Chronically-confused.com

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You end up straddling Steve — Bucky’s grip firm on your hips as he guides you over Steve’s thick cock. His chin digs into your shoulder as he watches the spot Steve’s cock disappears into your warm, wet walls—your slick mixed with Bucky’s cum dripping onto Steve’s stomach.

“Two cocks not enough for you doll, is it? Should’ve invited Sam and Nat to have their way with you too, hmm?”

You clench around Steve’s cock—gasping—stomach flipping at the thought.

“She likes that. Such a little slut, hmm?” Steve grunts, thrusting up into you with every word, your body flailing—limbs loose and brain looser.

“Yeah, you’d want Nat to eat you out? Ride her face like you’re riding Stevie’s cock?” Bucky’s voice is gravel in your ear, fingers still digging into your hips.

“Yes Bucky, yes mm—” Your voice comes out in a desperate little plea—all breathy and high and completely gone for them. Your fingers scramble uselessly against Steve’s chest, trying desperately to cling onto some sense of sanity.

----

You’re lying flat on your stomach, almost passed out when you feel a stiff cock nudge against your clit.

“Can’t, s’too much—” You whine.

“Shh, shh, don’t gotta do nothing baby doll, you just lie there for us.”

You try squirming away with the little strength you have left before Bucky’s hands cup the curve of your ass, pulling you to him and pushing inside you.

You think it’s been another hour of them passing you back and forth—super soldier stamina keeping them both ready to go all night—Steve laughing when he makes you squirt and Bucky doesn’t. Bucky fucking you hard enough for you to scream, giving Steve a smug look and a ‘see, she didn’t scream like that for you.’ It’s like you’re not even there—cheeks stained with tears, legs shaking and sticky, hair a complete mess, bottom lip trembling from the burn between your thighs.

You’re completely gone. Your mind is somewhere else. Just your body left spread between them, cunt throbbing and aching as you feel another hard cock nudge between your folds, a deep voice cooing in your ear — ‘shh, s’okay baby just take it, we’re not done yet.’

You don’t know whose it is anymore—too fucked out to care. Steve or Bucky or maybe both? You’re probably stretched out enough by now.

Or maybe they really did invite the others to join…

Lois had left him, she had packed her bags and walked out the door. Though she wasn’t expecting him home, which explained the shocked look on her face when he walked through the front door, seeing her bags packed and her keys in her hand. Clark watched her leave before flying off anywhere that could keep his mind off her. He stumbled upon a certain building that caught his eye, the flashing sign that read ‘The Strawberry Shack’ caused him to become curious, so he landed and walked in. 

Listening to the woman at the front as she explained things, his face turning red, jaw clenching and his brows furrow as he realised the type of establishment he walked into. “So, sugar. What’s it gonna be? Door one or door two?” 

“Uh… What the hell. Door two.” He pulls out some cash and hands it over before walking toward the door, he can feel his mind go crazy as he enters, never seeing this many naked women before. Clark could feel a pull towards a certain woman, not being able to control his feet as he walks in your direction. He’d have to remember to be careful, not wanting to literally split you open from his strength. “Hello.”

Clark was mad and you could practically feel that radiating off him. So, you spread your legs, inviting him in for him to use you however he pleases. “I can feel your anger, handsome. Why don’t you use me, take it out on me.” 

Clark glares down at your sopping cunt, licking his lips as he feels himself harden in his pants. His hands move subconsciously, taking his cock out and stroking it as he stares down at you. A groan slips from his lips before he begins to slowly push inside of you. Clark’s eyes slip closed as he revels in the feel of a new woman, slowly thrusting in and out of you, hands gently gripping your hips as he feels you squeeze around his thick girth. 

“Oh, you feel so good. Fuck me, please.” You let out a breathless moan, your back arches off the bench as he begins to slam into you, hitting that spot deep inside of you. Clark begins to lose control, thrusting faster and harder, his cock throbs as he really fucks you. He grunts and groans, tightening his grip slightly, his eyes glow red as lasers shoot from his eyes and he quickly blinks.

“Fuck…” His balls tighten, hips jerk as he growls, releasing thick ropes of cum inside of you, coating your tight walls. He continues to roughly fuck into you until his balls are empty, enjoying how you squirt around him. “F–fuck…” He pulls out slowly, cleaning you up before tucking himself back into his pants. “I–I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.” Clark quickly worries, hurriedly running out the door and flying off, feeling ashamed for using you for his pleasure. 

You lie there, staring above as you can barely feel your legs, tingling between your thighs as stars cover your vision and a dopey smile rests on your face.

thank you for reading!

You knew better than to be here.

There are places in the city where the air smells like money and gun oil, where men speak in soft voices that decide loud outcomes. Verona is one of those places—Bucky Barnes’ place—four floors of glass, velvet, and a heartbeat you can feel in your teeth. When the elevator opens and you step onto the mezzanine, the beat swallows you up: bass like a pulse, lights like the blink of an animal eye, everything slick with shadow and intent.

You shouldn’t be here in a borrowed dress and shaky courage, clutching an envelope your boss shoved at you with an apology he didn’t mean. But debt makes liars out of the meek and messengers out of the innocent, and you’d rather face the devil you don’t know than the landlord who surely does.

Two men in black stand at the balcony rail, watching. One taps his earpiece when he sees you; the other steps forward with a look you can’t quite read. Not hungry. Not kind. Just… aware.

“Delivery?” he asks.

Your mouth is dry. “For Mr. Barnes.”

He nods, and for a second you think he’ll take it and send you away. Instead: “He’ll want to see you.”

They lead you down a hallway that drinks sound, plush carpet under your heels, walls that look like onyx. You realize halfway that you’ve left a world with rules and stepped into one where rules have names—names that don’t include yours.

At a set of double doors, the first man knocks once and doesn’t wait for an answer. Inside, the music is a rumor; the air smells like leather and smoke and the clean bite of whiskey. There are people in the room—three men at a long table, a red-haired woman by a bar cart, another man by the window. They all look, but only one looks like he owns the word.

Bucky Barnes sits with the lazy gravity of a planet. Dark hair, pushed back; shirt sleeves rolled to reveal forearms roped with muscle and veins; a watch that could buy a house and a knife on the table that says he doesn’t have to. When he lifts his eyes to you, the rest of the room becomes scenery.

“What’s this?” he asks, not because he doesn’t know, but because he wants to hear you talk.

You hold out the envelope. “From—” You say your boss’s name. It sounds like a confession. “He said to deliver it personally.”

Bucky doesn’t take it at first. His gaze maps you like a patient study: the way you shift on your feet; the thinness of your dress straps; how your fingers grip the paper as if you could strangle fate with it. Then he stands, slow, and even standing he’s not in a hurry. He comes close enough that you can count the flecks of steel in irises that look like winter water.

“Name,” he says.

You tell him.

He says it back, once, like he’s fitting it to his mouth. The sound lands heavy somewhere behind your ribs.

The redhead—she’ll later introduce herself as Natasha—takes the envelope when he finally inclines his chin. She lays it by the knife and slides a letter opener under the flap with a practiced wrist. A stack of bills thumps onto the table. The man by the window whistles low.

Bucky doesn’t look down. His attention stays where it lies—on you—like the rest of his empire can run itself for the length of a glance.

“You work for him?” Bucky asks.

You shake your head. “I… do admin. He’s my boss.”

A hum, almost amused. “And he sent you?”

“Everyone else said no.”

“And you don’t say no?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t want to be brave. You want to be unremarkable, forgettable, the sort of person who drifts through life like fog—felt, never held. “I needed the money.”

Bucky’s attention flicks, barely, to Natasha’s hands as she counts. “He still short?”

“A little,” she says, bored, and writes something in a leather book with a fountain pen that surely cost more than your rent. “He bought himself time, not mercy.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks once. He turns back to you like nothing else matters.

“You’ve got a good face,” he says. It shouldn’t sound like a verdict. “Honest. That a habit or an accident?”

Your laugh is thin. “Bad genetics.”

Something changes in his expression—something like the angle of a blade catching different light. He closes the distance by half a step. “Don’t make jokes to hide from me.”

The words should sting. Instead they slide under your skin, an instruction you almost want to obey.

He reaches into his pocket and brings out a card. No name, just a number and a single embossed initial: B. He extends it between two fingers. Your hand moves before prudence can weigh in.

“If he sends you again, you come to me first,” he says. “If he sends anybody again, you tell them you’re done. If anyone gives you trouble, you call that number.”

You look at the card like it’s a live wire. “Why—”

“Because I said so.” He says it quietly, but the room hears. “And because you don’t belong to him.”

“Then who do I—”

He smiles. It’s small, the kind of smile that says he remembers how but doesn’t need it often. “We’ll get there.”

It’s less a dismissal than a stay of execution. One of the men—the one who’d tapped his ear—returns to your side and opens the door. You move because there’s nothing else to do, because you can feel Bucky’s gaze on your spine like a hand.

In the hallway, your escort’s voice is almost gentle. “Don’t lose the card.”

You don’t.

—

You try to return to your life as if you can fold it back like clean laundry. You go to work. You make lists. You stock your fridge with cheap groceries and let fruit go bad because your appetite has shifted to something the grocery store doesn’t sell. You sleep less. You dream more.

The first time you see the car, it’s parked across from your building, black paint drinking the streetlight whole. It doesn’t have plates you can read and the driver doesn’t look at you when you pass. The second time, the driver does: a small nod, a look that says the neighborhood’s teeth don’t bite as hard when this particular animal prowls.

You tell yourself it’s coincidence until coincidence becomes a routine. The black car is there when you leave for work and when you return. Sometimes it disappears for hours and you feel the absence like a chill. Sometimes it idles while you put your key into your door, and you feel watched without feeling hunted.

On a Thursday, it rains the way the city mourns—messy, loud, insistent. You forget your umbrella and come home soaked, hair pasted to your neck, dress clinging like a needy hand. The lobby smells like old paint and damp mail. You take the stairs because the elevator whines and you’d rather owe your thighs than a mechanic.

He’s waiting on the third-floor landing like he’s always belonged there.

Bucky Barnes, sleeves rolled, top two buttons undone, water beading on his wrist where a watch slides silver against his skin. He’s a contradiction all the way down: expensive and unbothered, clean and dangerous, a man comfortable enough to be in your building and patient enough not to break down your door to prove a point.

Your heart does something juvenile in your chest. He looks at you like that’s the point.

“Thought you might use a hand,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts when your gaze drops involuntarily to his fingers.

“I—” You hoist your tote higher. “I’m fine.”

“Not what I asked, doll.”

The word lands differently than on TV lips. It’s not a generic pet name; it’s a claim, a clue to how he thinks. Doll—something you can hold, dress, arrange. Something that looks fragile and therefore requires protection. Something he keeps.

You should bristle. Your bones, traitors, soften.

“You can say no,” he says. “But don’t lie to me.”

It’s strange—how the permission makes refusal harder. You hand him the tote, and he takes it like it weighs less than his attention.

He follows you up the stairs, quiet as a thought. On your landing, you fumble the keys twice. He watches your hands and doesn’t laugh. When you get the door open, you step inside and turn because you’re not certain of the rules here, if you’re supposed to invite him or if he’s supposed to come in anyway.

He sets your bag just inside the door and leans one shoulder against the frame, the picture of courtesy as performance art.

“Lock’s loose,” he says. “Get it replaced.”

“I’ll tell my landlord,” you say. It sounds like telling a god about a rainstorm.

“Don’t.” He produces a small card you recognize: the same black with the same initial. He writes a name on the back with a pen that appears like a magician’s trick. “Call this number. Tell him I sent you.”

“Is this… your handyman?”

“Something like it.”

Silence hums. The rain makes a steady patter against the window down the hall, as if the weather is pretending to be domestic.

“Why do you care?” you ask. It’s an honest question, and you don’t know if you want an honest answer.

His eyes move across your face and land where your pulse beats in your throat. “Because you’re mine now,” he says, with the quiet certainty of someone describing the color of the sky.

You think you should slam the door. You don’t. You think you should tell him he’s wrong. You can’t remember how to say the word.

He doesn’t push. He taps the doorframe twice with two knuckles and steps back. “Get some sleep, doll.”

“Bucky,” you say, before you can stop yourself. The name tastes like you shouldn’t be allowed to have it.

He turns his head slightly. You meet his eyes and—for a blink—you see the man nobody else is allowed: the boy who learned the world wouldn’t love him unless he promised to bleed for it, the man who became its favorite knife.

“Use the number if you need me,” he says, and then he’s walking away, his profile carving the hallway into something you want to live in.

You lock the door the way he told you to. It doesn’t feel like safety. It feels like conceding to a weather pattern.

—

The next morning, the lock guy arrives at eight sharp, polite and competent and gone in under twenty minutes. He refuses your cash. “Mr. Barnes sends his regards,” he says, like this is the nineteenth century and you’re a duchess with a benevolent patron. You try to say no; he leaves a receipt and a smile that says it’s not worth arguing with gravity.

At work, you stare at spreadsheets until the lines ripple. Your boss buzzes around like a fly against glass. He doesn’t mention Verona or the debt or sending you into the lion’s den. He doesn’t look at you directly. When his phone rings and his face drains, you watch with a detached interest. He’s still short, you think, remembering Natasha’s voice. He bought himself time, not mercy.

At lunch, a courier drops a white box on your desk. Inside: a slice of cake that tastes like it costs more than your shoes, and a note written in a hand you know instinctively is Bucky’s: Eat. People forget. —B.

You want to toss it. You eat every bite, your tongue chasing sugar like a sinner who’s only ever been given salt.

That night, the black car follows a half-block behind as you walk home. When a man on the corner spits too close to your feet and steps into your path, the car drifts to the curb and idles there, a suggestion with an engine. The man mutters something to the air and slinks away. The car doesn’t move until you’re inside your building.

You think of cages. You think of umbrellas. You think of birds that don’t know they’re being fed because the hand is gentle.

—

When the summons comes, it’s not a summons. A man in a charcoal suit appears in your office lobby and says, “Ma’am? A car’s waiting.” He doesn’t use Mr. Barnes’ name. He doesn’t need to.

You could say no. Your mouth opens. “Let me get my coat,” you say instead, and hate the small relief you feel at deciding any part of this yourself.

The car is not the one from your street; it’s nicer, somehow—quieter, leather that smells like it came from the hide of a better animal. The city slips by the windows as if the route has been polished. You watch familiar blocks become unfamiliar angles. You text no one because there is no one to text. At some point, your phone buzzes: unknown number, a single message. Bucky: Do not be afraid of me. Be afraid of what I’ll do to anything that tries to touch you.

You stare at it until your eyes sting. You don’t answer.

The house is something out of a magazine that forgot to tell the truth about what kind of men buy houses like this. Black stone, iron gates, a sweep of steps that wants to teach you to walk differently. The front door opens before you reach it. Natasha is on the other side, barefoot on marble, a silk blouse tucked into trousers that would fit no one else as well.

“Hi, doll,” she says, teeth sharp in a friendly smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Come on in.”

“Do you call everyone that?” you blurt, because fear makes you rude, and rudeness feels like control.

“Only what belongs to him.” She winks like it’s a joke. “He’s in his office. I’m supposed to make sure you aren’t lost.”

You’re not sure which verb her boss gave her. Watch you. Assess you. Prepare you. You follow her down a hallway that smells like cedar and money. The walls are hung with art that probably has provenance documents thicker than your lease, but it’s not the art you notice. It’s the mirrors—subtle, built into the architecture, an arrangement that lets whoever sits behind the desk see anyone coming from anywhere.

When Natasha opens the office door, you understand what you’re walking into because your body does before your brain names it.

Bucky is behind the desk, jacket off, tie loosened as if he only ever means to strangle. He stands when he sees you. That alone is an intimacy.

“Doll,” he says, and the sound of it in this room is different than on a stair landing. It’s less claim, more invitation.

“Mr. Barnes,” you say, because you like pretending you can choose distance.

“Bucky,” he corrects gently. “Come here.”

Your legs carry you across the rug, which is so soft you think of secrets in fabric. He rounds the desk instead of letting you stand on the other side like a client. When he stops in front of you, you realize you’ve been holding your breath and release it in a shakier exhale than you mean to allow.

He studies you for a beat too long. You wish you had worn a different dress and you also wish you were naked. It’s a new kind of helplessness: wanting to be seen and to hide, simultaneously.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, before you can decide whether you mean food.

He registers that, and something like amusement dials the caution in his gaze down by one degree. “Natasha,” he says without looking away. “Have dinner sent up in thirty.”

“And if she’s full by then?” Natasha teases from the door.

“She won’t be,” he replies, and the certainty is obscene.

When you’re alone, he tilts his head toward a low couch by the windows. You sit. He takes the corner opposite you, closer than a colleague would, farther than a lover, his knee an inch from yours. He doesn’t touch you—yet. You feel him like a weather system.

“I sent for you because I don’t like coincidences,” he says. “And because I don’t like owing strangers.”

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, which is true and not.

“You came when I asked.” He says it like it’s an act of faith. “That earns thanks.”

You don’t know what to do with thanks from a man who has his name tattooed on the city’s throat. “You’re… welcome?”

He breathes out once, like you’ve said something that matters. “I want to be clear with you.” He shifts, forearms on his thighs, posture like a confessional. “This life is blood and glass, and either you walk around it or you walk through it. If you walk through it with me, I’ll make sure you never bleed unless I want you to.”

The honesty freezes you, the way a lake goes still under midnight. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise,” he says, soft as a bruise.

Your stomach flips. Somewhere behind your ribs, the part of you that wants to be good bangs a spoon against the table and tells you to leave. Another part—the part that is tired of running errands for men who would sell you for a debt, the part that craves someone who will look at you and keep looking—leans toward the flame.

“Why me?” you ask, and hate that it sounds like you hope there’s a reason.

“Because you don’t know how to lie to me yet,” he says simply. “Because you walked into my world and didn’t try to make yourself smaller. Because I like the way your mouth argues and the way your eyes agree.” He says your name again, low. “Because you feel like mine.”

“And what do you feel like?” you ask.

“Like the answer to a question you haven’t admitted you’re asking.”

Silence, heavy enough to bend light. His hand moves—a small thing, a slow thing—and then his knuckles are under your chin, tilting your face up. He doesn’t make it rough. He doesn’t have to. Power isn’t volume; it’s precision.

“Say my name,” he murmurs, not because he needs you to remember it, but because he wants to hear the surrender in your voice when you give it.

“Bucky,” you breathe.

He nods, as if you’ve passed a test he wrote in pencil just now. His thumb skims your lower lip, a touch so light that your body leans forward to make it more. He lets you. When your mouth parts, when your tongue darts without permission to taste him, he hums and presses his index finger between your lips.

You don’t think you’re the kind of person who takes a man’s finger into your mouth on a first… whatever this is. You are, apparently, exactly that kind. The pad of his finger rests heavy on your tongue; you close your lips and your eyes, and heat flickers down your spine like a lit match.

“Good girl,” he says, and you hate that the sound that escapes you is less language than prayer.

He withdraws slowly, purpose in every millimeter, like he’s teaching your mouth a tempo. When his finger leaves your tongue, you catch yourself chasing it. He smiles like he’s felt that in his own body.

“I’m not going to take anything from you you don’t give,” he says, voice gone lower, the kind of low that ruins futures. “I’m going to make you decide that you want to give it.”

“That sounds like manipulation,” you say, because you need the protest to survive yourself.

“It’s seduction,” he says, and brings his thumb back to your mouth. “Open.”

You do. He presses just enough to feel the refusal that never arrives. He says your name and you answer with your throat.

There’s a knock. He doesn’t flinch. He removes his hand and sits back, composed in a breath. “Come.”

Two staff bring in trays—covered dishes, glassware, a wine bottle that probably has a pedigree. They set everything on a low table and vanish like trained ghosts. You watch his profile as he lifts lids and reveals roasted chicken, herbed potatoes, a salad that glows green like it was picked in a kinder city.

“Eat,” he says, and you picture the note with the cake. You take a bite because your body remembers hunger even when your mind has gone on strike.

He watches you for a while, like this is part of the test too—how you hold a fork, how you chew, whether you thank him. You do. He acknowledges it with a small tilt of his head, as if you’ve put a coin in a machine that will someday dispense something you can’t afford.

He eats, too. It feels illicitly intimate—this ritual of domesticity staged in a lion’s mouth. Your knee brushes his. The world holds its breath.

“You work in an office,” he says, not quite a question.

“I do,” you say. “It’s not exciting.”

“Good.” He takes a sip of wine and doesn’t offer you any, which should offend you. It steadies you instead—there are rules here, and you will learn them. “You like it?”

“I like… leaving at five.”

“Mm.” He sets down his glass. “What would you do if you didn’t need the money?”

You think of answers that sound like the truth in other mouths. Travel. Paint. Open a dog rescue. You swallow chicken that suddenly tastes like confession. “I don’t know.”

“Liar,” he says, but he says it fondly. “Try again.”

“Sleep,” you say, surprising both of you. “And wake up without my first thought being a number.”

He considers that, and for a moment you glimpse something like anger on your behalf. “I can give you that.”

“You can’t buy sleep,” you say.

“I can buy the things that steal it.”

You’re about to argue when he reaches over, plucks a piece of potato off your plate with his fingers, and holds it in front of your mouth. The gesture bypasses your cortex and lodges in your throat. You part your lips and let him place it on your tongue. His knuckles brush your lower lip; your breath catches on them.

“There you go,” he says, as if you’ve done something right.

By the time the plates are pushed away and the staff have silently returned to make the evidence disappear, your body is thrumming. Not just with desire—though that’s there, low and insistent—but with… alignment. Like you’ve been slightly off-kilter for years and something about being observed like this has nudged you into balance.

“Come,” he says, standing, and the word is both invitation and command. He offers you his hand. You stare at it for one heartbeat too long. Then you take it.

He doesn’t lead you toward a bedroom. He leads you down another hallway to a room with double doors painted white. He palms them open and steps aside so you can enter first.

It is not a bedroom. It is a room that looks like someone took all the things you’ve ever quietly liked and curated them into a space shaped like your spine. Shelves with books by authors you actually read, not the ones you pretend to. A small couch in a fabric you once touched in a store and couldn’t afford. A window seat with cushions in a color that flatters your skin. On a dress form in the corner, a silk slip in your size and a sweater so soft your fingers itch.

You don’t ask how he knows. You already know the answer. The city would call it creepy. The part of you that wants to be known calls it relief.

“What is this?” you ask, voice thin.

“The dollhouse,” he says, and the word should send you running. Instead it lands soft and terrible in your chest. “A place that’s yours. In my house.”

No one has ever made room for you like this. Not even you.

“I didn’t—” You swallow. “You didn’t have to—”

“I didn’t do it to impress you,” he says, and you believe him. “I did it so you’d understand the shape of what I want.”

“What do you want?”

He steps behind you, his reflection appearing over your shoulder in the window’s black glass. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. “Your loyalty,” he says, voice a ribbon around your throat. “Your honesty. Your time. Your fear—of everyone but me.” He waits, and the waiting is the first real touch. “Your surrender.”

There it is, the word he planted days ago like a flag. You should say no. The old parts of you perform the motions of resistance. But another part—the part that is so tired of pretending not to be built for this—leans back an inch, a silent confession.

He notices. God, he notices everything.

“Turn around,” he says.

You do. He’s close enough now that you can count his lashes. The smell of him fills your head—clean and metallic and human. His hand rises like you’re on a string and he’s a gentle puppeteer, and when his fingers curl around your throat they don’t squeeze; they cradle. A pulse hammers against his thumb. You don’t know whose it is.

“Use your words,” he says, the warning in his tone wrapped in velvet. “If I ever touch you when you don’t want me to, you’ll tell me and I’ll stop. If I tell you to do something you can’t, you’ll say so and I’ll change the order.” His eyes search yours and find purchase. “I don’t break my toys. I keep them.”

“I’m not—” You swallow the word. Owned. The truth looks different when it’s the one you choose. “I don’t know what I am.”

“Good,” he says softly. “Don’t decide yet.”

He releases your throat and slides his hand to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, not to control you but to hold the animal hush of the moment still. When he leans down, he pauses a breath away, and you feel the hover of his mouth like heat on skin.

“Tell me to kiss you,” he murmurs.

You should make him earn it. You should say please. You should do something clever. “Kiss me,” you hear yourself say, and realize it’s the cleverest thing you’ve ever done.

He does. It’s unhurried, heavy with intention, a claim that tastes like smoke and a future you’re already explaining to no one. His mouth moves like he’s memorizing you and rewriting you simultaneously. When you open for him, he groans into you, the sound threaded with restraint. His hand tightens at your nape—not a threat, a tether.

You don’t notice you’re shaking until he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours. “Breathe,” he says, and inhales with you, exhaling slow, like you’re both learning how.

“I… this is—” You fish for the right noun. Dangerous. Wrong. Perfect.

“New,” he supplies, and smiles against your cheek. “For you. Not for me. That’s why you’ll be safe.”

You laugh, a small broken sound. “That’s not how safety works.”

“In my world, it is.”

You should argue. Instead you lean into the palm he cups against your jaw. He rubs his thumb along your cheekbone like he’s smoothing mortar into a foundation.

“Go home,” he says finally, and you blink.

“What?”

“Go home,” he repeats. “You’re going to think about this if I let you. If I keep you, you’ll follow because you’re drowning, not because you want to swim.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, a brand. “I only want you to come back when you’ve decided to drown on purpose.”

It’s cruel, how kind that is. It’s a mercy that feels like a blade.

“Will you—” You don’t know how to ask the question without sounding like a child asking the dark to wait outside. “Will your car…?”

“Yes.” He strokes your hair once, a gesture that goes straight to some soft animal rooted in your hindbrain. “You’re watched until you say you don’t want to be.”

“And if I say that?”

He smiles without humor. “We’ll renegotiate the terms until you understand you do.”

You should be offended. You find yourself relieved by the clarity.

He walks you back through hallways that look like fortresses pretended to be homes. At the front door, he helps you into your coat like a gentleman except his fingers linger at your collar in a way no gentleman would. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear like he’s hanging a piece of art.

“Goodnight, doll,” he says.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you answer, and the way your voice trembles on his name registers in his eyes like something he will later collect interest on.

In the car home, you stare out the window at a city you thought you knew. It looks the same and different. Like someone has adjusted the focus and the edges have sharpened.

At your building, the driver gets out and opens your door before you can reach for the handle. He doesn’t ask if you want him to walk you in. He just does. At your door, he waits until your key turns and the lock catches—the new lock, firm and certain.

“Good night, miss,” he says, touching two fingers to the brim of nothing, as if he’s wearing a hat that has to be imagined.

“Does he… do this for everyone?” you ask, because you have to ask someone.

The driver’s face doesn’t move much. “No, miss.”

You close the door and lean your forehead against it, listening to the sound of the car leaving. The apartment is exactly as you left it: a plant you forgot to water, a cup in the sink, a blanket on the couch that never warmed you up as much as you told yourself it did.

On your kitchen table, where there was nothing when you left, there’s a small box. Your heart trips and bolts like a deer. You look for signs of forced entry and find none, because men like him do not force anything they own. They open it.

Inside, on black velvet: a slim gold chain and a charm shaped like a key. Not a real one—decorative, delicate, the kind of thing you could wear every day and forget until a man’s finger hooked it to pull you closer.

A note, written in the same sure hand:

For when you’re ready to let yourself in. —B.

You hold the charm until the edges bite.

You should be afraid. Maybe you are. But when you carry the box to your bedroom and set it on your nightstand, when you curl around the emptiness that looks like a body-shaped decision, fear sits in the corner and says nothing. Desire takes the chair by the bed and watches you sleep.

You dream that night of a room with mirrors and a man who won’t touch you until you ask. You dream of a dollhouse where the furniture rearranges itself until it looks like home.

In the morning, you put on the necklace without telling yourself you’re just trying it. It lies against your skin like a promise you haven’t made yet. On your way out the door, you lock it with the new lock and whisper to the empty hall, “I’ll call you,” because you are a liar who wants to tell the truth.

On the street, the black car idles half a block away. It merges into traffic when you do, not too close, not too far, the distance of a hand at the back of your skull. When you pass the corner where the man spat near your shoes, he looks up and looks away before his gaze can land. You feel like the city itself has decided you’re breakable glass behind a velvet rope.

At your desk, your boss hovers and clears his throat and attempts to bully a spreadsheet. You stare at the numbers and think not of debt but of ratio: how much of you belongs to the world, how much to yourself, how much to a man who said what you are like it was his to name.

At lunch, you almost text him. You don’t. At 3 p.m., a paper bag arrives with a sandwich that tastes like someone researched your favorite bread and paid a person to bake it before dawn. No note this time. He’s giving you space to use the rope you’ve been handed.

You make it to dusk before you break.

In your apartment, you stand by the window with the city bleeding pink into blue and the necklace cool against your skin. You hold your phone like it’s a weapon you can point at yourself. You open the text thread and type nothing and then you type:

I’m not afraid of you.

Then, because honesty is a habit you’re growing like a dangerous plant, you add:

I’m afraid of how much I’m not.

The dots appear fast, like he had the thread open too. His reply arrives:

Good. Come back when you’re done being afraid of that.

You don’t type for a long minute. The car downstairs doesn’t move. Neither do you.

Finally:

Tomorrow.

A beat. Then:

I’ll be ready.

You lock the phone and set it face down. In the mirror, the charm on your necklace catches the last light and throws it onto your collarbone like a mark.

You sleep without dreams, as if a decision has been made by a part of you that doesn’t use words. In the morning, when you tie your shoes, you reach for the door and pause with your hand on the knob. You look down at the charm. You close your fingers around it and whisper, not to the empty room but to the version of yourself that has been waiting on the other side of the door all along:

Okay.

You open the door. The black car glides to the curb like an answer.

You’re done pretending you don’t know the question.

You keep your word.

The next evening, the car meets you with the inevitability of the tide. It’s a different driver this time—broad shoulders, a scar near his temple, eyes that note your necklace and mark something down you can’t see. He opens your door; the city folds around you as the car slides through it like a blade in silk.

You expect the house. He takes you to Verona.

The club is louder tonight, or maybe your body is the drum. Lights shiver up the walls, white and blue and sinful red. The line outside snakes halfway down the block—dresses like invitations, suits like threats—yet the car pulls directly to a side entrance where a man you’ve never seen lifts the latch the moment your heel touches pavement.

Inside, bass thumps your bones into a new arrangement. You pass people who try not to stare and fail. The hallway is the same as the first night, but you are not. You feel it in your skin: a secret stitched under your dress, an answer on the back of your tongue.

Bucky’s office door is open. He stands with his back to the city, hands in his pockets, a silhouette that would make angels rethink their career choices. When he turns and sees you, the room pauses in deference.

“Doll.”

Your reply is softer than you intend. “Bucky.”

Natasha’s there, too, perched on an arm of the leather sofa, phone in hand like an accessory. She watches the way you walk toward him and files it in the cabinet behind her eyes. “You look good,” she says, and you know she’s not talking about your dress.

Bucky closes the space. He doesn’t touch you. He lets the air handle that. His gaze drifts to the necklace and back. “You decided,” he says.

“I decided,” you echo, and the gravity between you doubles.

He breathes in like the answer tastes. Then: “Walk with me.”

He takes you through the club, not fast. Eyes cut toward you and away again, the world taking its cues. His hand hovers at your lower back without contact, and the absence is more electric than any touch. On the second floor, he brings you to a balcony that overlooks the main floor—a view that makes the dance floor look like an altar.

“You ever been worshipped?” he asks conversationally. The question lands in your stomach like a swallow of heat.

“I… don’t think so,” you say, and it sounds like a confession.

He rests his knuckles on the railing, close enough that your arm hairs lift. “You’re about to learn what it looks like.”

You don’t get to ask what he means. He’s already moving, and when Bucky Barnes moves, the city rearranges to suit. He leads you down a set of stairs tucked behind velvet curtains and onto the very edge of the dance floor, where the lights are low enough to grant intimacy and high enough to ensure visibility.

He faces you. For a long beat, he just looks—head tilted slightly, eyes moving over you with a deliberation that makes your knees stupid. Then he lifts his right hand and offers it for your left.

“Hand,” he says, and your body supplies the answer before your mind can pretend it’s got standards.

The pad of his thumb strokes once along the base of your fingers, a slow reassurance that hides a claim. He takes your other hand and places it on his chest, just above his heart. It’s a simple thing, a public thing—and indecent in how it derails you. His heartbeat is steady. Yours scrambles to catch up.

“Breathe with me,” he says, like last night, like always, and you swear your lungs figure out their choreography only because his are willing to lead.

Music swells. He doesn’t dance, not exactly—he moves you—guiding you with a pressure at your waist, a shift of his palm, the way his hips dictate a pattern your hips are desperate to recognize. It is not complicated. It is not innocent. It is a liturgy, call-and-response. Every slide of your body against his writes a line in a book you will not be allowed to close.

When he leans down to speak into your ear, his breath grazes your skin. “You feel that?”

“Feel what?” you manage, and he smiles because he knows you know.

“Every eye,” he murmurs. “Every wish. Every man in this room who will go home tonight and try to decide if it’s envy or terror he tasted.”

“I don’t—” Your mouth is dry. “I don’t want them.”

“You don’t have them,” he says, and the certainty in his voice buckles your resolve and cements your spine simultaneously. “You have me.”

He turns you under his arm. The necklace glints at your throat; his attention flicks there and sticks.

When he settles you against him again, palm splayed warm at your lower back, he lowers his voice further, speaks into your neck like a secret. “I’m going to give you two rules,” he says. “Here. Now.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

“One.” His thumb presses—a brief, controlled weight at the side of your spine that has your body saying yes in a language older than your lips. “You don’t look at anyone else when I’m holding you.”

You nod, a small tilt, quick.

“Two.” He raises your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. It should be courtly. The heat that pours out of you in response proves it’s not. “When I tell you what you are, you believe me.”

“What—” The word stumbles. “What am I?”

He smiles like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Mine.”

You swear you hear the click of something locking into place far away, in the bones of the building, in the bones of you.

He keeps you there longer than is reasonable, a slow circuit through one song and then another, until you have a catalog of what his chest feels like under your palm and what his hands can make your feet do. It’s possessive. It’s tender. It’s a warning delivered as seduction.

At some point there’s a movement in the corner of your eye—the shift of a group, the eddy of a current around a rock. A man in a suit that cost less than his ambition shoulders through the crowd toward the edge of the floor, two goons in his wake like badly trained dogs. He has a ring that tries too hard and a face that thinks it’s a face.

He says Bucky’s name, casually wrong. “Barnes.”

The music doesn’t stop. The world does.

Bucky looks at him without looking at him. “You have business?”

The man glances at you. It’s a glance that attempts to be insult and invitation at once. It fails to be either. “Didn’t know you were training a new pet,” he says, loud enough to be heard, not loud enough to be safe.

You don’t have time to flinch. Bucky’s hand tightens fractionally at your waist—not to bruise, to anchor. His eyes don’t change temperature. His tone remains conversational.

“John,” he drawls. “I thought we weren’t doing metaphors anymore after you embarrassed yourself with the horse thing.”

A few people within earshot laugh the way people laugh at funerals when a child says something honest. John’s mouth flattens. “You’ve got territory on my block and I’ve got questions.”

“Is that right?” Bucky says. “You can send them to my accountant. He’ll ignore them for me.”

John squares his shoulders in a way that suggests he’s had success squaring them in other rooms. “Or,” he says with the confidence of a man who has never heard the sound of his own bones breaking, “we could schedule a talk. Tonight.”

Bucky’s attention returns to you long enough to press his mouth to your temple. The contact undoes you and reassembles you in the space of a heartbeat. When he looks back at John, his hand spreads wider at your waist, a seal.

“I have plans tonight,” he says. “You’re not in them.”

John’s gaze darts again to your necklace. He smiles, small and rotten, and leans toward one of his goons to murmur something meant to be a weapon. The goon laughs too quickly.

Bucky hears. Of course he hears. He’s been listening to rooms his whole life.

“John,” he says, and his voice is no longer conversational. It slips a register into something else—cold and precise, the sound that moves through a crowd before the knife does. “Look at me.”

John does, because there are orders human bodies can’t refuse even when their minds are arrogant.

“If you ever refer to her as an it again,” Bucky says, enunciating the pronoun until the syllable bleeds, “you’ll be feeding soup to your good hand with your bad hand for the rest of your life. Are we clear?”

The music goes on. The room gets quieter the way a room does when it chooses a side.

John swallows. He tries to mask it as disdain. “We’re clear.”

“Good.” Bucky angles his head toward the exit with the smallest of movements. “Go home. Tell your mother you were brave today. Let her clap for you.”

John steps back. His goons do the math and add themselves to the distance.

Bucky doesn’t watch them go. He tips your chin up with one finger—light, intimate, an antidote to the display. “You all right?”

“You threatened to break his hand,” you say faintly.

“I said I’d make him relearn how to use it,” Bucky corrects softly. “It’s educating.”

Against yourself, you laugh. The sound loosens something low in his chest; you feel it with your palm still on him.

“Come on.” He tucks you into his side and steers you back toward the private corridor. “Enough music. I want to hear you instead.”

You feel the words between your legs.

Natasha’s gone from the office when you return; a penthouse key lies on the desk. Bucky pockets it. He looks at you with a consideration that reads like patience but feels like pressure. “We go upstairs,” he says. “We go at your speed.”

You nod. You don’t trust your voice; you’re afraid it will crawl out of your mouth and kneel.

In the elevator, mirrored walls give you back a version of yourself you recognize less by the second. The charm at your throat catches the downlight; Bucky’s eyes track it and then your mouth. When the doors slide open, you step into a space that sits on top of the city like a crown and a sniper’s nest at once.

His bedroom is not the dollhouse. It’s darker, bigger, a museum of restraint. The bed is an invitation written in black linen. The windows unspool the skyline like ribbon.

He doesn’t touch you right away. He shows you his hands. It’s a small thing. It eases the butterflies in your chest.

“Words,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”

You stand there with your heart in your throat and the city at your feet and the man who could ruin or save you—probably both—waiting like he has time. You realize suddenly you have never been asked this. You have been taken, persuaded, nudged. You have never been given the floor.

“I…” The first things that come are small, to fill the silence. “I want to be kissed. I want to be—” Your voice lowers of its own accord. “I want to be handled.”

His jaw flexes. He takes a step. “Gentle or not?”

You swallow. “I don’t know.”

“We can find out,” he promises.

“And I want—” You don’t mean to say it. The truth takes you by the throat and steadies your head. “I want to stop thinking about anything else.”

Something like pride flares in his eyes—not pride in himself; pride in you. “Come here.”

When you do, he lifts his hand to your throat again—lighter than before, a check, a hello—and waits for your body to settle. It does, to a pitch you hadn’t known your strings could harmonize at. He bends and kisses you, slower than downstairs, deeper than last night. You meet him with a hunger that embarrasses you until you feel the soft noise he makes into your mouth and understand that hunger is the point.

“Dress,” he says against your lips, and your hands find the zipper with a competence that feels like proof. He watches it slide, the fabric slackening, the shape of you emerging less like a reveal than a memory he’s been carrying. The dress puddles. His breath stutters—just a little, just enough—and his eyes go heavy.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, which is not a new sentence in the world and yet feels like the first time it’s ever been truthful. “Turn.”

You do. He unhooks your bra with a practiced ease that should annoy you. It doesn’t. The straps drop. His hands skim down your arms and leave your skin wanting them back. He sets the bra aside like an object of moderate interest and covers your shoulders with his palms, warm and sure, aligning you with himself and the window and the future.

“Look,” he murmurs, angling you so you can see yourselves in the glass: your bare skin, his suited frame behind you like night about to happen. “See the city? That’s mine. See you?” His mouth ghosts your ear. “That’s mine, too.”

The possessiveness should scrape. It soothes. It gives you a place to be.

His fingers bracket your hip bones and pull you back against him, and when you feel him—hard and unambiguous—your knees think about giving out. He holds you up with a hand splayed low on your belly, a promise and a predicament, and the other hand climbs, steady as a clock, to cup your breast.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, and rolls your nipple between finger and thumb, gentler than the words promise. Heat shoots downward, a precise line. Your mouth opens on a sound you didn’t hire.

“Good,” he says, satisfied, and keeps going—building, not rushing, teaching your nerves how to read him. His pace is unhurried, as if you have all night and every night after. Maybe you do.

He sinks to his knees behind you without warning. The act would be servile on another man. On him it reads like a coronation. He kisses the small of your back through the silk of your slip, then pushes it up, hands patient, mouth impatient. When he presses his lips to the top of your thigh, your skin goes electric.

“Foot up,” he says, and lifts it onto a low bench you hadn’t noticed, opening you with a choreographed ease that must have been discussed long ago between his body and gravity. He hooks a finger in your panties and slides them aside. The air bites you. His breath cools you. His mouth destroys you.

You hear yourself say his name like a warning, like a theology. He hums against you, pleased, and the vibration makes your grip on the bench go foolish. He doesn’t devour. He eats. Lingering, savoring, mapping. Every time your hips try to chase and run, his arm tightens around your thigh, reminding you who leads. You yield for the first time in a way that counts—your body telling the truth your mouth is still working up to.

“Bucky, I—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. He finishes it for you, pulling back just enough to say, “You can, if you ask.”

You gasp, angry in the way only people on the edge are angry. “Ask?”

“Words,” he says, and his mouth returns to your undoing, slower now, coaxing you toward a place where language loses jurisdiction.

“Please,” you hear yourself say, a whisper, a plea, a prayer, and he gives it to you like a man who knows the value of his own charity: fully, thoroughly, precisely. You come like you’ve been trying to do it for years and someone finally delivered the right set of instructions in the right voice.

He stands while you’re still drifting, hands steady, mouth soft when it takes yours, letting you taste exactly what he’s made of you. “Good girl,” he says, and this time the words land somewhere that has nothing to do with obedience and everything to do with recognition.

He eases you onto the bed and sheds his jacket, then his tie, then unbuttons his shirt with a patience that makes you ache. You watch him like a starving thing learning the geometry of a meal. Scars ladder his shoulder, white lines written in a hand you don’t yet know. He catches your gaze tracing them and says nothing. The silence is trust.

When he frees himself from his trousers, you forget to disguise your reaction. He smiles, small and male and not unkind. He kneels on the edge of the bed and drags his hands up your calves, your thighs, until his thumbs sit in the hollows where your legs meet your hips.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he says. The sentence is naked, not at all vulgar. “Not to take anything. To give you something you can’t unknow.”

You nod like the student who’s finally understood the subject.

He reaches to the nightstand. There’s nothing performative about the condom; he rolls it on easily while looking at your face like the slide of latex is secondary to the slide of your pupils widening. When he settles between your knees, his hand returns to your throat—not squeezing, just there, a reference point, a compass. The head of him rests at your entrance, status, promise.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. He pushes in slowly, watching your face like a monitor, reading your microflinches, adjusting his angle as if you’ve spoken them out loud. The stretch burns and gives, the pain small and bright, the relief wider and darker. He seats himself to the hilt and stills, chest rising, a man with a map getting his bearings.

“Breathe,” he reminds you. You do. He smiles, praise without words, and pulls nearly out before easing back in—again, again—building rhythm, testing how your sounds break and reassemble with each stroke.

You wrap your legs around his waist; he grunts, low and grateful, and pushes deeper. His forehead tips to yours; the charm on your necklace kisses his throat. He kisses you back with his mouth and his body both, the motion tightening, the control absolute.

“Tell me whose you are,” he says, not a command you can disobey, but a door you’ve been walking toward since you stepped into the club with an envelope like a talisman.

“Yours,” you say, first as an exhale, then as a sentence, then as a decision. “I’m yours.”

“That’s right,” he breathes, and the way it breaks inside him almost makes you cry.

He flips you before you know you want it—onto your hands and knees, a hand flattening in the small of your back to keep you against the sheets, the other circling your hip like a brand. He braces, draws out, and drives back in with a force that steals the noise from your throat and replaces it with a better one. The headboard knocks a rhythm. You reach for the pillow; he catches your wrist and pins it behind your back gently, a restraint more erotic for the care of it.

“You take me so well,” he says, and somehow it’s not a compliment about your body but about your character. “Good girl. Good. You’re mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp, and then again when he hits a place inside you that draws sparks up your spine. “Bucky, I—”

“Ask,” he reminds you, breath roughening. “Use your words.”

“Please,” you say, raw. “Please let me—”

“Now,” he says, a gift, and you come hard enough to see white, hard enough to forget names and find them again on his tongue when he presses himself into you and follows with a shudder that feels like a promise being signed.

He doesn’t collapse. He lowers you. Difference. You notice it even in the fog. He presses kisses along your shoulder blade, the base of your skull, a reverent inventory. He eases out slowly, discards the condom, returns with a warm cloth. He cleans you with a gentleness that rewires your understanding of power.

“Water,” he says, and brings it to your mouth. He tells you to drink and you listen without pause. The combination is a fuse.

When he lies down, you go without being told, fitting yourself to his side like space learned your shape while you were busy. His hand draws circles at your hip, slow and grounding. The city hums through the glass like applause buried under traffic.

“Tell me what hurts,” he says into your hair.

“Nothing,” you whisper, which is not true, but none of it is bad.

“Tell me what scares you.”

You hesitate. He waits. You realize he will wait until you are old if that’s what it takes. “How easy it is,” you say finally. “To say yes to you.”

He exhales, long. “It won’t always be easy,” he says. “But it will always be simple.”

You tilt your head up, meet his eyes. “What’s simple?”

He taps your necklace. “You ask. I answer. You obey when you want to. You refuse if you must. I keep you regardless.”

“That last part makes the others feel fake.”

He shakes his head once. “It makes them real.”

You close your eyes and let the bed move with his breathing. For a while, there is no conversation, only the American myth of a man who loved a city enough to domesticate it and the complicated truth of a woman who has stopped pretending she wants to live somewhere else.

When you stir, he says, “Stay,” and you realize he isn’t asking. You realize you wanted him to tell you that. You drift.

You wake later to the soft click of keys, a murmured voice—his—somewhere in the apartment. Not gentle. Not unkind. Business, soothed by the knowledge that you are here.

You sit up and find a glass of water replenished and a folded thing on the chair: the silk slip from the dollhouse room. It’s the exact shade that makes your skin look expensive. You put it on. When he returns, the look he gives you composes a new national anthem.

“Come,” he says, and leads you—hand at your back—to the dollhouse. It’s exactly as you left it and slightly different, a blanket added to the couch, a book you mentioned once under the window seat. He sets a small velvet box on the table between you.

You feel the shape of what’s inside before he opens it. It’s not a ring. It’s a band—thin, gold, a circle with no jewel, simple enough to ignore and impossible to miss. He lifts it between his fingers.

“This is not a marriage you don’t want,” he says with a wry tilt of his mouth. “It’s a declaration you do.”

“Declaration of what?” Your voice is steady. You surprise yourself.

“That you belong to me,” he says, as if reading a weather report. “And that I belong to you in the way a wolf belongs to the woods that raised him. Not tamed. Not leashed. Home.”

He slides the band onto the chain beside the key. It chimes a quiet chime. Your throat works around a lump that tastes like acceptance.

“If you wear it,” he says, “my people will treat you as me. My enemies will treat you as me. Every door opens. Every mouth shuts. Every hand helps.” He pauses, and the silence is a bow with a string drawn. “And every man who thinks a circle on a chain is less binding than a circle on a finger will learn remedial math.”

You laugh. It comes out cracked; he smooths it with his smile.

“Do you want it?” he asks.

Want. The word lays you out. “Yes,” you say. “I want it.”

He leans in and kisses the hollow at the base of your throat, right where the chain rests, sealing a contract both of you wrote without paper. When he sits back, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, jaw setting in a way your instincts label as bad news.

“What?” you ask.

He weighs what to say, then doesn’t condescend. “John,” he says. “He didn’t go home like a good boy.”

“Is it—” You glance at the windows as if the threat might announce itself in neon. “Dangerous?”

“It’s inconvenient,” Bucky says, which is the most terrifying answer you’ve ever loved. “I’m going to take care of it. You are going to stay here.”

“I can—” You look around the dollhouse. The safety is almost obscene. “I’ll stay.”

“Natasha will be outside the door,” he adds. “If you need anything, you say her name. If she needs to come in, she won’t ask twice.”

“You think he’ll… come here?”

“I think he’ll do what small men do when they’re seen by big rooms.” He stands, already in motion. “He’ll make a mess where someone else has to clean it.”

He takes your face in both hands and kisses you, not a goodbye, a continuation. “Be good,” he says. “Be mine.”

“I am,” you answer, and watch him go.

The house quiets. Quiet has a sound in spaces like this—money sleeping, security cameras blinking like eyelids. You read three pages and then read them again without absorbing a word. You stand and walk to the window seat and press your palms to the glass and try to name the way your life has moved two inches to the left and landed better.

The first sound is faint. A disturbance of air. Boots on gravel. You tell yourself it’s always like this, alive things outside.

The second sound is not faint at all. Metal on metal, a scrape you can feel in your teeth. Then voices—men who speak in low tones because they think volume equals fear.

You stand. You don’t run to the door because you hear Bucky’s voice inside your head reminding you of the simplest instructions. Stay. Natasha outside. Say her name.

“Natasha,” you say, and the door is already opening because she heard the first sound, not the second. She steps in, a pistol in her hand she didn’t have in the office, hair tied back like a woman who has never once lost a bar fight.

“Come on,” she says, calm, and takes your arm. You’ve never been so grateful to be told what to do. She leads you not into the hall but into a narrow panel you would have called molding an hour ago. It swings shut behind you and becomes a wall. A small light glows just enough to show a corridor that looks like the house put on lingerie.

“Panic passage,” Natasha says lightly as you move. “For when men are stupid.”

“How often—” You don’t complete the sentence. You don’t want to know.

“Often enough,” she says, which is surprisingly reassuring.

You hear a bang behind the wall. Then another. Steps—many, fast—someone shouting no words, just noise. Natasha’s hand tightens once on your wrist. It steadies you more than it should.

“You should know,” she says conversationally as you turn a corner and the passage opens into a room that looks like a safe married an art gallery, “he’s worse when you’re threatened.”

“Worse how?” Your voice shakes. It doesn’t apologize.

“Less polite,” she says, as if discussing weather patterns. “More efficient.”

The sounds explode—closer, louder. Then the quiet returns the way a tide does, dragging a different shoreline behind it.

“Stay,” Natasha says, and slips out through another panel, a ghost learning to open doors in its new house. You stand in a room full of paintings and steel and try to count your breaths like Bucky taught you.

Footsteps. The panel opens. Bucky fills the threshold, the dark of him darker than the passage, blood on his sleeve like punctuation. You make a sound you’ve never made before; he answers with something that unspools the tight band around your lungs.

“You’re okay,” he says, crossing to you. “You’re okay.”

“What—” You reach for his arm and your fingers come away red. It’s not his. “What happened?”

He glances down at the smear on your thumb and something in his face shifts in a way that is not for public consumption. He takes your wrist gently, brings your hand to his mouth, and kisses the blood away like he’s erasing it. The gesture should horrify. It sanctifies.

“They tried the kitchen entrance,” he says, like reporting on a weather front. “They met me instead of the oven.”

“John?” you ask, because some part of you wants to know which names to dislike more.

“He’ll use a pen with his left hand for a while.” He tips your chin up. “You were brave.”

“I hid in a wall.”

“You did what I told you.” His thumb strokes your cheekbone, checks for tears, finds none, finds the wet in your eyes and reads it correctly anyway. “That’s obedience. I like it.”

“I thought I wouldn’t,” you say, honest, dizzy.

“You like being safe more,” he says. “We can work with that.”

Natasha slips back in, unruffled, the pistol gone again like a magician’s rabbit. “Cops won’t come if we don’t call,” she says, as if reminding him to sign for a package. “We’ll handle the clean.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says without looking away from you.

“Welcome to the family, doll,” Natasha tells you, and she means it.

Bucky walks you back to the bedroom, not fast, not slow, steps practiced to the beat of aftershock. In the bathroom, he washes his forearms, the water pinking, then clearing. You watch the blood go down the sink and feel two truths crystallize: this life is dangerous; this life, with him, feels less so than the office did.

He towels off and turns. The adrenaline in him has changed flavor—less violence, more possession. He cups the back of your head and kisses you, not frantic, not delicate, an affirmation.

“You all right?” he asks again.

“Yes,” you say, surprised at the steadiness. “Now.”

He searches your face for lies and finds none. The relief in his exhale feels like pride in you. He lifts you onto the counter. The mirror shows you: a woman in a silk slip, a man with wet hair and clean hands, a necklace that explains both.

“Give me your wrist,” he says. You do. He fastens a narrow bracelet—gold, subtle—just below your pulse. A key is engraved so small you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know to look. “House access,” he says. “Any door that matters recognizes you now.”

“Any door?” You look at him, a smile rising without permission.

“Even mine,” he says, and the softness in it would be dangerous if anyone else heard. You tuck it away where you keep those kinds of victories.

He lifts you into his arms and carries you to the bed. The act is not a flourish; it’s logistics with affection. He lays you down like an offering and takes his place between your thighs like a demand. When he enters you this time, there’s no hesitation. He sets a pace designed to remind your body of the map he drew earlier. You meet him willingly, greedily, a new word in your alphabet.

He talks to you while he moves, low, a cadence that braids filth with fealty: how good you look, how well you take him, what sounds are his favorites. He tells you you’re his a dozen ways and you say yes to each because each is different and all are true.

He rolls you and takes your wrists in one hand, pins them to the mattress above your head, his other palm around your jaw, reminding you where to keep your eyes. They stay on his. You realize you like being fed instructions almost as much as you like following the ones you write.

“Open,” he says. Your mouth does. He spits—soft, obscene—into your tongue and you swallow on command. Heat roars through you, any lingering tremor from the intrusion downstairs burned off by this specific brand of sacrilege.

“Good girl,” he growls, and you clench around him so hard he breaks rhythm, swears, laughs breathlessly against your throat, and punishes you by fucking you better.

You come with his name in your mouth and his hand on your throat and your wrists owned by his palm. He follows a breath later, hips grinding, a sound ripped from his chest that you will hear later in the quiet parts of the day and feel between your legs. He breathes into your ear like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he doesn’t weight you down with oxygen.

After, he doesn’t untie anything that isn’t tied. He loosens every hold with touches that re-teach your body the difference between restraint and care. He brings water. He feeds you a strawberry from somewhere; the sweetness detonates on your tongue like a reminder that the world contains simple pleasures between complicated ones.

“Sleep,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”

“Will you leave if—” You stop. You hate asking for reassurance. You love it when he gives it.

“If the world ends, I’ll make it wait until you wake up,” he says, and curls his body around yours like he means to shield you from meteorites.

You dream of keys that fit every door. You dream of a city whose teeth are bars on a cage and of a man who knows how to open it without making you feel small.

By morning, the story of John’s bad night is already cautionary folklore whispered in kitchens and alleyways. You don’t hear the exact details. You hear the satisfied hush in Bucky’s people’s voices when they say his name and yours in the same sentence.

You wake to coffee and a note propped against the cup, his handwriting decisive: Eat. I took a call on the terrace. Don’t open to anyone but me. —B.

You drink because he told you to and because you want to. The combination continues to scare you in all the best ways.

When he returns, he’s crisp—suit, clean shave, a look that makes you think of a knife drying on a dish towel. He surveys you like a good thing he expects to find where he left it. He touches the chain at your throat as if to check a knot.

“Come meet the people who keep your world running,” he says, and there is no condescension in your world.

He gives you the back-of-house tour like a king introducing a queen to those loyal. Kitchens large enough to feed an army. A security room with a wall of screens that makes you understand how he’d known your steps before you took them. A courtyard full of rosemary and men who don’t smoke near it because someone’s learned their lesson.

People call you miss and ma’am and a name that sounds different when said by those who know who will kill for it. They look at your bracelet, your necklace, and then your face, measuring heat against signal. You are polite because you want to be, not because you have to.

In the garage, he stops by a car you recognize: the black animal that watched your block at night. He leans his hip against it and folds his arms. “There are rules if you stay with me,” he says, as if he hasn’t already been giving them to you in digestible bites.

“Tell me,” you say.

“Don’t lie to me.” He ticks a finger. “Don’t endanger yourself.” Another. “Don’t pretend you don’t like what you like because you think I’ll like you better softer.”

“Is that a rule or a preference?” You bite your lip to stop the laugh that wants to come out.

“Both,” he says easily. “Also, don’t feed the internal critics. I know their names. I’ve killed men with those names.”

“Bucky,” you say, half scandalized, half delighted, and he grins, the feral boy under the tailored man.

“And mine?” you ask, because if you are going to belong, you want the caloric content.

“My rules are simple,” he says, stepping into your space, which is now his space, which is now your space by transfer of gravity. “I don’t lie to you. I keep you safe even when it costs me. I don’t make you small to make myself big. I don’t ask what you can’t give. I don’t drop you.”

He says the last one quietly, like it is a private vow.

You feel it land in the place in your chest that has been holding brittle things for years. “Okay,” you say, and it is assent and gratitude and an oath of your own.

The days take on a shape. You still go to work—at first because you are stubborn, then because you are amused by the way your boss startles every time the black car idles near the curb. Paperwork loses its sting when you know the man who signed your lunch is a warlord who brings you cake. When you leave the office, the car is always there. You stop pretending it's a coincidence. Your colleagues stop pretending they don’t notice the new systems of your life.

You spend nights at the house often enough that your plant dies and you don’t mourn. Your drawer in the dollhouse becomes a closet. A toothbrush appears; you didn’t put it there. A framed photo of a lake you once mentioned wanting to see hangs above the couch; you didn’t hang it. You find yourself wanting to leave objects for him the way he leaves the world for you.

The sex evolves the way weather does—storm fronts, clear skies, a science you begin to understand. He never stops asking. He never stops telling. Sometimes he’s slow, reverent; sometimes he steers you with a hand on your throat like a compass that always points home. Sometimes he ties your wrists with a silk tie and makes you count so you remember that surrender looks like participation, not absence.

“Where’s your line?” he asks one night, not as he’s about to cross it but when you are both quiet and fucked out and generous.

“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “I’ll tell you when we find it.”

He accepts that with the same respect he gives his pistol. “Good,” he says. “Then we’re not playing pretend.”

The world fails to leave you alone, as worlds do when a woman decides to live in it differently. John is quiet, for now. Others are not. Bucky is a tide. He takes your danger and drowns it. You learn that the most frightening thing about him is not his violence but his mercy—who gets it, when, how he decides to withhold it not out of anger but out of strategy.

You see him negotiate once, watch him refuse to raise his voice the way a conductor refuses to raise his baton until his orchestra is ready to play. The man across the table—Baron, older, a relic of an order Bucky is rewriting—thinks he can goad him into public temper. Bucky eats a grape. It is enough to reset the hierarchy.

After, in the car, you say, “You could have broken his nose with a look.”

“I didn’t want to get blood on your dress,” he says dryly, and then adds, “Besides, everyone here knows what I can do when I move. It’s important they also understand what I can do when I don’t.”

You tuck that away. You are building a lexicon.

The thing that makes you understand the word family in this context is not a dinner or a fight. It’s a Wednesday morning. You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, drinking coffee that tastes like a small country’s GDP. A young man with a scar at his lip and a shyness he wears like armor edges in, eyes on the floor. He reaches for a bagel, fails to make contact because you are also reaching.

“Sorry,” you say.

“Sorry,” he says at the same time, then freezes like a deer at the edge of a clearing.

You smile. “You live here?”

He shakes his head, then nods because it’s complicated. “Work,” he says. “Sometimes sleep.”

“What’s your name?” you ask, and when he whispers Peter, you say it back like you mean to remember. He blinks, surprised. You pass him a plate. He pretends not to notice how you saw his hands shaking.

When Bucky wanders in a minute later, in pajama pants and a T-shirt like someone’s fantasy, he greets the kid first, by name, with an ease that suggests the scar is a story Bucky already knows how to end better next time. He kisses your cheek on his way to the coffee. The kid watches with a look that is not envy but relief—the confirmation that the person who keeps him safe is also kept.

Later, Bucky says, “You did good with Peter,” like you completed a piece of accounting.

“I handed him a bagel.”

“You handed him dignity,” he says. “He’ll remember.”

You think maybe he’s talking about someone else he once handed the same thing.

The rupture comes carefully, the way bad things do when they intend to do permanent work.

You’re leaving your office on a Tuesday. The black car is there. So is another. You notice it the way you notice a smell in your apartment that doesn’t belong to you. It’s beige, anonymous, the kind that belongs to men who want to be ignored until it is too late.

You don’t hurry. You don’t dawdle. You hold your phone and consider the shape of the panic passage in your chest. When you’re halfway to the car, the beige door opens. A man steps out. He has the posture of a man who thinks the world owes him a receipt.

He smiles. It doesn’t reach anything worth reaching. “Hi.”

You stop. Your driver shifts his weight, hand near the door handle. The sidewalk’s noise muffles.

“I have a question,” the man says, and it is the kind of question that sits on top of a threat like a paper napkin on a knife.

“Ask it from there,” you say evenly.

He tilts his head as if charmed. “Has he told you what he did on—” He names a street you’ve never heard of. “Back in the day. They say he never misses. They say he—”

The driver has you in the car before your brain finishes the sentence. The door slams. The beige man is still talking, mouth moving, sound blocked. Your heart is a trapped bird. The driver says, “Seatbelt,” and the command grounds you better than the leather.

“Who is—” You start.

“Noise,” the driver says. “Static. Mr. Barnes will handle it.”

You nod. You already knew that. What you didn’t expect is the complicated reaction tightening in your throat—not fear of the man, not fear of Bucky, but a hunger for the exact version of him that made the beige man show up in the first place. The realization is resignation and victory at once.

At the house, Bucky meets you at the door like a man who has been half-tied to the foyer by restraint. He takes one look at your face and says nothing, which is the right call, and then he says, “Upstairs,” which is also the right call.

In the bedroom, he cups your jaw, thumbs at your ears, a frame around your senses. “Tell me,” he says.

You do. You tell him the street and the posture and the smile. You tell him you weren’t afraid until you were, and then you were in the car. You tell him you are tired of being brave in small ways and want to be brave in a way that either ends the day or changes it forever.

He listens. He doesn’t interrupt. When you’re finished, he kisses your forehead, then your mouth, then your throat, mapping out the places the man’s voice tried to reach and replacing it with his own.

“You did good,” he says. “You got in the car. You let my people do their job.”

“What was he talking about?” you ask, because if you are going to belong, you cannot be allergic to the truth.

Bucky’s jaw works. He sits on the edge of the bed and pats the space beside him. You go because you do. He glances at your necklace and decides how much to take off your shoulders tonight.

“The street he named,” he says. “That was a long time ago. The man who ran that corner put three girls in the ground. One of them… looked like someone I used to be.” He swallows. “I ended it. There were witnesses. Some people tell the story like a warning. Some tell it like a prayer. Some tell it to scare women who belong to men like me into leaving.”

It’s not a boast. It’s not an apology. It’s an index.

“Do you regret it?” you ask.

He looks at you like he loves you, which is a sentence you do not yet know how to write in your head. “No,” he says. “I regret there was no other way.”

You nod. You take his hand. You are more relieved than you are ashamed of the relief. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he repeats, checking.

“Okay,” you say again, firmer. “I don’t want to be the kind of woman who asks you to be a smaller man.”

He draws a breath like he’d been holding one your whole life. “You won’t be.”

“Good.” You squeeze his fingers. “Then fuck me like the world just tried to make me afraid of you.”

He laughs, broken and reverent. “With pleasure.”

He does. He fucks you like confession and absolution, like a weapon he knows how to dismantle and clean, like a man who understands that the cure for the wrong kind of fear is the right kind of surrender. He wrecks you and remakes you and licks his name into your skin like ink.

After, he doesn’t let you get small in your head. He keeps you on top of him, keeps your breath on his throat, keeps your body on his body so that when your mind tries to leave the room to negotiate with ghosts, he can bring it back with a hand on your ass and a murmur in your hair. You fall asleep on his chest, and the last thing you hear is his heart accusing the night of being too long.

The beige man never reappears. The story does, filtered now through Bucky’s choices rather than other people’s convenience. You start to understand what it means to be with a man who is not so much feared as deferred to by gravity.

There is one more thing the world wants from you before it lets you live like this without protest: a test it pretends is an accident.

It’s not Verona or the house. It’s not even your office. It’s the grocery store, a small one with better fruit and worse lighting, where you go with a list because you promised Bucky you’d cook him the food your grandmother taught you, and he looked at you like you had just offered to build him a private church.

You’re in the aisle with the spices, debating the price of saffron like a person who was poor very recently, when a woman stops beside you. She is ordinary in the way a knife drawer looks ordinary when the drawer is closed. Her hand lingers near the glass bottles a beat too long. She says your name. Not the miss. Not the ma’am. Your name.

You look up. You don’t recognize her. You recognize the eyes—wrong hunger, wrong place.

“I have a message,” she says.

“From?”

She smiles. It is not a smile. “Someone who wants the city back the way it was, when kindness was weakness and the only women who felt safe were too invisible to be worth stealing.”

“That’s not a message,” you say. “That’s a description.”

She tilts her head, approving. “He says you have two choices. Leave him and live. Stay and watch him die.”

The aisle hums with other people’s shopping carts, other people’s dinners. You feel the universe try to force you into a binary that benefits someone who isn’t here.

“No,” you say.

She blinks. “No?”

“Those aren’t the choices,” you say politely. “Those are the threats. The choice is: I stay and we live. Or I stay and we outlive you.”

Something cold and bright moves behind her expression. “You think you can save him?”

“No,” you say, and your honesty tastes like steel. “I think he saves himself. I think I make sure he doesn’t want to stop.”

She leans in like she might whisper. You don’t flinch. She says, “He will die for you.”

“I know,” you say. “That’s why I won’t let him.”

You walk away because you can. Your hands shake only a little when you pick up the saffron. It’s as expensive as blood. It feels right.

At the house, you tell Bucky exactly what happened while the rice simmers. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t do the male thing where he thinks his anger is more useful than your courage. He tastes the sauce when you offer him a spoon and makes a noise indecent enough to be rated.

He says, “Thank you,” and you realize he means for not letting the story tell you who you are.

“Do I need to move?” you ask, because your lease is a fiction and your life is not.

“You already have,” he says, and kisses your wrist where the bracelet sits. “Officially, if you want.”

“Yes,” you say without pretending to consider. “I want.”

The papers appear without effort, not because bureaucracy becomes easier when you’re in love with a mobster but because power prefers signatures that everyone involved would like to keep. Your bag at the apartment becomes a box, then two. You keep one shelf empty for the part of you that enjoys the pretense of independence. He never remarks on it. He fills it with flowers on a Monday and a pile of books on a Friday and your grandmother’s recipe cards laminated by someone with a steady hand and a sense of humor.

You fuck on the kitchen counter after the saffron rice and the lamb, Bucky’s hands under your thighs, your back sliding along a cabinet where knives sleep. He says open and you open. He says look at me and you do. He says mine and you say yes like an antidote.

It doesn’t feel like you’re losing yourself. It feels like you’re being curated.

There is one last thing. It comes on a night that starts quiet and heads toward story.

Bucky has business. He doesn’t say what at first because he knows the difference between telling you everything and telling you enough. You lie in the dollhouse and read until the words blur. You fall asleep to the hum of a house that trusts its doors.

You wake to Natasha’s hand on your shoulder, gentle. “Up, doll.”

You sit up already moving. “What—”

“Nothing bad,” she says, and it’s the most tender lie she knows how to tell. “He needs you.”

She takes you to the safe room. Bucky is there, seated, shirt open, a line of blood along his ribs more dramatic than dangerous, breathing like he ran when he should have walked. He looks up and the look is a man who has been underwater and remembers air.

“I told you I wouldn’t drop you,” he says hoarsely, which is not an explanation. It is, somehow, enough.

You go to him. Natasha leaves because Natasha knows when rooms need fewer people. You kneel between his knees and press your forehead to his sternum and he touches your hair with a hand that shakes. He says your name like a lullaby.

“What happened?” you ask.

“Negotiation,” he says dryly. “They are now more convinced than ever that my terms are generous.”

You pull back and look at the cut. “Stitches?”

“Two,” he says. “Already done.”

You clean what needs cleaning because he has taught you how to help without making him small. You wrap what needs wrapping because he has taught you that care is not weakness; it is logistics.

When you are finished, he draws you into his lap. You go willingly, astride, face to face, a posture that looks like yielding and feels like command. He cups your backside and rocks you gently until your dress hitches and your breath does, too.

“I almost called you earlier,” he says into your mouth.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I wanted to bring you something instead of taking something away.”

“What did you bring me?”

He tips you forward until your necklace swings and the band on the chain clinks the key. He kisses the place where they rest. “A city that will not touch you without my permission,” he says. “And a man who loves you even when he is unworthy.”

You freeze, not because of the word, but because of how easily he says it, like he has said it to only a few things in his life and is not ashamed to add you to their number.

“Say it again,” you breathe.

“I love you,” he says, and the room adjusts its architecture.

“Good,” you whisper, and your hands find his jaw, and you kiss him like a woman accepting a crown.

You ride him there in the safe room, slow, deliberate, a metronome for a new era. He holds your hips, control looser than usual, letting you write this one. You take what you want because he taught you wanting is not a sin and because you like teaching him, too. When you come, you do it with your eyes open and your hand on his throat lightly, a mirror of the first night, an inversion he receives like gospel.

He follows, face against your neck, a sound you own. When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. You stay like that until the night scabs and the house exhales.

Later, in bed, he tucks you into his side and traces your bracelet with his thumb. “We’ll make it official,” he says.

“What’s left?” you ask, because the chain feels official, the bracelet feels official, the way the world moves out of your way feels like a coronation.

“Nothing the state cares about,” he says with contempt and humor. “Everything I do.”

He means ceremony. He means a room where people who would die for him gather to watch him swear to live for you. He means a feast that tastes like a promise and a dance that looks like a lesson.

He means a vow, here, now, in the simplest form:

“Yours,” he says.

“Yours,” you answer.

The city sleeps. The club throbs. The house holds. The dollhouse glows.

You, who once delivered envelopes for other men, deliver yourself to this one. He, who once wrote his name in blood because it was the only ink men respected, writes it now on your skin with his mouth because you asked him to and because he will do nothing you don’t ask for except protect you from every last thing that didn’t have the sense to fear you.

In the morning, the world will try again. Let it.

Tonight, you belong, and the belonging does not diminish you. It crowns you.

Bucky sleeps with his hand on your hip as if the universe might roll and he means to keep you from sliding. When the dark moves, he moves it back. When the light comes, he lets it in.

You wake before him and watch his face in the kind of quiet you used to think you didn’t deserve. You touch the chain at your throat and feel the key and the band and the steady line of the life you chose.

You whisper to the room, to the city, to whatever god oversees men like him and women like you:

Thank you.

And, because you have learned the value of precision:

Mine.

The invitation isn’t a card; it’s a movement.

By late afternoon the city seems to lean subtly in one direction, as if gravity is making its choice known. Cars slide through intersections that suddenly favor a certain route; elevators arrive a little faster if they’re going up to Verona; the phones of men who matter all buzz with the same two-word text sent from a number they don’t save because saving it would look like worship:

Tonight. Upstairs.

You’re in the dollhouse slipping gold hoops into your ears when Natasha appears in the doorway without noise. She looks you over like a sister would, like a soldier would. “You’ll break necks,” she says, which in this house is a compliment and a plan.

“Is this… a party?” you ask, smoothing the silk along your hips. The dress is black as a closed eye, the neckline a law he wrote on your collarbone.

“A vow,” she says. “With witnesses.”

Your throat tightens. It isn’t fear. It’s the old self in you taking one last look around the room she lived in without furniture.

Bucky is waiting at the base of the staircase that leads to the club’s private penthouse. He is in a suit cut so close it feels like a confession, hair tamed, jaw clean, a hand in his pocket like he could draw a gun or a promise with equal ease. The crowd parts around him the way a sea will if it knows what’s good for it.

When he sees you, the mask he wears for the world thins. Not falls—thins—enough for you to see the boy who learned to want like other people learn to pray. He offers you his hand. You take it. The room breathes in.

The penthouse has been rearranged. The bed is gone. In its place: a long table set with flowers that look like expensive apologies, crystal like a threat you intend to keep, candles whose flames behave as if the air has been warned. People ring the room—his lieutenants, the loyal, the necessary. Peter stands near the wall with shoulders back and new steadiness in his mouth. Your driver is present and pretending not to be proud. The kid with the scar at his lip tries not to stare and fails beautifully.

No clergy. No government. Just a city in human shapes waiting to see what its center will do next.

Bucky doesn’t bring you to the head of the table. He brings you to the center. He faces you, takes both your hands, and speaks without raising his voice, because his voice doesn’t need volume to be obeyed.

“I told you I don’t do theater,” he says. A ripple of quiet laughter. “But I do oaths.”

He looks at the people who keep his name alive. “You’ve heard me make them before. To the dead, to the living, to the streets that fed me when I was hungry and to the men who thought they could starve me. Tonight I make one to her.” His gaze returns to you and stays. “And to you, because your lives attach to mine, and mine attaches to hers.”

You blink and the world doubles—him close, the room farther, a mirror you could choose to step through.

“I will not lie to her,” he says. “I will not make her small so I can feel big. I will not ask what she cannot give and I will not drop her when the air turns thin. What belongs to me belongs to her—my name, my shelter, my enemies, my mercy. What tries to touch her will learn the lesson I teach best.”

He tips your chin with two fingers, a touch private and public at once. “And you,” he says softly, for you alone, “what do you want to say?”

Every eye on you now, not like knives, like moons. Your voice is not loud, but the room is trained to listen.

“I won’t ask you to be smaller,” you say, stealing from last night’s truth because it was good. “I won’t make you guess at my mind. I’ll tell you what scares me and I’ll ask for what I want, and when I can’t, I’ll learn. I’ll be brave in the ways that matter, not the ways that look good in stories. I won’t run when it gets ugly. I’ll remind you to eat.” A small roll of laughter, eased. Your mouth curves. “And I’ll belong to you on purpose.”

There’s a sound—low, collective, like a building settling—when you say it. Belong. On purpose. It slides into the floorboards and roots.

Bucky nods, eyes bright with something that doesn’t blink. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a little leather tray. Inside lies the band he added to your chain and a second, identical circle. He takes yours from your necklace with careful fingers and slides it onto your finger carefully, deliberately, not ring finger—the right hand, in this house a signal that writes a different math than the state’s.

He holds your hand up so the room can see. “Mine,” he says, and the room replies without sound and with total agreement.

You pick up the second band and thread it onto his watch chain, hooking it next to the knife charm you’d noticed once and never asked about. He lifts his brow—pleased, surprised, undone by inches—and the small pulse of shock in him feels like a power you intend to use mercifully.

He doesn’t kiss you yet. He turns to the room. “Eat,” he says. “Drink. Make me look generous.”

Laughter that isn’t fake blooms like a bruise in reverse. The table fills. Natasha shepherds servers with the expertise of someone who has run both a ballet and a war. Baron is not present, nor is John, and the absences are pointed the way a gun is. The music is low—strings and smoke, something old enough to have survived being alive.

Bucky doesn’t let go of your hand for the first thirty minutes, not for greetings, not for whispered reports, not for jokes delivered in a dialect of violence you’re beginning to understand. Your other hand picks at a rosemary sprig. He notices and stills your fidget with a thumb across your knuckles, a touch that says calm without humiliating you for needing to be told.

Midway through the first course, the room’s attention shifts the way a flock does when it sight-lines a hawk. The elevator doors slide open without ceremony. A man steps out. He is not Baron or John or the beige messenger. He is dressed better than both and wears his fear like a hat—too visible, too new, difficult to hold when the wind changes.

He approaches Bucky without the deference smart men show and stops too close. “Barnes.”

Bucky looks at him and manages to be bored and deadly at once. “Ruining your own evening’s invitation says something unflattering about your social life, Pierce.”

Pierce. Unimportant enough that you hadn’t heard his name and important enough that he thinks the gate might open just because he said it. He doesn’t look at you. He does look at your hand, at the band. He smiles thin and wrong. “A pity,” he says, “to bring the doll out just to break her.”

Silence. Not fear-silence—expectant. Bucky doesn’t stand. He doesn’t raise his voice. He leans back slightly, head tilting the way a panther’s does while it decides whether the thing that just made a noise is worth noticing.

“Read the room,” he says. “Then try that sentence again.”

Pierce clears his throat like he’s swallowing the part of his soul that still wants to see sunrise. He glances around and realizes he’s the kind of man who mistakes proximity for protection. He tries again. Worse. “She’s leverage,” he says, like he’s announcing the weather. “We’ve all had them. We all know how the story goes.”

You feel the change in Bucky before you see it—the temperature drop, the clarity sharpen. He doesn’t move fast. He doesn’t need to. He places his napkin on the table, rises, and steps into Pierce’s space in a way that redefines the term. When he speaks, it’s soft, persuasive, a lover’s cadence used for a lesson.

“You’re new enough to think that the men here would nod if you called her leverage,” he says. “Look around. Do you see any nodding?”

Pierce’s jaw works. His eyes flip past faces that refuse to rescue him.

“She’s my line,” Bucky continues, and the word lands like architecture. “The one thing you don’t step over if you want to keep walking. She is the reason I leave my temper in the drawer. She is the reason you will, too.”

Pierce blusters. “Sentiment. That’s how empires fall.”

“Empires fall because men like you mistake cruelty for intelligence,” Bucky says, almost kindly. He glances sideways at Natasha. “Escort him to the elevator. Remind him how doors work.”

Natasha’s smile is a knife you’d trust with your hair. She tucks her arm through Pierce’s and steers him, chatting as if they’re about to pick out wallpaper. He resists with exactly the strength he will later regret wasting. The doors close on a last look from him that promises a mess someone else will clean up.

Bucky returns to his seat without needing to fix his jacket. His hand finds your thigh and rests there, grounding you like a palm on a drum. The room exhales and refills with sound, the way a city does after an ambulance siren passes.

“You all right?” he asks, low.

“Yes,” you say, honest. “I liked the part where you didn’t stand up until you were ready to stand up.”

He huffs a laugh. “I liked the part where you didn’t flinch.”

“I haven’t had time to learn how in this dress,” you murmur, and his eyes flare with a heat that is private and about to become public.

“Dance with me,” he says.

You don’t argue. On the small space cleared between tables, he pulls you close—not the respectful distance of a formal set, but body to body, the way you learned downstairs. He sways you through a song that declines to hurry, his mouth at your ear, his breath a script you are willing to speak.

“Say it,” he whispers.

“Yours,” you say, helpless and in control.

When the song ends, the room politely looks away. You feel eyes anyway—the good kind, the family kind. You’re learning the difference.

A crash interrupts the second course. Glass shatters somewhere distant and deliberate. Heads lift. The security men by the door cock their heads like dogs bred to hear the frequency of danger.

Bucky’s hand on your thigh tightens—a notch, not a panic. He looks to Natasha. She’s already moving. He does not release you. The room remains seated by force of will and habit; only the necessary stand. Through the glass you see a red smear across tile that suggests someone taught a lesson too near the linens.

“Kitchen,” Natasha calls, not shouting. “Two.” She vanishes with three of Bucky’s men in her wake. The others hold.

“Static,” Bucky says to you, an echo of the driver. “It’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing. You know that now. But it is not the kind of something that can touch you. Ten minutes later, the men return with jackets unruffled and expressions that say the kitchen will be hiring. Natasha shakes her head once at Bucky: handled. He inclines his chin: thanks.

The room pretends nothing happened because pretending is sometimes an act of mercy.

Dessert is figs and mascarpone and honey that looks like sunlight learned to sit still. Bucky feeds you a bite with his fingers; you lick them clean without being told to be obscene about it. He smiles like a man who built a world where you could.

When the last glass has been drained and the last necessary face has been seen, the room makes the kind of exit that leaves more warmth than smoke. People approach to murmur small sentences that matter—we have you, we have her, call if you need the container—coded language you’re slowly learning. Peter nods at you and grins. The driver touches his forehead with two fingers like a blessing.

At last it’s quiet again. The candles gutter and hold. The city beyond the glass offers its neon pulse to anyone who still needs it. You don’t.

“Come here,” Bucky says, voice different now—grainier, the public stripped off, the private coming through.

He leads you not to the elevator but to a door you haven’t used. A short hallway. Another door. A space that smells faintly of cedar and smoke and the inside of a wrist. It’s small. It’s not the dollhouse. It’s not the bedroom. It’s something else: a room built for choices.

On a shelf: a collar—no lock, no leash, just a wide band of black leather with a single gold D-ring that looks like an eye. Bucky doesn’t reach for it. He stands with his hands loose at his sides and gives you the only thing men like him are never trained to give: time.

“I won’t ask,” he says. “I won’t even suggest. I’ll tell you what it means and you’ll decide on your own feet.”

“Tell me,” you say, throat dry, knees steady.

“It’s not a toy,” he says. “It doesn’t come out for play unless you want it to. It’s not a mark for me to see—it’s a mark for you to feel. It says: I chose this. I wanted this. I chose him. It’s not forever. It’s not a trick. It’s a now that we renew when we want to.”

You step forward. The leather looks softer than you expected. He stays still, a monument that knows it doesn’t need to move to be believed.

“Will you… put it on me?” you ask, and your voice does not sound like anyone else you’ve ever been.

“Yes,” he says, and you feel the way the word goes through him. “If you ask.”

“I’m asking.”

He lifts it with the care of a man allowed to hold a baby for the first time. He comes behind you, not to trap, to honor. The collar circles your throat. His hands—those careful hands—fasten it. It is not tight. It is present. His mouth touches the nape of your neck as if sealing wax. “Look,” he says, turning you toward the mirror.

You do. The woman in the glass has your face and not. The band at her throat gleams. The key on her necklace rests below it; the right-hand ring burns. Her eyes are not pleading. They are not defiant. They are certain in a way that feels like water finding the bowl it was meant to fill.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

“Mine,” you whisper, and his exhale splits his composure. “Yours.”

He kisses you with the collar on. You feel the weight of it against his mouth and the press of your decision between every part of you that intersects his. He walks you backwards until your shoulder blades skim wood and your dress hikes, and then it is hands and heat and a sound he makes that feels like a church falling down around you both. He doesn’t rush, though everything in him wants to. He doesn’t break the moment by breaking you. He opens you, enters you, holds you while you learn what it means to be kept like this. You come with your hands braced at his shoulders, the D-ring cool against your skin, his breath in your mouth, your name on his tongue as if he’s giving it back to you under his.

After, he doesn’t take it off. Not yet. He lifts you, wraps your legs around his waist, carries you like a tale he intends to retell, and lays you on the bed now returned to the room because space obeys him. He licks the choice from your skin. He says thank you into your ribs. When he finally unbuckles the collar, he sets it on the nightstand with a kiss to the leather as if it’s a relic.

“Water,” he says. “Food.”

“I’m not—” You start to say hungry. Your stomach answers for you with a small, polite growl. He grins, fucked-out and fond, and fetches strawberries and a plate of cheese and bread that must have appeared with the candles because Natasha plans five moves ahead and three degrees sideways.

You eat on the sheets, laughing when honey drips on your wrist and he licks it off with a reverence that makes you shiver. You drink water. You breathe. You look at him. He looks at you like he intends to keep doing that until he learns the parts of your face no one else noticed.

“Tell me a secret,” you say, drunk on safety.

He thinks. Not long. “I sleep better when you breathe on my neck,” he says. “I didn’t know I liked that. I was certain I didn’t.”

“Tell me another,” you say, greedy.

“I re-read the same three books when I’m afraid I’m becoming the kind of man who only knows new violence,” he says. “It’s a stupid method. It works.”

“Tell me yours,” he adds gently.

“I wanted someone to tell me what to do,” you say, the shame gone like smoke in this air. “But I only wanted that person to be you.”

He doesn’t gloat. He kisses your knuckles the way he did at the balcony rail and says, “Good. Now you’ll learn to tell yourself what to do and I’ll make sure the world doesn’t punish you for it.”

You sleep with his hand on your hip and the collar in the dark like a star that is only for you to see.

The days that follow don’t turn into legend. They turn into life. That’s rarer. Pierce disappears from the places you might see him, which means he has either learned or has been taught. Baron sends a bottle of Barolo with a note that says to the lady who eats saffron, which is his way of admitting defeat while pretending he’s being courtly. The beige car stops parking across from your office. John signs with his left hand. Peter gains weight and loses the habit of flinching when doors open.

You work. You don’t if you don’t want to. Bucky doesn’t tell you to quit; he tells you the doors you walk through belong to you. You keep doing the thing with the list on the fridge; now it includes items like bullets and burrata and it doesn’t feel like a contradiction.

Sometimes, you go back to your old apartment just to stand inside the space where you pretended to need so little. You water the plant that came back from the dead because kindness can work retroactively. You sit on the floor and let the light run its fingers through your hair and realize the only thing that has changed is the part of you that believed your life had to fit inside these walls to be yours. You lock the door behind you not because you have to, but because he would want you to.

On a Saturday at the market, an older woman at a spice stall eyes your bracelet and necklace and the ring on your right hand and says, “You found a man who learned to be worth a woman.”

You smile. “I did.”

“Wear it,” she says, tapping the chain. “Not the gold. The certainty.”

You bring saffron home because it tastes like celebration and work. You cook. He eats. You let him feed you with his fingers because some nights that’s your liturgy. He kisses you slow at the sink with your hands wet. You grind pepper into his hair and he laughs like a man who thought he’d forgotten how.

One evening, the sky lifts a little earlier. The city acts like a dog that has been walked. Verona hums. The house breathes. You and Bucky sit on the window seat in the dollhouse with your legs pressed together and a book open across both your knees. He reads the line again, the one he always returns to when he is afraid of becoming too sharp.

“‘And you? When will you begin that long journey into yourself?’” he quotes, thumb rubbing your knee.

You tip your head to his shoulder. “I already did,” you say. “The day I walked into the wrong room with the right envelope.”

“Because you’re mine?” he asks, teasing but not entirely.

“Because I decided to be,” you say, and he kisses your hair like an amen.

There’s a knock, then a pause, then Natasha’s voice through the door: “Dinner.”

You call back, “Two minutes,” and Bucky calls, “Three,” and she laughs because she knows he always adds one for indulgence.

You close the book. He sets it on the sill. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you like a man who intends to do it again tomorrow. When he pulls back, his forehead rests to yours, and his whisper is a thing that belongs to no one else.

“Mine.”

“Yours,” you answer, a vow renewed in plain clothes.

The city lights itself. The room holds you. The collar sleeps on the nightstand like a star that remembers the names you gave it.

You stand and walk toward dinner without looking behind you. You don’t have to. Everything you want is walking beside you, and everything that might touch you without permission has learned a different route.

Spooning you in bed, his arm curled around your waist, his breath slow and steady against the back of your neck. His hand, resting innocently on your thigh, begins to move. Slow at first—just the lazy drag of his fingertips along your skin, barely noticeable, like he’s tracing the shape of your body from memory.

But then it shifts. Higher. Bolder.

Over the swell of your hip, the curve of your ass—his touch deliberate now, possessive. You bite your lip, heat already pooling low in your stomach.

And then he does it. Rolls his hips against you just enough for you to feel him—hard and heavy through the thin fabric of his boxers, pressing perfectly into the curve of your ass.

It’s too perfect. The kind of pressure that makes your breath catch, your thighs clench involuntarily.

You whimper. Quiet. Needy.

That’s when he moves his hand again. Slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, slow and teasing, fingers grazing over your slick heat like he’s testing you—barely touching, just enough to make you ache.

“You’re already wet,” he murmurs against your neck, voice thick and low. “Were you hoping I’d do this?”

You don’t answer—not with words.

Just a soft, pathetic little whimper, your body already arching back into him, desperate for more of his touch.

But instead of giving it to you, Bucky pulls his hand away.

You whine at the loss, but then you feel the subtle shift behind you—his hips rocking back, the rustle of fabric as he pushes his boxers down and strokes himself, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world.

“Shhh,” he murmurs against your shoulder, voice thick with heat. “I’ve got you.”

Then you feel it. The warm, heavy weight of him pressed right against your soaked folds. Not inside. Not even close. Just resting there—teasing—and then he starts to drag it down. Up. Down again.

Barely any pressure.

Just enough to spread your slick. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs twitch with need.

“Fuck,” he groans softly, voice strained. “You feel that, baby? How wet you are for me?”

He keeps doing it. Slow, maddening glides of his cock through your folds, the tip catching on your clit every time in a way that makes you whimper again—quieter this time, almost like you’re embarrassed by how badly you want him.

And that just makes him grin.

“You were gonna fall asleep like this?” he breathes, voice dark and amused. “So needy and wet, and you weren’t even gonna tell me?”

The way he moves—slow and lazy—leaves you trembling and aching. It’s unbearable. It feels like nothing and so much at the same time.

A gasp stutters out of you when the head of his cock brushes your clit a little harder than before, hips twitching. Your fingers clutch the sheets, desperate for something to ground you.

“Bucky…” you breathe, a plea more than a protest.

He hums low behind you, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His free hand—strong, steady—slides up to hold your thigh, keeping you spread just how he wants.

“Shh…” he whispers. “I wanna take my time.”

His cock slides down again, hot and soaked in your slick, nudging at your entrance—but he doesn’t push in. Not yet.

Just rocks his hips again, back and forth, dragging himself through your folds with that same agonizing pressure, like he loves how desperate you’re getting.

And god, he does.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Feel how your pussy’s just soaking for me? So fucking soft… all this mess for nothing, baby.”

He smiles when you let out another whimper, your hips bucking back against him instinctively, chasing more friction. But he tightens his grip on your thigh, holding you right where he wants you.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and almost cruel in its calmness. “You’ll take it when I give it to you. Not a second sooner.”

His tip nudged your entrance again, teasingly slow, just enough for your breath to catch and your hips to twitch back against him.

A soft, tiny whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

“You like that, baby?” he murmured, smug and low, cock dragging slowly through your slick again—coated, hot, deliberate.

You nodded frantically, desperation clawing at your throat.

“Please, Buck…”

Your voice was barely more than a breath, shaky and wrecked with need.

But he didn’t give in. Didn’t push in.

Instead, he just chuckled darkly and kept doing exactly what he was doing—grinding himself between your folds, up and down, the tip of his cock gliding over your clit in featherlight passes. He was soaked in your arousal now, the sound of it obscene in the quiet of the room.

“You’re fuckin’ dripping,” he whispered, voice thick with lust, his mouth close to your ear. “And all I’m doin’ is rubbing it on you.”

You let out another whimper, pressing your thighs together—but his hand was still gripping one, keeping you spread for him, helpless.

“Mm-mm,” he smirked, thrusting a little harder through your folds now, enough to make you feel it.

“Please, Bucky, I can’t—”

“You can,” he growled, nipping at your shoulder. “You’ll take it when I say. I wanna feel you sob for it first.”

To say you were underwhelmed would be an understatement.

It was maddening. Infuriating.

You thought you’d come the moment he pushed inside you—but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even tried. Just kept rubbing his cock through your clit, again and again, slow and teasing, like it was a game to him. And you were losing.

You were trembling. Wrecked. Your body burning with a need so sharp it felt cruel.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, eyes glassy, lips parted. Your gaze already dazed—tears stinging at the corners, threatening to spill.

And Bucky saw it.

Saw the pure begging in your eyes.

And finally—finally—he gave you what you wanted.

He pushed in. Just the tip.

Fuck, it felt so good—hot and thick and perfect, stretching you open with that first inch. Your mouth dropped open in a broken gasp, a choked sound of relief.

But he didn’t go any deeper.

Just held you there, filled barely enough to satisfy anything, and began to thrust—slow and shallow. Just the tip, dragging back and forth with a torturous rhythm that had your walls fluttering, clenching desperately around him every time he moved.

Your hands fisted the sheets. Your legs shook.

It was almost cruel. Almost.

“Bucky—” you sobbed, the sound choked and desperate. “Please—just—”

“Shhh,” he cooed, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as his tip nudged deep again, then pulled out—slow and slick. “You feel that, baby? Feel how tight you are around just this?”

You nodded, broken and breathless.

“I could keep you like this all night,” he whispered, voice dark and aching. “Just my tip. Just enough to make you cry for it.”

And god—he was.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

Your body was shaking, walls fluttering around the teasing stretch of him—just the tip—and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

So you tried. Just a tiny shift of your hips, angling back to take him deeper, even just a little. To feel more of him. Anything.

But he felt it instantly.

His hand snapped up and caught your chin, firm and unforgiving, forcing you to turn your head and look at him. His eyes were dark, wild with control and desire, but there was no softness in his grip.

“Try that again,” he said, voice low and sharp, “and I’ll pull out.”

The words hit like a slap—sharp, cruel, threatening in the way only he could make sound loving.

Your breath hitched, tears threatening again, but you didn’t move.

You wouldn’t.

“Good girl,” he muttered, releasing your chin slowly, dragging his thumb along your jaw as if to soothe what he just said—but his hips stayed steady, cock still buried in that shallow depth, moving in and out with that same teasing rhythm that had you falling apart.

“That’s better,” he whispered. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”

He pressed in again, slow and deep this time—but still not all the way, just a little more than before, enough to feel every inch like a gift. Your mouth dropped open, eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with smug affection. “Already fucked dumb and I haven’t even given you half of it.”

You tried to stay still. You really did.

But your body was trembling, thighs shaking, your core clenching so hard around nothing it almost hurt. His tip kept stroking inside you, slow and shallow, perfect—and still so fucking insufficient.

It was too much.

Your breath hitched. Your face crumpled. And then the tears spilled—hot, helpless streaks running down your cheeks as a sob tore from your throat.

“Bucky—” you choked, voice wrecked, broken, desperate. “I can’t… I need it, please…”

He stilled for a moment.

Then you felt him lean in closer, his hand coming up to brush your hair off your face—and then down again, fingers curling around your jaw to tilt your face toward him.

And he saw it.

The tears.

Your flushed cheeks, your trembling lips, your eyes blown wide with need and soaked with helpless want.

“Look at you,” he murmured, a slow smirk curving at the edge of his mouth. “So pathetic.”

His voice was low. Cruel. But there was affection under it—desire.

He loved seeing you like this. Ruined. Falling apart. All for him.

“Crying ‘cause you’re not getting cock,” he whispered, dragging his thumb across your wet cheek. “That’s what you wanted, huh? Thought if you sobbed pretty enough, I’d give it to you? Just because you know how fucking much I love seeing you cry for it?”

“Yes, Bucky—yes, please,” you gasped, your voice cracked and wrecked, thick with tears and need.

You didn’t even know what you were begging for anymore—more, everything, anything—as long as it was him.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, still cradling your cheek, his cock barely buried in you, just the tip stroking maddeningly slow. He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear as he rolled his hips once—deep enough to make your breath catch, not deep enough to give you what you needed.

“Maybe I should just hold my cock inside you like this all night, huh?” he whispered darkly. “Keep you stuffed, all warm and desperate, just like this.”

Your whole body tensed, a shiver running down your spine as your walls fluttered around him.

“You’d take it,” he murmured, grinding shallowly into you, teasing. “Wouldn’t even fight it. Just lay here, crying, dripping all over me while I keep you filled—so full, so fucking needy.”

He smiled against your skin, nipping lightly at your shoulder.

“Maybe that’s what you really want. Not to be fucked—just to be used.”

Your breath hitched. Your hips twitched back, chasing him—again.

He stilled.

“Ah ah,” he warned, tightening his grip on your thigh. “You move again and I’ll pull out for real. And you won’t get it back tonight. Understand me?”

“Please, Bucky,” you sobbed, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “Please, I can’t take it anymore.”

He didn’t move. Just kept you there—cock teasing the edge of where you needed him, thick and hot and cruelly still.

“Promise me, baby. Promise you’ll be good for me,” he murmured, voice dark and firm against your ear. “Say it.”

“Fuck—yes!” you cried, nodding frantically. “I’ll be good! I’ll be fucking good, I promise, I swear—just—please, Bucky—please—”

God, it was pathetic. The way you begged. The way you’d say anything just to get filled.

“Good girl,” he said low, almost a growl—and then he did it.

He sank into you, slow but deep, burying every inch until his hips were flush with yours and you couldn’t even breathe.

Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp, eyes wide and wet as the stretch stole every thought from your head. He didn’t wait. Didn’t let you adjust. He pulled back and slammed in again—once, twice—hard, deep, perfect—

And you came.

Just like that.

Your whole body seized, a strangled sob ripping from your throat as your pussy clenched down around him, fluttering wildly, soaking his cock as your orgasm tore through you like a fucking earthquake.

Bucky let out a dark, amused laugh.

“Look at you now…” he groaned, grabbing your chin and turning your face toward him again, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’re such a pathetic fucking whore—coming so fast, just ‘cause I finally gave it to you.”

Your face burned, breath hiccuping in your chest as he kept moving—deep and slow now, like he had all the time in the world to drag it out of you again.

“Gonna give me more, you hear me?” he rasped, voice thick and relentless as his cock worked into your trembling cunt. “You’re gonna be a good girl and take it. Gonna let me fuck more out of you.”

His grip on your chin tightened. “Ain’t done with you yet, sweetheart.”

Your orgasm was still rippling through you—sharp, overwhelming, your body twitching and trembling as he kept thrusting into your overstimulated cunt.

You whimpered, trying to shift away from him, instinctively pulling your hips forward to escape the relentless drag of his cock.

But Bucky didn’t let you. He grabbed both your wrists in one fluid movement and slammed them down into the mattress above your head—his metal arm locking them there effortlessly, unmovable, unbreakable.

You gasped, back arching as he pressed his weight into you from behind, his chest flush against your spine.

“You tryin’ to run, sweetheart?” he growled into your ear, cock still moving inside you, deep and steady. “After all that fucking begging? After you promised me you’d be good?”

You cried out—high and wrecked—your body flinching with every stroke, too sensitive, too full, but god, you let him.

Because it was Bucky. Because it was his cock splitting you open, keeping you full, keeping you grounded.

“That’s what I thought,” he rasped, snapping his hips forward hard enough to make your breath punch out of you.

He fucked into you freely now—his other hand gripping your waist tight, holding you in place as your arms stayed pinned helplessly above your head, your wrists burning under the cool pressure of vibranium.

Every thrust was overwhelming. Too much.

But you loved it.

Tears streaked down your face again, your thighs shaking with the force of it.

“You’re takin’ it,” he muttered, breath heavy. “Fuck, baby—you’re still clenching so tight for me.”

Your voice cracked on another sob, but you didn’t beg him to stop.

You didn’t want him to. Even when it was too much—you still wanted more.

You were falling apart. Absolutely wrecked.

Bucky’s cock dragged through your soaked, overstimulated cunt with punishing rhythm—deep and relentless, every thrust sending sparks through your spine, making your legs quake and your voice catch on raw sobs.

Tears streamed down your cheeks. You could barely breathe.

Your wrists were still pinned above your head, trapped beneath the cold grip of his metal arm. You had nowhere to go. No way to escape the brutal pace of him driving into you like he owned you.

Because he did.

“Fuck—Bucky—please—” you choked out, voice trembling. “I—I can’t—”

“Oh, but you can,” he growled against your ear, his voice low and thick with satisfaction. “You’re gonna come again for me. You want to, don’t you?”

Your walls fluttered, a helpless answer.

“I feel it,” he snarled. “You’re squeezing my cock like a fucking vice. This messy little pussy’s begging to come again.”

You sobbed again, your whole body twitching as you felt it building—again. Too much. Too soon.

But just as you were about to tip over the edge—

He stopped.

Just kept himself buried deep, holding you tight and not moving.

You let out a broken, desperate cry, struggling against his grip.

“You want it?” he rasped. “You wanna come again, baby?”

“Y-Yes! Please, Bucky, please—I need it, I need it—”

“Then thank me,” he growled, thrusting once—hard and deep enough to make your back arch.

“What—?”

“You fucking thank me,” he hissed. “Thank me for ruining you. Say it. Or I’ll pull out and leave you dripping and empty.”

And god—you were so far gone, so desperate, so needy, you didn’t even hesitate.

“Thank you—fuck—thank you, Bucky!” you sobbed, tears spilling freely now. “Thank you for ruining me—thank you, please—I wanna come—I wanna come so bad—”

“That’s my good girl,” he growled—and slammed into you again.

Once. Twice. Again.

And that was it.

You shattered around him, a broken scream tearing from your throat as your cunt clamped down hard, milking his cock in wave after wave of pulsing, messy bliss. Your body convulsed under him, completely overwhelmed, mind blank with nothing but pleasure and his name.

“Fucking ruined,” Bucky groaned, fucking you through it with brutal, merciless strokes. “That’s it, baby. Give it to me. Let me feel that pussy break for me.”

Your orgasm still had you trembling—your cunt clenching and fluttering around him, overstimulated and dripping, your cries raw and broken.

Bucky growled low behind you, his thrusts getting rougher, more erratic, his breath hot and heavy on your neck.

And then he snapped. He slammed in deep and stayed there, his body tensing against yours as a low, guttural moan tore from his throat.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—”

You felt it. The sudden, hot flood of him spilling inside you—thick ropes of cum pumping into your already ruined cunt, and there was so much, you could feel it start to leak around his cock almost instantly.

You whimpered, twitching beneath him, too sensitive, too full, too much.

But he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried in you, balls pressed flush against your swollen, aching pussy, his metal arm still pinning your wrists above your head.

And you cried. Silent, overwhelmed tears streaking your face as your body convulsed from the aftershocks—still trembling, still spread open, still his.

Bucky leaned in close, breath brushing your ear, voice low and wicked.

“Mmm… you feel that?” he whispered, rocking his hips once, slow and deep, just to press it in further. “Feel my cum inside you? Leaking out already… but you’re gonna hold it, sweetheart. You hear me?”

You whimpered, nodding weakly, and he chuckled darkly.

“That’s right. Keep me warm, baby. Keep it all right there—fuckin’ stuffed full like you were made for this.”

His free hand trailed down your side, fingers splaying over your lower belly, pressing just enough to make you feel it even more.

“You feel so tight around me still,” he murmured. “Still fucking pulsing. Like your pussy’s thanking me for ruining it.”

You let out a shaky sob, and he kissed your shoulder softly—sweet, almost gentle, a cruel contrast to the mess he left you in.

“My perfect little cum-drunk whore,” he breathed. “So good for me. So full. So fucking mine.”

You were shaking—mind blank, tears streaking down your cheeks, his cum still hot and thick inside you.

And Bucky… god, he still didn’t stop. He stayed deep, cock twitching inside you, and then he started moving again. Slow now. Deep. Unhurried.

Fucking his release into you like he was claiming you with every inch.

You sobbed softly, overstimulated and overwhelmed, your arms finally dropping when he let go of your wrists—but only for a moment.

His hand moved immediately to your jaw, firm and guiding, turning your tear-streaked face toward him.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and you did—barely. Dazed. Broken.

His mouth caught yours in a kiss—hot, slow, lingering. His tongue slid gently against yours as his cock kept moving inside you, dragging through your soaked walls with a rhythm that felt soothing, almost comforting.

And then he didn’t stop there. He kissed you again—just as slow—but this time it wasn’t just your mouth.

He pressed his lips to your cheeks, damp with tears. Gentle kisses, one after another, as if he could wipe them away with his mouth. As if he wasn’t the reason you were crying in the first place.

Your jaw. Your temple. The corner of your eye.

Each kiss was soft. Deliberate. Soothing.

His mouth found your ear, and he whispered, voice rough but steady:

“So good,” he placed a kiss to your neck. “Such a good fuckin’ girl,” then another to your jaw.

But you were still crying. Still wrecked. Still whimpering into his mouth.

“You took it so good for me, baby,” he murmured against your lips, fingers cradling your face now, gentler than before. “So fuckin’ messy, so desperate—my perfect little thing.”

You whimpered, clenching around him again.

“Such a good girl,” he rasped, voice thick with lust and something dangerously close to affection. “You made such a mess for me.”

His thrusts stayed deep, slow, dragging every last bit of overstimulation out of you, cock still thick and heavy inside your slick, swollen cunt.

And even through your tears, even through the way your body shook, you still pressed your cheek into his hand. Still gave him everything.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just let me fuck it into you. Nice and slow. You earned that, didn’t you?”

You could only nod—pathetic and ruined.

He kept fucking you—slow and deep, every thrust thick with his cum, every drag of his cock pulling a soft whimper from your swollen throat.

His hand cradled your jaw, lips brushing against your cheek where the tears still lingered, and his voice dropped low—raspy and certain.

“I’m not fucking pulling out of you tonight. I can assure you that.”

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

“You look so fucking pretty when you fall apart.”

You can barely breathe.

Bucky is still fully clothed—black t-shirt, sweats hanging low on his hips—while you’re completely bare save for the ruined lingerie around your waist. The contrast makes your pulse race.

“You’re gonna ride me like this,” he tells you, withdrawing his fingers and watching the way your slick clings. “Nice and slow. Want you to see what you look like when you’re filled.”

He grabs his cock and lines it up with your entrance, dragging the tip through your folds.

You’re trembling already.

“You ready for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Show me.”

You sink down onto him with a sob—body stretching, clenching, adjusting. Bucky curses beneath his breath, hands gripping your hips tight as he holds you still for a moment.

“Fuck. So warm.”

You brace your hands on his chest and roll your hips slowly. The burn fades into bliss—full, deep, perfect.

“Now,” he says, voice thick, “look.”

You force your eyes back up.

And there you are—on top of him, taking him inch by inch, your body bouncing in slow, desperate rolls. His cock disappears inside you, thick and slick, and you moan when you see the way your body gives way for him.

“You see that?” he growls, thrusting up into you. “See how good you take me?”

You nod, tears slipping from your lashes. “Yes—Sir—”

“Watch it.”

You do.

You ride him just like he told you—slow and deep, every roll of your hips dragging a moan from his throat. He lets you move on your own, hands splayed over your ass, guiding but not controlling.

The mirror makes everything sharper.

The way your breasts bounce with every thrust. The mess between your thighs. The red blooming on your skin from earlier teasing.

“You look so fucking desperate,” Bucky mutters. “So needy. So mine.”

You whimper.

He grabs your chin and forces your face up higher. “Eyes. On. The. Mirror.”

You stare.

You can’t not.

Because he’s right.

You’re completely unmade. Fucked-out and flushed, your body trembling as you ride him, tears on your cheeks and pleasure written all over your reflection.

“You look like a dream,” he whispers.

And then he thrusts up hard—once, twice, three times—and your rhythm stumbles.

“Oh—fuck—please—”

“You wanna come?”

“Yes, Sir—please—please, I’m so close—”

“Then keep watching,” he growls, hand sliding between your thighs. “I want you to see what it looks like when I break you.”

His fingers find your clit.

It’s over.

You cry out, body shaking as your orgasm slams into you. Your head falls back, but Bucky grabs a fistful of your hair and makes you look.

“Eyes up, baby. Watch yourself fall apart.”

You do.

And it’s the filthiest, most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Your body locks up, thighs shaking, cunt fluttering around him as he fucks you through it—holding you steady, whispering praise and filth in equal measure.

When you finally collapse against him, breathless, he wraps his arms around you.

“You did so good,” he whispers against your temple. “My perfect girl.”

And there, in the mirror, you see it:

The softness behind the wreckage.

You should’ve known better the moment you stepped inside. The facility was too quiet, too intact. Dust settled thick on the floors, but the lights still flickered dimly overhead, and the security systems were half-alive, humming low like they were waiting.

You were the one who found the sealed door- reinforced, heavily protected, and drawing power. It was locked down tight, tucked at the end of a corridor where the flickering lights didn’t quite reach. You called the others over.

"You think it’s storage?" Bucky asked, frowning at the biometric pad.

"Locked and powered," you muttered. "Could be data. Or maybe just a lab they forgot to scrub."

"Let's not poke the bear," Steve said, but he stepped up beside you anyway, scanning the door. "Looks like it's sealed for a reason."

That should've been the moment you backed off. But your fingers were already dancing over the keypad, overriding the old security system. The panel blinked. Clicked.

"I’ve almost got- "

The door hissed. Not wide- barely a few inches.

A soft spray hit you all in the face.

It came fast. Silent. A puff of pressurized mist like compressed air, followed by the faintest scent- ozone, chemical sweetness, almost floral.

You stumbled back, coughing once.

"What the hell was that?" Bucky barked, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the door. "You okay? Did you breathe it in?"

"Yeah, but- I don’t feel anything."

"We’re all covered in it," Bucky snapped, glaring at the faint sheen settling over Steve’s shoulders. "Fucking hell."

"Close it," Steve ordered.

Bucky slammed the door shut, sealing it again with a growl. "Old security measure. Shit."

"We’ll report it," Steve said, but his jaw was clenched.

The spray clung to your skin. Sweet. Heavy. And whatever it was, it was in all three of you now.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

By the time the jet touched down back at the compound, you were already flushed and aching, your heart thudding too fast in your chest. Whatever had come out of that door- it clung to your skin, settled in your lungs, and made everything inside you feel off. You weren’t the only one affected. Bucky was pacing the perimeter of the quinjet like a caged animal. Steve hadn’t spoken for the last twenty minutes, but his white-knuckled grip on the back of a seat said everything.

You’d hoped the decontamination shower would be the end of it. But blood was still taken. Swabs run over your skin. Scans. More questions. Until finally, they left the three of you in the quarantine room- one sterile space, no outside contact, and cameras in every corner.

You wanted to apologize. This had been your mistake. But Bucky’s expression was pure storm as he continued to pace like a tiger in a zoo. Steve’s face was unreadable- steely, distant, controlled. So you kept your mouth shut and tried not to scratch at your skin like you desperately wanted.

Soft static crackled, and then Tony’s voice filled the room over the speaker. "It’s biochemical bonding serum," he said. "Looks like it's engineered to push subjects into a state of hyperarousal and submission, designed to override inhibition and drive instinctual behaviors."

Your stomach dropped. What kind of mess had you landed yourself in?

"How long?" Bucky snapped, voice sharp.

"We'll have to check back on the decay and metabolic rate, and we- "

"What Bruce means is- we don't know," Tony cut in. "For you guys, it might be a matter of hours. Little Miss Curiosity might be stuck with it in her system a little longer."

You flinched and shied away from the speaker, burying your face in your hands.

"We're working on it, don't stress. It shouldn't kill you," Tony added casually.

"Big fucking whoop," Bucky growled, pressing a fist into the wall. Steve shot him a look of disproval. 

"Buck.." His tone warning. 

"Just, try and stay calm, guys," Bruce said, trying to sound optimistic. "It'll be alright."

"Don’t make a mess," Tony said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "We’ll keep you posted."

And just like that, you were cut off again. Biochemical- engineered arousal.

"Well, you heard him," Steve sighed, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We just have to keep our heads. It can’t last forever."

That was easy for him to say. Both Steve and Bucky had super soldier serum in their veins- enhanced bodies that could regulate, adapt, maybe even resist. You… you were human. And you could already feel your body reacting in ways that made your skin itch and your blood feel like it was boiling.

You didn't say anything. Just shifted your weight, trying not to squirm. The heat beneath your skin pulsed steadily now, like it was alive.

"This is fucked," Bucky muttered, pacing again. "They just dumped us in here like we’re some kind of experiment."

"They’re doing what they can," Steve said, tone calm but tight. "We don’t know enough yet. Getting worked up won’t help."

"Worked up?" Bucky turned on him, eyes flashing. "You don’t feel that?"

Steve’s jaw flexed. "Of course I feel it."

"Then quit acting like you don’t."

You glanced between them, heart racing. The tension in the room was building again, only this time it wasn’t from anger- it was something heavier. Thicker. Clinging to the air like smoke.

And under it all, that hum beneath your skin only grew louder. 

Hours had passed.

You'd started pacing a little while ago, unable to sit still. Movement helped. Not much- but it was something. You were going through the water they'd left in the room like you were dying of thirst. You were hot, sticky, your tank damp and clinging to your body, and you were doing everything you could to ignore the throbbing pulse between your legs.

You kept moving. Pacing. Trying to shake it off.

Steve watched from the far cot, jaw tight. His shirt was damp, his breath shallow, but he was sitting like he was trying to pretend everything was normal.

Bucky was pacing again, eyes locked on you more often than not, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. “She smells different,” he muttered. “Fuck.”

His words made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The rough, raw sound of his voice made your head twitch like it was a physical thing pulling at you.

"Gonna try and sleep," you muttered, not looking at either of them.

Maybe you'd be able to sleep through the worst of it. Maybe if you were lucky, your body would calm down. You slipped behind the thin curtain, stepping into the tiny corner of privacy around your cot. Laying down, the heat of your body only seemed to intensify. Your skin felt suffocated, and with a frustrated sigh, you peeled your tank top over your head, leaving you in just your bra, hoping the exposure would help you breathe easier.

It didn’t.

You curled onto your side, arms around your stomach, thighs pressed tight together. The ache between your legs was a constant, heavy throb now. Maybe… maybe you could just handle your own needs. Just enough to take the edge off. Anything to ease the ache.

Your hands trembled as you pulled the thin blanket around you and lay on the cot. There was a small curtain for privacy, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds when your fingers slipped beneath your waistband.

You tried to be quiet. Tried to hold your breath. But your body was on fire, and even the gentlest brush of your fingers sent you bucking.

A whimper escaped, broken and desperate.

And then you heard it- Steve’s voice. Low. Strained.

“Don’t- don’t do that.”

You froze. “I- I can’t- ”

Still, you didn’t stop. You rubbed faster, then slower, your fingers diving inside of you, pressing deeper, trying every angle- but nothing worked. Every shift of your hand sent sparks across your nerves, your breath hitching with each pulse of pressure, but the fire wouldn’t break. Your legs trembled, your toes curled, but it all stayed out of reach.

You changed angles, tried circling your clit with trembling fingers while your other hand held onto the edge of the cot like it could ground you. You rocked your hips up, whispered pleas into the dark, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. You needed more- needed them- but all you had were your own shaking hands and the unbearable ache growing between your legs.

Your breath hitched again as frustration bloomed hot and frantic in your chest. You were soaking, your thighs slick, the air sticky with the scent of your arousal. Your skin was flushed and clammy, your body locked in this endless loop of need- and yet you still couldn’t fall over that edge. Not like this. Not alone.

"You gonna keep pretending you don’t want her?" Bucky asked, voice low and rough, growling on the other side of the curtain.

Steve didn’t move at first, but his voice followed, strained. "I can smell her arousal from here, Buck. You think I’m not affected?"

"She’s whimpering, Steve. Sounds like music to me."

"We’re not doing this. We can’t- "

"Fuck this. She needs someone."

"Don’t you fucking touch her," Steve snapped.

"Then you do something," Bucky fired back.

Silence followed. You pressed your fingers deeper, hips rocking, but it wasn’t working. You were going to explode- your body was wound so tight it hurt.

Your fingers weren’t enough. You begged, voice cracking, desperate and broken.

"Please... please someone- "

Someone pulled the curtain back. Bucky’s eyes were dark. Blown wide. He didn’t speak. It hurt. “I can’t…” you whimpered, barely able to speak. “It’s not working…”

Your hips shifted again instinctively, your fingers still caught between your thighs, but the tension was unbearable. You were so wet, so swollen with need, it was maddening- and yet release stayed just out of reach. Your body craved more than your own touch could give.

They both appeared, stepping past the curtain without a word. You could see it in their faces- this was affecting them just as much. Steve’s eyes were dark, jaw clenched. Bucky looked wrecked, barely human with how sharp and hungry his expression had become.

You writhed again on the cot, body shaking, and Steve moved first- his weight shifting over you as he pressed your shoulders down into the mattress with steady, unyielding hands.

"Stay still," he said, voice gravel-thick.

At the same time, Bucky grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from you.

You whined, hips arched up, as Bucky’s gaze dropped to your slick fingers. He looked transfixed. Obsessed. His mouth parted before he dragged his tongue along your digits, groaning low in his chest at the taste.

Then- without breaking eye contact- he brought your hand to Steve.

"Tell me again we shouldn’t do this," Bucky said, voice rough and knowing.

Steve hesitated, staring at your hand, your eyes, then your body.

"...Steve?" you pleaded, chest heaving. A bead of sweat slid down your ribs, slicking your skin as the heat inside you pulsed like a second heartbeat. "Help... please."

Steve’s jaw flexed. His eyes raked over your flushed, trembling body, lingering where your bra had ridden up from the way you were squirming, the curve of your thighs glistening in the low light.

Bucky didn’t speak. He just stood there beside him, wild-eyed and rigid, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. The scent of you filled the air. Thick. Sweet. Desperate.

Steve exhaled through his nose, heavy and slow like he was trying to exhale restraint. It didn’t work.

"You’re going to regret begging so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, finally moving closer, the promise behind his words like thunder rolling through your veins.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

They were both on you.

You didn’t know who moved first- Steve’s hand slid up your thigh, firm and sure, while Bucky’s mouth was suddenly at your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The tension shattered. Clothing came off in frantic tugs- your joggers peeled away, your bra unclasped and discarded. Steve’s tank was tossed aside. Bucky’s sweats hit the floor with a low rustle.

Heat and skin and breath surrounded you. Their bodies pressed in, solid and hot and overwhelming. Steve's chest pinned you down as he kissed you- hard and consuming- his tongue sliding against yours as he groaned into your mouth. His hands cupped your jaw, fingers splayed, tilting your head how he wanted it.

Bucky moved lower, lips trailing down your throat, teeth scraping along your collarbone. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you down the cot toward him with a roughness that made you moan. He kissed your stomach, your ribs, your inner thighs, worshipping each inch like it belonged to him.

You gasped, arching into the touch of both of them. Their mouths- wet and demanding. Their bodies- slick with sweat, grinding against you like they couldn't get close enough.

You'd all held out for so long. Now there was nothing but the letting go.

Every nerve ending in your body sparked like live wires with every touch- every graze of skin against skin sent jolts of unbearable sensation through you. It was impossible to stay still. Your limbs twitched, your hips rocked, your breath came in short, gasping pulls as your body tried to process too much, too fast.

“Don’t move,” Steve growled, voice rough but laced with something gentler beneath. “Too sensitive? No. You’re just not used to being handled right.”

Bucky pushed your legs open wider, guiding your knees apart until your calves hung off the edge of the cot, completely exposed, completely theirs. “She’s soaking,” Bucky breathed. “Fucking hell- she’s dripping down her thighs.” The cool air kissed your slick folds and made you shiver. Then his hand slid between your thighs again, and fingers plunged into you- two, maybe three. You didn’t even know whose they were anymore.

Steve’s mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over the top curve of your breast before his lips closed around your nipple. You sobbed, your body already arching upward from the overload.

The blonde growled against your skin, one hand gripping your jaw while the other tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bow your spine upward. You gasped, helpless, writhing between them, your body trembling from overstimulation.

“You’re taking it so well,” Steve murmured, voice low and rough. “Just like that. Good girl.”

“Look at her,” Bucky snarled. “That’s it, sweetheart- ride my hand. Come on. Take what you need.”

His fingers worked deep inside you, curling and thrusting, hitting that spot that made your legs twitch and your hips lift off the cot. His palm pressed against your clit with every motion, grinding you into the edge of bliss, holding you there with cruel precision. You could feel everything. Every ridge of his knuckles, every flex of his wrist. It was too much and not enough all at once.

You whimpered, your hands scrambling against the sheets, seeking something to hold onto as your body rocked with each relentless stroke. Steve bit gently at the underside of your jaw, his hand still twisted in your hair as he whispered praises that barely reached your ears over the rushing roar of need building inside you.

Steve’s mouth was on your chest again, sucking one nipple into the heat of his mouth while his hand massaged the other, groping you with a needy rhythm that only made it harder to breathe. His other hand had tangled itself in your hair again, gently tugging until your spine arched up off the cot, your body straining toward both of them.

Bucky’s metal thumb pressed into your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your thighs jerk. Your breath hitched, head tipping back as you let out a broken moan.

"OH FUCK." you cried, fingers clawing at the side of the cot, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop. His fingers pumped into you, slick and steady, coaxing the sound out of your throat again and again. You felt like you were vibrating- nerve endings lit up with fire, each touch sparking through you like electricity.

“You hear that, punk?” Bucky’s voice dripped with ego. “That’s the sound of my fingers making her cry.” Steve shifted beside you, sitting up to watch, his eyes locked on where Bucky's fingers slid in and out of you. One of his hands moved down, low and out of sight, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he fought to keep control.

Bucky glanced back at him, grinning as he curled his fingers just right and made you cry out again.

"Look at her, Stevie," Bucky growled, his voice rough and ragged with arousal. He didn’t even look up, just watched his fingers slide in and out of you like it was the most important thing in the world. "She’s writhing just from my fingers. What happens when I put my cock in?"

"You’ll wait," Steve snapped, voice sharp, strained with barely checked control. He was flushed, jaw tight, clearly fighting the same battle Bucky was already losing.

"God, look at her," Bucky muttered again, breath coming faster. "Fuck, I want her mouth. I want every part."

You couldn’t answer. Your vision blurred. Every nerve in your body felt like it had snapped tight, vibrating with unbearable pressure.

And then it broke.

You came- hard.

Your whole body convulsed as the orgasm tore through you. Your legs kicked against the cot, arms flailing blindly for purchase. Steve had to hold you down, one hand braced across your chest, the other still tangled in your hair as your back arched and a strangled sob tore from your throat.

It didn’t end quickly. The drug made it last- your climax dragging on and on, crashing over you in waves so powerful they left you gasping, wrecked.

You felt Bucky’s fingers slow inside you, easing off just enough to let you ride it out without breaking. But they didn’t stop touching you. They didn’t let you go.

And worst of all, the haze in your head didn’t clear like you hoped it would.

You were still shaking. Still needy.

Still burning.

You were a panting mess, your skin still hot and your chest tight when one of them scooped you up and lay you out on the cool floor. The shock of it made you gasp, the chill a sudden relief against your fevered skin. You blinked your eyes open, dazed, limbs slack and breath ragged.

"You’re such a mess for us, baby," Bucky murmured, crouched above you now. His voice was low, ruined with hunger. "That sweet little body of yours wasn’t made to handle all this, was it?"

Your eyes found him- Bucky, kneeling near your face now, his cock hard and leaking, so close it blurred your thoughts. He looked feral, undone, lips parted like he was barely restraining himself.

Your tongue slipped out to lick your lips without thinking. The taste of your own sweat clung to your skin, but all you could focus on was him. The way his chest rose and fell, the way his fist clenched at his thigh.

Your mind narrowed to a single point of clarity.

You wanted him in your mouth.

You leaned forward slowly, licking the bead of precum off his tip before taking him in fully- hungry, needy, your lips stretching around the thick, velvet length of him. Bucky’s breath stuttered, and he let out a ragged groan as your mouth sealed around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he gasped, one hand flying to your hair, not to guide but to anchor himself. “So fucking pretty like this- taking me so deep. Look at those lips- look at that mouth.”

You moaned around him, the vibrations making him hiss. He was hot, heavy, pulsing against your tongue, and you hollowed your cheeks to take him deeper, until your nose pressed against the base and he swore low under his breath.

“Messy little mouth,” Bucky panted. “So eager. You needed this, didn’t you? Needed something to suck while we ruin the rest of you.”

You were lost in it- the taste of him, the heat, the way he twitched when your tongue flicked just right. Spit gathered at the corners of your mouth as you worked him with sloppy desperation, gagging slightly as you bobbed your head in a steady rhythm.

Just then, you felt Steve’s hands at your hips, steady and sure. He shifted your lower body, pulling your legs open and up until you were spread out for him on the floor.

“You liked Buck's fingers? Let’s see how you do on my cock,” Steve growled against your ear, his voice dark and thick with restraint.

You gasped around Bucky’s cock, the moan caught in your throat turning into a garbled sound of pleasure as Steve aligned himself behind you. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you wide as his tip pressed against your entrance- already slick, fluttering, aching.

He pushed in slow, filling you inch by inch, and every nerve inside you lit up in electric spasms. Your muscles fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing as he stretched you open, the thick drag of him stealing your breath.

The pressure, the fullness, the stretch- it was overwhelming. You sobbed around Bucky, the vibration of your moan making him groan above you, his hips twitching as he fought not to thrust.

Steve bottomed out with a hiss, his hands gripping tighter like he needed the anchor. Inside you, he throbbed, deep and perfect. You felt stretched to the edge of your limits, your inner walls fluttering in frantic spasms around him, struggling to adjust and clench all at once. Your body didn’t know what to do- pull him in deeper or push him out.

It was too much. It was everything. Your head was spinning.

They started to move- slow at first. Steve dragging back only to sink in again, deliberate, controlled, while Bucky’s cock bumped the back of your throat as he rocked forward with a groan. You gagged, whined, clung to them both with your mouth and body.

You were stuck in it now. The lust. The drug. The heat. There was no thought left, only sensation. Only how it felt to be stretched open in two directions, trembling and gasping.

They didn’t talk to you anymore. They talked about you.

“She’s so sensitive,” Bucky growled. “Poor thing doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

Steve grunted, his pace picking up. “Tight as hell. She’s pulsing like she doesn’t know whether she wants to come or cry.”

You tried to moan but it came out a broken, garbled sound around Bucky’s cock. Your tongue dragged along the underside of him as he pushed deeper, your throat fluttering as you swallowed around the stretch. Spit dripped from the corners of your mouth, tears tracking down your cheeks, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Bucky’s hand tightened at the back of your head, not forcing, just holding you there, gazing down into your wet, dazed eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Fuck, look at you drooling all over me. You love it, don’t you?”

Your hips rocked back into Steve without meaning to as he thrust forward again, harder this time, grinding deep. Your nerves fired like sparks, the friction of his cock dragging against hypersensitive flesh sending bursts of pressure low in your belly. Your insides coiled, pleasure building with every thick, deliberate thrust, your body wound so tight it felt like you might snap apart.

“You’re doing so well for us,” Steve grunted, leaning down, his mouth hot at your ear. “Such a good girl, letting us use you like this.”

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, driving in deeper. The stretch made you cry out around Bucky’s cock, throat flexing as your moan turned to a sob.

"That's it," Steve growled, pace quickening. "Fuck, so fucking wet and warm... you gonna cum, sweetheart? Gotta feel you squeeze me while you swallow Bucky."

Your body arched, heat crashing through your spine as Steve hit that perfect spot again and again, each thrust sending a jolt through your core. Your throat tightened around Bucky's cock, the vibration of your desperate moans making him curse under his breath.

“Fuck- she’s so close,” Steve panted, driving harder. “You feel that? She’s fucking pulsing.”

You sobbed around Bucky, tears streaking your cheeks, the pressure in your belly a coil tightening with no escape.

“She’s gonna lose it,” Bucky panted, watching the way you writhed. “Look at how she’s trembling. She needs cock.”

And then it snapped.

Your climax hit like a bolt of lightning, seizing your body with white-hot tension as your inner walls clamped down around Steve’s cock. You wailed around Bucky’s length, the cry vibrating through him as he let out a guttural groan.

“Fuck, that mouth- ” Bucky growled, watching your teary eyes roll back. “I’m gonna- shit- ”

He spilled down your throat with a grunt, his cock twitching between your lips, his hand holding you steady as you swallowed every drop of him while he pulsed. 

The clenching spasms of your climax milked Steve mercilessly, dragging his own orgasm from him with a ragged curse. He slammed in deep, staying buried as he came hard, filling you with warmth that only made the pleasure burn hotter.

“Take it,” he groaned, his breath broken against your shoulder. “Take it all. Good fucking girl.”

Bucky sat back on his heels, pulling himself from your mouth with a wet pop, still hard, his cock glistening with your spit. “"Fuck... you’re unreal..." he panted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing..pupils blown as he looked down at you.

Steve finally pulled out with a groan, the loss of him sudden and jarring, making you whimper. His cum followed, warm and slick as it dripped from your stretched pussy, pooling between your thighs.

His gaze dropped between your legs, transfixed. His eyes went heavy-lidded as he watched it leak from you, dripping down to your slick, twitching rim. Slowly, his fingers moved to your core, smearing the mess down lower, spreading it deliberately to your other entrance.

You gasped, twitching from aftershocks, your body still sensitive everywhere. His fingertip teased your tight hole, rubbing softly, slicking it with a practiced ease. You whimpered, already overwhelmed, but the moan that spilled from you was pure need.

“Damn, Stevie- you didn’t fuck her right if she’s still aching like this,” Bucky drawled, voice hoarse and edged with a smirk, watching the way your hips shifted restlessly on the floor.

You whimpered, the heat still rolling inside you, every nerve ending alive and twitching. The aftershocks made your muscles flutter, your body too sensitive and still so hungry. Steve didn’t bite back. He was too focused- his fingers slick with his own cum as he spread it lower, smearing it over your pussy and then circling your tight, twitching rim.

And then one thick finger pressed inward.

You gasped, whole body jolting, a broken sound catching in your throat as your body tried to clamp down instinctively. But Steve worked slowly, steadily, easing the finger deeper, the stretch sharp and slow as he began to work you open.

You felt your core clench around nothing as Steve worked his finger deeper. “I need- please, I need more, I can’t- ” you gasped, voice trembling. Your head was a mess, fogged with lust and the aftershocks still sparking under your skin. Steve kept up the slow pump of his finger, pushing in deeper, working more of his cum into your ass to keep you slick and open.

“Hear that, Steve?” Bucky said, voice thick with amusement, already fisting his own cock in lazy, slow strokes. “She wants more.”

Steve’s gaze didn’t waver, his finger sinking deeper, curling. You whimpered again.

“Can’t say no, can we?” Bucky added, grinning.

“Oh, I think I know exactly what our girl needs...” Steve muttered, voice thick with heat and control, as his hand disappeared between your thighs.

Steve pulled his finger from your ass just as Bucky got down onto the floor, reaching out to haul you up into his lap. Steve’s arms hooking under yours, supporting your limp, boneless body as they moved you together like you weighed nothing.

“Let’s get you on Buck now...” Steve purred near your ear, voice thick and smooth, a slow heat curling down your spine.

Bucky’s cock was already there- thick, hard, and waiting. They guided you together, Steve steadying you from behind while Bucky angled his cock to your entrance.

As Steve lowered you, your legs wrapped weakly around Bucky’s hips, and you felt the first stretch as his tip slid inside. A guttural groan ripped from Bucky’s throat, his hands tightening on your thighs.

“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out, voice rough and reverent. “You always take me so damn good. Still so fucking tight- even after Steve blew you open? Shit.”

“That’s a girl,” Steve murmured, voice low with praise. “Nice and slow... Want you to feel every inch of him, don’t you?”

You just whimpered and nodded, the need to be filled consuming, overwhelming, as the pair of them helped you sink down onto Bucky’s cock, inch by perfect inch.

Your head fell back against Steve’s shoulder as you settled fully onto Bucky, who thrust up into you with steady pressure. The heat and stretch made your whole body tremble. You could barely breathe, still twitching from your earlier climax. Then Bucky's hands gripped your hips tight.

“Oh fuck,” he hissed, hips rolling upward as he began to move you, guiding you into a rhythm. “Look at you. Still aching. Like how I feel doll?”

The moan that spilled from your mouth didn’t even sound like you anymore- wrecked, raw, and desperate.

You were unraveling under Bucky’s rhythm- the way he filled you had your mind slipping, your thoughts scattering with every deep, slow thrust, how every thrust hit deep, high inside, brushing against that spot that made you shudder. Your head lolled back onto Steve’s shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted around desperate little gasps.

“She bites her lip when I go deep. You see that?” Bucky said with a rough chuckle, voice wrecked but smug. “She likes my rhythm.”

You didn’t even notice the way Steve bent you forward over Bucky, hands guiding your body like you were something precious and fragile and already ruined.

You didn’t have time to think too much before you felt Bucky’s hands grip your ass, pulling you open as Steve shifted behind you. It wasn’t until the thick, spongy head of his cock pressed against somewhere you’d never let anyone touch that your eyes snapped open in surprise.

The first inch pushed into your ass slowly, carefully, but it still stole your breath.

“It’s too much- I can’t- wait- ” you gasped, voice cracking with overwhelmed panic as your body instinctively tried to jerk away.

But Bucky rocked his hips upward, pushing deep into your pussy again, and the shockwave of pleasure was enough to paralyze your resistance.

“Shh... it’s okay,” Steve murmured, arms wrapping around you from behind as he continued to press in. His voice was thick and coaxing, his control iron-tight. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good for us.”

You sobbed, your whole body fluttering around them as Steve sank in deeper, the thin wall between your holes trembling with every inch he took. The two of them groaned in unison, voices rough and reverent as they filled you together.

You were caught between them now. Two super soldiers, all three of you lost in lust and need. Your face twisted with sensation as they held you there- one thick cock filling your pussy, the other spreading your ass open inch by inch. Both sunk to the hilt. You were impossibly full. You were shaking. Overwhelmed. Unable to process the stretch, the heat, the drag of their bodies inside you. It was too much. And you needed more.

“You’re both so… big- I’m gonna- fuck- ” you sobbed. You couldn’t believe how sensitive you’d become- how just being filled, just being stretched, could reduce you to this. You weren’t even moving, yet your body was already bracing to come undone again. There was no going back. No holding on. Just surrender.

You came without moving, the sensation of fullness alone tipping you over. Your body seized in the middle, core clenching violently, squeezing down on both of them at once as pleasure ripped through you like a lightning bolt.

Your voice cracked into a scream. You were gone- shaking, convulsing, burning from the inside out as your orgasm dragged through you with devastating force.

Both of them groaned at the way your body squeezed them- tight and hot and trembling.

“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, rocking his hips once more. “Didn’t even have to move. Just had to be inside you.”

Steve chuckled darkly, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “She’s that sensitive. That fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t even answer. Your lips parted in a silent gasp as Steve’s hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your stiff nipples as he started to move again. Slowly at first, easing back before pressing forward, dragging against that thin wall with every thick stroke.

Bucky's grip returned to your hips, steady and possessive, guiding you to rise and fall on his cock. Your body jolted with every motion, your moans soft and slurred.

“That’s it,” Steve cooed, hips snapping gently. “We’ll start slow…”

“I-I can’t- ” you whimpered, but your body was already moving, driven by instinct and need.

“I know you can take more,” he murmured. “Look how beautiful you are when you come apart. It'll feel better- just gotta keep going.”

And it did. It felt better than the denial. Better than the ache that came from holding back. The pleasure rolled through you like a drug, heavy and all-consuming.

Your hips started to move again, slowly grinding into Bucky as your walls fluttered around him. You didn’t know if it was need or instinct- maybe both- but you couldn’t stop. You were cock-drunk. Barely aware of anything except how good it felt to be filled this way.

“Breathe,” Steve whispered. “Just like that. Hold it- good girl.”

Then Steve pulled your hips back into him and pressed all the way in.

“You think you’re fucking her deep?” Steve growled at Bucky, voice low and wild. “Watch this.”

Bucky shoved his hand flat to your lower stomach and lifted his hips with a brutal thrust. You cried out, the stretch making your eyes roll back as he ground up into you. It was obscene how deep he reached, how thick he felt. You pawed at his chest, clinging to him with trembling fingers.

“..fuck fuck fuck...” you gasped, the breath knocked out of you before he eased his hips again, smug and steady.

“Told ya,” Bucky muttered with a grin.

But it didn’t stop there.

Bucky answered your gasps with harder thrusts. Steve listened for his name and answered with praise. His mouth latched to your neck, nipping and licking along your skin as he squeezed your breasts roughly, molding them in his palms.

“Did you hear that one? That was mine,” Steve muttered against your skin when you gasped his name.

Bucky answered with a sharp thrust that made your breath catch. “She moaned louder for me, sweetheart. Don’t get cocky.”

Each of them was locked into the game- testing reactions, adjusting pace, trying to claim the sounds that spilled from your lips. One made you cry out, the other drew a gasp. They used your body like a live wire for their competition, and you were helpless in the storm.

“She whimpers when I kiss her right here,” he growled, biting just beneath your ear.

Bucky’s hands gripped your hips tighter, fucking up into you hard enough to rock you against Steve’s chest. “She clenched around me when you said that,” he rasped. “Bet she’s trying to pick a favourite.”

You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think. You only managed to gasp whatever name escaped your lips first, and they both heard it- every time. And they responded with sharper thrusts, filthier praise.

“You’re so cock-drunk, you don’t even know who’s making you come anymore, do you?” Bucky said, voice rough.

“She’s beautiful like this,” Steve murmured, licking the sweat off your throat. “All wrecked. All ours.”

Then Bucky’s metal hand slid between your thighs again. His fingers brushed your clit, the coolness of steel a shocking chill of metal against your heat made you jolt, gasping as sparks danced up your spine.

“Oh- god - fuck- ” you sobbed, trembling uncontrollably as sparks shot up your spine.

“Breathe,” Steve ordered again. “Just like that. That’s our girl.”

They started to move faster now- driving into you in sync, pistoning in perfect rhythm. The slap of skin echoed, the slick sounds of your soaked cunt and the obscene wet pressure of being filled from both ends breaking whatever was left of your mind.

“You want to make her come, punk?” Bucky growled. “You gotta fuck her harder than that.”

“Shut up, jerk,” Steve snarled, thrusting harder. “We don’t need to break her. Just ruin her a little longer.”

“She’s shaking so bad. You keep her steady, Steve- I wanna see her face when she comes again.”

Your next orgasm ripped through you with a small wail, your features contorting as your body locked up tight. You clawed at them both- gripping Steve’s forearm, Bucky’s shoulder- as your walls fluttered around their cocks, milking them, begging for more without a word.

They didn’t stop. Didn’t give you time to come down. Steve groaned, his thrusts picking up as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. Bucky cursed, gripping your hips tighter, lifting and dropping you into him with growing urgency.

You felt them both losing control- felt their restraint slipping with every second you squeezed around them, heat and slickness pouring down your thighs.

“Fuck- fuck, she’s doing it again,” Bucky grunted.

Steve’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “She wants it. She’s not done. Not till we are.”

Then the pace shifted- harder, rougher, deeper. Their moans grew louder, matched only by the slap of skin on skin. Your head spun, your vision blurred.

And then they were coming again- Steve first, pulled tight to your back, his groan muffled in your shoulder. Then Bucky, buried deep beneath you, eyes locked on yours as he spilled inside you with a strangled moan.

You collapsed between them, limp and boneless, your body a trembling wreck held up only by their hands. You didn’t even try to move. There was no fight left in you- only the slow hum of satisfaction and overstimulation. Somewhere in the haze of your mind, a flicker of disbelief passed through you- how had you endured that? How had you survived the storm of them inside you? But there was no room for shame or second thoughts. Only surrender. And the quiet, overwhelming hum of being utterly, deliciously wrecked. You were too dazed to understand what was happening at first, the haze still thick behind your eyes. The humming under your skin hadn’t stopped, but it had dulled- muted to a low thrum that echoed in your bones. They were careful, even if your overstimulated body didn’t register it that way.

You whined, squirming, as they slowly pulled out of you. The stretch reversed, the heat slipping away, leaving you empty and raw. It wasn’t pain, but your body protested the loss with soft whimpers.

Someone pressed a water bottle to your lips, coaxing you to sip. You obeyed without thought, the coolness trickling down your throat a small mercy.

Another set of hands gently wiped you down. A cold, damp cloth slid between your legs, easing away the slick mess with slow, tender strokes.

Then your head was lowered into someone’s lap. Fingers carded through your hair.

“You did so well,” Steve murmured. “Look at you- perfect.”

You blinked slowly. Steve’s voice again, closer now: “Easy, sweetheart. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Your limbs twitched weakly, still responding to phantom pleasure. A quiet laugh came from Bucky.

“Still twitching. Still fucking gorgeous.”

You felt him kissing up your leg, mouth trailing along your calf, your knee, your inner thigh.

Then your legs were being moved again- lifted, spread with a gentleness that contrasted starkly with the earlier frenzy. There was no rush now, no urgency- just the soft reverence of Bucky's hands as he cradled your thighs like something precious, something breakable, as though he hadn’t just wrecked you minutes ago. You blinked, barely aware, as Bucky settled himself between them, laying flat, his breath hot against your oversensitive core.

He pressed a kiss there, soft and reverent, and your whole body jolted in response.

“And I’m not done tasting her,” he muttered, voice thick with need.

“Buck- she needs to recover,” Steve warned again, but his voice had softened to something indulgent.

“I’ll be gentle…” Bucky promised, his mouth already lowering, tongue dragging slow and careful over your aching folds as your head lolled back into Steve lap, eyes fluttering closed, lost to the warmth and the wetness and the impossible pleasure building again

"it's just so good, isn't it?" he taunts you. you're sitting on his lap, your bare back to his clothed chest, and he's slowly working three vibranium fingers in and out of you...

you let out a low moan and roll your head back, letting your temple meet his cheek. you reach your left hand back to hold his hair gently, keeping his head in place against yours.

the heat of his body against yours is so agonizingly overwhelming. you love it.

"you're so good for me, sweetheart, you know that?" he goes on, "so easy, too. yeah. you're so easy for me, getting all wet like this, and I haven't even taken my shirt off."

you whine. you can't fathom forming a single comprehensible word right now.

"you just need me to touch you," he says, crooking his fingers up against the spot deep inside you, making you groan and curl your body forward, "right there, don't you, baby?"

his right arm moves to bring you back to lean against his chest.

"need you to stay right there for me, baby, come on. you know better," he reminds you.

he's right.

you nod. you're sweating, and your hair is a fucking mess, you're sure of it.

you guide your fingers through his hair again, gently playing with the strands of hair as he keeps pressing up against that spot deep inside you.

"you like that, don't you, baby?"

you nod once more.

"bet you'd like some more, huh?"

you whine out, nodding more fervently. you need just a little bit more to go over the edge–

"come on. be good. what do you say?" he taunts again.

"please, Bucky," you whisper, your voice thick as you can barely get out the words.

"that's it, doll," he praises, "such a good girl f'me."

he brings his other hand to join his metal one between your legs, gently rubbing circles into your clit, and you struggle to hold yourself in place against him as he's instructed.

"relax, babydoll. you know I've got you. I always do," he tells you, beginning to press kisses to your forehead, your temple, your cheek.

the pressure builds, and builds, and–

"please, Bucky," you whine, louder this time, sounding even more desperate than before.

"good girl, that's what I like to hear. such a good girl," he says. he pauses for a moment, looking down at your face while your eyes cinch tighter, holding on until he finally says, "go ahead, baby."

you whine out and you lean your head on his shoulder as you come, hard.

he's shushing you and pressing more kisses to your face as you breathe heavily, all while continuing to work his fingers against you.

"you're not done, sweetie."

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he growls at seeing you like this, laid out for him the way he wants. he pushes his hand into your lower abdomen, telling you, "gonna make you bulge with my cum," and you can't do anything but beg for it, "please..."

he loves the feeling of you on his dick, tight and wet and raw without any protection. it's just not the same any other way. you're so warm inside, it's like you're burning him alive, and he's gotta feel it, he needs it.

so when he brings you to orgasm on his cock, he's not far behind. every time, you don't think you could feel more full than you do when he's fucking you. oh but you're so wrong, because he comes so much it just keeps going. he stays in place, keeping his entire length buried inside you, not letting any of his release spill out. that would be a waste.

you whine as you feel fuller than ever before, and he's grunting, trying to hold on with the warmth and the pressure threatening his resolve. he keeps your legs in place, not letting you move an inch, as he puts more of his body weight into keeping you there.

"not going anywhere," he grunts when you try to gently push at him to give you a break.

he's on you, not letting you move, just watching the way you squirm and squeeze his still-hard dick as the feeling becomes too much for you.

"keep moving and I'll chain you up," he taunts, but it makes no difference.

it seems to get the wheels turning in his head, though, as he goes on, "think I should. keep you here, filled with my seed all the time. be nothing but my little baby maker for the rest of your goddamn life."

he's bringing his mouth to your chest, laving his tongue over the hickeys on your collarbone before moving back down to your breasts, leaving even more marks. you're going to be a black and blue mess for a week, you're sure of it. except he's never gonna let them fade, he'll just keep doing it over and over to make sure you're always marked as his.

"never gonna let you go," he mumbles into your chest, "gonna get you pregnant so you can't go nowhere."

after while, when you finally settle under the feeling of his mouth over your skin, he'll finally pull out, only to replace it with his fingers.

you groan. you want to get up and out of bed, but,

"no. you're staying right here until it sticks," he'll say, punctuating it with another push on your lower abdomen, and you hiss. it's so much, it's too much...

bonus points if he can feel the strings of your iud up against the tip of his cock when he fucks you.

~~~

thanks for the ask anon please keep sending them 🤍 winter soldier is my one true loml

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__________________

If you thought the night when they claimed you in the cave was the most degrading and humiliating in your life, you clearly didn’t anticipate this to happen to you: barely able to stand on your toes, you were whining and moaning like a cheap slut, two hungry orcs lapping at your ass and pussy with their tongues so deep inside you that you could barely think, cumming again and again. Shit, you fucking loved it, you loved when two filthy orcs were doing this to you, stretching you ruined holes with their slimy long tongues, forcing you to scream and plead for more. Overstimulated, you were crying softly, riding their faces with you arm tugging on Steve’s pretty blonde hair: he was the one eating your pussy out while Bucky practically fucked your ass with his tongue.

“Please, please, please!” You whined as Steve moaned in your cunt, swirling his tongue so well it had you screaming again. “Fuuck, please, Stevie!”

You could swear Bucky was humming with content right in this moment, proud he and his best friend made you an orcs’ cockslut so easily: he was always the one to remind you that you were nothing but a bedwarmer, a pretty little thing who needed to be knocked up by a strong male and become a good mommy, not run through the forest clad in armor with a heavy sword in your hand. Steve, on the other hand, was the one to soften you, telling you words of love and explaining Bucky didn’t know the right way to confess his feelings for you. Both of them wanted nothing but keep you safe, away from battles and pain, he said. What was wrong with that? You were a woman, after all. Having a loving family wasn’t a bad thing, was it?

As you cum again, unable to stand on your feet anymore, orcs caught you before you fell: Bucky made you lay down on your huge shared bed, biting your ass cheek a little and growling at the mewl escaping you lips.

“Time for the main dish, sweetheart,” he grunted in your ear as he and Steve sandwiched you between their hot, naked bodies, their enormously huge cocks touching your ass and lower belly. 

“Wha- I c-can’t!” You protested softly, shaking your head. “It’s too much!”

“Shhh, honey.” Steve licked his lips eagerly before giving you a tender kiss, his hands roaming over your body impatiently. “They say if a woman cums a lot, there’s a higher chance to get her swell with your baby. We gonna test it, alright? And don’t you worry, Bucky gonna fill you cute little womb right after me.”

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