I want to sleep in the city that never wakes up

Getting up feels like a chore, one you do at some expense. With a sigh, you shuffle toward the bedroom door and down to the bathroom. You look tired in the mirror despite your rest, and you wonder if you shouldn’t just go back to bed and stay there until August. The thought is tempting. You drag yourself through a shower before heading down to the kitchen to grab a bowl of cereal for breakfast. 

Your mother is seated at the table when you walk in, her hands clasped tightly atop a multicolored pile of folded papers you recognize from last night. Lead forms in your belly at the sight of her—you know someone prepared for a fight when you see one. 

“Morning Momma.” She doesn’t answer you, only looks at you with an emotion you can’t name, her eyes narrowed and lips pressed thin. “I saw those on the step last night and brought ‘em in.” 

“You opened them.” Her voice is accusatory. “Is your fucking name on them?” She asks, slamming her palms down on the table. Her breath smells like cheap gas station liquor. You glance at the microwave—10:45am. “These were pinned on the fridge. You got something to say to me?” For a moment, a ghost of the all consuming rage you’d felt last night bubbles back up in your belly, hot and wild.

“I wanna know where the money I’ve been giving you is going, since it isn’t to these bills,” you say before you can stop yourself.  The air shifts in the room, and you regret the words immediately, wishing you could unspeak them. Your mother’s face contorts, fury 

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Your mother is standing now, a finger pointed accusatorially in your direction. “What the fuck did you just say?” 

“Momma I’m sorry, I just meant—” You’re scrambling to de-escalate things now, your hands held palms out. “Things aren’t good, okay, and we need to—”

“No, you shut your fucking mouth. Ungrateful, disrespectful—” You’re half afraid she’s going to come across the table at you. You’ve seen your mother angry—but not like this. Her lips are curled into an angry snarl, eyes cold with hate. Your chest aches sharply—that’s what it is. It’s hate. Your mother hates you. “Do you ever get fucking tired of being a problem? Of causing problems?” She snarls at you, and you flinch.

“Momma, the neighbors are gonna hear you, just—”

“Good! You think I give a damn? You think this house runs on whatever pennies you throw me every few weeks? How do you think your brother’s court fees, his fines, how do you they all get paid?” Your knees go weak at her admission. You want to scream. But when you open your mouth to try, no sound comes out.

“You-you’re paying his—are you insane?” You ask, your voice getting louder. “Ma, do you hear yourself?”

“He’ll go back in if they don’t get paid!” She snaps.

“So fucking let him!” You can’t hold the curses back anymore. 

“He’s my son!” You flinch.

“And I’m not your fucking daughter?” Your voice breaks. “I’m yours too, Momma, and I’ve been right here with you while D’s been running the fucking streets and locked up and—” You shake your head, an exasperated, defeated laugh escaping your parted lips. Your mother rounds on you circling the table and grabbing your shoulder hard. The pain makes you hiss, and you push her away. 

“God it’s like you’re blind on purpose!” You card your fingers through your still damp curls. 

“You sound just like your fucking father!” She spits the word out like it’s poison, like the comparison is an insult. 

“Good! The only thing he had the good fucking sense to do was get away from you—”

The palm of your mother’s hand cracks hard across your face, silencing you.

You lift trembling fingers to your stinging cheek, holding it as you stare at her. Your mother looks angry, not sorry, as she glares at you. She hit me. You can’t do anything but blink at her, stunned. She actually hit me. She almost looks like she wants to do it again, her hand still held high and trembling. You stare at each other for a few heartbeats, the pain rising in your cheek as you clutch your face, dumbfounded. 

“Get out.” The words she breathes are almost too low for you to hear. You stare at her, hot angry tears welling up behind your eyes. This isn’t happening. 

“W-what?” 

“Get out. I want you out!” She shoves you. “Get your fucking shit and get out!”

“Momma I-I’m sorry.” you choke the words out through the tears you’re trying desperately to hold back. “Momma please, please don’t do this, I’m sorry—”

She only looks at you with something like apathy and relief. “I never wanted another baby.” She says it like she’s wanted to for a long time, and only now given herself permission to share. It shouldn’t hurt to hear the it, because it isn’t like you don’t already know. Like she hasn’t shown you every day of your life. But it hurts anyway, a dull ache that settles behind your ribs. 

“You don’t mean that, Momma,” You sob, grabbing for her hand. She shakes you off, sneering. “You don’t!” 

“I mean it when I say I want you out of here.” Her glassy eyes are hard. 

“I don’t—I don’t have anywhere to go,” you say, chest tight.

“You’re grown aren’t you?” She sneers. “You’ll figure it out.” 

—

Your mother stands in the doorway of your room as you shove your clothes and other personal items into a duffel bag and a suitcase, and when you run out of room, garbage bags. Your heart is pounding against your ribs the whole time, praying that she’ll reconsider, that she won’t throw you out onto the street. 

The hope that your mother is just angry, that this, too will blow over curdles quickly in your chest as she kicks a pair of shoes in your direction. 

“Don’t forget these.”

You’re crying, you’re dimly aware that you are, salty tears dripping down your chin as you ferry things down from your bedroom to the porch outside. A thin drizzle is still falling, leaving everything coated in a fine layer of misty dew. You cover your books as best you can with the garbage bags as your head spins. 

What do I do? You don’t have anywhere to go—you don’t feel comfortable asking any of the girls from work to take you in, you don’t even have half of their phone numbers to ask. Where do I even go? How?

Curtis. 

Curtis would give you a ride, you know he would. At least you can figure things out from there, can’t you? You dig out your phone and face away from the front door, hoping your mother doesn’t ask for it back, too. You type out a message with shaking fingers. 

I’m sorry but I need you to come get me Curtis. 

You’ve barely lifted your finger from the send button before his response comes.  

Curtis: I’ll be there in 30.

Curtis: You at home? Did something happen?

I’m home. Can we just talk when you get here?

It only takes him twenty minutes, you recognize the Jag as it comes speeding down the road. He jumps out, his expression hard as he takes in the sight. The contents of your life all thrown into garbage bags on the porch as you stare up at him tearfully. Curtis takes the stairs two at a time, pulling you against his chest as he sighs. 

“She’s putting you out, Ladybug?” he asks, though you know by his tone he already knows the answer. “Drunk bitch is off her rocker.” You almost want to laugh—but your chest won’t expand. “I’m gonna start getting this stuff into the car. We’ll fit as much as we can, I’ll have my guys come back and get the rest, okay?”

You nod slowly. “Okay.” 

You work with Curtis to pack the trunk and back seat as full as you can of your things. 

“Can we leave the—“

“No.” You place a protective hand over your amp and the bass guitar you don’t know how to play. “It comes now.” You can’t bear the thought of your mother doing something to the instrument, hurting it more than it already had been by time and her own negligence. Though this time you’re less worried about accidents and more concerned about her vitriol. Curtis grabs your chin as you’re shoving a bag of your clothes into the trunk, trying to fit it into the tiny space left beside your amp. He turns your face with a sharp frown.

“She hit you.” You don’t answer as he runs his thumb over the sore, swollen spot on your cheek. You wonder if it’s bruised. For a moment, Curtis looks like he wants to march inside but he just clenches his fists over and over, staring at the house. 

In the end, only a few bags of your clothes and things are left sitting soggy and miserable on the porch as you climb into the passenger seat. 

“Sorry I keep getting your car wet.” You say softly. “I’ll pay to get it cleaned.” Curtis shakes his head, but doesn’t respond. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, shoulders high and tense. His brows are creased together in a way that speaks of more than just irritation, and you curl in on yourself, wondering if you’re the cause. You watch the house disappear in the rearview. 

“I don’t want your money, Ladybug.” Curtis says, his eyes still locked on the road. “Don’t be sorry, either. I’m glad you called me.” 

“I don’t know where to go,” you admit. “I… I know there are shelters…” You trail off as Curtis snorts. 

“You think I’m lettin’ you stay in a shelter?” He actually looks at you, incredulity there in the raise of his brows. “You’re staying with me.” Curtis’ grip tightens again on the steering wheel and he lets out a long measured breath. “She hit you. Why?” 

You look down. 

“I—we got into it bad, Curtis.” You thread your fingers together. “Really bad. We both said some shitty things, and then…” You trail off, gesturing at your aching cheek. “You know the rest.” 

“Ain’t nothing you could’ve said worth putting you out over.” He says through gritted teeth. “And nothing—and I mean nothing, Ladybug, is a good reason for her to hit you.” 

“I said—”

“I couldn’t give a fuck less what you said.” He cuts you off sharply. “Nobody puts hands on you. You understandin’ me? Nobody.” Curtis fixes you with another hard look, one you’ve seen on the faces of the patrons watching their favorite girls dance, the possessive, righteous anger summed up in a single word. 

Mine.

“O-okay.” 

Curtis scrubs a hand down his face. “I’m sorry, Ladybug. I’m not—I’m not angry with you. Never with you. None of this is your fault.” 

“I don’t know,” you say with a self-deprecating laugh. “I could have just kept my damn mouth shut.” You know you should have, should have simply stuck it out until August. 

“I’m happy you called me, Sweetheart.” Curtis reaches over to squeeze your  hand. “You shouldn’t have to live like that.” 

You lean back against the seat. “Why do I want to defend her right now?” You say, shaking your head as you stare at the upholstery. “Maybe that’s just how good she’s trained me.”

“Maybe.” He agrees. “But it doesn’t have to stay that way.” The neighborhood outside changes drastically as Curtis navigates from city to highway to city again.

“You live in Midtown?” You ask, changing the subject. For a perilous moment you wonder if he’ll let you. Then he nods. 

“Yeah. Got a place out here when I got out.” You make an impressed noise in the back of your throat, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Expensive.”

“I make it work.” Your stomach goes cold. Oh yeah. You’d almost forgotten who he is—what he is. It had felt good to slip back into that old routine, natural even. But you aren’t sixteen anymore, and the last thing you should feel around Curtis Everett is comfortable. This is temporary, you think pointedly as Curtis turns into a parking garage, pulling a permit from the glove box. You shiver as his fingers graze your thigh.

This is just temporary.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” he says as he parks. “Just grab a few things for now, Ladybug. I’ll get the rest.”

“I can’t let you—”

“You can. You called me for help. So let me help.” Curtis grabs a few garbage bags in each hand, and you do the same before following him to the elevator on the other side of the garage. 

“Let me show you up.” He presses the button for the thirty fifth floor—the top. “I’ll get you a key tomorrow, okay Ladybug?” 

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll try not to be here too long, just till I get myself together.”

”You ain’t even gotten upstairs yet and you’re half out the door,” he laughs. “At least put your things down. Get your bearings, maybe we’ll order some dinner.” 

“I just don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage,” you reply, cheeks warm. “That’s all.” The elevator opens onto a short hallway with only one door.

“I wouldn’t care even if you were.” Your stomach twists in the beat of silence that follows as Curtis unlocks the wide metal door. “Go ahead in, I have a call to make.” He pulls out his phone, taps the screen and begins to dial, making a shooing motion with his hand. “I’ll be right there.” 

Inside, you kick off your shoes in the entryway out of habit, and then, carrying two of your bags, you make your way into the house. The living room is wide open, one floor to ceiling window taking up an entire wall, spanning from the open kitchen to the far end of the living room. The city is spread out like a map before you, the cars and people like tiny toys as they move through the streets. 

You don’t feel comfortable going much further without Curtis, regardless of his instruction, so you use the time to explore his kitchen instead. It’s nice, clean, in a sterile sort of way. You don’t imagine Curtis does much cooking and the kitchen seems to reflect that; clean counters and an empty sink. On the other side of the room is a hallway lined with doors, ones you assume lead to bedrooms, bathrooms, the places you’re too nervous to go on your own.

“You’re not exploring.” Curtis says from behind you, and you jump. You hadn’t heard him come in. 

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to invade,” you reply. I don’t want to see something I shouldn’t. Curtis frowns at you. 

“Ladybug, I’m not Damien. The apartment’s your home till you say it’s not, okay?” 

“O-okay.” 

“Let me show you were to put your things.” 

Curtis leads you down the hallway you’d been right about. “Bathroom’s here. And this is you.” He pushes open one of the dark wood doors to reveal a bedroom. It’s empty aside from a bed and an armchair, but it’s big—bigger than your room in your mother’s house by at least half. The ceiling doesn’t slope down or leak, and the door closes easy, no shoving required. You stand there awkwardly as Curtis sets down a few of the garbage bags. 

“I have something I have to take care of, but I’ll be back tonight. You go ahead and get comfortable, Ladybug, I’ll leave you some money for dinner.” He’s not asking you anything, simply telling you how things will go. You nod. 

“Thank you, Curtis.” 

“I’m glad you called me. Wish I could say I’m surprised,” he says, and there’s pity on his face. You hate the sight of it. “She’s not a good person, Ladybug. You didn’t do anything to deserve a Momma so rotten.” You laugh tonelessly. “I mean it.” He reaches for you again, turning your face so he can look at the bruise that’s bloomed on your cheek like an angry flower. 

“Got half a mind to go talk to her myself.” 

“No!” You say quickly, your whole body going tense at the thought. “No. Please. It’ll just make everything worse.” 

“I can’t have people puttin’ their hands on you, Ladybug.” He says after a moment. “I ain’t gonna allow it.” 

You are struck with the sudden realization that you’ve made a mistake. That you’ve changed something fundamental in your relationship with Curtis by calling him for help—and what’s worse, you don’t know how you could have avoided it. Maybe calling one of the girls from work would have been better, surfing from couch to couch instead of staying here, if any of them would even let you. How can you make the right choice when the wrong one is your only option?

“You don’t have to worry about it.” You say, looking at the empty space beside his head so you don’t have to meet his eyes. “It’s my problem.” 

“Ladybug you got a bruise the size of Texas on your face and you’re telling me not to worry about it?” 

“What would it do?” You ask. “You gonna tell her she’s a drunk? She knows that, Curtis. Just… just let her stew. She’ll get over it eventually.” Curtis looks about as sure of that as you are, but you pretend, for both of you.

“Will you?” You don’t have an answer, but he waits a moment more to give  time to think of one. “I didn’t think so.” He looks at your cheek again, and you watch his eyes go hard again. “Some things you don’t forgive.” You think about Neesh and Damien. “Some things you can’t.” 

You wonder if he’s talking about you, or about himself. 

—

By the time you head in to bed, you’re exhausted. Your day hasn’t been particularly physically taxing, but it still feels like you’ve run the gauntlet as you drag yourself up off of Curtis’ comfortable sectional and shuffle down the hallway. The apartment feels even bigger now that you’re alone in it, and the silence makes you nervous. You aren’t used to the quiet, not when the block is so goddamn noisy, cars, people—not to mention Damien. 

But Curtis’ place is peaceful by comparison, and the unfamiliarity of it makes you feel out of place. You climb into bed, and the sheets are soft on your skin. You can’t sleep, though, staring at the ceiling above you with wet eyes. 

I never wanted another baby.

God, it shouldn’t feel like broken glass in your chest to think about that, but it does. Angry, hurt tears press at the backs of your eyes and before you know it you’re pushing the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids to stop them from falling. It doesn’t work, and they leak out of the corners of your eyes and track down your cheeks. Your breath hitches until you’re sobbing, loud and uncontrolled. 

You cry until you’re gasping for breath, your chest aching as you hold yourself. You don’t know how long it lasts, but you rush to quiet yourself when you hear the sound of the front door open and shut. You don’t want Curtis seeing you like this, it’s too… personal. Too intimate. And something tells you that intimate is not what you need with Curtis, not right now. 

“Ladybug? You up? I thought I heard you.” You’re still wiping at your wet cheeks when he raps his knuckles against the door. Curtis crosses his arms as he leans against the doorframe. His eyes are in shadow but you can still feel him studying you. You wonder if he can see your face in the low light, swollen and puffy from crying. You know you shouldn’t care. 

“I’m good.” The words sound off through your tight throat and gritted teeth. You sniffle quietly. “I’m just… You know. Today.” You’re fighting not to cry as you shoot him a watery smile. “I’m good, really.” He cocks his head at you. 

“You don’t have to pretend with me.” Curtis comes to sit on the edge of the back and you scoot back to give him space, clutching your knees to your chest. His hand is warm on your shoulder through the t-shirt. “I don’t want you to pretend with me.” 

He’s too close. Your heart is a panicked rabbit inside your ribs. He smells good. You shouldn’t say anything shouldn’t let him in any closer than he already is. 

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me.” He frowns. “Please, Ladybug.” 

He’s wearing a tank top, the earlier henley gone. You swallow thickly as the thick corded muscles flex beneath his sun-tanned skin. The tattoos you’d seen peeking out of his collar are on full display now, a set of roman numerals on his collarbone. Is that a bruise? It’s still partially hidden by the tank top, yellow and purple with burst blood vessels. 

“What happened?” He grimaces. 

 “I asked you first.”

You snort. “You keeping secrets doesn’t exactly make me want to trust you.”  You already don’t want to trust him, because you know what he is—what he does—did. You suppose you have to give him credit where it’s due. Where he says it’s due. 

“Some secrets you’re better off not knowing.” 

“You hurt someone.” You say, and he frowns, before sighing. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

Curtis rubs a hand over his buzzed scalp. 

“Sometimes people have to learn a lesson the hard way. And I had a lot of lessons to teach tonight, Ladybug.” Your stomach tightens. Curtis Everett is not  a man you want teaching you the kind of lesson you suspect someone is recovering from. He’s not a man you cross. 

“Now will you be honest with me?” He asks, and you’re both afraid to lie and, if you could admit it to yourself, relieved to confess the hurt. To have someplace for it to go that isn’t deeper inside of you. 

“She didn’t want me.” Your voice trembles. “That’s what she said, Curtis. She never wanted me.” The tears from earlier return with a vengeance, blurring him until he’s just a hazy outline. 

“C’mere.” He holds you to his chest as you sob hard, fingers curling in his shirt. God it hurts, it hurts so much, like a hand wrapped around your heart and squeezing. She doesn’t love me. 

She never loved me.

Maybe that’s what’s rawest about it all, knowing that it was always going to be this way, was always going to end with her choosing Damien, every time. 

No matter the cost. 

Curtis rubs your back as you cry yourself sick, hiccoughing and panting. Slow, gentle circles as he tells you to breathe, Ladybug, breathe. You can’t for a little while, sucking in gasping, stuttering breaths as he pets you. But after a while the tears go dry, and you simply sit there, leaning against him as you blink unseeingly at nothing. You rub your swollen eyes with the back of your hand.

“All cried out, Ladybug?” He asks softly, and you nod silently. You’re even more exhausted than when you came in, and now that you’re all done crying, your swollen eyes don’t seem to want to stay open for longer than a few seconds at a time. You’re leaned against Curtis still, his other hand still drawing circles on your lower back. 

“You don’t ever have to go back if you don’t want to,” he says, and curls his fingers against your hip where your t-shirt has ridden up. Suddenly you’re more aware of the fact that your shorts are glorified panties than ever before, especially when his hand slides affectionately through the curls at the nape of your neck, and the other tugs you back against his chest. 

“It’s okay, Lavender.” Bucky presses you against the wall of his cell, his lips at your neck, “No one but me will touch you again.” His hands start to lift the shift that you’re wearing, cool air hitting your bare legs, raising goosebumps, “No one but me will ever be inside you again.”

You’d believed him of course, why wouldn’t you? Bucky was the scariest thing you’d ever seen, especially when he had been like that. Almost kind, almost gentle, almost loving. There was a twisted kind of adoration in him, and you’d thought that you’d unlocked it. Brock and his men had hurt you so badly, and whilst you weren’t quite so desperately hopeful that you’d thought Bucky cared, you had quietly hoped that he at least might do something about it. You hadn’t expected him to kill the man for you… but you couldn’t help being happy that he had.

Of course it didn't last. Bucky, as it turned out, wasn’t the scariest thing alive anymore.

The smell of lavender filled Bucky’s cell, and your eyes immediately started to drift closed. Bucky’s hips - pumping relentlessly into you - started to stutter, and then slow down, before stopping all together. When the men came into the cell, they had to pull him out of you, tossing him naked into the corner, and dragging you away. You’d barely been conscious, but you’d seen Lilac and Lavender in a similar position to you. You’d known that whatever came next was all your fault.

You had no idea how long it had been since you had been taken away, all you know is that you wished they would just kill you. You’d waited, you’d screamed, you’d thrown the food and water they brought you against the walls, but no one came to interrogate you, no one would look at you, your existence to them could not be clearer - it didn’t matter in any way. 

You’d try to stay awake, scared to fall asleep again, waiting for when they would come for you, to fall on you like animals and take what they would. Or to tie you down, torture you in every painful way that you knew HYDRA knew, but… nothing. Just the incessant food and water that soon enough you became too hungry and thirsty to avoid. Time had no meaning anymore, but soon, you allowed yourself to sleep. The cot in your new cell was too hard to be comfortable, and the temperature was too cold, but when you finally closed your eyes, sleep took you so quickly and powerfully that you couldn’t pull yourself back out of it if you had tried.

Of course that’s when HYDRA finally began their torment.

You wake to screaming. You wake to freezing cold. You wake to pitch black, every light source gone. You panic immediately, you can’t help it, covering your ears to try and avoid the screams of so much pain you can barely stand it, and fall out of the cot, only to bang into a wall. The darkness is absolute, the noise of this man's pain - Bucky’s, it’s Bucky being tortured, don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic - it builds and it builds, it gets colder and colder, you bounce around the cell that seems so much smaller than you had realised like a pinball until you ache both from the cold and the way you’d hurled yourself at every surface.

You choke on the blood in your mouth, your throat is agony. You’ve been screaming for help but you can’t hear yourself over the cacophony of Bucky’s torture.

***

You think you’re rocking back and forth, but it’s hard to tell in your oubliette. It’s like you’re in a cloud now. A thundercloud. Images pass through your mind, of Bucky, the man whose torture is playing like incessant elevator music.

You hate that what he does to you feels so good.

“Your cunt is the best thing, Lavender. Stay still for me, good girl.”

You hate that you want him to love you.

“Crawl to me, bitch. I want you to crawl at my heel like a good whore.”

You thought time had lost its meaning before, but this was worse. Now you’re alone, completely alone. You can’t even see your hands in front of your eyes. There’s no noise but the sound of abject pain, and no sensation bar the all encompassing cold.

“I’m in hell.”

You think you say that out loud, but you’re not sure.

You hate that you miss Bucky. You hate that you hoped he would save you.

You weren’t asleep, but you snap to awareness when you realise that things had changed again. The noise had stopped. Bucky’s pain was gone. You could hear yourself think, you realised you were thirsty, hungry, and exhausted…

You’re too hot.

It’s no longer freezing cold, instead it’s far too hot, sweat drips from you, and you rush to pull off the clothing you have on, you start to beg for help again, your voice croaky from your screaming, and that’s when HYDRA’s next torture starts. You can hear them, Lilac and Violet, the pain they are suffering is different to Bucky, you can tell immediately. They moan, beg, and keen. Their gasps are of pleasure, their pleas are for release.

It’s torture still. Your only friends in the world, your cell mates and unwilling lovers are being sexually tortured and it’s your fault too. Bucky and Steve and Sam are being tortured, Violet and Lilac are being raped, and it’s all because you broke that mirror, you told Bucky what Brock had done to you, and he killed him for you because you had made Bucky like you more than he should-

There’s no more tears, you’re too hot to cry or even sweat anymore, no water or food in so long, so all you can do is scream - but you can’t even hear that anymore. HYDRA has taken everything from you.

You pass out, hoping that you can finally die now.

Water wakes you. Clean soap pulls your eyes open. Everything is hazy, but you can hear them. Women’s voices. Hushed and soft, talking about how best to prepare you. You close your eyes again, something like relief and something like despair mixing in your blood, knowing that your punishment is over, you’re back with your friends who are going to make you fuckable for your captor again. The last thing you see is an IV attached to your hand, and the last thing you hear is a male voice, 

“Inform me when she wakes again.”

The next time you wake, you come to almost immediately, deep sleep to terrible alertness within a second, a scream pouring out of your mouth without conscious thought-

You’re slammed back against a soft mattress, a large hand covering your mouth and stifling your screams immediately which only adds to your panic. You’re trapped, you’re in the dark hole, you’re in Bucky’s bed again, you’re trapped, you’re a prisoner, you’re wanted, you’re hated, you’re-

“You’re safe! Enough, Y/N!”

It’s your name that cuts through your abject fear, and slowly you focus on your surroundings. There’s light - you can see sunlight through the curtains that cover the windows in the wall to your left. It’s cool, but not cripplingly so, the comforter that covers your legs is soft and provides just enough cover that you feel comfortable. There’s no more IV in your hand… and the man holding your mouth closed and yelling at you isn’t Bucky.

“Will you be calm now, Y/N?” He waits for your nod, and slowly lets go of your mouth, and you take him in. He’s handsome, in a sinisterly elegant way. Tan skin, deep brown eyes, brown hair, powerful build encased in expensive tweed. He immediately makes your skin crawl, but you can’t go anywhere, the handcuff attaching you to the bed proves that, “How are you feeling?”

“Who are you? Please don’t-” You flinch back when the stranger lifts a hand, and slowly cups your face, 

“My name is Alexander, named for my father.” He smiles, and it does nothing to assuage that fear that’s creeping through your bloodstream, “I’m HYDRA’s first son. I’m The Leader.”

You can barely hear him over the pounding of your heart against your ribcage. Alexander was being soft and gentle, you could even argue he was being kind so far, but you had never felt such fear just being in the presence of one man before. Not even Bucky or Steve or Sam had instilled this level of fear in you. You hold as still as possible as his eyes casually rove over your face, lingering on your lips until you can’t stand the silence anymore, 

“W-what do you w-want?”

“I wanted peace, which my father secured.” Alexander took his hand from your cheek, finally pulling back just enough that you no longer felt crowded, “Now, I just want control.” He takes your secured hand in his, his fingertips calloused as they trail your skin, “I’m very glad the algorithm excluded you, Y/N.” Every instinct you have is begging you to snatch your hand back and run, but you know that would be a mistake. This man is dangerous on a level even The Winter Soldiers weren’t. You swallow back your question about the algorithm, clenching your free hand into a fist so hard that it starts to cramp, and you manage to force yourself not to pull away, 

“H-how long have I been here? My friends? When will I-”

“I took you from James, Y/N. I apologise for the punishment, but lessons had to be learned, and the more stringent forms of torture were not something I wanted your body to go through.” Again Alexander looks over you, placing your hand on the warm and firm muscle of his thigh, patting it in a manner you assumed was meant to be soothing. You imagine this is how livestock feel before they’re led to the slaughter. Nausea churns in your gut at the look in his eyes, but you ignore it, 

“Lilac and Violet?”

“Dead. Your soldiers were given a choice, and they let them die. They have new whores now, I’m sorry.” He’s not sorry, it’s proven when he smiles at the tears that form in your eyes, “They died relatively painlessly, if that helps you at all, Y/N.” You shake your head at that, letting the tears spill, the horror of knowing that you heard their last moments, 

“It’s my fault… it’s my fault…” You couldn’t blame Bucky or the others, though you sorely wanted to, you’d had their torture blared into your head too, “I didn’t mean for this to happen…” You can feel his palm smoothing over your head, like a lover soothing their partner, 

“Shhhh, Y/N, you didn’t choose for James, nor did you choose for your friends. I gave them all choices, you see, and they all chose themselves, now I’m asking you to do the same.” He sighs when you continue to cry, “They weren’t your friends. I asked them if they would go back to Steven and Samuel if it meant your freedom and they refused. The soldiers are the ones who are more irreplaceable, so when they had learned their lesson, I removed the temptation of romantic connections and replaced your friends with new toys for them to play with. James won’t even remember you after his ordeal on the chair.”

It doesn’t soothe, it makes it hurt worse, but you already understand that that’s what Alexander wants. He wants control after all.

“What do you want from me?” You choke out the words past your tears, “Can I go home?”

“You had no home. You were directionless, wasted, without purpose before HYDRA gave you to the Winter Soldiers.”

“So will you give me back to them?”

“No.” Alexander smiles, “I nearly lost my best soldier because of you, Y/N, however I do have a new purpose for you.”

“I-”

Alexander surges forward, grabbing your throat and pushing you back against the mattress. He kisses you violently, pushing his tongue into your mouth, claiming your lips until you taste blood-

He pulls away as suddenly as he attacked you, and you push yourself up the bed and as far away from him as you can possibly get, but it’s not far enough. He smiles, like how you think snakes smile if they could, cold blooded and deadly, 

“I had you tested, Y/N, you’re one of the last fertile women in this country, and I need heirs. You’re beautiful, and I’ve decided that you will belong to me. Tomorrow I shall be back for you.”

You’d heard rumours of the sudden lack of fertility in the world, but anyone who’d spoken out about it in the last ten years had been removed from sight. The strongest rumour that you’d heard was it was some form of terrible airborne failsafe that The Avengers had put in place to kill off HYDRA, it made you want to be sick all over again knowing that you were one of the ‘lucky’ few to escape that, but you wouldn’t give Alexander the satisfaction of vomiting. You don’t know where the strength comes from, but you look him in the eye, holding his gaze, 

“What if I refuse? You just told me I have nothing to lose anymore. What if I’d rather you just killed me?”

“Oh but you do have one more thing to lose, my darling. James might have forgotten about you, but you still care for him, his tragic backstory, his terrible torture… I could make you watch as I burn out his brain slowly, as I convince him that it’s you pushing the button. You’ll come to me tomorrow, or I’ll make sure that your lover dies believing you killed him.”

It’s like deja vu.

You’re taken to a bathroom again - though this time it’s opulent, all marble, gold and crystal - and two women remove your clothing. The women are dressed how you used to be, wearing headscarves, masks covering the lower halves of their faces, in grey jumpsuits. You idly wonder if they’re the new whores to bring to Bucky and Steve and Sam, but force yourself to avoid thinking about them now. They didn’t save you. Bucky won’t remember you.

You’re bathed again, but instead of a gentle lavender smell, it’s something stronger, clearly more expensive and luxurious, and it makes you sneeze several times before you get used to it. The women bring out razors and soap, you’ve been here before so you stay passive as they shave away the body hair Alexander clearly doesn’t want on you.  You’re treated to rich moisturiser on your skin, perfume in pretty glass bottles, soft makeup, and even some styling on your hair.

You don’t recognise the woman in the mirror anymore. You’re almost glad of that.

They put red silk underwear on you, covering that with a white lace dress which actually makes you laugh, the women dressing you stare at you in alarm but at this point you don’t see any reason to try to stop the hysteria that bubbles up and over from your lips, 

“I mean, come on! White? Really?! The whore in white!” You scoff, and you realise your cheeks hurt from smiling for the first time in a long time, “Fucking jumped up asshole.”

They’re like mice, scurrying around you, squeaking in fear, darting this way and that as if there was somewhere they could actually hide. Part of you wishes you could calm down enough to comfort them, tell them the tricks you know to soothe the soldiers who’ll hurt them without meaning to, but you don’t. You don’t care about these women at all. You may never care about anyone again, what was the point? HYDRA would just kill them and make you watch.

The clock strikes the hour, and you’re led from the dressing room and down a hall, the women replaced by HYDRA guards who flank you as you’re taken towards an office. You feel like you’re on death row, that the people in the mahogany lined office are there only to flip the switch and kill you on a faceless man's orders. Sadly, that doesn’t happen, instead you’re brought before Alexander - somehow more terrifying than you remember, in a black uniform with the red skull on his breast pocket - and another man who holds papers in his arms. Alexander holds his hand out for yours… you take it after a moment that stretches for far too long.

“We don’t need religion for this, my darling. Just sign where you’re told, and you’re legally mine.” He looks you up and down, and another chill runs through you, “You look even more ravishing than I thought you would.”

“I’ll be your wife?” You can feel heat rushing to your cheeks at the genuine amused laugh that bursts from Alexander, the lawyer and the guards joining in, 

“You will belong to me.” Alexander comes to stand in front of you, his hand raising to close over your throat, “As will our sons. Now sign.” He gestures to the paperwork laying on the desk, and the gold pen that lies next to it, and you meet his eyes briefly before nodding in acquiesce. Alexander moves his hand to hold the back of your neck instead, humming as you stand in front of him, bending slightly as you sign where you’re told, “Good girl. And don’t even think about using that pen as any kind of weapon.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” Alexander lifts you up to press against his front, “Repeat it.” You drop the pen, signatures complete, your eyes darting to the lawyer and the guards pointlessly. They’re not your allies, they’re HYDRA and you’re just their leader's property.

“I w-wouldn’t dream of it… s-sir.” You suddenly feel Alexander grow hard at your back, and your heart starts to pound, terror rising like a tsunami, “P-please- wait!” You’re pushed face first over the desk, scattering the papers, the pen clattering away from you. You struggle, tears falling immediately, but the two guards come around to the other side of the desk, dragging your hands in front of you and holding you down. There’s cool air on the back of your legs as the skirt of your dress is lifted to the small of your back, and then your underwear is pulled down swiftly after, 

“I need witnesses to confirm consummation, Y/N. I promise to take more time on you when you’re safe in my penthouse.” Alexander bends over you, kissing your neck as his fingers dive between your legs, “I really can’t wait to explore every inch of this body in more detail, but for now-” he thrusts inside you, groaning against your neck, “fuck… you feel wonderful…”

Alexander fucks you at a steady pace, the impassive eyes of his witnessness on you, they don’t even blink when Alexander pulls out and spits on your back passage, rubbing the saliva in before pushing slowly inside your ass. Your tears are silent, you’re almost as impassive as them as he violates you in front of his subordinates. Alexander hadn’t lied, you now belonged to him, he could do what he wanted.

After a minute or an eternity - you had no idea and you didn’t care - Alexander grunts, and then pulls out again, grabbing you by the back of your dress and pulling you up, spinning you around, and pushing you to your knees, 

“Open your mouth.”

You shake your head, eyes to the floor, you won’t you won’t you won’t-

Of course it didn’t matter what you wanted, the witnesses pulled your head back, hurting your neck, and hold your nose until you gasp for breath, and that’s when Alexander pushes past your lips, the combined taste of your cunt and ass flooding your mouth, almost making you gag-

Alexander comes down your throat, before pulling out and releasing the rest across the pure white of your dress, the ropes that had spilled out of your mouth were pushed back inside with his thumb, a hushed command to swallow echoing in the otherwise silent room.

“I know this won’t get her pregnant, but you will agree that we have consummated, yes?” Alexander helps you straighten your dress as you rise to your feet, a collector taking care of his toys, “From now on, you’ll always have some of me inside you. Hopefully it will be our first son soon enough. I’ll start seeing to his conception when I am home with you in a few hours. You will make me proud.” Alexander kisses you, surprisingly gently after what he just did, and looks over your shoulder at one of the guards, “Take her to her new home. If you touch her, I will have you castrated, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

They lead you out, your dress soiled and rumpled, make-up smudged. You walk with a limp that no one cares about, and your eyes downcast. This is your life now, and nothing is going to change that.

“James, what is it?”

Bucky walked up to The Leader, unsure of why he was talking to him, or what he could ask him. Violet had confused him, and it bothered him.

“Lavender isn’t safe, not whilst he has her.”

You were dead, you had chosen that rather than come back to him… but what if you weren't? What if… if HYDRA had lied to him, then where were you?

Why did he care? Bucky knew what he was, knew he was a monster who betrayed his friends, killed on HYDRA’s orders and hurt women because he wanted something warm to come back to after he had blackened more of his soul. You were just another beautiful woman who he could fuck any way he pleased, you didn’t matter to him-

“Is Lavender alive?” Bucky was taller than Alexander Pierce’s son, was stronger and faster, he could kill him as easily as he breathed… but he was afraid of him. He always had been. It was the only emotion he could remember feeling after HYDRA first captured him. “Lilac said you told her she was dead, but Violet thinks you said she was alive-”

“Y/N is not your concern, James.” The Leader smiled, his head tilted slightly as if Bucky were an amusing child he had to indulge, “But yes, she has been alive all this time.”

Something close to shock - or maybe it was relief? - went through Bucky’s body like a jolt of electricity, “But-”

“I didn’t say she was dead, that’s what Lilac heard, and I saw no reason to dissuade her of that. Y/N belongs to me now.” The Leader stepped a little closer, a cold smirk on his face, “I asked her if she wanted to come back to you. She said she wanted to be mine instead… would you like to know what I did to her last night? How much she begged for more?”

Bucky didn’t feel anything anymore. He didn’t feel empathy or pity or… love.

He didn’t.

Bucky’s left arm shot out and grabbed The Leader by the throat. He didn’t remember choosing to do that, but the feelings inside him he couldn’t name because he couldn’t remember them rushed through him so powerfully that he couldn’t stop himself. Bucky wanted to hurt The Leader, wanted to make him pay and suffer for taking you away from him, he had to be lying about what you had chosen, you had liked him, he knew it-

The cattle prod took a moment to work, and then the tranquilliser they shot him with took another, but soon Bucky’s grip was off The Leader's neck, and he was being dragged to the chair. If Bucky was scared, he no longer felt it, but he still shook as the clamps came down over his arms and the guard was shoved in between his teeth. He stared into The Leaders eyes as he leant over him, brown eyes bloodshot and voice hoarse, 

“This won’t make you forget, James, this is just so you know your place. This will hurt, but not as much as I’ll make Y/N hurt for what you just did to me. Now you know she’s with me, remember this day. Every time you try to hurt me, I’ll visit it back on her, ten fold.” He leant down so he could whisper in Bucky’s ear, “And I’ll enjoy it.”

The Leader stepped back, and nodded at the man behind Bucky, and then the plates came over his face.

You weren’t stupid, no matter what that mean voice in your head told you almost daily. You knew that falling in love with Sam Wilson was stupid, but you also knew it was inevitable. 

After HYDRA had won, after your parents had been gunned down in front of you by those helicarriers, you had hoped for your own death to follow quickly. You hadn’t known what had happened of course, you knew nothing of the algorithm that had picked out people that wouldn’t support HYDRA’s agenda, or that you were too young at the time to have been realistically targeted. All you had known was that your world had died in front of you so violently that you couldn’t even recognise your parents' faces anymore. Your older brother thankfully hadn’t been in the state, you’d thought perhaps that he’d been able to escape, but you’d never heard from him again after that day. 

You were alone.

Almost ten years later and you were still alone, but you were smarter. Well, at least you had assumed you were. You’d found work delivering food to people from the sanctioned food banks and grocery stores, it was half decent work, it meant you had access to food that you could pilfer and spread to the homeless and the sick. HYDRA and their supporters had so much, they lived like they were in a Dickens novel and treated the remaining survivors of their purge like Oliver Twist… they would never notice some missing packets of crackers or a loaf of bread here and there.

Except of course they had. You’d gotten sloppy, greedy, but you’d needed to help these people HYDRA were starving. Of course that didn’t matter to HYDRA when they caught you stealing their precious food. You’d been arrested, beaten, and brought before the judge fully expecting to be executed, but instead they sent you to him. The Winter Soldier.

Except there was no longer just one. There were three.

One night in the company of Bucky, Steve and Sam and every emotional wall and barrier you’d built over the last ten years that had helped you survive being so cripplingly alone had come crashing down. Fear like you’d never known coursed through you with every single heartbeat, tears didn’t stop falling for twelve terrifying hours as the three men passed you around like a rag doll. It didn’t matter that they took their time to drag as much pleasure from your body as humanly possible, they still hurt you, took things from you that in ten years of solitude you’d managed to keep. 

Afterwards, it was Sam that had carefully picked you up and taken you to the woman who’d been there longer than you. Lilac had led you to the bath, knowledge in her eyes that let you know she was there for the same reason you were, and you’d caught Sam’s eyes as he was about to leave,

“Violet… thank you, Violet.”

Sam had named you. Sam had claimed you.

You know he never loved you… but you’d done what you’d had to do to survive, just like always. You’d loved him, even though, yes, it was stupid.

Life since Lavender’s death was, if possible, even harder than before.

Steve had become even more unstable, which only two weeks ago you would’ve said was impossible. Even Lilac couldn’t control him anymore, and she walked with a permanent limp, and eyes so dull that you could almost taste the despair in the air surrounding her. You didn’t know her whole story but you had been able to figure out that Lilac had known Steve Rogers… before. That she had been in love with him, and he had never known, and he would never remember. You couldn’t bear her torment, the agony that she must feel at being brutalised by a man that she knew wouldn’t have ever chosen to hurt her, but who she felt too much loyalty to to ever take the same choice that Lavender apparently had.

Death. 

Bucky was… you didn’t know what he was anymore, and that somehow scared you more than anything else.  

Before, even if he had been violent and terrifying, he was at least predictable. If Bucky wanted you, he would make it known, and you had been smart enough to let him have it. You weren’t under any illusions like Rose had been, or like Lavender had tried to deny being. Bucky didn’t want love - how could a man who gave up his best friend and hope for salvation ever allow someone to love him?

Now, he didn’t know what he wanted. Or, more accurately, who he wanted was dead, and he was perpetually furious about it. Nothing you or Lilac could do for him made him happy, and he would start fights with Sam and Steve just so they could knock him unconscious. HYDRA had brought him a new girl to replace Lavender and-

You didn’t want to think about what had happened to her. Bucky hadn’t killed her, but he’d thrown her back out of the rooms and demanded that she be given to The Others. The ones that you and Lilac and Lavender had been given to after Brock had been killed for what he had done to Lavender. What The Others had done to you as punishment still hurt in your body, you hated to think of what that poor stranger was going through… but maybe she was already dead. Like Lavender was.

Tears blurred in your eyes, you sniffed and quickly wiped them away. You hated thinking of Lavender. You hated her for choosing the coward's way out… you missed her so terribly it hurt every time you breathed. You’d thought that you’d almost had a family back, a twisted and depraved family, but people who cared nonetheless… but no.

 Sam’s face came into your mind, and yet more tears spilled, faster than you could wipe them away. He too was different since you’d returned. He… he held you now. Without asking. Without bruising you. He would whisper words in your ear as he fucked you, but even then, it wasn’t fucking, not anymore. Sam was gentle now, and the words were no longer angry and vile, they were softer, nicer… and he remembered his name now. He would ask that you say it when he was inside you. More importantly, he no longer wanted Lilac, and he would pace inside Bucky’s room like an animal if Bucky tried to fuck you. The last two times this had happened Bucky couldn’t do it, he’d punched so many holes into his wall that plaster showered on you like rain, but Sam had dragged Bucky away, taken him out into the hall… and held him until his rage had passed.

You hated your tears, they tried to make you feel more scared than you should be. Sam was waking up, you knew it.

The General had just given them their newest mission - a cell of dissidents had been found, so the Winter Soldiers were to mobilise that night and take them out. A simple mission, nothing Sam hadn’t done before.

Except this time, Sam didn’t want to do it.

He didn’t know how to argue this though… yet. Pieces of him were coming back, but far too slowly. Ever since he’s woken to a cold cot and your absence, he’s been waking up. And since your return, scared and clinging to him like he was your saviour, his awakening had picked up speed. 

Sam remembered family. He remembered friends. Lovers. Missions where he saved people, showered in their gratitude and thanks rather than their blood. It was still a blur, but it was getting clearer. The issue was trying to make those blurry watercolours into high definition pictures, turning those snapshots into a full moving picture. And that wasn’t Sam’s only worry.

How could he leave without Steve? Without Lilac… without you…

And then there was Bucky. Sam thought that maybe he should leave Bucky here alone again, let the man who’d ruined his life and turned him into a rapist and murderer die horribly for everything he had chosen to cause, but the part of him that was still struggling to hold onto his own thoughts was also struggling to hold onto that level of hate for the man.

Bucky was a monster, but HYDRA was his creator. It was them that Sam needed to remember to destroy, and no one was better placed to do that than Bucky Barnes.

He walked through the halls with Steve and Bucky, the other soldiers and personnel parted before them leaving their way free to stalk through. They would leave for their mission in two hours, Steve wanted to lose himself in Lilac, and Sam wanted to take some comfort in you… if you would let him.

“Samuel.”

That voice stopped him in his tracks. The Leader.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmmm… he speaks.” The Leader came around to face Sam, something vaguely like a smile pulling up his lips, but those eyes of his, they were the coldest things Sam had ever seen, “And he looks at me too. Interesting.” Sam immediately dropped his gaze, and The Leader chuckled, “Oh, come on now, Samuel. No need to be bashful around me. James, Steven, you will be completing your mission by yourself, I need Samuel for something private I’m afraid.”

There’s a pause, and then Steve clears his throat, 

“Sir, this is a three man mission, we always-”

“My father did not spend so much time and money to make soldiers who question their superiors, Steven. You’re a soldier who takes orders, and that is it. Unless you would like to take something else, hmm? Perhaps a day in the chair? Or perhaps I should take your lovely Lilac again?” 

The Leader’s voice was calm and even, it was the thing Sam hated most about him. Nothing scared him, nothing pleased him. He just existed to torment. 

Steve breathed deeply… and then he too dropped his eyes, 

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Anything from you, James?”

“No, sir.”

Sam stared at Steve. He’d stood up for him. Maybe Sam wasn’t as alone as he thought.

“Samuel, come with me.”

They walked for three minutes, Sam’s concern grew the more they walked away from everyone else, and pain in his head started to grow. Sam gritted his teeth against it. They couldn’t know that his head was hurting with a more natural pain, and that the memories got slightly clearer every time it did. The longer he stayed out of the chair, the better his memories got, the better chance he had at saving everyone.

They arrived at a dark corridor, Sam recognised it as the area they kept the interrogation rooms and the pounding in his head grew.

“Samuel, we have recently come into possession of some very important information.” The Leader pauses, glancing at Sam as if to wait for a question, but he didn’t respond. That’s not what Winter Soldiers did. The Leader hummed, and then carried on, his eerie smile growing, “The information pertains to the captives. Well, specifically your captive.”

“Violet?” Sam blurts your name out before he can stop himself, and the pain in his head sharpens. The Leader raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything, he just holds open a door, and points to the man in the corner of the room, bound, his jaw hanging at a funny angle, and face so bloody and swollen that it’s almost impossible to distinguish any features, “Who is he?”

“You’re asking the wrong question, Samuel.” The Leader tuts, his smile growing as he steps between him and the beaten man, kneeling before him and peering at him as impassively as if he was a specimen in a lab, “It doesn’t matter who he is, what matters is what he wants.” The bound man starts to mumble incoherently because of his broken jaw, his bruised and bloody eyes on Sam, almost pleading with him, and the pain behind Sam’s eyes grows. He closed them briefly, 

“Wants?”

“Yes, Samuel… this man wants to facilitate an escape.”

“An escape? But-”

“We only hold two captives here, Samuel, come on now, you’re smart, think it through.”

It takes a minute, the pounding of his head and the beaten man’s babbling making his thoughts harder to hold then they should be. Sam grunts, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, wishing he could hold you, take you away from here…

“He wants to take Violet?” The pain eases, and Sam opens his eyes to The Leader standing right in front of him, his smile wide enough that Sam notices he has crinkles in the corners, 

“Yes, Samuel. This man was going to take your Violet. He was going to bribe guards to bring her to him… he wanted her, do you understand? He wanted your Violet as his own.” The bound man is shaking his head, the incoherent mumblings desperate, and the tears running down his face almost wash away enough blood for Sam to pick out the colour of his eyes… “Samuel, do you hear me? This man wanted to take Violet from the safety and love you provide her, and bring her into the terror of the open world, ungoverned by the power and safety of HYDRA!”

“No…”

“This monster wanted to take Violet away from you. He wanted to put her somewhere where she would never lay eyes on you again, where they would poison her against you, tell her that you raped her, that you beat her, that you held her down-”

“No!”

“You’d never do that, would you, Samuel?” The Leader is at his ear now, his voice loud without effort, but Sam’s eyes were on the bound man, shaking and crying and denying, but the pain in his head grew. Sam wasn’t seeing the prisoner anymore, he saw you, when he had you that first time, when he held you after The Others hurt you, 

“No! I love her!”

“And what will you do about it, Samuel? Let this man kidnap your woman? Rape her brutally? Give her to his men? She’ll be naked and vulnerable and you’ll be safe here, never to see her again?”

“No! I’ll save her!” Sam steps up to the bound man, grabs the front of the t-shirt he’s wearing, and punches him in the face. The man's teeth fly and clatter against the wall, “I’ll! Save! Her!” He repeats it over and over, punctuating the vow with more blows until the room sang with the violence this stranger had brought on himself.

The wall is shiny with blood, Sam can’t lift his arm by the time he is done, and the pain is gone. You’re… safe now. That’s… what he cares about. You can be safe now that his enemy is dead. Sam looks down at the mess that used to be a man, and wipes his face of the blood, ignoring the tears that dilute the red.

“Good work, Samuel.” The Leader murmurs from behind him, “I think you need to go to the clinic now. This wouldn’t have happened if you had told me how bad your headaches were, you know. You almost lost Violet because you weren’t taking care of yourself.”

Sam almost argues… but he nods instead.

“Yes, sir.”

The Leader walks with him in silence to the clinic. To the Chair.

You’re dragged from your room, Lilac is punched in the stomach when she tries to stop the guards and she lands in a heap on the floor, you cry out but a mask is forced over your jaw, clamping your mouth shut. They drag you through the halls, and throw you into a small room with a TV screen in one corner, and a chair with a jumpsuit and boots in another. One of the guards points to the clothing, 

“Get dressed.”

You raise your hands to take off the gag, and the guard grabs yours wrist,

“You want me to break your hands? Keep the gag in, and do as you’re told, unless you want me to dress you myself?”

You back away and turn to the chair, trembling as you hear the door close behind you. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, teeth chattering behind the mask, sweat beading across your hairline… you hadn’t seen Sam or the others in a whole day, which might not be entirely unusual, but there had been something in the air since you had last seen him. The guards hadn’t come to take you and Lilac to your cleaning duties like they normally would, you’d been alone, and your doors unlocked so you and Lilac could talk. You’d both taken full advantage of the privacy and freedom, but your skin had crawled the whole day, and now you knew why.

The jumpsuit was coarse against your skin when you put it on, and you hastily added the hood over your hair. Oddly, the clothing gives you some level of comfort. If they wanted to hurt you then they wouldn’t bother giving you items designed to turn you sexless to them, and they certainly wouldn’t have made you dress if they were going to give you back to The Others again. You hear footsteps coming down the hall, and you turn to the doorway, clasping your hands in front of your stomach hard enough to bruise them to stop them from betraying your fear. The man that comes in is not what you were expecting, he’s possibly in his late thirties or early forties, dressed in a clearly expensive tweed suit, and has a dark beauty to him that immediately makes you take a step away from him as he comes towards you. Your instincts tell you he’s dangerous, and he proves that by grabbing your upper arm in a grip that immediately bruises, and leads you to the television screen, 

“This film is brand new, I hope you enjoy it.” He drags you in front of him, holding you close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through your clothes, but the chill in your bones only grows, especially when his lips brush over your ear, “I despise fairytales, Y/N, you would do well to remember your reality.”

You don’t understand the cryptic wording… and then the footage plays.

A man in a guards uniform is approached by another who holds out a cigarette. They talk, and then one falls to the ground convulsing, and the other appears unfazed, he just drops to his knees, and takes the guards access card. You’re frowning at the screen, a terrible suspicion forms as you stare at the mysterious man who just killed a guard, which then crystallises into horror when his face is captured perfectly by the security camera.

Your brother.

You didn’t recognise him, he’s very obviously older now, there’s a scar on his face you don’t remember being there, and he’s harder than he ever was when he played with dolls with you as a child, just a big brother indulging his annoying little sister's whims…

The tears start falling, and the man behind you raises his hands to wipe them away, 

“You haven’t seen him since my father won the war, have you?” You can’t respond, so he continues calmly as you watch the footage of your brother storming through an entry gate plays out, as he shoots and kills several people before the feed cuts off, “I know, Y/N, I know you would never have risked his life so foolishly for yours, but your brother was a brave man. He learned of your continued existence behind our walls - of what we were doing to you - and he came for you. Of course, he didn’t know who was here… who you had worked so hard to make love you so fiercely.”

No… please no…

The next footage is harder to watch, but the man holds your head in place, makes the other guard come in to hold you still as you’re forced to watch Sam beat your brother into an unrecognisable pulp. You throw up behind your mask, and the guard lets you go in disgust, the man actually laughs as you fall to your knees, sobs making your head pound, your bones ache, your skin hurts… your heart breaks. You feel it in your chest, in pieces, making you bleed on the inside…

“Pillow talk is a dangerous thing, Y/N. You’re a prisoner here, a whore for my Winter Soldiers to use until your death, or theirs. Whichever comes first.” He kneels next to you, removing your mask and carefully wiping your mouth with a handkerchief that looks like it’s made from silk, “You forgot your place in this, and more importantly, you made Samuel forget his.”

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” Your throat hurts, it feels like pushing those words out might just kill you, but you have to say them. You got your brother killed. And Sam…

“Samuel will be back to normal by sunrise.” He stands, looking down on you with a sneer, “You will service him as required. He won’t remember what he did, and his own name will be dashed from his head. Do as you’re told, you won’t be given a second chance at this like Lavender was.”

With that, he leaves, ignoring you in your grief, alone in your puddle of tears and vomit. 

You don’t know who he is, and you let the guard take you back to the cells you share with Lilac. You start to tell her everything, but your words die as they return, Bucky and Steve and Sam. The Winter Soldiers. Eyes cold, hands bloodied and bodies hard, for Lilac, for you, for the relief that fucking provides them after everything they themselves have been forced to do. You never really understood where your sympathy for them came from, where the love you held for Sam grew from, after all they were murderers, they killed on HYDRA’s orders and raped you and your friends. They were vile, they were evil, they were cruel.

And yet, they had suffered. You knew that the three of them hadn’t had a choice, and so you allowed space for them. It hurt you less when you forced yourself to like them, when you hadn’t fought the love that you felt for Sam. It was the only thing you could do to make your life bearable, so it wasn’t a choice that you had hated yourself for, after all, it’s exactly what Lilac and Lavender had done.

They hadn’t had a brother though. You loving Sam had gotten your big brother killed.

Your eyes meet Sam’s… he looks right through you…

“I’ll kill you!”

What happens next is a blur. There’s blood and pain and darkness. Flesh hitting flesh, grunts and groans and screams. Arms and legs and mouths, and your never ending vow that you’ll kill Sam for hurting your brother, for beating him to death for trying to save you, for taking the opportunity for you to get away from him, from them, from what they inevitably put you through again. You were never any real match for Sam Wilson, never mind the other two, and soon those desperate blows of grief become desperate blows for freedom that won’t come. 

Sam holds you down, bruising instead of caressing, the things he says designed to make you small and hurt. They all take their turns, over and over, until you can no longer move, until you think they might’ve done physical harm to your body, it hurts so much. Maybe it was just your broken heart though. You only have one weapon left, 

“She hates you too.” Your words are slurred, eyes blurry, but you look at them all, “We all do, you know. Hate you.”

“We keep you safe.” Bucky growls, but you cough out something like a laugh, 

“Lavender isn’t safe, not whilst he has her… Lilac isn’t safe… I’m not safe… hate you…”

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐀 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫* 𝐖𝐒!𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞* 𝐖𝐒!𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞 (𝐢𝐢)* 𝐖𝐒!𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝* 𝐖𝐒!𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫 (𝐢𝐢) 𝐖𝐒!𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 (𝐢𝐢)* 𝐖𝐒!𝐒𝐚𝐦 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞 (𝐢𝐢𝐢)* 𝐖𝐒!𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞 (𝐢𝐢𝐢𝐢) 𝐖𝐒!𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

“Excuse me,” you said, flashing a beautiful smile at Bucky when he went ramrod straight. He was thankful that you missed how comically wide his eyes were before you went on your way. 

“Excuse me,” he repeated, bolting in the opposite direction before Yelena could stop him or say anything.

He had his hand down his pants the moment he was alone and it only took him picturing your beautiful smile again before he came, biting his lip and holding back a moan.

Having an erection was a natural reaction to stimulation, but one small touch from you and he practically erupted like a volcano. It was fucking ridiculous.

And it was all thanks to the serum.

It had enhanced his strength and senses, which helped in many situations. It was also a minor inconvenience since it made his cock more sensitive than he thought possible.

It wasn’t that he didn’t utilize mental and physical techniques to help maintain some sort of control, but his dick didn’t care about any of that when it involved you. He wanted you so badly that his cock straight to attention, begging to bury itself in one of your holes. 

That was the reason why he tried not to touch you unless he had to. He didn’t want to freak you out.

What he didn’t know was that you knew exactly how he responded to you from that accidental brushing. 

And you? Well, you fucking loved it.

“Hey, Bucky!” you called out from the kitchen sometime later. “You mind helping me for a sec?”

Like a dog ready to play fetch, he dropped whatever he was doing to join you. Of course, he tried to play it cool when he strolled into the kitchen.

His brain proceeded to shut down when he saw you by the stove wearing an apron and heels… and nothing else. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, the fabric covering everything he so desperately wanted to touch, and he couldn’t stop the blood from rushing to his cock. 

You wiggled your fingers in a flirty wave and held yourself with such steady confidence that his knees went weak. Judging by your smirk, the tent he sported impressed you.

And, fuck, he could smell your arousal from where he stood. Sweet and tangy, he could taste it on his tongue, and he twitched with need.

“Is that for me?” you asked sweetly, pointing to his crotch before beckoning him over. “I sure hope so.”

Walking with a hard-on wasn’t easy, but he made it work so he could join you. “You… you want it?” he asked, dizzy from the way his blood kept flowing from his cock to his head and back again.

Before he could reach out and touch you, you positioned yourself between him and the stove. “I do,” you replied, his heart pounding in his ears. “And I don’t care who knows it.”

As much as Bucky wanted everyone to know, the possessive part of him didn’t want anyone to walk in and see you like this. “Really?”

“Really,” you smiled. That made his chest swell with pride. “But first things first…”

He gasped when you bent down, pretending to look into the oven as you pushed your hips back and gave him the perfect view of your ass. “Fuck…” he whimpered, holding onto you but making no move to stop you.

“You got hard when I brushed against you. It was an accident,” you explained, slowly grinding and getting the front of his pants all wet. “But this? This is all on purpose.”

“I was. You touched me and I almost saw fireworks,” he blurted out. He didn’t have it in him to feel embarrassed. “Fuck me.”

“We’ll get to that later,” you said, setting your rhythm and entrancing him. Was he dreaming? “How sensitive is that big cock of yours?”

Bucky inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. He wanted to take himself out and thrust so hard and deep into you that you’d scream. “It’s very sensitive.”

So sensitive that if you wrapped your lips around him or if he pushed into your warm pussy he’d lose all control. He wouldn’t always blow his load so quickly, but he knew it would happen.

You ground your hips a little harder. “The serum?” you guessed, moving like you were born to seduce him. “Is that why you’re always so close, but you don’t touch me?”

Bucky didn’t realize you noticed. He didn’t know that someone as amazing as you paid that much attention to him.

“Yeah,” he said through his teeth, trying to think of anything and everything so he wouldn’t let go. But you were there, wet and grinding on him, taking over his mind and senses.

“Do you get that hard with anyone else?” you asked, a hint of possessiveness in your tone that he seemed to like. Were you jealous at the idea of him getting instantly hard with someone else? 

As much as he thought about teasing you, he didn’t want that to backfire. He could test that another time, if there was another time.

“Just you,” he admitted, flexing his fingers and bracing himself when you stopped moving. Why did you stop? “You’re the only one I want.”

It was there, out in the open, making the tension between you two so much thicker. It was beautiful relief and torture when you moaned and began to move again.

“That’s what I want to hear,” you said, giving him a sultry gaze over your shoulder. “And I want you to come in your pants for me.”

“You want me to…” His blown pupils almost drowned out the blue of his eyes. It was like you reached into his brain and pulled out one of his fantasies. “Do-”

“Don’t you dare call me ‘doll’, Bucky Barnes,” you ordered, stopping your hips again and making his breath stutter. “I’m not just a random girl, so you will give me a term of endearment that is special.”

“Please, don’t stop,” he whined, torn between maintaining control and letting it all go. His body felt so stiff and he needed that release. “I’ll think of something special,” he added hastily, but it was a promise.

You were right. You weren’t just some random girl, and you only deserved the best from him.

“Oh, I know you will because you’re a good man. You’re so good,” you cooed, drawing a needy moan from him when you moved again. You soaked his pants and he couldn’t believe he held on for as long as he had. “Do you need me? Need my tight wet pussy? Need me screaming your name?”

His vision nearly whited out and he swore under his breath. “Yeah. Fuck yeah. I need it,” he begged, but he still didn’t dare to move his hips and break your spell.

You bit your lip. “Then come for me,” you whispered loud enough for him to hear and pressed your hips back one more time.

His hoarse cry echoed in the kitchen, his body trembling from the intensity of his orgasm. His underwear was a sticky mess, his cock tingling and ready to go again when he registered you pulling away. 

It took him a moment to come back to himself. Did that really happen, or did he simply imagine you wearing nothing but an apron and making him come in his pants?

You turned and glanced at the wet spot with a smile, appearing perfectly composed when you cupped his cheeks. “You know this means you’re mine now.”

He almost whined again. He was yours? You really wanted him?

His breath was shaky when you looked at his mouth and he stirred in his pants the second your lips met. You kissed him like you had been waiting your whole life to do so, like you’d never get the chance again.

The urge to put you on the island and eat your pussy like a starved man filled his mind. Maybe he could jerk off to the smell and taste of you while you gripped his hair like a lifeline.

He reached behind him to steady himself when you broke the kiss. “It means you’re mine, too,” he said, still catching his breath.

The thought of you doing that to anyone else or anyone else having you… No. He refused to imagine that.

You ran a finger along the wet spot and made him gasp. Your touch was sin wrapped in the package of a fallen angel. “I’ll be yours… once you get me off.”

You stepped out of reach and held a finger up when he tried to grab you. “I’ll get you off,” he promised. So why were you backing up more?

“I’m sure you will,” you said, turning and giving him a generous view of your ass again. “Oh, yeah. There’s nothing in the oven, so you don’t have to worry about sticking around here.”

He sensed that when he didn’t smell anything over the scent of your sweet cunt and gentle perfume. You put on a show just for him, and it flattered him.

“Wait,” he begged when you got to the doorway. He was ready to fall to his knees and beg you to come back. “Where are you going?”

“Well, unless you want someone to stroll in and see me like this, I’m going to hide while you think of a special pet name for me,” you said, winking over your shoulder. “Just follow the scent of my pussy once you’re ready to play some more.”

He nearly swallowed his tongue. You were going to be the death of him, weren’t you? “Should I change first?” he asked, gesturing to his pants. “That’s up to you, but don’t keep me waiting long,” you answered, leaving one last parting shot before you left, “My pussy’s waiting for you to ruin it and I’d really hate to start without you.”

And once Bucky thought of that special pet name, he found you and ruined your pussy just like you wanted.

This could be a fun new couple to play with. I wonder what the term of endearment is. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Today is no different.

He knows you’re crying before he enters the apartment and he freezes. You hadn’t reached out to him, hadn’t called his name, so you aren’t physically hurt. Your texts throughout the day hadn’t given any indication that you were upset, but anything could’ve happened between the time he left work and got home. So he approaches the bedroom slowly and quietly, almost like you’re an animal in the corner. He isn’t sure if you’ll lash out or if you’ll let him help because he learned early on that tears happen for different reasons and assistance comes in many different forms.

Helping you can mean giving you space or holding you close, and Clark hopes today that it’s the latter. He can be clingy at times, admittedly so. He always wants to touch you, and he wants to wipe away the tears that fall. But he won’t do so if that isn’t the comfort you need.

“Sunlight,” he whispers, placing his hand on the door.

He calls you that since you light up every room you walk into. Not only that, but the air around you always seems warm. So when you weep, he wants to weep, too, because nothing should dim your brightness. Not a single thing on this planet should take your smile away. 

You sniffle when he pushes the door open and he senses that you’re trying to hide a bit from him when you sit up and wipe your cheeks. He spots the chocolate wrapper beside you as he takes a seat, and guilt settles in his chest when he inhales and notices the shift in your scent. A downside to dating him is that you can’t exactly keep anything from him. He knows when you’re ovulating, aroused, not feeling well, and everything in between. You have your secrets, of course, but just about anything that involves your body is accessible to him. It isn’t fair because you didn’t ask to have a boyfriend so… intuitive. 

And, thankfully, he has never been dumb enough to blame anything on your hormones. He’s Kryptonian, but not invincible. He doesn’t have a death wish. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers, not reaching for you just yet. You don’t ask him to leave, but it doesn’t mean you want him in your space. 

“Hey,” you whisper back.

It takes a moment, but you rest your head on his shoulder. He closes his eyes and blocks out everything else around him so he can focus on you. Nothing matters more than you.

“You okay?”

Silence follows. The only sound is the steady beat of your heart and breathing. It soothes him when he should be soothing you. “Just felt a little broken inside for no reason and I couldn’t pick up the pieces,” you tell him.

He turns his head to kiss the top of yours. Emotions can often feel like glass- delicate, easily broken, and with the need to handle with care. To feel isn’t easy, and you’re the type of person to feel so strongly. When you love, you love with all of your being. When you’re down, you feel it all, too, so much that it almost snuffs out your light. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He’s sorry that someone as wonderful as you ever feels bad. But you rise. You always do. The good days outweigh the bad days, and he’s thankful to witness how you live each day with an open heart full of hope.

“It’s okay. I feel a little better,” you say so easily because you’re stronger than you ever give yourself credit for and you don’t need the yellow sun for your strength. “Just needed to cry it out.”

Crying does have benefits, as much as it breaks his heart to see you do that. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks. Though you feel a little better, he still wants to be your hero in some capacity. Not because he’s Superman or even Clark Kent, but because he’s a man in love.

You lift your head and your gaze flickers to his, a single tear ready to fall from your eye. “Hold me so I can feel the pieces get put back together.”

He breathes out. “You just want me to hold you?” he asks.

You smile, something warm and genuine, so beautiful that his heart aches at the sight. “That’s all I need.”

His throat tightens. He can’t use x-ray vision or freeze breath to heal whatever caused your tears, and he doesn’t have to. All he can do is be there for you, which is one of the most humane things he can do.

Because how is he human or a hero if he doesn’t try to ease your suffering?

He puts you on his lap without hesitation and smiles when you practically melt into him. “I’ll hold you for as long as you want, sunlight.”

Your lips find his in a wordless thank you, and he brushes away the tear that finally falls. He’ll spend the rest of his life holding you and putting you back together if you ask it of him, the same way you help when he has his off days. Because he isn’t perfect. He stumbles, he makes mistakes, he feels, and he does his best each and every day.

And the best thing he can do today is hold you, tell you that you’re his home, and remind you how much he loves you, the same way you love him.

Can Clark hold me, please? Love and thanks! ❤️

You mattered to him more than anything else. So, if someone bothers him, yeah, he could let it go. Someone upsetting you? He wouldn't stand for it.

Bucky's eyes narrowed as he spotted the little weasel sitting at the table in the break room alone. A few hours ago, you called him to vent about how this guy repeatedly tried to make you look bad in front of your superior during a meeting. It wasn’t the first time either. Your tears of frustration were obvious by your tone on the other end, though you tried to hide them. You worked hard, harder than anyone else he knew, and you took your job seriously.

He saw red when he heard you sniffle and it was the only color he had seen since then.

“Give me his name.”

“Bucky, no,” you had argued. “The guy’s a prick and I just needed to vent, so you don’t-”

“Please, baby,” he whispered, knowing full well you could handle yourself, but you were his wife and someone took joy out of your day. Not just that, they made you cry. He took this personally and he wanted to defend you. “Just give me his name so I can take care of it.”

You softly gave him the name, and he made it a priority to find the asshole. It didn’t take him long. No one even questioned why he was asking. It must’ve been his “murder strut” and glare. You once said it could break even the strongest of people.

He headed toward the empty chair beside the agent, careful not to make a sound. His stealth assisted with that. Once he reached the chair though, he made it a point to scrap the chair across the floor to get the prick's attention. The annoyance in his eyes quickly shifted to fear when he realized who he was looking at.

Good. He hoped he pissed his pants.

He made a show of slipping off his leather jacket before taking a seat, making sure the agent got a good look at his metal arm. He also made a show of getting one of his knives out, one you gifted him. “I think we can skip the introductions since you know who I am and I really don't give a shit who you are,” he began, his voice low as he twirled the knife between his fingers. “But I understand you know my wife and, well, she’s the reason I’m here.”

The guy blinked when Bucky made eye contact, the blade still expertly weaving in his hand. “S-Sure. Everyone knows your wife.”

Bucky smiled softly, taking a second to glance at his wedding band. “I’m usually not one to brag, but I can’t help it when it comes to her. She works hard and deserves all the praise she gets, but she’s still humble. Appreciative. Loyal,” he boasted, still smiling before he glared again. “She’d never throw anyone under the bus, especially in front of a superior.”

The little weasel cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. He seemed to notice for the first time that they were the only two people there. “Look, I don’t know what your wife said, but-”

Bucky pointed the blade at him. “I would think very carefully about what comes out of your mouth next,” he snarled, his eyes as cold as ice.

There was a beat of silence as the guy squirmed in his seat and averted his gaze. Bucky wished you were there to see it. And Steve and Sam. “I may have run my mouth a bit. I just wanted to knock her down a peg or two, you know? She keeps getting promoted and…” he swallowed when Bucky’s eyes narrowed to slits. If this fucker even thought about implying that you slept your way to get where you were today, he may actually cut his throat. “Please, don't kill me.”

The silence after that statement may have been uncomfortable for some, but Bucky didn’t break a sweat. No, he was just thinking of all the different ways he could put him in the hospital for even thinking he had a right to put you down. Putting the knife away, he slowly got to his feet. “Get up,” he said quietly, flexing his hands in intimidation.

“Fuck.” The man nearly knocked his chair over as he stood. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he blurted out, putting his hands out in front of him. “I’ll apologize to her first thing tomorrow, I swear.”

“You think that makes up for it? And are you sorry for trying to make her look bad or are you sorry that you’re under my radar now?” Bucky’s stare remained steady as he knocked his chair out of the way, the piece of furniture nearly splintering when it hit the wall. “Everyone knows what I'm capable of, but do you know what happens to people who upset. My. Wife?”

Bucky refused to say that you cried. The asshole might take that as a sign of victory and he wouldn’t give him any sort of win. He didn’t deserve it. He didn't deserve to be in the same space as you.

The guy’s mouth parted as he took a few steps back on shaky legs. “I-It won’t happen again! I swear!”

“No, it won't, but how about I cut your tongue out so you can’t run your mouth again? Maybe pull out your teeth, too?” Bucky knocked the table away next as he advanced. “Or how about your eyes so you won’t look at her either. Hell, I’ll settle for taking your arm. We’ll match.”

The man let out what sounded like a whimper, his teeth nearly chattering from his fear. Scaring people had given him nightmares, haunted him, but it fueled his fire when he terrified anyone in your honor. “I won’t bother her ever again! I’ll tell my boss she deserves another promotion! I'll transfer! You have my word! I’m sorry!”

Bucky laughed after a moment, a bitter, chilling sound before he held up a hand. “I’m just fucking with you.”

His eyes were still wide with fear. “W… What?”

“I was just trying to scare you a little. You should see the look on your face,” Bucky chuckled again, lightly smacking the guy’s cheek. “Listen, you don’t have to transfer and I’m not going to torture you. Just apologize to my girl and we’re good, okay?”

“Okay.” He let out a breath and chuckled, too. “You really won’t torture me?”

“No, I won’t,” he grinned, grabbing his shoulders. “But I will knock you down a peg or two.”

The prick didn’t see the headbutt coming, but he felt it before he hit the ground. Bucky knew he’d feel it in the morning, too. He got off lucky.

“You know, after you apologize to my wife, I hope you do stay so you can see her continue to thrive,” Bucky toed the guy’s body with his boot. “And speaking of, I need to go buy her some flowers, chocolate, and wine. She deserves it.”

Grabbing his jacket from the broken chair across the room and brushing it off, he whistled as he left the room. He waited until he was a good distance away to call. You picked up on the second ring.

“Hey.” You sounded much better than you did earlier. “So, what’s the damage?”

“Hey, baby,” he smiled. “I headbutted the prick. And before you ask, my head feels great.”

The former assassin may get suspended for that and damaging the table and chair, but he doubted the asshole would have the balls to speak up about what happened.

“Bucky…” you sighed. You were probably pinching the bridge of your nose. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“You’re gonna let me eat you for dessert when I get home,” he smirked. Not that he needed an excuse to dive between your legs, but he'd take any chance he had. “Figure I'll give you at least two orgasms before dinner.”

“Is that right, Mr. Barnes?”

“That is right, Mrs. Barnes.”

The sound of your giggle spread warmth through his chest. Your happiness was his happiness. “Better not keep me waiting,” you teased, pausing for a beat. “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” he said. You always stuck up for him without question.

“Love you.”

His heart swelled more. “Love you, too.”

He’d have some more explaining to do once he got home and would probably have to pay for the damage he caused. He was also sure that you were plotting the demise of the man’s career and would tell him that he didn’t need to do anything, but he wanted to. He was no longer the Winter Soldier.

But he was your husband and he’d defend you with his life, no matter what.

Violence isn't the answer, but this is fanfiction and we all deserve a loving Bucky. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

“So fucking pretty,” he praised, thrusting harder and deeper into you, knowing you could take it. One of your hands fisted the sheets and the other gripped his back. He wanted you to leave marks all over him, the same way you left marks on his heart and soul for him to feel. “I know you’re close. Can feel you gripping my cock like a fucking vice.”

He didn’t say being inside you felt like home, as much as he wanted to, and didn’t dare breathe that he wanted you to feel the same way. Some things were meant to stay quiet, even when he wanted to scream how much he needed you. If he blurted out anything, he could blame it on the heat of the moment. 

“Please, Bucky. I need it,” you moaned when he slowed his pace, purposely dragging it out and making you beg for more. It felt good when you begged, and the way you rode his face earlier tonight told him you were desperate for more than one release. He’d be the one to give it to you. “Please, I need you.”

His eyes almost rolled back. Something fragile snapped within him as he rocked his hips, moving as deep as he could. He wanted to be so deep inside you he’d never get out. You needed him. HIM. He needed you, too. More than you knew.

“You and your greedy cunt trying to milk my cock for all its worth,” he rasped, affection filling his eyes before he blinked it away. “C’mon. Give it to me. Make a mess all over me and the sheets. Just like you did on my face.”

He moaned when you gushed around him with a cry, coating his cock, all while he fucked you through it. It didn’t take him long to follow you over the edge, groaning as he finished inside you. He didn’t use condoms since he wasn’t sleeping with anyone else and neither were you. It was selfish not to use that precaution, but he didn’t want anything between you.

And the smile you gave him before you passed out was enough to melt his heart.

He opened his eyes, willing himself not to get rock hard again. But watching and feeling you come apart, your pussy hot and pulsing around him, you babbling his name like a prayer, he wanted to savor it and play it on repeat in his mind like his favorite song. The knowledge that he was the one who drove you to those heights of ecstasy was addictive. He craved you. He’d never get enough of you. 

But he didn’t call himself your boyfriend.

“Fuck,” he whispered, brushing his lips against your forehead in a tender gesture though you weren’t awake. 

He wouldn’t say it was an accident the first time you slept together, but it did just… happen. The two of you were watching a movie together when you decided to throw popcorn at him. That turned into him pinning you down, jokingly demanding an apology while you giggled and refused. That laugh twisted something in his chest and the next thing he knew his mouth was on yours and clothes were on the floor and…

“This doesn’t change anything, right?” he asked once you were both dressed, your knees touching when he sat beside you.

The words tasted bittersweet and he regretted it the second they left his mouth because everything changed. He knew what it felt like to be inside you, to hear his name tumble from your lips with pleasure. He knew how to make you laugh, and you knew how to brighten his day. You were no longer just friends, but he didn’t ask you out either. 

The hurt in your eyes was obvious, but you asked in a carefully even tone, “You want to forget it?”

“I don’t want to forget,” he promised you, running a hand through his messy hair. How did he always manage to fuck things up? “Because that was…”

“Amazing?” you asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” he breathed. It was beyond amazing, a completely different level. Pleasuring himself got him off, but his hand couldn’t compare to the feel of your tight wet heat. “But you’re my friend, and I don’t want things to change.”

He inwardly winced. Friend. Not a coworker, teammate, or anything of that nature. You were friends. What kind of friend was he to sleep with you and pretend that it was just sex and nothing more? A cowardly one. But he wanted you in his life, however you’d have him. Maybe that was desperate, but what else could he do?

Something unreadable crossed your face before you smiled, making him think he imagined it. “Doesn’t change a thing, Barnes.”

His stomach sank and it wasn’t fair to feel upset since he was the one who started this. He just thought… it didn’t matter. “Bucky, not Barnes,” he corrected you. 

You nodded slowly, the air thick and unsure. “Bucky,” you whispered, starting the movie over. “Do you think this will happen again?”

He threw an arm around the back of the couch and hoped it would. “If it does, it won’t change a thing,” he lied.

Everything changed.

Bucky wasn’t sure when or how you both fell into this rhythm where he’d call you or vice versa, but you went to each other without question when one of you needed to blow off some steam. He wasn’t a complete asshole. He refused to immediately leave afterward. Taking care of you after meant everything, whether it was holding you or cleaning you off. You wanted that closeness, and so did he.

It made it easier to pretend that you wanted him for more than just sex, too.

But the more he slept with you, the harder it was to let you go. If he was at your place, he found reasons to stick around until he had to leave, suggesting to watch a movie or share a meal. If you were at his place, the way you were now, he’d kept a tight hold on you so you couldn’t slip away. He always insisted on dropping you off, too, so you wouldn’t have to find a ride back to your place. 

The way a boyfriend would.

Your aura and scent lingered long after you’d leave and Bucky would ask himself when you’d be back. He was living on scraps and stolen moments thanks to his own fucking mouth and inability to tell you how he felt. And he was beginning to starve. It was the kind of hunger that he couldn’t satisfy until poured himself out to you with his honesty, no matter what the outcome. You deserved more than just pieces of him, too. 

So, why couldn’t he say the words? Why couldn’t he tell you he had feelings for you? Sex clearly wasn’t the issue since you two were so compatible, and you two were open when it came to likes, dislikes, and where lines were drawn. There was trust in and out of bed. He enjoyed your company, too. He was able to relax around you in ways he couldn’t with anyone else. What was he so afraid of?

That he’d lose you without ever truly having you?

Your phone buzzing on the nightstand beside him got his attention. He frowned when he realized what time it was. It was late. Who was texting right now unless it was an emergency? No, an emergency would be worthy of a call, not a text. 

Bucky ran a finger along your cheek, making you sigh in your sleep. He couldn’t explain why, but his fingers itched to grab it and see who the message was from. That wasn’t like him. He wasn’t the jealous type. At least, he didn’t think he was. Not to mention looking at your phone was crossing a line, he knew that, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling in his gut.

“This is so fucking wrong,” he muttered the second he grabbed it. All he had to do was put the phone down and let you read it when you woke up. That was the right thing to do. But he didn’t do that. 

And curiosity, well, it killed the cat, didn’t it?

His throat went dry when he saw the message from a guy’s name he had never once heard you utter. He squeezed the device so hard he almost shattered it. It was the same sort of grip he felt around his heart.

“We still on for Saturday?”

He gritted his teeth and reread the message. He read it until the screen blurred. It took a minute for him to set it back on the nightstand so he could pull you against his chest and steady his breathing. 

“You’re meeting someone on Saturday?” he muttered, knowing he wouldn’t get a reply while you were deep in slumber.

All sorts of questions went through his mind, like who the hell was this guy? Why were you making plans with him? You would’ve told him if you started seeing someone, right? Was he overthinking it, or were you eventually going to your “relationship” with him?

Something cold and bitter crawled through his veins. Did this guy make you smile? Did he make your heart race? Would he know what it was like to make you fall apart? Hold you? Was he the kind of man who could be both your friend and a lover?

As quickly as his jealousy built up it deflated when he gazed at you, his blue eyes filled with pain he didn’t bother to mask in the dark. The truth he didn’t have the right to know. You didn’t owe him any answers. He wasn't your boyfriend. 

And that was all his fault.

I wonder who messaged you. And I wonder what it'll take for Bucky to not be an idiot and tell you what's what. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! More to come soon. ❤️

Body, which suddenly feels all new and unrecognizable to yourself, since it's reacting against all reason and determination to never give in. But one swipe of his thumb against your bottom lip, one look of those blue eyes eager to devour you, and your core ignites with need.

Unfortunately, Curtis knows it.

When his hand rests on the small of your back, you don't have to control yourself from flinching away from his touch, but you have to will your body not to melt into it too eagerly.

Curtis' big, tattooed hand radiates branding heat through the black velvet of your dress. It's a kind of sizzling sting that sucks your nipples into stiff points.

Just like when he had his fingers wrapped around the front of your neck, squeezing just a fraction, while with his other hand he slid the engagement ring onto your trembling finger.

It was that evening when he came to your family house, announced his decision to marry you and them carried you away despite your protests.

You were splayed on the dark couch, with Curtis kneeling on the floor, between your spread legs, after you sneered at him that he didn't even properly ask for your hand in marriage. So he got on his knees for you, but it was still you who was the one in a vulnerable position.

Beneath him, as his massive form towered over you even when he was crouched down.

Curtis' hold over you lingers whenever you share the same space. Which seems to be almost all the time, since he put that ring on your finger. You thought it was his way of ensuring you wouldn't try to escape, but over the weeks it became apparent that it's pure, dark possessiveness.

You're his. Forever.

As much as you hate that leash, it stirs something deep inside of you.

If you dare to betray Curtis, he'll make your lover suffer in the worst ways, but still keep you. He'd punish you, but hold you even closer, tighten the bonds until you can't breathe without feeling his ownership with every single intake.

For now, it's only his publicly announced decision and the most stunning, sparkling ring on your finger reminding the world and you that you belong to him. But you have a feeling that once Curtis fucks you, the ring or the wife label won't hold as much power as he himself will.

At the beginning of the Christmas party, which Curtis as the mob boss holds every year, you tried to point a few mafia princesses with sulky faces, glaring jealous daggers at you. They were still so eager to take your place and you told Curtis he should reconsider picking one of them.

His response was a dangerously dark smirk, that morphed into practiced easy smile as he addressed his guests. He thanked them for coming to share the joy of Christmas with the famiglia and with his beautiful fiancée.

Then he lifted his champagne flute in toast and, while everyone yelled a happy Merry Christmas, Curtis took your lips in a kiss that skated the edge of inappropriate.

You couldn't help the tiny gasp of surprise that melted on his tongue, nor the tinkle of moan as his hold around your waist tightened, pulling you even closer and squeezing your breasts against his hard chest.

Out of all the available, better matched mafia princesses.

That term might suit you in the general way - a girl who was brought up in the mafia; but it wasn't a category you'd put yourself in as an adult woman.

The fact you were mostly on the outskirts of mafia social life was one of the reasons. All the more making the whole situation unbelievable, that Curtis would for some reason choose you.

This unpredictability, as well the fact he appeared to be two steps ahead with every move, made him that scary motherfucker in your eyes.

Lack of physical violence against you (aside from being tossed over his shoulder and carried to the car) was surprising, too.

Your father and uncle might have been good men when it came to treating women, but there were enough disgusting scumbags in the mafia who raised their hands on their wives or daughters. Who held them hostage in abusive households, while wetting their dicks in diamond-encrusted bitches that dared to look down on those scorned women as if they were better.

Yet, something told you Everett, despite being the law when it came to the conservative traditions gluing this dark world, wouldn't raise his hand on you.

Even as he hoisted you over his shoulder, he was careful with his force.

Oh, you hated him at that moment. So much. But a slightly breathless thought passed your mind when he put you in the backseat of the car.

That Curtis Everett was a man.

As primitive as it sounded. Shallow, too. Still, you couldn't stop that fleeting thought that no man before him was able to just lift you up.

Well, not the men you dated, anyway. Aside from a short fling with one of the young mafia soldiers back when you were barely eighteen. After that, your choices have been guys outside of the famiglia.

Nice guys. Charming, non-threatening, with safe passions and gentle hands.

For so long, you told yourself that's what you wanted. That's what was healthy and normal. You were still convinced of that, it's just that some part of you liked the brief moment of being manhandled by an imposing, lethal man.

A man sitting next to you in the confines of a heavy black suv, with his legs spread wide, tattoos crawling up his fingers from beneath the cufflinked sleeves of a pristine steel gray shirt paired with an equally dark suit.

In the small space of the backseat of a car you could smell his perfume. Pine and herbs and salty sea.

Funny, you would expect that the ruthless devil at the head of the most powerful mafia to smell of grime, gunpowder, and death.

Taking a deep breath, you smoothed out the fabric of your dress over your knees.

"I really think this is the wrong choice." You spoke up, keeping your voice confident, but not daring.

You had the will to fight for yourself, but you were aware of the workings of the world, especially this criminal one. There were repercussions for everything and it'd be stupid to think you could get away with disrespecting the fucking Don.

You also liked living, so you had no intention of chewing through your own arm just to get free, like a caged animal.

Curtis' pointed a single finger at you.

"That is exactly why you're the perfect choice." He said, with the same calm, polite finality he was talking with at the dinner at your family's place.

"What?" You frowned, confused. "The fact I don't want it?"

"No. Because you are furious, but able to control yourself. Because, despite trying for many years to stay outside of mafia workings, you know how to play that game."

"If you want a smart wife, I assure you there are quite a few to choose from. Not every mafia princess is a spoiled, stupid bimbo." Which wasn't their fault, either. It was how they were raised.

Who knows, maybe if your dad was up in the ranks and more influential, you too would be groomed to be a completely docile, sweet mouse.

"Each woman brings different advantages." Curtis said, not the least remorseful.

"I don't come with many," you countered.

Your family was a part of the mob. Your father, his brother, your brother and your cousins. They all were on mafia payroll, though they dealt with a small part of the whole crime machine.

Their influence and wealth were slightly above compared to middle class civilians, but not much compared to mobsters of higher status.

Besides, it's not like Curtis needed more money. He had the most of all.

Power, too.

"I disagree." He surprised you with his simple but genuine statement.

"But let's continue this at home." It was that moment you realized the car had stopped and you reached the destination.

Home. Curtis used that word purposely. Not his place, not inside the house. He called it home, reminding you of the inevitable fate.

As you stepped out, the materialistic part of that future spread before you in its glory.

The mansion was impressive. The grounds surrounding it, as well. Not a monstrosity, but a surprisingly warm classic, like an Italian villa. You bet there was a swimming pool.

Damn, you loved swimming. And sunbathing. And sweet cocktails.

You shook your head, getting yourself back on track as Curtis' hand touched your lower back and nudged your forward.

Inside, the interior was welcoming and stunning. You half expected an overabundance of gold and kitsch, but was greeted by classic comfort. This was a place that could really feel like a home, not just a statement on status.

Curtis guided you to a spacious room in which a wall of windows was interrupted by a massive, stucco fireplace.

"You may claim to be insignificant or not belonging, but I see it quite differently." Curtis opened a small wine fridge in the custom made bar and poured two glasses.

He handed you one.

"I'm confident in my worth as a human being," you took the glass from him. "But I don't see reason behind choosing me for a mob wife. For you out of all!"

If some soldier working under a Capo wanted to ask for your hand, it would be more believable. More likely a situation to fight and decline, too.

But the boss of bosses staking claim? Unbelievable.

Inevitable, too.

"Hmm, the Don is usually expected to marry for alliance." Curtis agreed. He stood opposite of you, neither of you sitting down. "However, at the moment, I'm in no need to form an alliance. Don't need to support the power using outsiders."

"What I'm in need for is to strengthen inner structure."

You took a sip of wine, mostly to wet your lips and throat.

"Okay, I get wanting to marry a daughter of your own men." You nodded in return. "It provides them with honor and respect, while further securing their loyalty to you. Still, it doesn't-"

"Lower ranked can be the weakest links when it comes to loyalty, but your family has been spotless for many years." Curtis explained.

"I don't believe you made that choice just to reward my family." Curtis may have been an honorable man, as far as criminals went, but even he wouldn't make such a big gesture for an insignificant last name.

"I didn't." He took a sip of wine, and you couldn't help but watch the way his throat moved as he swallowed.

"Your family's so called reward will echo through all the ranks."

Curtis' eyes glinted something cold and calculating. Instead of being only scared, you found yourself intrigued by the plan he was weaving.

"For the others on lower level it will mean hope for their potential promotion in the future. That their daughters will marry to higher ranks, or sons given positions under Capos."

"Sons... you mean my brother will-"

"He'll be working under McGregor." Curtis confirmed, the corner of his mouth curved into a smirk. "And with that new prestigious position and connections, he will get the hand of Giana."

It was shocking that the Don himself knew of such minor, gossip-level things like a foot soldier being in love with Capo's niece.

"Moreover, it will shake the upper ranks." Curtis continued in the same calm tone, only his eyes betraying heightening triumph.

"And sometimes, when you shake a branch, bad fruit falls."

Shit! He truly was two steps ahead. Of everyone.

Your breasts rose up in a quickened breath. You had a certain weakness for intelligence. A dose of fear spiked anew, too, for it meant Curtis definitely had a counter argument to every point you might roll out.

"If it comes to it, you'll find out which of your ups are greedy and power hungry enough to betray you." You concluded with a nervous swallow.

Curtis only nodded, taking another sip of his wine. Taking you as his wife wasn't just a whim for him, even if some might see it as it. Actually, it served him well, if most of people remained clueless.

"As for you," the cold in his eyes transformed into something ravenous that almost made you take a step back, "before you list me names of other unmarried girls from lower ranking families..."

You really were ready to come up with some propositions.

"You're fit to play the game and be a rightful queen by my side. Smart, confident, brave. And-" he sighed with relief- "a woman, not a child barely out of age."

Pressing your lips together, you almost laughed at his clear discomfort at the prospect of marrying and fucking an eighteen year old. You'd give him a point for that.

"What about the part of me not wanting to be a mob wife?" It had to be the wine that made you ask so boldly.

Or, perhaps, you were slowly accepting the unchangeable fate and merely poking at the bear.

"I would call it bullshit." Curtis shrugged.

"Excuse me?" You bristled.

You took a few quick steps over to the coffee table to put your glass down, then braced your hands on your hips. Curtis didn't move from his spot, only turned around to face you.

"You paint this picture of someone who's been trying to cut ties with the mafia, but you're still here. Sure, we can discuss how you'd probably be chased and brought to heel, but-" slowly, he took another sip of wine, completely unbothered- "would you, really?"

Before you opened your mouth to retort, he continued:

"You're very smart and resourceful, know how to talk people up and make connections. If you were truly determined to get away from it all, you would. And we probably wouldn't find you."

"Honestly, it's possible we wouldn't even put much power behind that chase. A daughter of a lower ranking mobster, we'd do it for the sake of your family's name, but named the case cold after a few weeks."

Your pulse quickened with annoyance. At his words, but more at the truth he was revealing and which you knew at the back of your head. Because, if you put all your effort into disappearing, you'd fucking succeed. For-fucking-ever!

"Still, you stayed." Curtis' voice was a smooth blade, cutting off your armour piece by piece.

"You ventured outside the lines of mob's web with your dates, but never formed close friendships with those not from the famiglia. Perhaps you'll claim it was to keep people safe, but I wonder if it wasn't because you feel more at ease with those who understand this life. Who understand certain comforts, dangers, and... cravings."

Your blood rushed south, pooling heat in your core at the mentioned thrill.

"You went all bold with the degree unusual for most mafia princesses to choose, and I admire that. Yet, here you are, not looking for a job in that field. You upgraded your family's small business, but it's nowhere near what you're qualified to do."

Because you wanted to be different. You wanted to be more than just a mold everyone else was cast from. You wanted to sate your ambitions and stimulate your brain.

At the same time, you couldn't imagine not being at your family's cafe.

"Actually-" Curtis paused to put his own glass on the table and took a step towards you- "you don't seem to have been doing much different things than other mafia princesses."

"You work more, yes. You spend less, yes. You don't frequent many brunches and cocktails, only Carmella's monthly spa spree. But you eat only at mafia owned places. You participate in Fiore's and Layton's community cookouts."

You wanted to scream at him that you supported the community, nothing else. But was it the sole truth?

It was also a habit. And, somehow, a distaste for anything that wasn't from the world you knew.

You could also admit that you acted spoiled on rare occasions. You couldn't afford to buy only brands, or to splurge on three bags full at Sephora. And you were fine with it. Still, you bribed Sabrina at Claude's boutique, to put away for you that short, pale pink faux fur they had in the upcoming order list.

Curtis' gaze slowly slid down your body then up again. It wasn't lecherous, yet felt like a dark promise of devouring you whole.

"Maybe you don't like to be called that, but you are a mafia princess. And you can be swooped away by the mafia king."

"You have it all figured out, don't you?" You huffed, frustrated with losing all reasonable arguments, beside just pure spite.

"Yes." He didn't gloat, he simply stated.

"Well, you haven't even really proposed! No getting on one knee and offering a ring!" You blurted out, throwing your hands in the air.

Mirth formed soft wrinkles around Curtis' eyes. His mouth widened in a grin that balanced between amusement and a shark's bite.

"Because it's not a proposal."

No, it wasn't. Proposals had the option of refusing. He wouldn't accept yours. Already didn't. It was quite magnanimous of him that he even entertained the whole discussion on the matter.

"But if it matters to you so much-"

His hands gripped your hips in a flash. He lifted you, so easily once again, then tossed you onto the sofa.

The world spun, before your gaze settled on the light wooden beams crossing the pristine white ceiling. Then your eyes shifted to look at the man hovering over you.

He pushed your legs apart, kneeling on the floor between them. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box.

Your pupils widened, and breath hitched in your chest. Though you weren't sure if it was because the motherfucker was clearly prepared for an actual traditional proposal, or if it was because of the way he had you splayed under him.

Curtis opened the box and a setting of blinding stones sparkled at you. The ring was stunning. Possibly worth half of this mansion.

You gaped as he took the ring in one hand. With his other, he lifted your hand, which somehow felt beyond your control. Slowly, he slid the ring onto your finger, all the while holding your gaze.

"I won't ask if you marry me, because you will." Curtis rubbed your knuckles with his thumb.

His other hand moved to your chest. Fingers brushed over the swell of your breasts then circled your throat.

"In six months." He leaned down, his voice lowering into a purr as he laid each new tile of your fate for you.

"Official announcement comes next week. We'll host the annual Christmas party for the famiglia as an engaged couple. A few other events before our spring wedding."

He pushed closer. You felt the heat of him between your thighs. Your clit throbbed with interest. His fingers on your neck tightened slightly and your pulse quickened beneath his thumb.

"I won't fuck you until our wedding night. I'm traditional like that. Plus, I don't want anyone to have any doubt about me choosing you. There won't be any claims that I did an honorable thing after knocking you up."

There was a mention of condoms at the tip of your tongue, nearly rolling out in a begging tone.

"Because when I fuck you-" his breath tickled your lips as Curtis leaned closer- "you will take me bare. Always. In every hole. You will leak with my cum and swell with my child."

Your pussy clenched around nothing.

The gasp that fell out of your lips wasn't of an outrage, nor mortification. Curtis read it for the need that it was, his eyes igniting with victory.