly, examining your expression carefully. “I’m glad. Let me know if that changes; you can have whatever you want whenever you want now that you’re here.”
“I’m still waiting on my elephant,” you reply lightly, leaning up onto your toes to kiss him.
He hadn’t been planning to let you kiss him in front of any staff, but he’s pathologically unable to resist you when you look so soft and so ready to submit to his plans for you. Your wide eyes are longing for reassurance, for steadiness, for him to produce the scaffolding of your new life together. When you step back down, he cradles your face and teases, “All in due time, princess.”
Then Titus gestures for his bodyguard to step forward. Up close, you can see pockmark scars over all the skin visible around his dark sunglasses and black-on-black suit. There’s also a feathery brown bruise on his jaw and you can’t help but wonder if he got it in the line of fire, so to speak. Titus introduces, “Smith, my personal security detail, will be yours while I hire a new one.”
You cut him a sideways look. “You don’t need your own security detail in the meantime?”
He gives you a cocky, handsome smirk in return. God, he’s devastatingly beautiful when he’s like that. The ruler of his domain. “I can handle myself, bunny.”
You needle, “Then why have one in the first place?”
“I like to be underestimated,” he replies easily. Not wanting to let you dwell on the implications of that, Titus continues, “Smith will check any and every room before you go into it and then remain stationed by the nearest door. He’ll also do some personal training with you on the family security protocols to make sure you’re prepared.”
You swallow hard and nod, extending your hand toward the bodyguard. “Good to meet you.”
Smith glances at Titus, who nods briefly. Only then does the security guard shake your hand – once, firm, quick. More scars over his knuckles. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”
You gesture between them with a suspiciously pointed finger. “What was that?”
A smirk flickers on Titus’ mouth. You’re too observant for your own good and he hates how much he likes it. So he explains honestly, “Nobody is allowed to touch you without my permission.”
You narrow your eyes. “And if I give them my own permission?”
You can’t.
My word is law.
A chill goes down your spine at the possessive darkness in his eyes. You might have your own security guard now, but there’s a level of safety above that, one that only comes from being under the protective wing of Titus’ unyielding power.
Titus chews on his response a moment and then amends, “Male staff are not allowed to touch you unless it’s an emergency.”
You tsk and tease, “Jealous, jealous.”
“You really shouldn’t talk to me like that,” he admonishes, but you know it’s more of a contradictory plea. Titus craves being challenged as much as he hates it. He can’t tolerate it in business or from family in case it’s perceived as weakness, so he yearns for it from you, the one person who has no desire to actually challenge him. With a shake of his head, Titus dismisses Chip and then says, “I’ll give you a tour of the central grounds and our home. Then I have to go out on business for the afternoon before dinner with my sister and Father in the main house. In the meantime you can get settled and play.”
You laugh, “Play?”
“Whatever it is you want to do to entertain yourself,” he replies with a hand wave and a shrug. “Explore the grounds, interrogate the staff, snoop around all the places you shouldn’t.”
You offer a small conspiratorial smile. “Sounds good to me.”
Then Titus does something new and unexpected: He threads his fingers through yours. You get the sense that he’s practicing behaving like a normal, convincing couple. But you still notice that his palm is slightly clammy. Nervous. Titus Danforth gets nervous about holding a pretty girl’s hand for the first time. Cute.
For half an hour, he guides you around the few acres of land that sit between the three main houses, which are in a U formation. There’s a hedge maze that he warns you not to go into unless you have a few hours to kill, a drone to map it out from above, or a helicopter on standby. Then a tennis court (“you can page our trainer from the gate”) and a pool that’s half inside and half outside (“heated, of course, with a hot tub attached”). At the center of it all sits a series of fountains with emotive sculptures captured in such vibrance you’d believe they come alive at night.
“The tableau of Artemis and Actaeon,” Titus explains as he points out the features – a beautiful nude woman in a righteous stance with a bow raised, a muscular stag fleeing, a hoard of gnashing dogs tight on its heels. “Actaeon wandered away from his companions and found the virgin goddess Artemis bathing when she didn’t want to be seen. To punish him for breaking the boundary between the mortal and the divine, she turned him into a deer and sent his own dogs after him.”
You study the series of sculptures, water running down features like blood, and ask softly, “And your family liked that story enough for this whole water tribute thing?”
Titus chuckles and explains, “Artemis is sort of the Danforth version of a patron saint.” His hand drags slowly, pointedly down the center of your back until you shiver. “Goddess of the hunt. She’s a good omen for the family.”
“Goddess of the hunt,” you repeat curiously. “Interesting.”
He raises an eyebrow and starts to lead you toward the second largest house on the left side of the property. “Is it?”
You snicker and match step with him. “Most families go for, y’know, saints of unity, love, that sort of stuff.”
“She’s also the patron and protector of women and children,” Titus adds on the walk through the rose garden that leads to your new home. “And she chooses when to bring wellness or illness. She’s a good woman to have in your corner.”
You give him a coy sideways glance and muse, “I’ll try not to piss off her statue, as then. I want to stay on the good side of anyone who’s going to protect me and TJ.”
“TJ?”
“Oh, yeah, the baby,” you giggle far too adorably to be allowed on the deathly quiet Danforth Estate. “I’ve been calling him Titus Jr. in my head to try to get used to all of this.”
Something you haven’t seen before glitters in his eyes at the comment. “You think it’ll be a boy?”
“It’s too early for me to even think it’s real,” you reply with a soft laugh. “I can’t believe we’re going to actually hear the heartbeat on Monday.”
“I can’t wait.” He gives your hip a little squeeze that feels much more relationship-y than he usually gets. Then he gestures proudly at a large swath of empty land. “Welcome to the final stop of our tour before the house.”
“It’s, um, lovely,” you offer as you gaze at the undeveloped ground, parts of it divided up with unintelligible spray paint marks. “I’ve always wanted a half acre of empty space. My dream.”
“It’s going to be a space for the children,” he explains with something close to softness in his voice. Like he’s scared you’ll reject the sweet idea from a man you know mostly to be harsh, biting. “I thought…Well, I thought it might be nice for them to have a playground, a splash pad, those sorts of things. The property isn’t very child-friendly; there hasn’t been a baby here in more than forty years now. Time to change that.”
Your heart grows about three sizes at the thought. Titus isn’t just inviting you into his life; he’s carving out space for your shared future. “If you didn’t have anything to play with here at home, what did you and Ursula do for fun as kids?”
“We didn’t have fun,” he almost scoffs. You can tell the memories behind the sound are painful but far away, like reaching through a broken chain link fence. If he pulls back, the pain will become real. “My parents were-” Titus searches for the right word a while before deciding on one that’s close enough“-severe. Dour, often. They thought children should be trained and disciplined, not raised. Father thinks the idea of cherishing a child is the same as spoiling them.”
You shrug and give his hand an affirming squeeze. “I guess they got what they wanted; you’re successful, clearly. Driven, strong, powerful.”
“But not fulfilled,” he murmurs, only loud enough for you to hear. He wouldn’t want the staff knowing his feelings. He takes his hand and rubs your back almost absently, like a nervous habit. With a sideways glance, he labors out, “I think being a parent should be about giving your children more than you got. But I got everything. Always. So what can I give to my children, who will have more than they’ll ever need?”
“A space to play,” you finish for him. You lean up on your toes and plant a kiss on his scruff, unable to conceal the smile that comes at Titus talking about fatherhood so softly. “You’re going to be a great dad.”
He blinks hard a few times. His organs feel like they’re in the wrong order, but it’s not unpleasant. Winding his fingers with yours once more, he almost smiles. “You really think so?”
“Wouldn’t have agreed to all of this-” you gesture to the ridiculous property all around “-if I didn’t. I’d kind of figured being the softie would be my job, but I’m happy to share the load.”
Titus downright pouts. “I am not a softie.”
You nod toward the grass and lilt, “The evidence to the contrary is pretty compelling, sweet pea.”
“That’s too far,” he sighs, suppressing a laugh, “even for you, my little terror.”
As you approach Titus’ house – your house – Smith steps out in front and opens up the ornate wooden door. There’s a golden, roaring lion’s head knocker that clicks slightly as the door swings open to reveal the marble foyer. No amount of pictures Titus texted you could do the place justice. Every detail is strikingly opulent from the golden chandeliers and Italian marble checkerboard floors to the sheer embroidered curtains and high ceilings.
The only thing you don’t love is, well, Titus’s taste. You wrinkle your nose as he shows you through the sitting room and dining room. “You really like black and gray, don’t you?”
He watches you inspect his living space. It’s been a very, very long time since he’s had a woman here. At home. “They match everything. It’s easy.”
“I guess,” you mutter, running your hand over a black leather couch that’s smooth and cool beneath your fingers. You point out, “It’s a little cold for a family. I can’t really imagine a baby toddling around, can you?”
“No,” he replies honestly, “but that’s why I have you. I’d like you to change it all so it’s…warmer. Hire a designer or pick out everything for yourself, whatever makes you happiest.”
As your eyes rove along the under-decorated hallway toward the living wing, already imagining how you might redesign the space, you ask him, “And how would I do that? Will you give me a check or something?”
Titus rolls his eyes and laughs. “A check would imply a budget and supervision; I don’t want any part in it unless you truly think my input would be valuable.”
“That’s hot,” you laugh. “More men should act like that.”
He hums, amused, and then reaches into his jacket, removes a sleek wallet, and hands you a heavy black card. The Black Card, you realize as you stare down at the centurion engraved on dark steel. “That card is yours for whatever you like. You’re already an authorized user on the account; I had the legal team take care of that. It auto-pays every month and I won’t even look at it, so I better not catch you overthinking your spending habits.”
“Ooh la la,” you say, taking the card from him and turning it over in your hand. You’re more than familiar with money, even his money, but it’s never been yours to spend however and whenever you want. No budget, no restrictions, no instructions. It feels almost like getting your first car; that shitbox meant freedom. Your eyes go to his and you ask, “What’s the limit?”
Opening up one of several bedroom doors, he tells you like it isn’t even interesting, “It’s NPSL.” You swallow hard. No Preset Spending Limit. Before leading you inside, he turns around and gives you a mischievous smile. “In fact, there’s a minimum. To maintain our status with the company, you’ll need to spend $350,000 a year on that card.” He smirks at your open-mouthed shock and muses, all cocky and coy, and touches the tip of your nose affectionately. “Can you do that for me, princess?”
“Are you joking?”
“I don’t joke often.”
You balk, “What would I even spend that kind of money on?”
He laughs out loud. “Ursula could spend that much in an hour; I’m sure you’ll find something. For example, where have you always wanted to buy jewelry from?”
You bite your lower lip and reply, “Tiffany.”
“Right, of course. I got you those earrings for Christmas,” he remembers fondly, especially fond of the mind-numbing orgasm you’d ridden out of him wearing nothing but said diamond earrings. “Any time you want, you can take your cute little ass downtown to the shop and get everything else from that collection. Better yet,” he goes on, taking his phone from his pocket and sending a few texts, “I’ll get an appointment for you at their flagship in New York and you can use your fun new card on some first-class tickets for you and a friend and buy out the damn store just to show off.” Before you can roll your eyes and scoff out a response, he presses his index finger to your lips, kisses your forehead, and coos, “You’re filthy rotten rich now, kitten, you’ll have to discover ways to act like it. Now, may I continue my tour?”
You give him a giggly mock salute. “Yes, sir.”
He debates jumping on it but bites his tongue, trying to keep a modicum of self-control with his regular staff lingering nearby. So he takes a breath and leads you through the open door into a vast, relatively blank bedroom, leaving Smith stationed outside. He tells you, “Until we’re married, you’ll stay here in one of the guest rooms. Anything else would be inappropriate.”
You nudge him with your hip, a little too confident. “Inappropriate like all the kinky premarital sex we’ve already had?”
In response, Titus grabs you hard by the waist, flipping you around and pushing you against the nearest wall, hand behind your head. There’s a caution to his touch, though, and it steals your breath away. He’s certain not to be too rough with you. He cups your face in one large hand and studies your features intently. Your eyes widen as you look up into his stoic hazels, finding something dark and unreadable in them.
And then he kisses you. Deep, serious, claiming. Your knees go weak as he presses the curve of your spine, pulling you as close as possible to his body. It feels like a warning more than an act of affection. When he pulls back, he gently touches the tip of your nose with his pointer finger, drawing out a smile, and tuts, “You’re going to have to learn not to talk like that in front of others. It’s bad form.”
“No sex jokes in front of the posh folk,” you tease with a serious nod. “Got it.”
“Good girl.”
“You shouldn’t call me that if you want me to behave.” With embarrassingly warm butterflies taking flight in your stomach, you push out your lower lip and give him your best puppy dog eyes. “I really have to sleep alone?” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, leaning your weight on him. “In an unfamiliar place?” You drag your lips up his rough neck and suck his sensitive skin, smiling to yourself when he draws in a sharp and wanting hiss. “With my big strong fiancé all the way across the house?”
Titus gives a low chuckle, looking at you like a puzzle. He traces his finger up your neck and along your jaw until he reaches your chin, tilting it upward. He turns your face from side to side, examining you, and you shiver from the intensity. His lip twitches at the corner. “Would you really prefer to sleep in bed with me? Why?”
You take his hand in yours and guide it down to your hip. His other hand instinctively follows and they roam around to your ass, which you arch out to be more enticing. He follows by squeezing your flesh and grunting softly under his breath. You ruck your hands up beneath his shirt and rake your fingernails over his abs until you feel him tremble ever so slightly. On your toes, you whisper against his ear, “I get cold at night.”
Titus sucks in a sharp breath when you take his earlobe between your teeth and nibble ever so slightly. He leans his head back and groans, “Mmm. You’re too powerful for your own good.”
“Just powerful enough.” Then you nibble your lower lip, avert your eyes, and add bashfully, “And I might need you.”
His brows furrow in genuine confusion. “Need me? For what?”
You shrug and try not to sound too vulnerable. “I mean, I’m pregnant. What if I wake up and something’s wrong?”
Titus sets his jaw, considering that. He brushes his thumb over your cheek and studies one of the many emotions he doesn’t have much experience with: Worry. Lowering his voice, he assures you, “Nothing’s going to go wrong. Not if I can help it.”
With a sad little smile, you reply, “Money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t stop me from being scared of complications. Or worse. I don’t want to have to wonder where you are if I wake up afraid.”
At that, he nods solemnly, takes your hand, and starts leading you to the opposite wing of the house. He may not experience anxieties like that, but he understands that his job is to quell yours. “Come on, then; I’ll show you our bedroom. Don’t tell Father; he wouldn’t understand.”
Your eyes narrow. “Will you get in trouble if he finds out?”
“Yes,” he says with a dark humor in his tone and a glint in his eyes. “He’d put me in time out and take away all my favorite toys.” He’d have one hour to hunt me while I remain unarmed. Titus presses a kiss to the center of your forehead. “Don’t worry, bunny; I can handle myself. Handling you is what I’m worried about.”
As he pushes open a set of opulent double doors, you poke his firm shoulder and protest, “I’m a perfect angel.”
“Precisely my concern.” As you step into the suite, he raises a silent hand to stop Smith from following. Closing the doors, Titus strides to where you’re admiring the space, wide eyes greedy over the California king, the floor-to-ceiling windows with grand velvet curtains, the massive his and hers closets. “I know it’s plain right now; I don’t have much of an eye for taste – except in women, of course.”
You smack him lightly on the arm. “Flatterer.”
His deeply ingrained instincts urge him to flip your arm around, pin it behind your back, twist you into submission. But then you smile at him and it’s so warm and open and trusting and earnest that he almost smiles back. “Only for you.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.” You traipse into the adjoining bathroom suite and gawk at the oversized soaking tub, practically its own pool with jets and a head rest, and add, “I get the impression you have to flatter a lot of people in your world.”
“They have to flatter me,” he corrects. You feel his hand on your back and catch sight of him watching you in the large mirror above the double vanity sinks. His first finger trails up your spine and he smiles when you shiver. “And soon they’ll have to flatter you, too.”
“If they have to suck up to you, and you have to suck up to me,” you muse, turning around into his arms, “does that make me the boss of the whole world?”
Titus cradles your face in one hand. His expression is completely and totally confident as he tells you, “I spent the first thirty years of my life watching my mother snap her fingers-” he punctuates it with a click of his own “-and get whatever she wanted from whoever she was speaking to. She commanded attention, power, money. Everyone listened when she spoke. She was the only woman – person – my father ever acquiesced to or listened to. Nobody on earth has more power than Mrs. Danforth,” he finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “and very soon that will be you.”
For a second, you’re breathless, taking in the intensity simmering in his eyes. Then you avert your gaze a second, swallow hard, and look back at him with your usual mischief. “Mommy issues much?”
Rolling his eyes dramatically, Titus swats your ass and laughs, “Father is going to hate you.”
With a raised eyebrow, you needle him, “You say that like it might actually be a good thing.”
Titus confirms, “Being hated by my father is always a badge of honor. He can’t stand me.” Then he takes your hand, leads you back to the bedroom, and sits you down on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Now, I have to leave for some business before I introduce you to the family tonight, but I do have one thing I need to give you in the meantime.”
“A welcome home gift?”
“Something like that,” he replies, walking over to his bedside table and removing a black velvet box. He kneels in front of you, your legs on either side of his shoulders, and your heart starts to pound. As he opens it to reveal the ridiculous ring inside, he begins, “Now, bunny, if you want a proper proposal with a string quartet or a sunset on the beach, I’ll do that, but for-”
“Titus, shut up,” you whisper. “Is this…for me?”
Your eyes are glued to the ring. You’ve never seen anything like it. Clearly it’s an antique piece; the metalwork and stones have been meticulously maintained and show a high level of craftsmanship. The large center diamond is black – an almost surreal color, both drawing light in and flinging it out, seeming at once opaque and transparent from different angles – and surrounded by a halo of small pearls and diamonds set in fine platinum. It’s not eye-catching so much as jaw-dropping.
Your heartbeat thuds and whooshes in your ears as Titus removes the ring from the box and takes your left hand in his. You splay your fingers to give him better access.
“My great grandfather had it made for his wife and my mother held onto it for me to give to mine, not that she believed I’d ever find one. It won’t be the most expensive piece in your collection, but it’s the most precious and rare to our family name.” Titus slides it onto your finger and then kisses the skin just above it, his lips softer than you’ve ever felt. He holds your hand in his and urges. “I never want to see you without it.”
“I should take it off to shower and sleep,” you point out absently, still staring at the ring. You flick your eyes up to his. “And I assume you’d still like to see me those times.”
“I’m going to have to start punishing you for all this flirting, you know.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a promise?”
He shakes his head and lets out a sharp, amused breath. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”
In the next breath, Titus smirks and lifts you easily, tossing you up onto the bed. As you shriek out a laugh, the plush fabric and thick mattress catch you like a cartoon cloud. Titus pounces on you like a panther while you’re still getting your bearings, hiking your skirt up around your waist and yanking your panties down hard enough to rip the elastic. You don’t complain; for every pair of your underwear he’s ruined, Titus has always gifted you five more from nicer shops.
His fingers circle your clit hard and fast, working you up frantically, and you know exactly what his game is. It’s one he plays often and well. You’ve got no choice but to enjoy the expert way he touches you, months of knowing how to get you off and bring you down painstakingly memorized.
Then, as you expect, the very moment your walls start to clamp down, Titus stops all touch and slaps your clit hard. The sting rockets up your spine and you gasp. Your thighs shake and he laughs at your mewling.
Before you can even start to think , he pulls his shirt off, casts it aside, and crawls onto the bed next to you. Then his middle two fingers are on your clit again and his lips lock onto yours and you’re moaning and whining and hoping, hoping, hoping he won’t-
He slaps your clit once more and you nearly knee him with the force of your body’s reaction. He stills your leg with a smirk and coos, “Careful, princess, you’ll pull a muscle. Can’t have that.”
You challenge him with narrow eyes. “Then how about you pin me down and fuck me so I don’t squirm?”
“So goddamn greedy,” he huffs. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today.”
“I wonder whose fault that is.”
You watch, mouth watering, as he takes off his belt and slacks. You even notice the brief hesitation as the leather belt runs over his fingers; you’ve been known to beg for a whipping with it on more than one occasion. But he’s being gentle with you – for Titus, at least. He returns to you on the bed with a wolfish gaze, spreading your legs apart and admiring you for long enough to make your breath hitch. When you feel the tip of his swollen cock nudging at your entrance, it’s with a toe-curling gentility that makes your body sensitive.
Titus always thrusts into you agonizingly slow, no matter how worked up either of you are. He savors the little flutters and twitches that come with filling your pretty cunt millimeter by breathless millimeter. Once he’s seated inside of you, feeling the way your hips instinctively roll back into his and how your cunt is clamping onto him like it needs reassurance, Titus presses his thumb to your lower lip and orders, “Beg.”
And even though you’re having to actively hold back from squirming and moaning, you know he loves the chase, so you grip his curls tight and reply, “Why should I?”
“God, you fucking brat.” He spits on your face and you lick it off your lips, never dropping his eyes that trace your movements. “If you won’t beg for what you want, then I expect you to stay there and take whatever I give you.”
Your eyes widen in a mix of lust and fear, right on the primal line that Titus so loves to play with. One of his hands goes down to cover your mouth. There’s a millisecond where his eyes flick up to yours, asking permission, and it’s gone as soon as you give an imperceptible nod. When you and Titus fuck, your minds run parallel to one another; the same temptations and ideas call both your attention.
Once his salty, heavy palm is clamping your mouth shut, Titus fucks you like he needs. Your pleasure becomes entirely secondary to him; he only touches your clit because it amuses him to watch you squirm and kick and writhe, unable to speak or moan or do much of anything besides take it.
When he hikes your legs higher, working you into a full mating press that lets him fuck you hard and deep, your eyes roll back and your moans turn into squeaks. His thumb continues its strumming on your clit as you start to shake from pleasure. He purrs, “There we go.”
And then he cums.
Unannounced, unplanned, unrepentant. He pulls out and gives your thigh an affectionate pat.
You grab his hand and wail, “No, no, no no no nonono! Titus!”
He lifts your fingers to his lips and kisses each one softly, “Didn’t I say this was a punishment? You have to learn to behave yourself.”
You lean back, raise your arms above your head so that your tits are on beautiful display, and look up at him like an innocent, needy puppy. After a beat of charged silence where his eyes ravish your body, you say the one word you’re always careful to withhold from him until the right moment: “Please.”
Above the bed like a god, Titus gazes down at you, panting and disheveled and leaking his cum. He tsks and sighs, “How am I supposed to punish you when you take me so well?” Then he drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your legs, and tugs you to the end of the bed as if you weigh nothing. “When you’ve done everything I’ve asked without complaint?” He slides two fingers into your sopping cunt, curling them toward himself and grinning when you arch your back and whine out in pleasure. He nips your inner thighs with his teeth and rests his free hand on your lower abdomen, over your womb. Leaning toward your wrecked pussy, he murmurs at last, “When you’re carrying my child? I couldn’t possibly deny you.”
And he descends on your swollen, aching clit. The taste of his own cum mixed with your juices drives him wild. The taste of his ownership. After all the edging, you’re mere moments from tumbling over the precipice.
He doesn’t make you wait any longer.
He growls into your cunt as you spasm around his fingers, the orgasm burning up your spine and boiling beneath your cheeks. Your back arches and he refuses to let you stop cumming, keeping his tongue just as firm and fast as you punch into overstimulation. It’s so good it borders on painful and that’s what he loves the most. The moment when you cry out his name and try to push his shoulders back because it’s just too much and only he can finally release you.
Your chest heaves as you collapse back onto the bed. Titus slowly withdraws his fingers from your pussy and licks them clean, drunk on the taste of the two of you becoming one. You can’t talk or think as you rest the back of your hand on your forehead to cool it down. After a few moments of breathing, you smirk up at him and tease, “I knew you’d cave, you big softie.”
He kneels over you again. “I assure you it was completely selfish; making you cum strokes my ego.”
“Mhmm. Whatever you say.”
Titus tuts out a chuckle and checks his watch before swearing under his breath. After a searing kiss that gives you the sense he wants nothing more than to start a second round, Titus sighs, “Three hours as my live-in trophy wife and you’re already making me late.”
You nip his collarbone. “Bite me.”
“Don’t tempt me.” He holds your chin and orders gently, “Ask Chip to take you downtown. Designer district. Buy an outfit that makes you feel perfect and be home in time for dinner at six.”
At 5:58, Titus knocks on the door of his own home with a bouquet of white roses. He can already imagine you rolling your eyes at his display before Smith opens up the door on your behalf. Titus is pleased to see that you let him open it without argument, already beginning to accept having others watch out for you.
You step into the moonlight and Titus hands off the flowers to Smith, who falls back behind you. For a moment, Titus is at a loss for words. You’ve always made a point of dressing up and looking beautiful for him; that’s a part of your arrangement, a part of the business of being a professional sugar baby. He’s even paid for you to get plenty of lovely pieces to add to your wardrobe.
But this?
You’ve spent the handful of hours since he left (and attended several excruciating meetings) pampering yourself into a state more akin to divinity than humanity. He may not have the eye for fashion that his sister does, but he can easily identify the trappings of a woman feeling confident about herself: Freshly French-tipped nails, sleek high heels with a thin strap around your ankle, makeup subtle and feminine. The burgundy halter dress hugs your curves, the silk crepe just structured enough to be formal but swinging enough to be sweet and flirty.
He wants to devour you.
And when he kisses you hello, he makes it obvious, dipping you far backwards and gripping your hip like it owes him money. He can feel the designer quality of the dress, soft as butter, under his fingertips. Then he rakes his hands up your thighs and growls against your ears, “I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you in the one situation where I absolutely have to.”
You give him a modest twirl and ask, “You really like it?”
With his hand on your lower back, Titus guides you toward the main house and purrs, sounding both proud and possessive, “You look perfectly at home in luxury, kitten.”
You try to quell your nerves as you walk up the marble steps to the back entrance of the home, where Smith opens the large glass doors to usher you both inside. Unlike Titus’ – and your, you have to keep reminding yourself – house, the main house is opulently designed, drenched in old-school grandeur. Everything is antique, hundreds of years old, in dark woods and rich silks. It’s more like walking through a museum than a home.
When Titus brings you into the grand dining room, you can see just how well his father and sister match the decor. Thin, severe, expensive. His sister is drop-dead gorgeous in a very ‘90s leading lady way while his father has the sort of face and demeanor usually reserved for stereotypical evil wizards or vampire counts. Titus has to push you into their eyeline when you find yourself shrinking beneath their stares.
Mr. Danforth and Ursula both stand to greet you but don’t move otherwise. Titus takes a deep breath and announces, “Father, Ursula, I’d like to introduce the future Mrs. Danforth.”
Father offers you his hand first, but you’re clearly not supposed to shake it, so you just present your own. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your skin softly. “How lovely to finally make your acquaintance. My son has sung your praises extensively.”
“That’s very sweet.” You bite your tongue despite how easy it would be to tease Titus because you know for a fact he never would’ve mentioned you to them at all if it weren’t for the baby. You stick with a polite albeit slightly stiff, “Mr. Danforth, it’s an honor to meet you.”
Titus’ gentle, affirmative pat to your arm almost makes you laugh – the situation is too weird for words – but you still hold back. It’s a truly herculean effort not to point out how otherworldly this whole thing is. You haven’t exactly met people who just reek of power and status, their presence so effortlessly commanding that you want to laugh so you don’t cry or hide.
Then it’s Ursula’s turn with you. She doesn’t shake hands, doesn’t hug, doesn’t even speak for a solid thirty seconds. You can feel Ursula’s eyes on every inch of you, dissecting and analyizing. It’s like she’s trying to see through your skin or maybe telepathically peel it off your bones. You’re holding your breath until she finally says, “You’re very pretty.”
“Thank you.” Swallowing hard, you force a wobbly smile and tell her, “You look stunning, exactly like I expected from how your brother talks about your fashion sense.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Please; Titus wouldn’t know fashion sense if I smacked him over the head with it. And I’ve tried.” Before you can try to come up with any possible response, she gestures to your dress and asks, “Where is this little number from? It looks appropriately expensive for the occasion. A gift from our Titus, I assume?”
“Um, yes, he sent me shopping today.”
She gives you a pitying sort of smile and squeezes your forearm in a way that feels truly predatory. “He’s always so generous with his playthings.”
Titus clears his throat. “Ursula.”
“I’m just teasing,” she laughs without any humor. Then her narrowed eyes return to you. “Really, though, where did you find a dress like this in our dingy little city?”
You smooth out the fabric and tell her, “It’s, um, it’s Yves Saint Laurent.”
“Looks like something I would wear.”
You try on a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I told Chip to take me somewhere you would shop.”
“Maybe I’ll go and pick one up in my size,” she muses, still scanning your body for every flaw, which you’re suddenly painfully aware of, coming up with brand new insecurities every second her focus moves. “I’d ask to borrow it, but yours would drown me.”
Titus cuts her off sharply, “That’s enough.”
She pouts at her brother. “Don’t be so sensitive, ducky; I’m sure she can-”
“No.” You’ve never heard Titus’ voice as stone cold and commanding as when he tells her, an order and a punishment, “Never speak down to her. Never.”
Ursula rolls her eyes and plops herself dramatically in one of the oversized dining chairs. She pouts and says, “Fatherhood is already making you so boring. Now I’m going to have to weaponize her against you so I have someone to complain with about how boring you are. Sigh.”
And dinner goes just about like that.
Mr. Danforth unabashedly interrogates you about your life, your family, your history. Ursula critiques your answers. Titus snaps at them both when they push too far. You just try to hold onto your fork and sneak bites of decadent food in between the family bickering. You can tell there’s a kind of affection entirely foreign to you in the way they jab and dodge each other’s barbs. The way rich people talk to each other – all subtext and speed – is surreal to listen to. Eyes rolled about memories in St. Barts and arguments over clients in Aspen; it’s like they’re speaking a different language from the one you learned growing up.
By the time you’ve finished pretending to like flan because you’re terrified of being rude, they seem to have hashed out all their regular arguments, everyone beyond ready to leave the rest alone. Titus can tell you’re getting overwhelmed by their equally intense presences fighting for dominance, so he slides his hand protectively onto your knee and announces, “I think we’ve kept my fiancée awake late enough, haven’t we?”
Ursula pouts, leaning across the table and snatching your left hand into hers for examination. “You already gave her mother’s ring and I missed the grand proposal? How tragically unromantic.”
Father sighs, “They’re doing things a touch out of order, darling.”
“I wouldn’t want an extravagant proposal anyway,” you manage to squeak out. “A nice private moment between the two of us was perfect.”
“Ah, so she’s the one making you boring,” Ursula laughs. Then she lowers her gaze and adds, “If you don’t like extravagance, you may be marrying into the wrong family. Your wedding guest list is already 250 people long.”
“I’m definitely looking forward to all of it,” you assure as you desperately try not to sound either meek or ungrateful, “but Titus is being kind enough to ease me into the waters. Trust me: The beautiful estate and stunning, personal ring made as much of a statement as any proposal.”
Father smirks at you with a pleased satisfaction that seems to surprise Titus and his sister. “What a diplomatic response. My daughter will be lucky to learn from your decorum.”
As Titus stifles a laugh, Ursula stands up dramatically from the table and reminds him, “I’m literally a diplomat, Father. Try telling the people of Monaco that I’m anything but diplomatic when I personally broke ground on the country’s latest arts center.”
“That was for optics,” Titus cuts back, adding under this breath, “unlike my work in Geneva.”
Ursula brandishes her knife like she might really use it on him, making you gasp gently under your breath, and that’s when Father officially clears his throat and stands with a curt, “I think that’s enough family time for one night.”
“I completely agree,” Titus replies, rolling his shoulders before he stands up. After pulling your chair out and guiding you to your feet, he says, “We’ll see you both at the Governor’s Ball on Saturday.”
Titus shakes his father’s hand at the end of dinner and, once again, you have to remind yourself not to tease him. Thankfully, it’s a surgical extraction from there and Titus has you walking back toward your house in no time.
After Titus dismisses Smith for the night and arms the extensive home security system, he meets you in the primary bathroom, where you’re unclasping your jewelry and examining yourself in the mirror. Titus must’ve had someone on staff put away your things because your bedtime skincare routine is laid out on the countertop. Before reaching for any of it, you bite your lip and ask Titus, “Be honest: Did I do okay?”
He comes up behind you, slipping his strong arms around your waist. “You did great. I’m only sorry Ursula was so very-” he struggles to find the right word “-Ursula.”
“I expected worse,” you tell him with half a smile. “I didn’t expect you to stand up for me, though. To your sister.”
“Ursula is the family the universe gave me. She’s my best friend and my closest confidant – and she’s a nightmare. A hellion.” Titus kisses your forehead and gently touches your stomach. “You’re the family I’m choosing. That means you come first, button. I’m not going to have my children watch their father sit idly by while their mother is insulted. I’m practicing setting a good example.”
You stand up on your toes and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
Titus runs his hands up your spine and fiddles with the halter tie at the back of your neck. “Now let’s get you out of this very lovely dress so you can sleep. Do you need a back rub? Some ginger tea?”
You raise an eyebrow as you slowly take out your cleanser and reusable cotton rounds. “Are those real offers or are you teasing me?”
“Real offers. From either a masseuse I can have here in fifteen minutes and our chef or from me personally.” He tugs the dress down your body, guides you to step out of it, and discards it in the bathroom hamper like you didn’t pay $3,200 for it a few hours ago. “No funny business, just relaxation and rest, especially well earned after spending a few hours with my family.”
“I could probably tolerate a foot rub before bed,” you giggle as he kisses across the tops of your shoulders.
“Go on, then.” He strips off his own shirt and makes quick work of his belt and slacks, too. Looking deliciously sturdy in just his black boxer briefs, he leans against the bathroom doorframe and says. “Finish getting un-ready and come lie down with me, princess. I’ll make sure to get you nice and relaxed before bed.”
“You want me to do my whole bedtime routine topless?”
“I’ll grab you something from your closet,” he offers, frowning a little because he admittedly does like the idea of watching you traipsing around with your tits out. When he returns with a tank top and silky shorts, he notices you still haven’t started taking off your full face of makeup. Too knowingly, he strolls into the bathroom with the pajamas and asks, all low and teasing, “Are you nervous to take off your makeup in front of me?”
You toy with the damp cloth, studying him in the mirror, and admit, “A little. And not just the makeup.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and laughs, “I’ve seen you naked, kitty.”
You scoff, “Naked and made up with at minimum highlighter and mascara. Or in very manicured outfits.”
He offers, “I’ve also seen you in pajamas before.”
“Lingerie,” you correct. “You don’t really think I sleep in slutty little negligees and teddies, do you?”
“A man can dream.”
“Well, if you hadn’t noticed, typically you rip those off me, fuck me unconscious, and then leave before my actual bedtime routine,” you reply, poking him in his hard chest. As you tug on the tank top and shorts, you go on, “I usually wake up around midnight, get room service on your tab, and sleep in my ugly sweats since you never spend the night.”
Clearly amused by the whole thing, he presses, “Are you worried I’ll rescind my proposal to the mother of my child because you aren’t a model in your sleep?”
“I don’t know!” You huff and glare at him, knowing full well you’re being hormonally dramatic now. “This is all very new to me, Titus. I have to wear a four-figure dress to dinner and go to the fucking Governor’s Ball, I guess, but I still have to be me at bedtime? All while figuring out how to be your fiancée and not just your sugar baby? It’s weird.”
Titus closes the space between you, each step stern and confident. He takes the makeup removal pad and cleanser from you, gently lathers the cloth, and starts to work it over your face without saying a word. Titus says the most when he's silent. Right away, you melt beneath his touch. His totally sturdy gaze. Quietly, he relents, “It’s a lot. I know that. You don’t have to come to the big social events right away; we can start smaller than the fucking Governor’s Ball.” He smiles when you crack one of your own. “If you aren’t ready to jump right into being my wife, there are plenty of other bedrooms you can stay in and have your own space.”
“I don’t want my own space,” you whisper back. “I’m just scared of taking up too much of yours, I guess. Or not fitting into your life the way you expect. Of being Mrs. Danforth correctly. Not looking expensive enough or beautiful enough or-”
“Quiet now,” he interrupts, words harsh and clear but tone nothing but warm. “Do you know what I want from Mrs. Danforth?” Titus finishes wiping your face of its mask and then examines your products and selects your moisturizer. He massages it into your face and neck with fingers so tender you could cry. When he’s finished, he holds your face in one large hand and murmurs, “I want you to sit by my side and sleep in my arms. You. We have the rest of our lives to work out the details.”
For the first time, you feel the real you slip out in front of Titus. No flirting, no pushing, no hiding. All you can manage to whisper is, “Thank you.”
He gives you a soft kiss and then goes on, quiet but urgent. “As for worrying about your appearance, you have never been lovelier to me than you are right now,” leading you to the bed and sitting you down with your feet in his lap, he finishes, “because you’re mine. And that’s the most perfect thing you can be.”
synopsis: Working as Valentina’s secretary meant you had to make sure Congressman Barnes was doing his job, checking up on him and ensuring that Valentina's requests were met. But he’s figured it out already, and he’s got another way for you to make up for spying on him.
tags: smut. kinda power imbalance so lwk dark bucky. office sex. he’s mean. begging. f!receiving. creampie.
w/c: 2.5k… of pure filth.
a/n: holy shit, i did not mean to write this much for this. i got this request, brewed myself a coffee and ran with it.
The job you were tasked with was simple enough.
You had to make sure that Congressman Barnes was doing his job. Valentina was relentless, texting you constantly, sending you new things to do and make sure he stays in line.
Oh, but the Congressman was damn good looking and that you couldn’t deny.
He was real easy on the eyes, so when you went to check on him, your gaze would often linger, over his biceps flexing through his suit. His perfect plump lips that tempted you endlessly. He caught you staring a few times by now too, following the trail of your gaze and squinting his eyes at you like he knew something you didn’t.
But Bucky, he’s too smart.
He watches when you leave the room to take a call. He notices when you change your demeanor when you read a text. He figures it out and you had a feeling he could tell the whole time. He knows Valentina hired you to watch him. But you had no time to waste, Valentina wanted proof of what he’s doing and she wanted it now.
Your heels click across the hall as you approach his office. When you arrive at the door and push it open, Bucky isn’t there. So you click the door shut behind you and make sure no one else was walking towards his room. Approaching his desk, you notice a stack of papers with his signature on the bottom, etched like he had pressed down too hard and nearly torn the paper. You read the page to find out that he’s approving a bill you know damn well he knows little to nothing about but Valentina had simply asked him to sign it.
Pulling out your phone, you open the camera app and take a photo to send to Valentina. Then a photo on his desk steals your attention before you press send and curiously gets the better of you. You lift up the frame, smiling faintly at how happy he looked in it, wide and pearly teeth gleaming with Steve Rogers’ on his side. For once, he looks genuinely happy, and it makes you wonder why the hell he’s even doing this job in the first place. Then you hear it, and it’s too late. The doorknob to his office twists open, and Bucky emerges.
He’s holding a file in one hand and the other pushing his slick hair back, but he doesn’t even look surprised that you’re there.
“Oh look, Valentina’s lap dog is here again,” giving you half a glance while he makes his way to his desk, shooing you from the desk and taking his seat, “snooping through my stuff?”
You stammer, “no, just waiting… for you.”
He raises his brows, “waiting huh? What’re you waiting for hmm?”
“Just wanted to talk to you about the new budget bill.”
He rolls his eyes, “the shit Valentina told me to sign? Yeah don’t worry about it sweetheart, I signed it.”
You gave a tight smile, “right,” the awkwardness growing as you watch him eye the contents of his desk, clearly noticing how you’d moved his things, “well I’ll head out then.”
You got what she wanted, a photo of the document signed so she’d get off your back about it. So now you wanted to leave, before—
“Ah. Not so fast,” he leans forward in his seat, eyes trailing over the slope of your neck, “sit.”
You stop dead in your tracks, barely half turned away from him, “why?”
“You’ve been going through my things. Taking photos for the she-devil. Just shut up and sit.”
A lump grows in your throat as you reluctantly pull out a chair to sit in front of him as though you were in a meeting. But Bucky tsks at you.
“Not there.”
You frown and he tilts his head, leaning back in his seat.
“Then where do you want me congressmen?”
He groans lowly like the words coming out of your mouth were dirty when you truly meant them innocently. He tugs at his tie to loosen it as he licks his lips before rasping, “come here.”
That lump grows tenfold as you slowly walk towards him, keeping a safe distance between you when he yanks you closer by your waist. Knees slotting themselves between your legs as he pushes you to sit on his desk. His hands rest on your thighs and do your best not to look fazed by it or the proximity. Trying not to think about the smell of aftershave on him and the sweet scent of spiced cedarwood that was intoxicating on its own.
“You’ve been spying on me,” he stands from his chair so he’s now towering over you, “reporting to your boss about how I do my job.”
You blink, “that’s ridiculous,” trying to lie but you feel the lies die in your throat as he leans closer down towards you, his hands on either side of you as your sat on his desk.
He gives a dangerous laugh like he’s warning you, “Don’t insult my intelligence here. Don’t lie to me.”
He notices how tense you got under his gaze, “just admit it.”
The heat between your legs grow as his knee brushes against your core. You mentally swore at yourself for not wearing shorts under your skirt.
Reluctantly, you nod.
To his victory, Bucky smiles. “See wasn’t so hard was it?”
You felt your heart in your fucking ass at this point, his hands were lingering over your hips, digging in like piercings that clung to your skin. The look in his eyes were one you recognized too well. He was staring at you like the last meal for someone on death row. His flesh hand trailed lower just to pull you a little closer to him by your ass and press his knee flush against your core. You gasp and his mouth opens in an amused mimicking gasp. Then he gives you another wicked smile.
“You’ve been following me around, watching me like Valentina’s good little pet and now here you are in my office. And God, I have been frustrated with you, you know that?”
“Congressman, you shouldn’t—“
“Shouldn’t what? Touch you? Violate you like you’ve been doing to me? Take your privacy from you like you’ve ripped it from me?”
You gulp, putting a hand to his chest to try and push him back a little but he doesn’t even budge. His lip caught between his teeth before it pops out plumper than before.
“I see the way you stare at me. Don’t tell me you’re not a little slut beneath all that cause I know you are. It’s practically oozing out of you."
He leans down to try and press his lips to yours, but your brows furrow, and you move without thinking. You strike him across the face. He blinks up at you in confusion, but he still doesn’t move.
“Don’t call me a slut, asshole.”
That same grin surfaces again and he leans back down over you, “okay, sure princess. I’ll bite. You can slap me around all you want, but don’t try and tell me you don’t want this.”
You hate how badly you wanted him.
“I don’t want to fuck on you on your desk congressman,” you lie through your teeth.
“No?” His cool metal hand grips one of your thighs before the other finds the dampened spot on your panties, “then what is this?”
“That,” your breath hitches, “is a natural bodily function.”
He nods in agreement, sitting down on his knees beneath you, when you suddenly realize what he’s doing, “congressman!”
“Mmhm? Keep calling me that,” pushing your skirt up higher until it bunches at your hips, “say it louder pretty girl.”
“What if someone walks in?” sighing as he pulls your panties down your legs and tucks the fabric into the pocket of his dress pants.
“No one is in the office. I gave them the day off when I knew you’d come here,” his lips meet your inner thigh, leaving wet sloppy kisses up towards where you wanted him most.
“You… knew I’d come by?”
He doesn’t respond at first, situating himself better and spreading you wide for a better view. Before you knew he he lowers himself closer and nudged his nose at the bud, teasing both you and himself. Like it’s natural, he licks a long stripe, stopping at the pulsing bud and sucking hard enough to make you jolt and grab at his shoulder. Muttering soft profanities under your breath as you feel his sharp eyes staring. He groans like it hurts when your head falls backwards. He watches you through his half lidded eyes as he starts tongue fucking up, taking advantage of exactly what he wanted. He doesn’t give you time to get used to it, he doesn’t give warning, he just starts off the way he wanted to.
His hands cup your ass as he nearly drags you off the desk making you shift your grip to his neat hair and gripping tight.
“Been tracking your routine,” he says between hot breaths, lapping at you, “God, you taste exactly like I imagined,” groaning into you like it was getting him off, “so fucking sweet.”
You whine. The implication of his statement making you grow ever hotter for him if that were possible. He’s been thinking about you the way you’ve been of him.
He moves faster and you feel embarrassingly close, when he suctions your sensitive bud again, “ah, too much, wait.”
He doesn’t listen to you, practically motorboating your cunt and letting your essence get all over his face. He says your name and tells you how good you are, muffled against you. His thick fingers tease at your entrance when he suddenly pushes one inside, making you writhe on the wooden desk.
It’s too much, his mouth, his fingers, his praise. You cry out, gripping his hair a little tighter and he laughs against you. That familiar coil building and building and threatening to spill over.
“Fuck I’m gonna—“
But then he stops and pulls his fingers from you. Leaving you clenching around nothing. You’re whining in confusion, as you sit upright, faintly grinding your hips like your chasing his touch. His face shiny with you dripping off hips lips like a sweet nectar.
He tilts his head at your confusion, “you think you can report on me and follow me around and I’m just gonna let you fuck yourself on my face?” Licking along the borders of his mouth, “hmm, you’re real cute sweetheart,”
He brings them to his mouth and licks them clean before crashing his lips into yours.
He wanted you to taste yourself. He wanted you to feel how wrong it was for both of you but failing with how right it felt. Then you’re following his lips, moaning into his mouth at the taste of yourself on his lips.
There’s a smile on his face that you can feel against your lips but you didn’t care, you couldn’t care now. Fingers mindlessly lingering to his belt and unbuckling it while he slipped his tongue down your throat. His hands don’t stop dominating either, unbuttoning your shirt and pushing it down your arms. Squeezing your breasts like he’s weighing hefty fruit. You’re gasping at how he maintains the situation, not letting you feel remotely in control, even when you’re palming at him through his boxers while his dress pants hang just a little lower.
He pulls back to talk, hot breath mixing with your pants, “can I fuck you now?” You nod but it’s not enough for him, “I’m gonna need words princess.”
“Yes,” you squeak out.
“Good,” he smiles, standing you up and turning you on your stomach, and unzipping your skirt to finally take it off.
He presses tender kisses on the slope of your neck while he kicks off his pants. He ruts himself against your backside, straining painfully in his boxers.
“You’re real filthy you know that,” he shoves down his boxers, pushing you flat on your stomach on his desk. “Letting me have you like this.”
The position making you feel utterly exposed. He slides his huge length up through your slick and groans beautifully. At the sound of him, suddenly, being exposed didn’t matter anymore. Not when he sounded that good and he wasn’t even inside you yet. You couldn’t wait any longer, pushing back into him when he stops you by your hips.
“Please,” begging without even really thinking why, “I need it.”
He leans over your back, too nudging at your clit enough to make you both groan in anticipation, “please what baby?”
All restraint had left you at this point, just needing him and needing him bad.
“Just fuck me congressman, please.”
He chuckles next to your ear, catching your earlobe and biting just enough to make you hiss, “You’re fucking filthy I told you.”
He pushes in without warning, pushing his impossibly thick dick past that ring of muscle and making you gasp beneath him. He’s shushing you as he bottoms out, just barely holding back his own groans as he makes small movements like he just couldn’t help himself. He gives you a moment to adjust, kneading your breasts in his hands and rolling the peaked edges while he waits.
“Call me James. I’d prefer if you screamed it actually.”
You moan out his name just like he asked. When you roll your hips, he pulls back and nearly out before he slams right back in, coaxing a sharp sound out of you.
“You really thought I’d just let you spy on me with no consequences?” The pace quickly shifts into one that was just pure take and unfiltered desire. He speaks between his relentless thrusts, “Nah, you’re paid to watch me. Paid to keep me in check. To be mine.”
He’s pulling his hands out from under you to push you down further by your spine, smushing your face into his desk. Rutting himself into you hard enough to cause the wood to groan in unison with him. His heavy hands move to hold your forearms behind your back as he drills you into his desk. Groaning gorgeously as he listens to you crying out from pleasure. The papers on his desk fall across the floor and the picture frame hits the ground with it.
“Beautiful, fuck, just look at you. Mine to fuck. Mine to please.”
His fingers find the sensitive bud as he makes tight circles, matching his pace. You jolt, the pressure undeniable as you mumble incoherent words.
He slows his hips enough to fuck even harder. “Fall apart for me pretty girl. Come on, gimme it all.”
You cry out, drool spanning down your chin. It was crashing over you before you knew it, and your chanting his name—his real name—and creaming all over him while he fucks you through it.
“Yes,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “you’re gonna be dripping with me for days. Report that back, hah?”
Chasing his own high while he bucks his hips harder. The obscene sound of skin against skin, slapping against eachother, filling the room. Suddenly he’s slowing down, giving two deep thrusts before stilling and filling you up in hot pulses. Rope after rope making you impossibly full like he had been holding that in for a long time.
He collapses over your back, pressing kisses against dampened hair, while you both come down from your highs. Faintly whispering thank you into your ear that didn’t match how mean he was just fucking you like he hated you. You gasp softly when he pulls out, missing the feeling of him already. But he doesn’t pull away entirely yet, he just hold you here like he’s savouring it.
After a moment, he sits back in his seat, pulling you with him and onto his lap. He cradles you in his arms and sheathes himself back inside with a soft moan that felt like music to your ears.
“Shh rest, fuck. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rough with you,” he says as he stares down at you, utterly unravelled by him.
You hum into his warm chest, exhausted from his relentless fucking, “don’t be, I liked it.”
He laughs and puts his head on top of yours “you really are a freak you know that.”
“Shut up and don’t tell Valentina.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it sweets. She’d stop letting you come visit me and we’ve just established you’re mine, not hers to take away.”
Without really thinking about the implications of his words, you nod into your blissful slumber, shielded from the world by his enormous stature. Protected by the warmth of him that seemed to strip you of all rationale.
With you tucked in his lap, you hear the soft click of his laptop opening. This asshole was gonna do some work with his dick still inside while you’re half asleep in his lap. He adjusts you a little as he brings his chair closer to the desk to resume whatever he was working on.
“Next time you wanna spy on me, we do this at my place.”
dividers: @cursed-carmine
a/n: in case this is shit, I did not proof read this properly and wrote it in one sitting like a horny mad man.
Characters: Bucky Barnes (of course that fucker is around)
Warnings: implied forced relationship, smut, unprotected sex, sex against a window, voyeurism, possessive Steve, creampie, hand around throat, mentions of spanking
Kink: Voyeurism
This is an alternative version to The Pig (1) with a little darker Steve.
Flufftober vs Kinktober 2025
The ring on his left pinkie was cool against your heated flesh. He earlier turned it around; now you could feel the silver skull against your throat.
Steve, the man claiming to be your fate, had you pressed up against the floor-to-ceiling window. He hissed as you trembled against his body.
“Please,” your plea remained unheard.
The sound of his grunts filled your ears, sounding like an evil chorus, as he filled you like no other ever could.
His hips never stopped moving. – Not when you begged him again, nor when you slammed the palms of your hands against the window.
Your breath fogged the window, painting it with your sins as you sang your own crescendo of lust. He only laughed hearing you scream his name, along with profanities, with every hard thrust.
“Did you think you could run from me, doll?” He hissed in your ear, his hand tightening around your throat. You whimpered, not out of fear, but because you started to like that you were never going to escape his grasp. “Everyone in this fucking town works for me.”
Behind you, someone snorted. “Can I have a turn too if you want me to watch?” It was James Barnes, Steve’s right-hand man and best friend, watching Steve ruin you again. “I must say, she acts all shy, but screams like a slut when you fuck her.”
“You won’t touch her,” Steve growled like a feral animal, roaring through his high as his head fell against your shoulder. He didn’t stop moving, though. It always amazed you that he could hold back long enough to force at least three orgasms out of your spent body. “She’s mine.”
“I know, I know.” Bucky laughed, raising his hands in surrender. “Since that little bird fluttered into your bar and shattered a few glasses, you have been obsessed with her.”
Steve wrapped one arm around your waistline to steady your weak body. He kissed your neck, murmuring soft words as he carefully slipped out of you.
You didn’t know for how long he fucked you this time. Was it hours, or even days? You lost count, to be honest. Punishment often resulted in multiple orgasms for you.
“You took your punishment well, Y/N,” he whispered in your ear, his voice smooth like silk. “Be a good girl and sit on the couch for me. Bucky and I need to talk about business.”
“Tired,” you whimpered the moment you tried to move. You were sore and covered in love bites and bruises from the way he fucked you.
“Don’t make me spank your ass for disobeying.” Steve cruelly groped your ass. “Now, sit, and we can have dinner later.”
He kissed the top of your head when you carefully sat down. “See, you can be so good for me.”
Steve tugged his cock back into his pants before shrugging his jacket off to hand it to you. You took it with shaking fingers to hastily cover at least your upper body.
“Aw, no, she’s shy again,” Bucky grinned at you. “Maybe I could help her relax, Steve. I’m up for becoming a teacher. My spanking skills are out of this world. I slap one cheek and the ladies cream all over me.”
“Shut up!” Steve twirled around to glare at his friend. “You can get yourself a girl. Y/N is mine.”
Deep down inside, you knew you shouldn’t feel warm, hearing Steve’s words. That night five months ago, you ran from your cheating boyfriend.
You ended up in Steve’s bar, getting drunk. He watched you for a while, hiding in the shadows until you threw a glass against the wall.
A shard grazed his cheek, drawing blood. That was when he jumped into motion. He knew a woman making him bleed before you even met was meant to be his.
“Fine,” Bucky smirked at his friend. “I’ll leave you to your lovely runaway bride.” He laughed before walking toward the door. “Thanks for the show, doll. Always a pleasure watching your cunt get stretched out.”
You huffed. It was bad enough Steve loved to fuck you in public, but letting his buddy taunt you crossed a line. “He’s mean.”
“Aw, doll,” Steve cooed, patting your head. “He’s mean because only I can fuck this perfect cunt. Let’s get to bed. We can have dinner in bed.”
He held out his hands, smirking like the dangerous devil he was.
“Well, you can eat takeout, and I’ll eat something sweeter…”
Sighing, you got up from the couch, knowing your punishment wasn’t over...
