Ackles Girl 🤍

The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.

There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.

It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.

You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.

“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”

Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.

“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”

“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”

“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”

Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”

In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.

You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.

Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.

Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.

The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.

“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”

Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.

Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”

You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.

Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”

The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.

When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.

Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.

“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”

Bucky does not answer the herald.

You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.

“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”

A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.

“This one.”

You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.

Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.

The herald stands confused beside him.

“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”

The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.

Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.

“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”

Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.

“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.

“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”

“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”

The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.

“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”

But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.

“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.

You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”

Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.

“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”

Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.

Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.

Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.

You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.

He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.

“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”

Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.

As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.

“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”

Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.

“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”

Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.

“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”

With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.

Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.

Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.

But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.

“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”

This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.

Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.

He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.

He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.

“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.

The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.

He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.

“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.

You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”

Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.

The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.

“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Now, you are just as confused as he is.

You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.

“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”

Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.

You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.

“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”

Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.

That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”

You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.

“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”

You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.

“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”

Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.

Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”

“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.

You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.

Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.

“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”

He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.

He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.

He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.

“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”

Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.

“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”

Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.

A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.

You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.

He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.

You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.

“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”

At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.

You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.

“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”

You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.

“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”

Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.

“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”

He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.

“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.

Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.

One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.

“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”

The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.

Control.

Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.

“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”

A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.

“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”

He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.

“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.

Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.

“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.

He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.

“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”

Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.

He pauses at the sound.

“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”

His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.

One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.

You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.

“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”

You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.

“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”

So, you do.

You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.

“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.

Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.

He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.

For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.

“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”

His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.

“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.

“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.

After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”

And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.

With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.

“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”

He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.

“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”

“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.

“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”

Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.

His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.

“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.

Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.

He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.

His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.

Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.

“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”

Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.

You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.

“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.

His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.

Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…

“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”

He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.

The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.

“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”

His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.

“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”

“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”

You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.

The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.

Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.

With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.

Finally, you grant him permission.

Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.

He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”

You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.

His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.

“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”

The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.

“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”

You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.

His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”

The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.

“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”

The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.

“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”

Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.

His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.

He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.

You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.

Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.

You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.

“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.

He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.

“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”

You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.

Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?

He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.

“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”

You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.

As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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Four months of touring had led you here to this moment. Shoved into a car with four men, their manager driving the car. Not one of you were thinking when you climbed into the back seat, but you all knew that you needed to get out of the thunderstorm, quickly, before things went even more south. Even though you couldn't possibly think of anything else that could go wrong. Not only was this day three of this last-minute festival that was booked by the manager, but this was also day three of you having to keep an eye on four men as they weaved in and out of this festival drinking, partying, and being rock-stars. You couldn't blame them – the tour was long, and this was their way of celebrating the end.

However, tonight was awful.

They set the boys on a different stage which led you to set up way too quickly. The lights kept turning off, as well as mics and Michael's guitar a couple of times. And the cherry on top: it started raining. Not just normal summertime rain, it was a quick, loaded almost flooding rain, that drove most of the audience away. The set couldn't even finish when it normally did because of freak lighting that scared the shit out of everyone, causing you all to be where you are now. All of the tech crew raced to get the instruments out, and you were in charge of getting the boys out of the rain and into safety – which apparently was to be shoved next to the car door, Ashton's bulky body next to yours, his drumsticks he ran off stage with were underneath your right hip. Luke was next to Ashton, his head lulled back, eyes closed, Calum and Michael in the seat in front of you. None of you said a word, you just all looked ahead until the car eventually stopped in front of the massive Airbnb they had booked for this particular festival in Tucson, Arizona.

"Ah fuck" Luke muttered looking up at the rain through his window. It was still pouring, literal cats and dogs, and none of you had the slightest urge to run out in it again, even though the door to the house was less than 10 feet away.

"Wait for the next bolt of lightning to strike, then we all get out, deal?" their manager said, looking around the car at all of us. We all nodded, and Ashton picked up his drumsticks, his large hand snaking under your thigh, causing you to blush a little.

Lightning struck, Michael grabbed the door handle and opened it, turning quickly and cursing loudly as he pulled down the seat so the three of you could get out. Calum ran out the other side, slamming the door. Luke ducked and hesitated as another flash of lighting struck across the sky, pushing himself out as the thunder rumbled. You could barely make the silhouette of Sirrea in the doorway, waiting for Luke with a towel. Ashton shimmied out of his seat and got out, then stupidly turned around and held his hand out for you, getting absolutely drenched. You were still pressed against the car door, having no sense of urgency.

"Ashton! Get into the house!" you squealed, scooting your butt against the leather towards him. Instead of yelling something back, he did something you didn't expect – he flashed a playful smile, making your cheeks go hot. Between his own sweat and the rain, his curls fell on his face & over his eyes. His cheeks were slightly red, his dimples that you loved so much popping out from behind his beard. You tried to hold back your smile, but his radiance always got to you. He was so kind, so passionate, and so deep about things – thinking about the way he thought about life always floored you – and drove you to be closer to him.

However, you were hired to be their assistant, making sure they were well looked after and taken care of during the tour. They were four grown men, so it didn't take much – as long as they got to places on time (never happened, as much as you tried), were meeting the right people, and didn't get too drunk in public that you'd have to talk to the press later about, this job was fairly simple. You met Luke first, instantly feeling comfortable and welcomed around him. Michael and Calum were next – again, instant connection and friendship.

And then came Ashton. Or, as everyone calls him, Ash.

The second you laid eyes on him, he smiled. His smile was big, bright... and made you weak in the knees. So much so that it affected your reaction time from when he held out his hand to greet you for the first time. "Ashton, nice to meet you", he grinned, you noticed the dimple on the left side of his cheek and remembered how you wanted to kiss it.

Fuck.

The words in your head were talking but your mouth remained closed, his arm still stretched out to meet yours. Answer him, answer him! You heard your brain shout.

"Oh – uh" you coughed nervously "nice to meet you, too".

Panic covered you as you reached for his hand... if you couldn't talk to him by just his smile alone, now you had to touch him? This couldn't end well. Luckily, someone's phone rang, so the handshake and the intense eye contact was cut off. Saved by the manager. You tucked your hair behind your ears and wound your fingers together, your arms twisting to the front of your body as you pursed your lips, eyes down while they took the phone call. You had to hide your burning red cheeks... your ex's have told you multiple times that your face gives you away.

When tour began, you remember showing up to work one day and all four of them were in the studio, not just Luke. There was a deep air that surrounded them... Luke leaning up against the soundboard with his arms crossed around his chest, his long legs following suit. Calum was sat on the large chair near the soundboard, one leg creating an L shape over his other knee, his elbow on the armrest, his pointer finger covering his mouth, eyes furred together in concern. Micheal was sitting next to Ash on the couch across from Luke, his legs spread, elbows on his knees, fingers touching. Ash was completely limp, head draped back, staring at the ceiling.

They all stopped and looked up at you quickly, all except for Ash. You stopped dead in your tracks as the door opened and took a quick step back, the smile fading from your face. You felt like you just walked in on something you shouldn't have. Michael spoke up quickly, a warm smile coming to his face, making you feel at little bit more at ease.

"Come in, come in", he gestured his hand for you to come in, they all seemed to straighten out, shifting moods. Michael's back hit the couch, looking over at Ashton, who to your surprise lifted his head and gave you a weak and sort of forced grin, only just quickly making eye contact.

Later that day, you had come to find out from Luke that Ash and his girlfriend of 6 months just decided to end things since he was going on tour. He wasn't completely heartbroken, Luke said, but he was pretty upset. "He's got a big heart", Luke told you, "one that gets attached quickly."

From that day forward you told yourself that you would separate yourself Ashton. This was nothing more than a job - a good one, that you couldn't pass up. A dream that you've had since you've been a teenager. Feelings past friendship and co-workers would have to be buried.

But the words Luke spoke to you that day at the studio are still with you, as you watch this man hold out his hand for you in the pouring rain, smiling the same way he did the first time you met him.

"C'mon!" He giggled, his whole chest vibrating as the rain soaked his button up through. He reached in to grab you, his childish laughter was contagious - you couldn't help but laugh along with him as you grabbed his hand and clutched your purse as you got out of the car, him slamming the door behind you. He held your hand and pulled you through the pouring rain, the two of you still giggling as you ran in the house, their manager already handing you both towels as you stood in the doorway inside of the house, giggling. The instant you got inside you started shivering, the stark contrast between the outdoor heat and the frigid AC inside made goosebumps rise on your skin. Wrapping yourself with the towel, you both took off your shoes and tossed them near the door, heading to the living room where the other three boys had already started drinking.

"Doesn't anyone want to get in dry clothes, first?" you suggested, looking at all of them. They were all soaked to the core, their hair all over the place from rubbing it in the towels. They were soaked, they were exhausted, but they were all smiling.

"Get over here and have a shot with us!" they yelled at you, giggling. You glanced at Ash who still had a smile plastered on his face, his eyebrows raising and falling in suggestion. You knew he didn't drink anymore, but he never said no to a party with his mates.

Dropping your towel from around your shoulders to your waist, you headed over to the bar and watched Calum take out a shot glass and pour vodka and cranberry in it. Typical. Handing it to you, you bowed your head in thanks and he repeated the gesture.

"To the last day of this fuckin' tour" Calum held up his glass almost proudly and you all followed, Micheal and Ash hollered. The base of each shot glass then hit the counter, then up to everyone's lips. The familiar burn of alcohol hit your lips, then your tongue, then your throat and then your chest. Taking another deep gulp, you set your glass back on the counter and giggled, wiping any extra off the corners of your lips.

"Gorgeous", Luke said, looking at his shot glass, grinning, his other arm wrapped around Sierra's waist.

"My turn... who's got the weed?" Ash spoke up, and all four of them froze.

"Fuck, we left it all at the venue, we thought we'd be celebrating there", Michael piped up.

Suddenly, you remembered something.

"Wait!"

They all looked over at you crashing your purse on the counter.

"I always have this for emergencies", you took out what looked like a mint box, and handed it to Ashton. Confusion struck his face, holding the tiny box in his hand, glancing over at you and then the box. He opened it slowly, his face going from confusion to excitement, the bright smile you loved so much etched over his face.

"Ah she's a stoner!" he held up the box to the rest of the boys, which showed them three small blunts in the middle of the can. They weren't big, but they were mighty.

Luke fumbled around in the kitchen drawer and found a long candle lighter, Ashton digging into his jeans pocket and retrieving a dark green lighter.

Michael and Calum had already made their way to the living room, sitting on the bean bags on the floor in front of the television like children, immediately picking up their game controllers, firing up the TV screen. Luke handed you the lighter, giving you playful look.

"What?" you looked at him and then back at Ash, who was still stationed closely behind you.

"Nothing I just - didn't know you smoked", his eyebrows went up, closing the kitchen drawer.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Hemmings", you said playfully, grabbing a joint from the mint case that ash was still holding. You lit it effortlessly, both of the boys watched you as you inhaled, putting the lighter back down on the counter as the end of the joint lit up, taking a long drag.

You looked over at Luke, his face was a mixture of shock and amazement.

"Impressive", he grabbed another one from my tin, lighting it himself.

Looking over at Ash, the look on his face was enough to make you fall to a puddle right then and there. His smile was gone, but his eyes - were dark. You held his gaze for a minute, and then caught his eyes flicker from yours to your mouth.

He closed the mint can with one hand, putting it on the counter behind you. He was inches from you now, towering over you, his eyes still locked on yours, then down to your mouth.

Without even asking, he grabbed the joint from your lips gently, and put it to his.

His eyes softened a bit, but he never took them off of yours. The way he was towering over you, the way he smelled, the way his wet hair fell in his face, his sharp jawline as he inhaled, and the way his cheeks sunk in as he took a deep drag.... it all made your head spin. He was alarmingly beautiful - from the first day you met him, to right here, in this moment, where he was standing just inches from you, the heat from his body skimming your forearm that was wrapped around your stomach. You watched him exhale, his head cocking backwards just a bit as he closed his eyes, holding the smoke in his lungs for several seconds, then smoke poured from his nostrils, followed by his clenched teeth, until he ran out of smoke.

He licked his lips and your head started to spin from the weed, the way it usually hit you. You weren't a lightweight, you just always took too hard of a hit the first go around, not needing a second hit for hours. You didn't realize you were focused on his lips and tongue until he turned back to face you, holding the joint near your face. He smirked a little when you finally met his gaze.

"Alright?" He almost whispered on your skin, and suddenly you remembered why you didn't smoke around them.

Especially him.

"Yeah. Just need to sit down", without waiting for him you head towards the couch, plopping down on the massive leather sectional that almost took up the entire room, your feet coming off of the floor just a bit when your back hit the back of the sofa. Your legs came up under you in a criss-cross shape, tilting your head back to glance up at the ceiling. The room was filled with two noises: the sound of Michael and Calum quietly playing video games in front of you, and soft music behind you that someone had turned on. You focused on the music for a moment, listening to it all, when you felt the couch move closely to your right.

For a second you didn't look, hoping like hell it would be Luke and Sierra, but you knew in your mind you saw them sitting farther away on the L part of the couch to your left. Shit.

"Ash", your head popped up even though it felt like a bowling ball, looking over at him.

His legs were sprawled all the way out, his hands on his stomach, looking forward at the TV with a happy high smirk on his face. The second he heard his name come from your lips, he looked over at you. His smirk turned to that big bright smile that made your insides glow.

"Darling", he called you. This was a pet name he started to call you two weeks into tour. It started out as a sweet friendly name, and then turned into something else when he was too close for comfort those nights you two were alone together, the boys out at the pub, you sitting alone with Ash in a hotel room somewhere. Or, when he would brush by you after a show in backstage cramped corridors - all of the boys managed to dodge you but Ash would press the entirety of his chest against yours, his face an inch from yours, almost as if on purpose, 'sorry, darling', coming from his lips as he passed by, leaving his scent, even if he was sweaty, which you found to be even more endearing, in your nose.

You looked over at him, a shock went through your body as you replayed your memories of him calling you that name in your head, your eyes went wide, staring into the distance. For a moment you didn't say a thing, he just looked at you in wonder, his smile, somehow, got bigger.

When you finally snapped out of your trance, you looked at him nervously, then bit your lip and smiled, a loud giggle leaving your lips. He started to laugh, too, neither of you really knowing why. But it felt good. You loved hearing him laugh.

"What'd I miss", you heard Luke behind you, an almost slurred reaction.

"I'm not - " Ash laughed hard, clutching his stomach now, taking deep breaths between giggles, "-not sure", he gasped out, a cackle leaving his lips.

Luke didn't respond but, if you were looking at him, you would think he'd be looking at the both of you with his eyebrows raised and eyes halfway shut, unbothered. Usual Luke.

"I was just thinking", oh, fuck. Don't say it. Don't say it. There's a reason you don't get high around them, and he doesn't need to know why.

"Thinking?" Ash's giggles subsided a little, his attention on you now.

"Yeah", you bit your lip and turned so you can face him. Your left leg tucked under your right, which was dangling off of the couch. You rest the side of your head on the couch cushion, lip still between your teeth, smiling.

You watched him, studying your face. His smile softened, then his whole body shifted to mirror your exact position on the couch. Your eyes went straight to his thigh which came to rest on top of his ankle from the opposite leg. You weren't subtle about it, whatsoever. His eyes immediately went wild, following yours, until they landed on his thigh - which you have spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about.

His palm dragged along his jeans, fingers splaying around the width of his leg. The tops of his fingers came into your eyesight just barely, before you realized what you were doing. Quickly looking up in shock, he slowly lifted his head, eyes trailing from his thigh to your chest, to your eyes.

You both sat in silence for a minute, just studying each other's faces. You noticed his Adams apple bobbing in his throat a couple of times when he would take a deep breath and gulp, slowly.

"Hey who's hogging the joint", you heard Michael call out, knocking you both out of your trance. He paused the game and shifted his body to look back at the two of you on the couch, then to the other side at Luke, Sierra resting her head on his lap.

Luke shrugged at him, then glanced over at us.

"There's another one in the tin on the counter. Help yourself" You finally said, not sure if it was slurred or sounding normal.

Your eyes followed Michael as he came into your line of view, from the couch to the hallway to the kitchen where you lost sight of him behind the couch.

"Fuck yeah", Michael said in victory, taking the last joint from the tin. "You sure it's alright if I have the last one?" He called over to you on the couch. You didn't respond verbally, your wobbly arm somehow shot up and gave him the thumbs up.

"Why haven't you smoked with us, yet?" Michael asked you, coming back into your line of vision, sucking the joint between his lips. You locked eyes with him, and he smiled, and you smiled back. All you could do was shrug. You felt Ash's eyes on you, almost burning a hole into your head. It was then when you realized you were licking your lips, slowly.

Michael sat back down and handed the joint over to Calum, resuming the game.

"Yeah", Ash said in almost a whisper, "why don't you smoke with us?" his arms crossed over his broad chest, but you didn't look.

Letting out a huff, you picked up one of the drumsticks he still had next to him. He studied your fingers as you twirled it loosely, stabbing the top of it lightly into the couch, then turning it over and repeating the motion with the other side of the stick.

"Mmm?" His head cocked to the side, catching your gaze. You were looking at him through under your lashes, your face turning red.

"I don't know", you said quickly, your body jumping a little, staring up at him with a serious look in your eye. However, you were lying to him. You did in fact know why you didn't smoke around them.

"Gotta be a reason", his back hit the couch now, head falling back to the cushion behind it. "Is it because you're a lightweight?" he giggled a little, poking fun at you.

"Hey!" you lightly stabbed his ribcage with his drumstick, he made an 'oof' sound through his giggle, clutching the area where you poked him, like he'd been stabbed by a sword.

"Is ittttttt...." his pointer finger came to his lips, tapping it lightly, the rest of his fingers curled into a fist under his chin. He stared up at the ceiling, blinking a few times.

"Is it because you'll tell me all of your life secrets?" Not removing his hand from his mouth, he glanced over at you again, eyes staying locked on yours.

"Nope", you said, still fumbling with his drumstick, popping the 'P' sound in the word.

"Ash..." you whined a little, dropping the side of your cheek to the couch, again.

"Fine, fine", he held his hands up in surrender, letting out a tiny giggle.

"Thank you", you rolled your eyes and head a the same time.

"Just kidding", he suddenly moved closer, too close, inches from your face. His eyes darted back and forth, a look of wonder in them.

"Are you afraid of us, for some reason?" he asked.

"Ash..."

"Are you.... a loud high?"

"Ashton..."

"Oh, I got it, are you a moody high? If so that's alright, I just don't understand why you've never gotten high around us. I mean we do it practically every night -"

"Fine", you finally said.

He stopped talking, eyes never leaving yours, only moving his head back a few more inches.

"Fine", you repeated, nervously fiddling with the drumstick, your eyes leaving his.

"I - " you started, then sighed. "I don't usually smoke around people I'm..." you already knew you said too much. He was quiet, dangerously quiet, but eyed you like a hawk. Glancing up at him you huffed, trying to get your words out as best as you could.

"I.... tend to .... fuck," taking a deep breath, you composed yourself, letting the drumstick go still in your hand. "I tend to - okay what I'm trying to say - is that this is how I wind up in a bad situation". You looked up at him again, his head was cocked, eyes furred, curious.

"Bad situation? Like... arrested?" He asked, timidly.

"No, no, no", you waved your hand and held it up, only when you brought it back down, it landed on his kneecap. His eyes immediately darted to your touch, then back up at you.

"Like... when I'm really... intimidated... I tend to get - handsy", you gulped, eyes on him now.

"Oh?" he piped up, one of his eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah", your hand on his knee didn't move, but it felt like it was on absolute fire.

The two of you sat in absolute silence. Even though no words were said, the words that the two of you have been holding on to for so long in your heads were spilling out, saying it all with just your eyes. Looking over at Michael and Calum, then back over at Luke and Sierra, you wanted to make absolutely sure they couldn't feel the intense moment between the two of you. The air in the room all of a sudden felt thick; the song playing behind you grew louder in your ears, almost to make the moment more intense. Ashton never took his eyes off of yours, but they did grow darker, more curious, and you didn't know how to describe it, more alive. It was as if someone jump started his whole body with electric cables. You knew he was feeling that, because you were, in fact, feeling the exact same way.

"Yeah..." you finally said in a barely audible whisper, but you noticed his eyes followed your lips moving, understanding.

You swear you and Ash, from the very first moment, have already known each other. Instant connection. Instant spark. And you wondered at that moment from when you first touched each other, if he felt the exact same way. You let it slide of course, burying that thought in the back of your mind as you got to work for them. It couldn't happen. Although you wondered why, with these four men, you felt a certain attachment to Ashton. Right away.

"Mmm", he hummed, as your thoughts raced in your mind, you feared he heard you somehow. His warm, large hand suddenly but gently found the top of your hand that was still resting on his kneecap. The spark inside of you lit again, electricity skimming down to your toes.

"Oh gosh", you gulped, feeling your ears and cheeks getting warm.

"You know", he raised an eyebrow, almost as if he were challenging you, a playful look on his lips, "you don't pin me as a handsy type... I just now saw you get high".

Oh yeah. He was challenging you. And you fucking loved it.

"Oh please, Irwin. You don't know half of what I'm capable of" you challenged back, squeezing his kneecap.

Both of his eyebrows raised, now, in playful disbelief, of course, but it pushed you farther.

You looked down to his drumsticks that were still piled between the two of you, he followed your eyes, as usual. Pulling one up, you twirled it between your fingers and fumbled with it lightly, making him giggle.

"You'd be an awful drummer, sweetheart", he teased.

Sweetheart.

Your insides absolutely burned now, the new nickname making your thighs twitch.

"Maybe", you challenged, eyes lowered, leaning forward to his ear.

Your lips skimmed the base of his ear, making sure to breath a slow, warm breath right where his ear opened. "But I know what I'm really good at", You couldn't tell but you could swear you felt him lightly shiver under you, his hands frozen. You smirked, loving having this power over him. Your hand that was resting on his knee came out from under his, pushing the wet curl behind his ear. Letting one more breath fall from your nose from a laugh, you pushed yourself back on the couch, facing him again.

His face was riddled with pure shock, wonder, and lust.

Without losing eye contact with him, you slowly brought his almost completely torn in half drumstick up to your face, the back end of it coming towards your lips. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes just momentarily, pushing the wood to your mouth. You couldn't see it, but you could hear Ash take a sharp breath in. Opening your eye slowly you smirked, raising on eyebrow at him.

"Like I said", you leaned forward a bit, your free hand now touching his thigh, "you have no idea..." you stuck your tongue out and lazily laid it flat against the wood, slowly pulling the stick down as you held it to your tongue.

His eyes were in a frenzy, dark with lust. He was frozen in his spot; an animalistic flash went through him.

The stick made its way to the base of your tongue, reaching the end. You tasted him, the crisp taste of the wood, and a little bit of the salty rain. Watching him carefully, the tip of your tongue rested on the base of the stick, and you smirked, moving the very tip around the base.

"Fuck", he almost growled, sending a shock through your spine. His leg that was propped up on the other leg dropped, both of his feet on the floor now, hands draped between his lap. You took this opportunity to crawl towards him, climbing in his lap.

His back straightened and his massive hands immediately found your waist, just barely touching you.

Suddenly, you were startled. This isn't where you should be, not on top of him, in front of the rest of them. You reminded yourself again in your head that this is the reason you never smoke around them. Your face must have dropped as you were thinking, because Ash was quick to respond.

"Hey", he straightened up, looking at you to get your attention, you felt one of his hands move to your back, rubbing it gently.

You were embarrassed tears were welling up in your eyes. You wanted so badly to be here, to be touched by him, but your anxious brain was yelling, screaming, thrashing at you to say no.

"Ash I.. I'm sor-" you started to panic a little, pressing your palms against the front of his broad shoulders, shaking your head quickly. He never let go of you, calmly holding you in his arms.

"Hey, hey", he shushed sweetly. "What's going on?" You felt the hand that was on the other side of your waist come up to your soaking wet hair, which he collected at the base of your neck, sweetly twisting, letting his hand fall right behind it.

"Should we..." you sniffled a bit and he rubbed your back. Your desire for him was overwhelming. At this point you shouldn't be caring about it. Here you were, sitting on his lap, his sweet, concerned face making sure you were okay. There was nothing in his mannerisms that would tell you he didn't want this, too.

"Sweetheart..." he began, his large hand snaked behind your back to your neck, cupping your jaw. His eyes flickered as they looked in yours, holding you still. He smiled, that smile you loved so much, his face came inches from yours. You felt the breath of his nose on your lips, frozen in your spot.

"I've wanted this the moment I laid eyes on you", he confessed.

Oh.

Your lips had a mind of their own - before he could say anything else, they were on his. Those lips you've carefully studied for four months, now. The lips he was constantly putting chap-stick on. The ones he bit just a bit during interviews when he was nervous. He tasted like weed, mint, and him. His lips were silky, his movements were harsh yet soft, and you remember thinking: I could do this for hours.

You felt his hands freeze and then grip your waist, pulling you closer to him so you were chest to chest. Frantic, you grabbed his face and licked his bottom lip, a tiny moan leaving your mouth, surprising him when you rolled your hips on his. Without even hesitating, he pulled back at your noise, his wild eyes on yours, dark.

"Yeah?" he nodded slowly, consenting to this.

Your lips attached to the spot under his ear, sucking it gently and quickly, making him huff and pull you closer.

"Please touch me, Ash"

You felt him adjust under you, just slightly, as if to hold on to this moment. You were suddenly very aware of his hand placement, very gently lowering down your waist, dragging across your butt, then under the backs of your thighs. It was then when he looked up at you, head cocked back a bit, the lust in his eyes ever present, but there was a gentleness to them too. He was looking at you so softly, a warm smile playing on his lips. Blushing, he took one of his hands out from under your thigh, sweetly tucking the hair that was dangling in front of your face behind your ear. His hand followed the outline of your jaw, dragging the back of his pointer finger along it, stopping at your chin.

"So beautiful", he smiled gently, his eyes flickering to your lips just for a moment, licking his own. His hand that was on your chin resumed it place under your thigh now, pulling you closer.

After what felt like an eternity of looking into your eyes, his nose pressed against yours and he let out a laugh, then crashed his lips to yours, humming. He adjusted again but this time a hair forward, his back leaving the couch, leaning you back just a bit. He wrapped your legs around his waist, suddenly lifting himself and you off the couch, you safely held in his arms.

The couch made a loud noise as he shifted off it, the wet denim of his jeans rubbing against the leather of the couch.

"Fucking finally", you heard behind you, both of you freezing mid kiss. Removing your lips from his, your foreheads met and you both giggled, he bit his bottom lip. Rolling your forehead just enough to see Michael rolling his eyes at the both of you, you hid in Ash's shoulder, giggling. He lifts a middle finger up at Michael, raising his eyebrows, turning you both to the staircase.

Once in the privacy of just the two of you, both of you giggling, he stood at the base of the staircase and found your eyes again.

"What was that about?" you leaned back just enough to look at him, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck, intertwining your fingers.

"What do you think?" He cocked an eyebrow, eyes flickering to your lips.

"hmmmm..." you looked up at the ceiling, a thought in your mind, but you wanted him to finish it.

"Oh, please", he almost lunged forward, closing the space between the two of you, kissing your neck suddenly, the breath coming from his giggle tickling the sensitive skin, causing you to squeal, your body squirming, holding onto his shoulders.

He took a step forward, starting to climb the staircase.

It was then your fucking anxiety took over, and you were very aware of your body. It wasn't like you were insecure, but with him, you absolutely were. He was all the things you loved.... Kind, understanding, calm, encouraging, patient, artistic, haunted.... But he was also a global fucking rockstar. He was usually seen and linked with a certain body type and you, were unfortunately, not that type. You didn't know, as you felt him attack your neck, effortlessly holding you and never faulting, if it was the weed having this effect on you. Your stomach dropped as he finally hit the top of the staircase, pressing your back to the nearest wall.

"Ash", you whined out just barely and he noticed, stopping everything. He stilled, pulling back to look at you, a look of concern in his face. His lips were red and plump from kissing and attacking your skin.

"You alright, sweetheart?" He tucked your hair behind your ear again, holding you firmly against the wall.

"Yeah I – " you started out and he watched you, listening closely.

"Did you want me to stop? Just say the word"

"No, no", you cupped his face and just couldn't help it, you had to touch his bottom lip. Your thumb skimmed across it as he held his stare on your eyes, even though you were looking at the contact on his lips. Brushing across it a couple more times, your finger curled and pulled his lip down just enough to see his teeth, your mouth watering.

"I'm just..." you hesitated, "I'm nervous", you peeked up at his eyes between your lashes, letting his lip loose from your finger, dropping your hand to his bicep, rubbing your thumb over the inked snake on his skin.

"Darling," He whispered, bringing his lips under your ear, sucking. His lips were burning your skin, you stretched your neck just a bit to give him more access, "you have no idea", he kissed a spot just a hair further down, "how long", -kiss- "I've wanted this", he kissed again, pulling your thighs closer to him.

"Oh?" you were under his spell as he was planting kisses all over your skin, under your jaw, making your legs weak.

"Mmmhm", he hummed on the top of your shoulder.

"How long?" you choked out, gripping onto his biceps. He responded to your squeeze to a squeeze under your thighs, moving his hands closer to your ass.

"The second I laid eyes on you", he pulled out from his attack on your neck to plant a kiss on your forehead, running his lips just gently down the bridge of your nose, his gentle kisses making you shiver.

Meeting your lips, he hovered them there for just a moment before turning his head, closing the gap between them. He let out a long breath through his nose, as if he were holding it in for a while.

He smiled, your back leaving the wall as he lead you into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him, pressing your back against it. Gently, his lips never leaving yours, your hands cupping his face, he let your legs down from his waist, your feet hit the floor and it was in that moment you realized how weak your legs were, slipping a bit and whining.

"Baby girl", he hummed a bit, almost as in victory, his large thigh pushing between your legs, his hands holding your hips, pressing his chest against yours, pinning you in place and holding you steady.

You felt his hands run up to just the of the bottom of your shirt, glancing up at you, consenting.

"Please", you whimpered, knowing where this was going.

"Don't worry, sweetheart", his hands were now on your bare stomach, fingers splaying on your waist, almost as if to memorize your curves, his palms flat against you as they moved farther north, just meeting your ribcage before wrapping around to your back, finding the fabric of your bra, "I'll take care of you", he whispered in your ear, placing a kiss under it.

A soft moan grumbled in your throat, causing him to freeze.

"Ash..." you breathed out, your sudden confidence as he found the clasp of your bra, pulling the straps gently down your arms, the backs of his middle fingers just gently skimming over your skin, causing you to shiver, only pulling away from you for a second to let the rest of the fabric to pull from under your shirt, tossing it over his shoulder somewhere in the room.

"Love it when you say my name", his hips rutted forward, your hand confidently finding the front of his jeans and he groaned, stilling.

Suddenly, your feet came off the floor and your legs were once again wrapped around his waist.

His knees met the edge of the bed and he crouched just enough so that when he leaned forward, your back hit the mattress, an oof leaving your chest as you hit it, giggling. He was standing in front of you now, your arms on either side of your head, watching him. He leaned over, your legs still around his waist fell gently to the floor when he let go, his arms now beside you as he hovered above you, the necklace around his neck dangling, his red floral Gucci button up that was unbuttoned just enough at the collar gave you a glimpse down his shirt, even though you've seen him shirtless a million times. This was different. This time, you were allowed to touch him.

Your hands came up to rest on his chest and he watched your eyes as you took him in, your palms feeling him, your fingers finding the collar of his shirt, tugging at them. Your back lifted off the mattress as you came in to kiss him, licking his bottom lip. He responded by lowering himself to you, his tongue meeting yours. Your hands moved from his collar to his face. His chest was suddenly on yours, not completely flush, one of his hands under your shirt, pushing at it. You felt the fabric move up your body as his hand traveled towards your breasts, his other hand skillfully behind your back, pulling you up just enough that he could get your shirt over your head.

He didn't look down, only breaking the kiss of a moment to help you out of your shirt, tossing it far away from you somewhere in the room – your bare chest completely exposed to him, the thought of it alone making your panties absolutely soaked.

"Ashhhh," you whimpered and he huffed, the sound making almost taking the breath from his chest. He hovered over you again, his eyes finally flickering down to your chest.

"Fuck", he groaned, attaching his lips to one of your already hard nipples, cupping the other, then gently palming it, "you're absolutely fucking perfect", he breathed on the skin he just wet, causing you to shiver and grab his hair, arching your back.

You whined again and he peered up at you, his lips plump, dark, and wet. He didn't say anything, only just glancing down at your jeans. The hand that was on your other breast moved down to your stomach, the tips of his fingers running along the top of the fabric, pushing under it.

He watched his fingers disappear between it, quickly looking back up at you. Another consent. You nodded, biting your bottom lip.

"Oh, angel", he hummed, his fingers skillfully dipped between your legs on top of your panties, you could feel the calluses from his years of guitar playing glide along your folds, not touching the sensitive nerve bud that was, by this point, absolutely throbbing.

"Soaking wet", he bit his bottom lip, rutting his hips gently on the side of your leg. "All for me, hm?" the possessiveness in his voice making you quiver, his eyes met yours. All notions of gentle have left, the darkness overwhelming the gorgeous green, which you could spend hours looking at if he asked.

You nodded quickly; brain foggy. His hands felt so good. He smelled so good, he touched you just right... you felt like you were in a dream... this was something you wanted for so long and every move he made, every touch, every kiss, was just enough for you to leave you speechless.

The pads of his fingers lingered over the fabric of your panties, dipping his head into your neck, planting wet, heavy kisses on your skin. You arched your neck so he'd have more room, which he took full advantage of. His teeth nicked your skin, pulling at it gently and letting it snap back, causing a hiss to come from your closed teeth. He popped back up from under your neck, a smirk on his face, eyes half-lidded. You felt the fabric of your panties being pushed to the side, his bare fingers now on your naked core. Since you were still high, his touches felt like electric sparks. The best kind.

"Tell me", he bit his bottom lip, the callouses on his fingertips finding your most sensitive spot, rubbing gently without pressure, "what you think about when you touch yourself", his eyebrow shot up, smirk still plastered on his face.

He applied more pressure, causing you to gasp and arch your back. He grabbed both of your arms and pinned them over your head, completely dominating you, which only made your arousal more intense. He was so incredibly strong, his biceps flexing while he touched you.

"Ah – I ..." you started but caught your breath when he started rubbing faster, pressing down harder.

"Mmmm?" he mused, knowing completely what he was doing.

"Fuck", you squealed.

Suddenly he stopped and you panted frantically, the hand that had both of your wrists gathered at the top of your head was gone, you were free but didn't move your arms. He kissed so lovingly and sweetly down your chest, stopping just for a moment at your belly button. You didn't notice your chest heaving, not even comprehending what was happening.

Everything about him intimidated you in the best way. He was so kind, warm, understanding and the best listener... but, he was also an incredible force... something you couldn't quite put your finger on. Whatever it was, you were very turned on by.... Even the slightest of touches from him sent a spark all the way down to your core. The first night you were alone with him he got too close, a friendly encounter, but you could feel him.

His heat, his energy, his aura.... All too much for being inches from you. That night at the hotel after the show, his sweaty body still fresh on your mind, you did, in fact, touch yourself – one of the most intense orgasms you've ever had. The entire time, you thought about this moment here. Right now. As it's actually happening.

Like he was reading your thoughts, he looked up from your stomach, peering through his lashes. Both hands were on either side of your ribcage, gently squeezing and rubbing. They made their way down to the top of your pants, his fingers skillfully popping the button on your jeans open, tugging at the belt loops. Nipping your skin again you hissed, arching your back. He smirked on your skin, pulling as much fabric off your butt as he could. You pushed your hips up, helping him. He stood momentarily between your legs, pulling the rest of the wet fabric that was clung on your legs off, tossing them to the side.

He stood for another second, just looking down at you. He was fully clothed still and you.... Were here. Almost completely exposed. Even though it was just a moment of him admiring you, it felt like centuries with the weed still in your system. Gulping, your insecure thoughts got the best of you. The arms that were over your head now came down to your chest, covering them. You could feel your cheeks get hot and your eyes drifted from his, instinctively curling your legs up towards your stomach.

"Hey", he whispered quickly, towering over you again, kissing you on the nose, cheeks, then under your jaw. The kisses were so sweet, so genuine, unlike the passionate ones he was just planting on your neck.

"Do you not see how fucking perfect you are?"

His mouth met yours, humming. In mere moments his tongue was licking your bottom lip, asking permission. Your tongues lingered together for a moment, enjoying the feeling of each other, his broad chest skimming over yours. You grabbed the collars of his shirt, pulling him closer. His legs lying between yours, you could feel how incredibly hard he was. His hips rolled as he kissed you, rubbing against your clit. You broke the kiss to gasp, the feeling hitting you so hard that you trembled a bit, grabbing harder on his collars.

He just smirked, watching you squirm.

"So sensitive to my touch", he hummed, kissing under your jaw. Gripping his shirt hard in your fists, you realized this would be a perfect time to get rid of it. Your shaking hands found the first top button. He continued rolling his hips, you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him closer, needing the friction. He grunted and buried his head into your shoulder. You could feel his hot breath on your skin as you fiddled with the second, third, fourth button... until you were able to look down and see his torso between the fabric.

Your hands pushed under his shirt, gripping just under his ribcage, finally feeling the skin you've been daydreaming about. He was smooth, almost velvet feeling. Sweat beads were littering his skin as you pulled your fingers up his sides, desperate to get his shirt off his shoulders. He flexed just a bit, as you reached to get the shirt off of his arms, his now free "A" necklace dangling in your face. You watched him lift one arm and take it out of sleeve quickly, then repeated the action with the other arm, leaving the fabric pooled under his hand on the bed.

You watched his back muscles flex as he continued to attack your neck, hips still rocking. Something about the way he was breathing, the way his skin flexed, the way he was rubbing you just right, made your breathing pick up. You were closer than you thought, right on the brink of bliss. Gasping, you clawed at his back.

"Not yet, sweetheart", he froze and you whined, needing so badly to release. He came up to kiss you, biting your lip roughly, a whine leaving your lips again.

"Don't you worry", he kissed down your chest again, "I'll make it worth it", he stood for a minute, un-buttoning his own blue jeans. You perched yourself up on your elbows, the pit of your stomach dropped as you watched him. He was fucking beautiful. You were so incredibly wet that your hips just gently rolled, jaw dropping, when you saw him finally get rid of his jeans. Boxer briefs still on, your mouth completely fell when you saw how incredibly big he was.

He saw your reaction, only making him harder.

"Yeah?" he picked one of your knees up, pushing it out. Then the other one, spreading you as far as you would for him.

You just nodded quickly, shivering when you felt his lips on the top of your thigh. He never broke eye contact with you, your hands gripping the sheets next to you.

"Tell me, love", he whispered right over your panties, making you shake, "what do you think about?" a kiss on the inside of your thigh.

"I can give you what you want.... Just tell me, sweetheart..." he looked up at you again, this time, placing a kiss directly on your clit. You gasped, your insides absolutely lighting on fire.

"You", you whimpered out and he froze, smirking.

"Is that so?" he teased, pulling at the sides of your panties, "are these important to you?" he asked and your brows furred. You didn't answer, just shook your head no.

"Good."

Suddenly you felt a snap on your skin, it was instant. He had pulled so quickly and harshly on either side of the fabric that it snapped, breaking it off of you. He tossed them on the floor, now completely exposing yourself to him.

"Jesus", he licked his lips, an animalistic look in his eyes, running two fingers up your absolutely drenched folds.

"Please" you whimpered and shivered, a plea.

Without hesitation, his lips wrapped around your clit. You arched your back and gasped, legs already trembling.

"Look at me, sweetheart"

You looked down, his eyes burning on yours.

"Good girl"

His tongue lay flat now, slowly bringing up the tip of it that swiped over your overly sensitive bud, never breaking eye contact with you.

His big arms snaked around your thighs, pulling you into a grip. You remember glancing at the snake on his arm, the way his muscles flexed, the way he held you... and the way he was absolutely devouring you.

"Oh my god.... ashton...." his name was drawn out in a whisper as you arched your back, tossing your head back. He responded by tugging you closer, dipping the tip of his tongue into you. Gasping, you looked back down at him, his eyes still burning into yours.

The noises he was making were enough to make you explode right then and there. It was a mix of breaths, an occasional slurp, and low, guttural moans. You weren't usually one to be vocal, however, he knew what he was doing. A little too well. You squeaked and grabbed his hair, your body starting to shiver. Bucking your hips up to save this moment, to draw it out even more, he just went faster. Before a gasp could even leave your lips, his middle finger touched your lips.

He broke contact for a second, his stubbly face all red from his attacks.

"Open", he tipped his chin up just a bit, biting his lip.

You nodded and opened your mouth, welcoming his long finger onto your tongue. He didn't gag you.... Instead, just went back to sucking your clit, his finger still in your mouth. You gasped and held his wrist, sucking hard on his middle finger.

"Ashton..." you pleaded, wanting him to slow down. You were about to explode, and somehow, he knew.

The finger that was in your mouth slid out, only to slide gently into your heat. That was all it took.

Your body contorted in a way that hasn't in a LONG time. You almost pushed him away, your thighs snug around his head. He just gripped harder, his one finger turning into two, curling inside of you exactly where you needed him.

"Holy..... shit...." you said in almost an inaudible squeal, your eyes starting to lose focus.

The room suddenly went quiet and you saw stars, your eyes rolling back, legs shaking. He kept his fingers in you, slow pumps, watching you absolutely fall apart under his touch.

"Good girl..." you heard in your haze, rolling your head to look at him. He was staring directly down at your core where his fingers were still in, jaw open. His other hand was gently stroking his shaft over his boxer briefs.

"Jesus, Ashton", you shuddered again as his fingers left you, his mouth gently back on your core.

"Such a good girl for me....", he praised in a tone that made it momentary seem like he was talking to a child.

"Please", you said softly, his eyes darting to yours, now.

"What's that?" he sat up on his knees between your legs, stroking your inner thigh with his large hand.

"Dadddddy..." you whined and he froze, jaw clenching.

"Mmmm?" he hummed, jaw un-clenching. He was hovering over you again, his necklace dangling on your chest as he pressed his lips to your neck.

"Please", you almost fully re-gained composure enough to tug on the waistband of his boxer briefs, causing him to still.

"Of course, angel", he breathed heavily on your neck, reaching over on the covers to blindly find something. He was back on his knees again just to open the foil packet with his teeth, which, for some reason, was so unreasonably hot. You watched him pull out the condom, fully focused on his task, with a smirk on your face. Right before he pulled down his underwear, he looked up at you through his eyelashes, noticing your smirk.

"Something funny?" he smirked back, playful.

You shook your head. "I just can't believe this", you smiled now, a full on, happy, brilliant smile. Probably too much.

"Believe what?" he went back to teasing you with his thumbs hooked in his waistband, pulling them down just enough so you could see the curve of his V.

"That I get to have you. That I get to touch you. I've wanted this... for so long..." you breathed heavily, watching closely for his reaction.

He was quick to hover over you again, this time, chests touching.

"Could say the same about you, angel", he propped himself up with one arm, while the other one manoeuvred the condom in place. You couldn't see him, but he quickly aligned to your center, both of his elbows beside you as he buried his head into your neck.

"You sure about this?" he said in almost a shaky tone, like he was about to explode, himself.

You paused for a moment and he looked at you, worry in his eyes. You held his head with both of your hands, wanting him to see your blissed out smile. His expression turned from worry to relieved in less than a second, giving you a gentle nod.

You were still holding his head as he pushed gently inside of you, your jaw dropping.

"Oh..." you squeaked out.

He watched you inhale as he moved deeper, at the most gentle pace.

"Ashton...." you whispered, holding his face.

"So good for me" he finally spoke, taking you in, "you ok?"

You quickly nodded, and he kept pushing. You knew he was big, but god... it felt like it would never end.

"Fuck" he gargled.

You looked at him with concern, only to see him flex his jaw.

"That's all of it", he held himself, apparently all of himself, inside of you as he kissed under your jaw. Something about him stilling inside of you, all of him, drove you crazy. You bucked your hips as if to ask for more, startling him. He hissed, exhaling deeply.

He started to pull back but you protested, liking the feeling of him almost in your stomach. Your legs wrapped around his waist, almost locking him there. Gently, you started to buck your hips up, fucking every single inch of him.

"Jesus..." he exhaled on your neck. He was hovering over you, his arms straight, but his head in your neck, watching you fuck him. "Is this what you wanted?" he growled, spreading his legs.

You just nodded your head quickly, sweat started to trickle on your forehead quickly as his touched yours.

"Yeah?" his hips snapped with yours, his quick movement startling you, "wanted all of me?" you grabbed onto his back, nails digging into his skin. It was embarrassing really, how quickly you could cum with this man. You were trying to hold on to it - but you were also afraid that this would be the only time. So you wanted all of it. Every. Last. Inch.

"Deeper", you whispered, snapping your hips to his. He was drilling you so impossibly deep, that you swore you could feel him in your throat - and when he pressed himself to you and pushed, you screamed.

Suddenly he was on his knees again, holding your legs in place around his waist. There was no way to escape... it was like you were glued to him. Your butt left the mattress as he thrust into you with only presses, moving you up the headboard.

"Such a needy girl, aren't you?" he almost spat out in heat, sweat covering his body. You could see the grip on your thighs from his hands.... you couldn't wait to see those bruises. You nodded quickly, gripping onto the sheets. Your legs started to shake and you remember a sense of panic - because you didn't want it to end. Not right now.

For some reason, you rolled your head up from the headboard and looked at him.... what you saw should have ended it right then and there. He was absolutely covered in sweat; making his tattoos stand out. His stomach was so soft and flexed a little when he pushed into you. Scraping your eyes all the way up his body, his necklace now clung to his wet skin, you swore time stood still when you met his eyes. The curls falling around them were drenched from the rain and sweat; his face was a shade of red that you wanted to kiss all over. He was looking at where you were joined, until he felt you look up at him and move, locking eyes with yours between his lashes.

He froze for just a second, looking at your expression.

"You okay?" he said between breaths. It sounded like he was so out of breath, and you didn't realize how hard he was going until right now. You suddenly felt the insides of your thighs stinging a bit, and the placement of his hands that haven't moved. None of it hurt, you just knew you could feel it, now. You were so wrapped up in how he felt inside of you, that you forgot about the outside.

Without saying a word, you reached your hands out, flexing your fingers, reaching for him. You wanted, no, needed him closer. You wanted to feel the sweat on his skin on yours, you wanted to hear him in your ear when you released. You wanted his lips on yours.

He smirked, almost sweetly, dropping your legs and intertwining his fingers with yours. His chest was on yours, now, and you could smell him. He smelled so good, even his sweaty musk was making your head spin. It was at that moment you realized: that you loved this man. Shit. He was still holding your hands, they were pinned to the mattress beside your head, kissing up your neck.

"Ashton", you sighed as his leg moved yours just enough to hit you at a different angle - in the right spot.

He looked up at you, his chest hovering right above yours, you remember being so impressed with how he was staying so steady - but then, remembered, what his job was. Makes sense.

"Kiss me", you breathed out, his head was a little farther down and you didn't want to move from this position. You knew, if he kept going like this, at this angle, it would take you just seconds, now. Your legs started to tremble again when you saw him lick his lips, watching his bottom teeth as he came in to kiss you. He arched his back gently to get better leverage as he kissed you, deeply.

His tongue mingled with yours, sucking on it lightly. You moaned into his mouth and he thrust in you again - and without warning, one of his hands left yours, and was drawing circles on your clit.

Your eyes shot open and you gasped into his kiss, not able to move your lips anymore. Your body contorted again, this time not as intense.

"Let me feel it", his lips were on your forehead, your hands were on his chest. You think you felt your nails dig in, but his words made you unravel.

"Oh fuck", he looked down at where you were connected, watching your legs furiously shake. He stilled for just a moment, taken over by his own arousal.

"Ashhhhh...." you inhaled, your eyes rolling back, body shaking. Your back arched and fell back down, euphoria covering your entire body.

It didn't stop coming.

He thrust gently into you again and you choked, shuddering. "Can't... stop... cumming..." you gasped, the air from your lungs feeling like it was taken from you completely.

You felt a small gush and he cursed, knowing full and well you squirt. You knew that feeling, it had happened once before, but a very very long time ago.

"Jesus, angel", he grunted and then he quickly held you, wrapping his big arm behind your neck, pulling you in for a close kiss. You could feel a smile, and a little giggle.

"Ashton....", you blinked finally, coming down from your absolutely mind-blowing high.

"Shhh, shhh", he pressed his lips to yours so sweetly it could actually make you burst out in tears on the spot.

"Did... you?" you were still shuddering, but he had stopped all of his movements, his hand was back in yours, worried that he didn't finish. He just kissed you deeper and nodded, biting your lip a little. You stayed there for a while, just kissing, holding each other, coming back down to regular temperatures. At one point you felt him pull out, feeling incredibly empty.

You weren't sure how long it had been, you felt like you were in a dream, but you were here, lying in this bed, Ashton's chest pressed to your back. One of his legs was slung over yours, his foot under your other ankle. Your head was lying on his bicep... he was propped up on his elbow, watching you, singing softly to you. You think it was Wicked Game, but you were so blissed out that you didn't care what he was singing. His voice was so angelic. You wanted to stay here forever...his finger was stroking your hair softly, and at one point you grabbed his hand and started to outline his fingers. He was kissing the side of your head sweetly as you did, moving himself closer, if that was even possible.

"My dear", he whispered into your ear finally, after lingering what seemed like hours.

"Mmm?" you could feel the sound come from your throat, and if he wasn't as close as he was right now, you were sure he wouldn't be able to hear you.

"Seems that I've learned a lot about you, tonight", he kissed behind the shell of your ear, over and over, giggling a little. You could feel his breath on your skin, causing you to giggle back.

"Oh really?" you shifted just enough to turn to face him, pulling the arm that was resting flat on your leg over your chest, kissing every spot you could find.

"Mmmmhm", his eyes were so big and so green, his face was so sweet, and you remembered how you wanted to capture it.

"And what did you find out?" you were curious now, almost nervous.

"One - You're one hell of a smoker", his lips were on your neck again, sweetly, nothing sexual. You giggled, his breath tickling you a bit. Your body squirmed and you ended up chest to chest, your elbows were folded, pressing your hands up against his chest again. Glancing down, you could see the nail marks on his pecs.

"Oh my god ashton I - " Mortified, you looked up at him, worried you hurt him. He just responded by grabbing your wrist and kissing the inside of it, the sweetness never faulting.

"And two..." he kissed you gently, your lips, nose, lips again.... "You are an absolute animal in bed" he growled playfully as to mock you, flipping you on your back. You giggled, gasping when you felt his leg brush against your core. There was a sudden shock of discomfort and soreness on your face, and he could see that.

"How about" his body pushed gently away from you, climbing off the bed. You responded by a whine, reaching out for him. It was at this moment you could finally see all of him... completely naked.... and dear god, was he something made from the gods, "I make you a lavender bath", he reached into the dresser and grabbed a pair of boxers, walking to the bathroom and flipping on the light.

Your eyes followed him all the way to the bathroom, giggling when he turned on the light and squinted, fiddling for the dimmer switch quickly.

"That sounds nice", you hummed. A bath really did sound nice, and you felt icky, the sweat now settled on your skin.

You were about to get up when you heard the water turn on, and he tsked you when you moved on to your elbows.

"Ashton I'm not injured, I'm perfectly capable of getting up by myself", you giggled and squeaked when he scooped you up, bridal style. Your arms wrapped around his neck, a prideful grin plastered his face.

"I know. Trust me, I've seen you. You're a badass. But," he kissed you sweetly again, "I want to take care of you as much as I'm allowed, now", he lead you into the bathroom, the bath filling up quickly.

"Is that so?" He moved effortlessly around the bathroom, grabbing things while you were still in his arms. He sprinkled the lavender salt into the tub, the aroma hitting your nose instantly.

"Mmmmmhm!" he hummed, the "hm" part going up a pitch.

"And why is that?" you hummed, lazily drawing circles on his collarbones.

"Cos you're my girl", you froze, hand stilling on his skin.

"...what?" you said with almost tears in your eyes. Damn you after sex emotions.

He just smiled, eyes half lidded, slowly bringing his lips to your ear.

"Please?" He just whispered, holding his head there, asking your permission.

You were still sort of in shock, finally blinking. You thought for sure this was an end of the tour shag, and you would never talk to each other again. I mean, you live all the way on the east coast and he lives on the west.... but that was another conversation you'd save for another day.

But for right now, you knew you wanted him. You always wanted him. And this time - he also wanted you.

"Under one condition", his head resurfaced from your ear, concern in his eyes. Your thumb gently swiped over his cheek, holding his face. He kissed your palm, looking up at you from his lashes.

"Anything", his lips kissed your palm again, over and over.

Was he in love with you....?

"Get in this bath with me", his eyes met yours now, the concern leaving his face.

"Don't have to ask me twice", he smiled.

The two of you spent almost the rest of the entire evening in the bath, playing with fingers, kissing a lot, talking, and being completely silent, apart from his sweet humming that lulled you to sleep. At some point you remember waking up in the bed, in his pjs, warm, safe, and next to him. You watched the moon shine on his skin for what seemed like hours, until your eyes closed.

You had so many questions you wanted to ask your friends, but for tonight - for right now - all you could think about was:

Finally. He was yours.

---------------------

It was a low bar. You just had to not egg him on like Butcher, or try to give him a free, unlicensed therapy session like Hughie. You just sat there, and glowered while he grinned, and everyone said you had Soldier Boy on a leash.  

“What’s wrong with you,” you hiss during the meeting, and Ben shoots you a sideways glare.

He still doesn’t say anything. When you poke his arm, he recoils, flinching as if he’d been shot.

That’s what makes you freeze.

Ben doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t whine or bitch or moan. You’ve seen a rocket launcher slam into his chest, and he’d roared like an animal before throwing the thing back at the shooter. You’ve poked and slapped him almost every day for the past year. He’s only ever looked down at you with raised brows and a smirk, like you were a misbehaving bunny trying to eat his socks.

But this time, his eyes are black, and his brow is knit. There’s a tension in his jaw that makes your breath hitch, and his nostrils flare. The table whines under his grip. You’re rooted to your chair, unable to rip your gaze away. He grunts your name, low and rough, and you’re suddenly all too aware of it. The space between your bodies. Your knees aren’t pressed together under the table. His fingers aren’t grazing your arm every few moments, like they have every single day since Butcher tossed you into his den and told you to keep the old man from blowin’ something up.

There’s a heat radiating from his body that makes your head spin. It’s not the radiation or the bomb. His eyes aren’t empty and there’s no glow coming from his chest.

Ben runs warm. You’re more aware of it than he’s ever going to get to know. Ben’s always made of the kind of heat that pools between your thighs and makes your heart skip, even when you’re shoving his chest and flipping him off.

But this.

This feels like a fever.

Soldier Boy isn’t supposed to be able to get a fucking fever.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong again. Ben looks away, and leans back in his chair. His body is angled away from yours. Your feet bump, and he jerks away with a low, almost feral sound. You swallow, a bile rising from the back of your throat. He’s never passed up a chance to touch you.  

Through the entire debrief, there wasn’t one word. He grunted in response to questions.  Not an insult or crude joke, not a brag or boast about how much they’d needed him, not even an attempt to get into your pants. He’d sat, stiff and silent, then left the moment Butcher waved for everyone to fuck off.

You watch him go, your hands clasped under the table, worrying at the cuffs of your sleeves. You’re not worried about him. You don’t get worried about him. He’s an old ass with a pretty face, who spends more time trying to make you spread your legs than listening to plans for missions. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like a ship, rocking back and forth in a storm.

“Butcher?” You call, still watching the door Ben vanished through.

Butcher turns back to the table with a groan, glaring at you in your chair. “Fuckin’- I was about to go get Waffle House, love, so if you’ll excuse me-“

“What happened?”

“What-“ Butcher cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “You mean on that mission Ijust fuckin’ debriefed-“

“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“

“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“

“No- I mean- He’s not-“ You shake your head. “Butcher, I’m fucking serious, he’s being- He was quiet.”

Butcher shrugs. “So? Far as I can see, he’s learnin’ how to be a good boy.”

“But he’s not,” you say flatly. “He’s not a good boy, and- You fucking know that.”

“Maybe. But I don’t go ‘round lookin’ for holes in good things, Love-“

“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“

“Well, I’m a changed man.” Butcher gives you a lazy grin. “You got anything else for me? Gonna whine about grandpa actin’ too polite?”

You narrow your eye, holding Butcher’s stare. His tone is indifferent. His posture is bored. “You know I’m right about this,” you say, cold and quiet. “Don’t try and- And fucking dance around this. Ben’s acting weird, and-“

“Ben,” Butcher coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “Ain’t that sweet-“

“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“

“What? You’re gonna tattle on me to your Ben-“

You shoot to your feet. “I am worried about the safety of our team, you dipshit-“

“Then go talk to your sweet Benny Boo, and maybe he’ll let you tickle his balls for an answer-“

The door slams open, and you and Butcher both freeze.

You’ve never found Ben as scary as you maybe should. He’s all muscle and talk and bite, but the teeth don’t seem sharp when they’ve only ever been bared for you. He tells you he’s a breathing fucking weapon, so you should watch your mouth. You ask him why you should bother, when he’s watching it for you. He laughs in that way that only you ever get to hear, and tosses his arm around you on the couch. Not a danger. A mountain of a man, that you know better than to try and topple with nothing more than moral hands.  

A mountain that you’re used to bowing down to your height. That usually looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the minimum amount of effort he can use to crush their skull, right before offering you a hand to climb. When you take it, his lips twitch. When you tell him you don’t need help, he stares at you like he’s still learning how to look.

You know what the team says about you. What they think about the peace you’ve found with Ben, and the way it lingers around him whenever you’re near. But that’s really all it is. An understanding. Something close to friendship that you’re not brave enough to name. You think about him in the dark. He tries to fuck you, and you turn him down because you know.

It would be easier to fall for him that it should be. Whatever things are broken inside of you, he’s made of a kind of gold that pours into the cracks and makes them shine. But it’s fool’s gold. It would crack under pressure, leaving you more hollow than before. He’s not the kind of man that would want to build something. You only want to build something. And so he gets nothing, and you remain empty in a way that still lets your heart beat.

And you never fear Ben.

Not until he’s looming in the doorway, glaring between you and Butcher with a white-knuckle grip on the door and a glint in his eyes.

Butcher takes a small step back. You can’t move. Ben makes a low, rumbling sound from his chest, and the air suddenly feels hot and wet. No one dares to move.

“Ben,” you breathe, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Wha- Are you okay-“

He vanishes. You feel the floor rumble, as he stomps away, leaving you and Butcher frozen in the room. You turn slowly, glaring at Butcher. He throws you a winning grin, and slips out the door before you can ask if that seemed normal. Your fingers curl on the table.

Something’s going on, and you’re going to figure out what the fuck it is.

In the days after the meeting, Ben seems to almost get better. He speaks again. He walks around and jokes and smokes on the couch like everything is normal. Butcher acts like nothing happened, but you catch MM and Hughie giving him cautious looks. Annie and Kimiko are hanging around you more, and Ben seems angrier about it than usual.

“I think we need a new dryer,” you mutter one morning, sighing when Hughie gives you a curious look. “It’s eating my underwear.”

“Eating your- What?”

“My underwear. Like- How washers eat socks.” You frown at your cereal, poking it with your spoon. “It’s all going missing, I think it’s the dryer-“

“The fuck is wrong with the dryer,” Ben grunts, dropping next to you at the table.

“She thinks it’s eating her underwear,” Hughie mumbles, watching you nervously. “Are you sure you’re not just like- Dropping it in the hall or something?”

“Yes, I- I’ve even gone back and checked, it’s all just- It’s getting eaten, I swear-“

“Well- Um-“ Hughie glances at Ben. “Has your underwear been eaten?”

“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.

“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”

Hughie blinks. “What- What do you mean, doesn’t believe in it?”

“Too many fucking buttons,” Ben grumbles. “Never trust a fucking robot to do what you can do with your goddamn hands. I wash my shit in the sink.”

“Mhm,” you smile at your coffee. “And then I wash it with the machine.”

Ben glares at you. You smile in return, and his mouth twitches. You expect a smart little comment about whatever gets you touching his boxers. Instead his eyes dart to your cereal, then your mouth.

“What-“

“You’re not eating.”

You blink. “I- I was talking to Hughie-“

“Why.”

“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“

He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.

“Um- The dryer-“

“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.

“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“

“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“

“But- Ben-“

He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.

You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.

If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.

Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”

“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.

“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”

Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“

Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”

“You were sweating, Benjamin-“

“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”

You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“

You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.

“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”

“I- That’s not what I said-“

“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”

You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.

“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”

He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“

“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”

Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”

Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”

Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.

“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.

“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”

You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”

Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.

“Wha- What-“

He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.

You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.

“Ben, what’s- Shit-“

He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.

“I- Um-“

“Eat that,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”

You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.

Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.

He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.

“Ben, what the fuck-“

He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.

At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.

And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.

“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.

“Jesus fucking- Ben-“

You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.

“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.

“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”

“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.

He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.

“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.

“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”

He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.

“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”

Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.

Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.

Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.

“What- What the hell was that?”

You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”

Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“

“Hughie-“

“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“

You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.

“Please don’t-“

“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.

“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“

“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”

Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.

It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.

“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.

You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.

He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.

“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.

He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.

Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.

He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.

You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.

“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“

“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.

“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“

“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”

You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.

“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”

And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.

“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.

“Moment it hit the fucker.”

“Where you there-“

“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.

“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”

You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“

“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.

“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.

It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.

“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.

“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”

You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“

“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“

“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”

You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“

“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”

And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.

“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”

“Butcher-“

“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”

You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.

A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.

Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.

If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.

If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.

“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”

He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.

You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.

The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.

Your panties.

Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.

Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed. 

You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.

“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.

“I’ll give ‘em back later.”

You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.

“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”

You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.

Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”

You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.

“Go.”

There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.

“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“

“Why are they mine?”

The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.

“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.

“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“

“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”

Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”

Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.

“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“

“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.

No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.

“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.

“It doesn’t want hookers.”

You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”

He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“

“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”

What do you want.

He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.

“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”

Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.

A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”

You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.

He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.

“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“

“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”

Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.

“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”

You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.

It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.

“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“

He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.

You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.

“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“

He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.

“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”

You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else. 

He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“

He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.

“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”

“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.

You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.

“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.

Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.

“Something fuckin’ funny?”

“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”

“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“

You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.

“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“

You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.

You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.

“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“

His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.

“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”

You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.

“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”

You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.

You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.

“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“

You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.

It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.

“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”

You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.

“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”

“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.

“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”

“It needs me?”

You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.

But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.

He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.

Worth it.

“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”

He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.

Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.

You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.

“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“

“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”

Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.

He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.

“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”

You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.

“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he  sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”

Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.

“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“

He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.

He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.

“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”

You shake your head, and Ben leans back with  narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.

“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.

“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“

He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“

You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.

Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.

You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.

“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”

You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.

You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.

Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.

He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.

Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.

You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.

Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.

“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.

“Too- Too much-“

“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”

Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.

But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.

“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”

Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”

You nod, and Ben smirks.

“Yeah. I know.”

He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.

Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll. 

“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”

Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.

“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”

Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.

“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“

You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.

He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.

“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“

You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.

You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.

He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.

“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“

You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.

Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.

He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.

You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.

“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”

You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.

“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.

You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.

The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.

At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”

He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.

Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.

“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“

He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.

Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.

“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”

It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.

He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands. 

This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.

You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.

He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”

You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.

“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”

His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.

Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.

He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.

And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.

He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.

You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.

“Marry me.”

You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”

“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”

“Of- Of course I meant it-“

“You sure?”

“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”

That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”

“Because I’m not crazy.”

“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“

“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”

“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”

Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.

“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”

You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“

“It is not bad-“

“It’s horrible-“

“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.

There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.

But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.

“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.

“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“

“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”

Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.

“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.

You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.

Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.

✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Well you never thought you’d be here. Ever. In fact if you went back in time and told the you from this morning that you’d be here, you don’t know whether they’d laugh at you or have a heart attack.

Cause how do you say, at 11:45pm today (a random Thursday in July ) you’d be naked, and spread across the leather back seats of a 67 Chevy impala, while the person you hate most. The bane of your existence, has his head between your thighs edging you towards your second orgasm on his face.

Yeah. You can’t exactly say that normally, especially about someone you despise so much. Especially about him. Dean. Winchester.

The moment you met him, you instantly knew his ‘charm’ , that little smirk as he sidled up to you drawling on about buying you a drink. It was performance. An act.

You knew who he was, not many hunters didn’t with the Winchesters reputation. Some grateful for what they did, some jealous and bitter. But you? Indifferent. You didn’t care. You’d heard it all. The good, the bad and certainly the ugly.

‘They saved the world!’

Yeah…cool. Whatever.

You’d heard all about Sam and the company he keeps, the demon blood. The ‘powers’. Was pretty hard not to know about that one with the times you’d drifted through the roadhouse after one of their visits. But you’d also heard about his little vacation in a cage with lucifer and Michael. And so you figured he can be spared a little grace by you for that and the whole ‘stopping the apocalypse and saving the whole of humanity and the universe’ deal.

A bit of grace for him was a hard pill to swallow, but in time you grew to like him. You had a lot in common. Sam. Sam, you like. Sam you can deal with….but Dean?

Dean is a completely different story…

You’d heard all about Dean. The mark. His time as a demon. His….escapades. Jumping on the first thing breathing he deemed hot enough. Hopping from town to town. From one woman’s bed to the next.

Yeah for him there was no redemption in your eyes. Especially when he tried everything he could when he first met you to get in your pants. It was unfortunate that he was as hot as he was. Because most of the time you were so confused about whether you wanted to cut his head clean off or crawl to him on your hands and knees. Which made it all the more unfortunate how turned on by him you could get.

Just like the night you met. Him inching closer to you , charm and smirk weaponised to pull your barrier down. It was so text book it made you cringe. Because , you could read Dean like a book. His ‘moves’ to get you to take him home and have you scream his name. It was the easiest piece of literature you could read. Childs play comparison to old lore books on worn creased pages.

And hunters? Hunters didn’t like being read. So you shot his shit straight down. Told him you knew who he was. What he’d done. The good. The bad. The real ugly. And Dean? He was expecting a pat on the back. A ‘Thankyou for saving the world’ eyelash flutter with a subsequent lay.

But no. All that lead to was a talk with both him and Sam about you, your history. Who you are. And, how you knew of them.

Which led to teaming up on hunts and being in deans orbit for a lot longer than you’d ever imagined or particularly wanted with all his grumpy brooding. And in the two years since you’d met him and Sam that night. A lot transpired. A lot blossomed.

You and Sam? Thick as thieves. You got along great. He made you join them in the bunker, much to yours and deans chagrin at being constantly within each other’s orbit.

But you also unexpectedly started to see Dean differently. You fell for him a little. For the way he always makes sure there’s pain killers in the impala for your travel sickness migraines.

Always making sure you get some of what’s in the coffee pot. Learning your food order so he doesn’t need to wake you and ask every time he goes to get breakfast. It always just seems to be there. Waiting for you. Every morning. Every hunt. Every motel.

Taking your gun off you after every hunt to clean and reset it for you. He doesn’t ask. Just does.

The way he hap hazardly throws a blanket over your shoulders when you fall asleep reading in the library. Acting like he doesn’t care if you’re warm or not.

And you’ve noticed how softly and delicately he stitches you up or aids your post hunt wound in comparison to Sam. As if under your hard shell of sass he has a trepidation you’re fragile.

Which you are. Soft. Underneath all the hard layers. And without realising or meaning to, it’s Dean that makes you soft.

Dean who melts your insides and makes them flutter all at once.

Because of all the little things. Insignificant to some, but to you? The most meaningful way someone’s ever cared for you. Despite his insistence that he despises you as much as you do him, you can’t deny those little things he does prove he cares at least a little bit about your wellbeing. No one’s ever done that for you before. You’ve been alone since you were 13 years old.

Hunt alone. Sleep alone. Eat alone. Live alone.

That’s how it had been for over twenty years.

Till one night at a bar an arrogant smug asshole tried to pick you up and in turn flipped your world on its axis so you’d never know ‘alone’ again. Or as you say to him , never know ‘peace’ again. Because Dean is the last thing from peaceful.

And so you spend two years in the Winchesters orbit. Hating Dean so much you grow to love him. But can’t show it. So you tense your shoulder when he walks in the room. You roll your eyes when he opens his mouth. You bite snarl and bare your teeth in every argument. And you do it so well, he and Sam still believe you hate him. They don’t know you’re secretly ,desperately , irrecoverably in love with him, your ‘frenemy’.

Because hunters don’t like being read. So they don’t read you. You don’t let them.

But how you got here? With his left hand groping at your boobs , pinching your nipples tight enough to make your breathe hitch and your skin prickle. His right hand clutching your thigh further apart to give him better access as his tongue dances between your folds, nose catching and rubbing at your clit before he sticks his tongue deep inside you. Making you mewl, moan and gasp his name…

How you got here? That’s a wilder, longer story….

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

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✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

After your discreet exit from the palace, you hadn’t expected your step-family to return so soon. You had hoped for a few hours of solitude to bask in the memory of the King’s touch—to hold onto the feeling of his lips against your skin before reality reclaimed you.

But Beatrice wouldn’t even spare you that small courtesy.

When you had tentatively mentioned your surprise at their early arrival last night, Beatrice had ripped her gloves off with a look of pure agitation—already in a bad mood.

“The King cleared the entire ballroom,” Beatrice snapped, her voice trembling with indignant rage. “Apparently, some woman he was seeking went missing without his notice, and he turned into a madman. He ended the festivities right then and there, nearly throwing the delegates out of the palace in his haste to find her. The Prince had to deliver the King’s order because of how upset he was.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, unaware of the way your heart quickened anxiously at her words.

“A complete waste of a perfectly good gown. All because of some nameless little tramp who didn’t know how to stay put.”

Beatrice paused, her tirade dying in her throat as she noticed your hesitation.

She took a slow step toward you, the sharp clack of her heels against the floors made you snap back to a reality you weren’t ready to face.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she pointed out suspiciously. Her eyes trailed over you, scanning from your head to your toes as if searching for a single hair out of place.

You blinked, forcing your spine to straighten despite the ache in your muscles.

“I—I had only just finished the kitchen,” you stammered. “I was about to climb into bed when the door opened.”

Her eyes narrowed into thin, venomous slits, and you swore you saw her eyebrow twitch as if she realized something. She stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could smell the expensive perfume. For a terrifying heartbeat, you were certain she would call you out, strip you of your dignity, and banish you from your own home and onto the streets to fend for yourself.

But she didn’t.

Instead, a cruel, satisfied smirk curled her lips.

“Good girl,” she said, the praise sounding more like she was addressing a well-trained hound than a human being.

And now, with the morning sun rising over the large windows, you find yourself on your hands and knees again, the soaked sponge scrubbing against the marble floors. You were scrubbing a surface that should have already been polished—had Agnes not stomped across the foyer in her muddy riding boots without a care in the world.

“And don’t forget to polish the shoes right after! I’m going riding again later.” Agnes called out, kicking her boots off haphazardly.

They tossed in your direction, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that splattered even more fresh droplets of muck across the area you had just cleaned.

You winced at the sound, your shoulders aching with a deep, bone weary exhaustion. Your body was utterly spent, and your mind was miles away, still lingering in a dark study filled with the scent of ink, papers, and sex.

You remembered the way the King’s body had pressed into yours, the feel of his salt and pepper beard tickling your chin just before his lips collided with your own. He was a King who never knew what it was like to be hungry, yet he took you and made love to you like a man starving.

Agnes let out a tired groan, dragging her feet to meet her sister Margaret on the couch. She slumped down next to her, tossing her head back against the cushions with a weary sigh, acting as if she even knew what a truly hard day felt like.

“I can’t believe it,” Agnes whined, her voice high and grating. “Such gorgeous dresses wasted on a night that lasted a mere—what? Three, four hours? Ugh, I just can’t believe it!”

“Tell me about it, sister,” Margaret sighed, flipping the page of a book she was hardly reading. “Prince Jamie throws the most beautiful ball—and then his father comes in with a snap of his fingers and ruins it all.”

“I didn’t see much of King Barnes last night either,” Agnes added, leaning in closer like she’s sharing a secret. “He appeared for the toast and then vanished like a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge the receiving line!”

Margaret let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “King Barnes is always out and about, hardly ever present at his own balls, much less his son’s. Makes you wonder why he ended it early in the first place. You know, I hear His Majesty has been messing around with several women behind closed doors.”

You felt your body go rigid.

“Margaret! You mustn’t speak of the King that way!” Agnes giggled, though she didn’t look the least bit offended.

“What? It is true! There are rumors,” Margaret insisted, smiling wide. She leaned in, using the book as ‘cover’, though her whispers were anything but quiet.

“They say he’s a coldhearted rake who keeps a string of nameless girls in the west wing just to pass the time. He probably found a new plaything in one of the corridors and decided the ball was no longer worth his attention.”

You squeezed the scrub brush until your knuckles turned white, the soapy water burning the small cuts on your hands. Every word out of their mouths made you feel sick—almost disgusted with yourself.

They were talking about the man who had held and kissed your hand with such kindness, the man who had looked at your burn marks and seen beauty instead of a blemish.

But to the world, he was just a predator who took what he wanted simply because he could—and you were nothing more than a nameless rumor to be laughed at over morning tea.

“Now, ladies,” Beatrice’s voice rang from the stairs, echoing off the high walls.

Her hands gripped the railing as she stared down at everyone from above, slowly making her descent. With each step, the sharp clicks of her heels sounded like a threat.

“That’s not the way to talk about our King,” she warned.

“It wasn’t fair!” Agnes continued anyway, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “The Prince didn’t even look our way. He spent the entire night dancing with that… that nobody.”

“A random woman,” Margaret scoffed, finally shutting her book with a sharp snap. “She wasn’t even that beautiful. Her hair was far too simple, and that dress? It looked like something from a past decade. Where was she from, anyway? Some… obscure foreign land?”

“She must have been,” Agnes added, her voice rising to a whine. “Did you see her? She could hardly even dance! The Prince asks you to dance and you can’t even deliver? Ridiculous.”

Margaret leaned forward, her eyes malicious. “And the Prince only had eyes for her. But that wasn’t even the scandalous part—she danced with the King, too! Right in front of the entire court.”

Agnes blinked, as if piecing something together. Then, she let out a sharp gasp that made you jump.

“What if Prince Jamie is no better than his father? What if they’re just alike? Perhaps they shared her in a corridor in the west wing before the night was through.”

They both broke into fits of snickers, their hands covering their mouths as they giggled at the mental image of your degradation.

You just wished the marble floors would open up and swallow you whole.

To them, the most beautiful and profound moment of your life was nothing more than a dirty joke.

Beatrice met them in the living room, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fret not, ladies. She was probably some impoverished Duchess from the North, trying to sink her claws into the crown before the night was up.”

You kept your head down, your fingers tightening around the damp handle of your scrub brush. Your skin crawled as they picked apart your appearance, your dancing, everything. They were completely unaware that the so called ‘impoverished’ woman they were mocking was currently kneeling in the dirt at their feet.

Every insult only felt like a splash of cold water, reminding you that in their world—and Bucky’s—you were merely an interloper who didn’t belong.

From the corner of her eye, Beatrice noticed the frown on your face. A slow, cruel smile tugged across her red lips. To her, your grimace was nothing more than bitter jealousy. She turned to you, smoothing her skirt as her eyes locked onto yours with a sympathy so forced she might as well not have bothered.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone,” Beatrice said, her voice sweet and fake. “The palace was truly beautiful. The way the light hit the gold… it’s a world you can’t even begin to imagine, isn’t it, dear?”

You bit your tongue so hard you tasted copper. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that not only had you shared a dance with the Prince they sought after, but the King had worshipped you.

He had called you his girl.

He hadn’t ‘ruined’ the ball—he had ended it because he couldn’t stand a single second of it without you by his side.

But you knew that arguing with the ignorant would get you nowhere, so you did what you did best, which was staying silent and unassuming.

“But then, someone has to stay behind and make sure the house doesn’t fall into ruin. We can’t all be Princesses for a night.” Beatrice let out a small, airy laugh—as if this was all just a joke to her.

“Anyway, back to work!” She suddenly commanded. “Agnes’ riding boots won’t clean themselves, and I expect the foyer to be spotless before afternoon tea.” She glanced at her daughters slouching on the couch. “Up, girls. It’s time for piano lessons.”

Agnes and Margaret pushed up from the couch, giving you glances they would as if it giving it to a insect—though, they’d probably look kinder than that.

You dipped your brush into the bucket, the cold water stinging the raw skin of your hands. You had dreamt of him in the few short hours of peace you’d found in your bed, and even now, amidst the dirt and cruel insults, your mind was still entirely consumed by him.

You could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch against your waist and the husky rasp of his voice calling you his.

His girl.

And even though you knew deep down that a maid had no chance of being with a King, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder.

You wondered if he was standing in that cold, empty study right now, staring at the empty space on the desk you’d left behind. You wondered if, despite the crown and the kingdom, he was still thinking about you all the same.

Back at the palace, the morning sun bled through the towering windows, but the light felt intrusive. Bucky stood eerily still, staring out over the kingdom that belonged to him, his tired gaze fixed on the town below.

He hadn’t changed his clothes. He hadn't slept.

In his hand, he held your white lace glove. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric bunching against his palm. He kept finding himself closing his eyes, bringing the lace to his face to inhale the fading scent of rosewater that still clung to the threads.

Every time he exhaled and opened his eyes, those icy blue orbs were filled with a dangerous mix of both yearning and fury.

How dare you leave him?

He had marked you. He had claimed you. And yet, you had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but a scrap of lace and a hollow, agonizing ache in his chest.

He knew he should sleep. He should take a hot bath, wash the scent of the night off his skin, and finally eat—but he couldn’t.

Not when you were still clawing your way into his mind, nearly driving him mad.

A set of footsteps approached him with caution. It was the same attendant from last night, looking pale and trembling.

Bucky knew he should have sent the man to the gallows the moment he realized the attendant had helped you escape. It would have been easy. But it also would have been unreasonable—the man was simply doing his job and doing what he was used to with… Bucky’s shameful previous moments before you.

“Sire,” the man stammered, bowing so low he nearly tipped over. “Regarding the girl... and the abrupt end to the ball.”

Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “Speak.”

“It seems Prince Jamie also ordered the ballroom to clear shortly after you left the dais,” the attendant whispered. “He told the guests it was by your direct command—that the King demanded the palace be emptied for a search. He spent the remainder of the night with the captain of the guard, scouring the lower gates for a ‘missing guest.’”

Bucky’s grip on the glove tightened until the lace threatened to tear.

Jamie.

His own son had used his name to chase after the same woman. Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The boy gets one dance with a pretty woman and he forgets himself. He forgets who he is—and more importantly, who his father is.

“He did, did he?” Bucky’s rumbled.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The silence between them was so still and heavy, that the faint ticking of the clock across the room sounded like a hammer against an anvil. The attendant remained rooted to the spot, standing so rigidly perfect that his spine began to ache, his breath held in his chest as he waited for the King’s next move.

“Bring him to me,” Bucky finally ordered. He glanced at the attendant over his shoulder. “My son. Bring him to me. Now.”

“Y-yes, Your Majesty!”

The attendant gave one final, frantic bow before scrambling away to fetch Jamie. Left in the sudden quiet, Bucky turned his gaze back to the window, his mind a turbulent storm of a million different thoughts.

Bucky had always prided himself on being a good King. He was a man who ruled with a steady hand, treating his people with a fairness that was rare for his station. He gave everything to the land and asked for very little in return; he was hardly ever a selfish man.

He took that same pride in his role as a father. He had raised Jamie with meticulous care, shielding him from the hardness of his own past. He had taught the boy how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, and above all, how to treat a woman with kindness—all the virtues Bucky himself had lacked growing up.

But now, staring out at the kingdom he had built, Bucky realized that his own teachings had backfired.

He had taught his son how to recognize a woman of worth, and now, they were both hunting the same girl.

“Father,” Jamie panted, the words catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. He came to a halt behind Bucky, maintaining a respectful distance between them—the gap between a Prince and his King.

“You called for me?”

Bucky turned slowly to face his son. He didn’t offer a greeting; rather, he simply watched, his eyes tracking the way Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell with every labored breath. He took note of the sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way he struggled to compose himself after the lengthy climb.

Bucky pursed his lips, a small pang of disappointment hitting his chest as he judged his son’s lack of stamina.

Perhaps he hadn’t been such a good father after all. Because as he stood there, watching Jamie stumble over his own exhaustion, the only thing Bucky could think was that the boy was outmatched.

Jamie was too soft, too unseasoned. He could never hope to catch up to a woman like you—and he certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with you in bed.

“I hear that you cleared the guests out shortly after I performed the toast,” Bucky said, dangerously calm. “I couldn’t quite remember if the invitation mentioned the ball ending at midnight. I found myself wondering why the palace was being emptied with such… urgency.”

Jamie stayed quiet.

Bucky took a step closer.

“I was also told that you ordered every guest to leave under my command,” Bucky added, his tone dropping deeper and quieter. “Using my name to finish a party that you were so excited to host. Why is that, son?”

Jamie stood up straighter, his own blue eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Bucky’s eyebrow twitch. He didn’t see the storm brewing in his father’s expression; he only saw an opportunity to confide in the man he looked up to.

“I had to, Father,” Jamie admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There was a woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her—she wasn’t like the usual court vultures. She was... magnetic. But she vanished the moment the clock struck twelve.”

Jamie took a deep breath, his chest puffing out slightly as he warmed to the subject, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was slowly losing his grip on his patience.

“I used your name because I knew the guards wouldn’t question it. I needed the halls clear so I could find her before she slipped past the gates. I just… I couldn’t let her go without knowing who she was. I think I might be in love with her, Father. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

Every word out of Jamie’s mouth felt like a personal insult—a boy’s shallow infatuation trying to claim territory already conquered by a King.

A desperate part of him hoped, prayed, that the woman Jamie was describing wasn’t you. He wanted there to be a small, flickering chance that Jamie had met someone else, anyone else, who wasn’t the girl in the silver blue dress.

“In love?” Bucky repeated bitterly in disbelief. “You shared a single dance with a stranger, and you’ve decided it’s love?”

“It was more than a dance,” Jamie insisted, his voice rising with that same stubbornness Bucky had at his age. “There was a connection. I could tell she felt it, too. She was shy, hesitant, but there was a fire in her. Surely, you understand? You danced with her, too.”

Bucky felt like he wanted to punch a wall.

“You saw her up close. She was beautiful—even underneath the mask. Her eyes were so kind—”

Bucky couldn’t stand to hear another word.

“—and her laugh was hypnotizing. She didn’t even know how to dance, but she was the sweetest thing in the room—”

Bucky felt like he was going insane. He had never, ever hated anyone as much as he hated his own son in this very moment. Each compliment Jamie uttered felt like a hand reaching for a prize that Bucky had already locked away in his soul.

“Son—”

“—I want to marry her, Father,” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and determined.

His blue eyes—so like Bucky’s own—met the King’s with a steady gaze, and Bucky felt a wave of nausea roll through him.

“I finally found her—my Princess. I want her to stand by my side at court as my wife. She would be the most perfect woman for it,” Jamie continued, a small, subtle blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mere thought. “Princess Barnes…”

Princess Barnes?

Bucky scoffed, a rude, incredulous sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jamie’s head tilted, noticing the reaction, but Bucky was far beyond caring about appearances. Princess was a title for a girl playing at house. It was a secondary rank, a title that lived in the shadow of another.

No. That wasn’t right at all. You weren’t meant to be a Princess. You were meant to be a Queen. Queen Barnes. His Queen. His equal, his partner, his obsession. Not his son’s plaything.

Bucky forced himself to reel back, drawing a slow, heavy breath into his lungs. He was a father first, a King second. He needed to speak carefully, to dismantle this before it ruined them both.

“Do not be a fool, Jamie,” Bucky said. “You are talking about a woman you do not know. You are rushing into a fantasy. Marriage is about stability, about the crown—not about a girl who didn’t know how to waltz... or… or one who didn’t even have the decency to stay!”

It was cruelly ironic. He was lying through his teeth, and the taste of it was bitter. Every criticism he hurled at you felt like a sin, but he had to dissuade his son.

He had to make you sound small, sound insignificant, so that Jamie would stop looking for you.

“Wait for the reports,” Bucky continued, his voice biting and harsh. His hand tightened around the lace, his grip crushing the delicate fabric more with every word.

“Do not waste your time. Focus on your duties. Do not go chasing shadows in the—”

“Father,” Jamie interrupted suddenly.

“What?” Bucky snapped, his patience fraying.

Jamie took a step forward. The moment Bucky saw his son’s eyes lock onto the white fabric clenched between his fingers, his blood ran cold.

“That glove,” Jamie whispered, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back up at his father, his breath hitching. “I recognize it. It’s hers. I held that hand while we danced... I know the pattern of that lace by heart.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, his entire body coiling like a spring. He braced himself for the explosion. He expected Jamie to yell, to seethe in betrayal, to realize that his father had been hiding the woman he ‘loved’ just a room away last night.

But instead, a bright, hopeful smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. His eyes sparked with a pure, joyous relief.

“You found her,” Jamie breathed, letting out a small, huffing laugh of disbelief. “You found her for me, didn’t you? You saw how much I wanted her... and you went and found her.”

And now, Bucky wished Jamie would’ve just yelled at him instead.

Before he could even respond, Jamie was already beaming with glee. Any other father would relish seeing their own son happy, but for Bucky, he felt like he was suffocating.

“We must arrange a carriage for her at once!” Jamie exclaimed, already pacing the rug. “I need to have her here—in this palace. I have so much to say to her, I—”

Bucky shut his eyes tight, his mouth shuddering as he felt the delicate lace of your glove crushing against his palm. Right now, it felt like it was the only piece he had left of you.

“Son. Enough—”

“This is incredible! I… I never expected you to go out of your way for me like this, Father. I thought you were disappointed, but you were actually—”

Bucky’s heart was clawing its way out of his ribs. It was a frantic, taunting thud that made him feel like he was about to collapse under his own deceit.

“Jamie. Stop it—”

“Thank you, Father! Truly. Once we bring her back here—the moment she steps off that carriage—I’m going to propose. I’ll give her the world. I’ll—”

Propose?

Give you the world?

He wanted to give you the world?

Jamie didn’t even know your world. He didn’t know the way you tasted, or the way you trembled when a real man laid hands on you.

Bucky had given the order to the attendant the moment you vanished. He had planned to have his men quietly intercept you, to bring you back to his private chambers before your carriage could even take you past the palace gates. But Jamie’s ‘fake command’ had ruined everything. The sudden, chaotic crowd of hundreds of guests—the horses, the carriages, the shouting—had created a wall of bodies and steel that Bucky’s men couldn’t penetrate.

The guilt Bucky felt was suddenly swallowed by a surging, irrational wave of resentment. This was Jamie’s fault. All of it.

His son’s childish interference was the reason you were gone. His vanity was the reason Bucky was standing here with an empty heart and a stolen glove.

Bucky’s restraint vanished completely. His arm moved in a blur of pure, enraged adrenaline. His fist collided with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending his son stumbling back in pain.

“Goddamnit, Jamie!” Bucky barked, his thunderous voice echoing off the high walls like a cannon firing away. “I said that is enough!”

Bucky’s chest heaved, his eyes widening with horror as dark crimson began to leak between Jamie’s fingers, staining his pristine white cuffs. The adrenaline that had fueled the punch evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, sickening hollow. He stared at his own knuckles, then back at the blood on his son’s face.

“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. “Jamie—”

“Don’t!” Jamie hissed, flinching away from the touch. He looked up, his eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, but the blood only smeared across his cheek, making him look even more broken.

“I just wanted to make you proud, Father. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do,” Jamie muttered, his gaze dropping to his boots.

“Jamie, that isn’t—”

“I thought you’d be happy!” Jamie’s voice broke. “I thought you’d finally be glad to see me take a wife, to see me grow up. I thought this was my duty—to find a woman who could lead by my side. But… but I can never win with you, can I? No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”

Bucky felt like his chest was being stepped on.

He had hit his own son.

In all the years of training and discipline, he had never once raised a hand to the boy in anger. The glove remained clenched in his palm—the very thing that had started this—and it suddenly felt as heavy as lead.

“Jamie, please,” Bucky’s voice grew quieter, shakier than it had ever been. “You have to understand. It’s… it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—”

“I understand plenty,” Jamie spat. He glared up at his father, a look of such pure resentment that Bucky had never seen before. He wanted to die right then and there.

His own son no longer looked at him like a hero, but like a villain—a tyrant guarding his hoard.

“You don’t want me to have her,” Jamie said, his voice turning to a cold, final whisper. “You don’t want me to have anything.”

“Son, I—”

Before Bucky could grab his arm, Jamie turned and bolted for the stairs. His footsteps thundered down the hall, each heavy stomp of his boot against the cold floor echoing like the heartbeat in Bucky’s aching chest.

“Jamie! Jamie, wait!” Bucky called out, his voice cracking.

He started to follow, but he only made it halfway before he stopped, watching his son disappear around the corner and out of his reach.

You were out in the town again, but the atmosphere felt different, and almost suffocating. As you moved through the market, you couldn’t help but notice the royal guards posted at every corner.

Usually, the guards were a lazy fixture of the town—slumped at tavern tables playing cards or nursing drinks, doing a halfhearted job at best. But today, they were different. There were far more of them than usual, all standing with rigid shoulders, their steel armor gleaming with a sharp, intimidating light against the dusty cobblestone walls.

At first, the way they scrutinized the passing crowd—specifically the women— seemed merely inappropriate. But as you stole a glance, a chill settled deep in your bones.

They weren’t just watching; they were searching.

You saw them whispering in low, urgent tones, gesturing toward various girls and pointing to the shade of a woman’s hair… or the curve of a jawline as if comparing them to a mental checklist.

They were looking for someone with very specific features.

They were looking for you.

You quickly averted your eyes, tucking your chin and clutching your wicker basket against your chest like a shield. You weaved through the morning crowd, trying to make yourself as small and unassuming as possible, desperate to melt into the shadows of the common folk.

You were just steps away from the safety of a produce shop when a commotion at a nearby bread stall caught your ear. Usually, you would have kept your head down, but the desperation in the young man’s voice made you pause.

A boy with a deep hood pulled low was caught in a heated argument with the stall keeper. Even from a distance, you could see his hands were shaking. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across the bridge of his nose, accompanied by a faint smear of dried blood.

“It’s just a loaf of bread and some cheese!” the young man argued, his voice surprisingly prideful for a man who’s supposed to be hungry. “You’re charging me five times the worth!”

The stall keeper let out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning over his counter with a sneer.

“Well, when you’re wearin’ a brooch like that,” he pointed a greasy finger at the glimmering silver pin tucked under the boy’s cloak, “it means you’ve got money. Or you stole it. Either way, pay up or move on, fancy lad.”

“I told you, I don’t have the coin on me! I… I left in a hurry,” the boy muttered, his fingers instinctively clutching the brooch. “I won’t give you this. It’s a family heirloom.”

The keeper scoffed, pulling the tray of food back. “Then starve. I don’t run a charity for runaways.”

The boy looked so small in that moment, his shoulders slumping with a defeat that felt all too familiar to you. Despite the danger of the guards nearby, your heart ached for him. You knew exactly what it was like to be seen as insignificant, to be at the mercy of someone more powerful.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward. You pulled a few copper coins from the deep pocket of your skirt and dropped them onto the wooden counter.

“That should cover it,” you said. “And the change is for your trouble. Let the boy have the food.”

The keeper’s eyes didn’t even glance at you nor the copper. They remained glued on the glimmering silver pinned to the boy’s chest.

“I don’t want your coin, girl,” he grunted, his gaze narrowing with greed. “I want that brooch. That silver alone is worth more than my entire stall.”

The young man bristled, his hand tightening over the heirloom, but before he could snap back, you spoke first.

“Come on, Gary,” you said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t you used to pride yourself on making your craft affordable for the needy? You’ve helped me out plenty of times when the month was lean. Surely, you can lend a hand to someone else in need.”

Gary finally shifted his eyes away from the boy. When he realized it was you standing there, his harsh expression faltered just slightly. He took a long look at you, then back at the battered, hooded boy, and finally at the humble copper coins on the counter.

He knew you; he knew you worked hard and rarely asked for favors.

“Fine,” Gary grumbled, snatching the coins off the wood with a reluctant huff.

He wrapped a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese in a rough cloth and shoved it roughly toward the boy. “You owe her one, spoiled brat. Don’t let me see you around here again.”

The boy lifted his hands hesitantly to grab the parcel. He swallowed hard, shifting his attention toward you. His face flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was the humiliation of a common maid helping a man like him, or simply the throbbing pain of his injury.

“Thank you, miss—” he began.

As he tilted his head back to look at you, the sunlight caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the unmistakable cool shade of blue in his eyes.

The Barnes eyes.

Even with the dark, jagged bruise across his nose, there was no mistaking that it was him.

The blood drained from your face so fast, you felt your head spinning. You froze, your hands tightening on the wicker basket. Your heart, which had been steady just now in your confidence with Gary, now thrashed against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“I… I—” you stuttered. You took a step back, bumping into a frantic man who yelled, “Watch your step!” but you paid no mind. Your gaze darted to the guards huddled at the end of the street.

It was no wonder why there were so many of them posted today. They weren’t just looking for you. They were also looking for Bucky’s son.

If they saw you talking to him—if they realized who he was and who you were—it was over.

You braced yourself for Jamie’s face to light up, expecting him to seize your hands and declare he’d finally found you. But instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took in your messy hair, your trembling lip, and your simple, soot-stained maid’s uniform.

To him, you were just a kind girl of the working class—a far cry from the elegant vision of silver, blue, and lace he had held in the golden ballroom.

Jamie leaned in slightly, his gaze searching yours with a look of dawning and haunting familiarity.

“Are you quite alright?” he asked softly. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the shape of your face—the curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the depth of your eyes. “Wait…”

He trailed off, and you felt your stomach turn.

“Do I know you from somewhere? You look... strangely familiar.”

“I… no,” you stammered, forced a short, brittle laugh that sounded more like a gasp of air. “It’s a small town. You must have me confused with someone else. I—uh, have a good day, Your Highness—I mean, sir!”

Jamie’s face shifted, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. You sucked in a sharp breath, mentally cursing yourself for that slip-up. Before he could voice the realization, you turned on your heel and bolted, weaving through the thicket of market-goers frantically.

“Ma’am, wait!” Jamie’s voice called out from behind you, sounding strained and breathless.

You didn’t look back. You kept your head down, convinced that every second spent in his presence brought you a second closer to a prison cell.

If the guards found you and dragged you back to the King, the rumors would devour you. You’d be branded a whore. Your step-family would throw you onto the streets without a second thought. The King would never provide for you; he was a King, and you were a maid, for God’s sake. And now, you weren’t just caught up with the King, but with the Prince as well.

“Please, wait!” Jamie’s voice grew more distant and more desperate the further you pulled away.

You rounded the corner into a narrow alleyway. Just as you were about to disappear around the far end to lose him for good, curiosity—or perhaps lingering empathy—made you glance over your shoulder.

Jamie wasn’t running anymore. He was halfway into the alley, his body swaying dangerously. His face, already pale, had turned a sickly shade of grey. He reached out a trembling hand, catching himself against the damp brick wall to keep from collapsing.

You stopped. You were ten feet away from freedom, but you couldn’t move. You watched as his knees buckled, his head dropping as he fought a losing battle to stay conscious.

You hissed a curse under your breath. You were a commoner, a maid who had no business meddling with anyone associated with a crown.

Yet, your feet were already moving back to him.

You hurried back to him, slipping into the shadows just as he began to slide down the wall. You caught him by the shoulders, your wicker basket dropping to the cobblestones as you struggled to stabilize his weight with yours.

“Sir? Sir, look at me,” you cooed, but Jamie didn’t answer.

He instinctively leaned into your touch, his head rolling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He was bigger and far heavier than you expected. Realizing you couldn’t hold him up for long, you allowed him to slide down the wall, sinking to the ground with him to act as his support.

He smelled of expensive cedar wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A soft, pained groan escaped his lips, and he weakly gripped your forearms, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of your sleeves.

“I... I have you,” you murmured, shifting your body to support him. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”

Jamie let out a jagged, shallow breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned more heavily into you.

“God… this hurts like hell,” he rasped.

A small frown creased your brow. Despite the danger, the sight of him—so young and so clearly suffering—pulled at a maternal instinct you couldn’t suppress.

“Hush now,” you murmured.

Reaching up, you gently pushed back the heavy fabric of his hood. It fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage. The bruise was even worse up close. A deep, angry purple had swollen the bridge of his nose. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his face.

Up close, the resemblance to the King was haunting, but where Bucky’s features were hardened by duties and age, Jamie’s were still soft and pure.

You wanted to ask what happened—how a Prince who was always protected, who had likely never raised a hand in a real fight, had ended up looking like that in a place like this, so far from the safety of the palace.

“Stay here. Don’t move,” you commanded softly when he tried to shift.

You stood up and reached for the clean rag tucked into the waistband of your skirt—a bit of linen you used for work—and hurried to the small stone well tucked into a nook near the alley entrance. The pulley creaked as you splashed the fabric into the bucket, the water coming up icy and clear.

Wringing it out, you rushed back to his side and sank back down onto the cobblestones. Jamie’s head was lolling against the brick, his eyes half open and glazed.

“Here,” you whispered.

You pressed the cold, wet cloth gently against his nose and forehead. He hissed, flinching at the initial sharpness of the cold, but then his eyes fluttered shut as the chill began to numb the throbbing ache.

“Thank you,” he breathed, his hand coming up to weakly cover yours, holding the rag in place. He stayed like that for a long moment, leaning into the coolness and your presence.

Then, without opening his eyes, a small, pained smile touched his lips. “You have very kind hands, for a stranger.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the damp cloth. “That’s just what we do in this town,” you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “We help each other. Even strangers.”

There was a soft, moment of silence in the damp alleyway. Gradually, Jamie’s ragged breathing began to steady into an even pace. He seemed stable enough now to be left on his own—you could leave, you should leave—but for some reason, your feet wouldn’t move. The way his shoulders had completely slumped was a sign that he felt safe.

Safe simply because of your presence.

“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, the word trailing off into the quiet air.

He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his head tilted slightly toward you, his skin appearing ghostly white against the dark, angry bloom of his bruise.

“But you’re not a stranger, are you?”

You froze, your hand still trapped beneath his on the wet linen rag. You didn’t dare look at him, terrified that the recognition in his voice would be reflected in his eyes.

“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir,” you managed to say, though your heart was beating so loudly, you were certain he could feel it through your hand and up your arm.

“Your hands,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “they feel familiar. Hands I’ve held before. And your voice…” He sucked in a shallow, shaky breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “It’s soothing. Just like hers.”

You knew there was no point in playing dumb any longer. Prince Jamie was smart—and he had already seen right through you. Continuing the charade in front of an injured man—much less a Prince— felt less like a safety measure and more like rubbing salt into an open wound.

With a defeated sigh, you tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened to keep you there.

It seemed that being unyielding and possessive were simply the many traits of the Barnes bloodline.

“Your Highness—”

“Please,” Jamie interrupted, his voice weak and tired. “Just call me Jamie. I… I hardly look like a Prince at the moment, and I certainly haven’t been acting like one.”

Your frown deepened. You found yourself relaxing under his touch. He looked utterly defeated—lonely, exhausted, and stripped of the regal armor he usually wore so well. Your heart ached for him, and the question slipped past your lips before you could think to stop it.

“What happened, Jamie?”

Jamie’s shoulders tensed, and you regretted the question the second it left your lips. But before you could retract it, he surprised you by actually answering.

“I had an argument,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “With the King—my father.” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then, his eyes locked onto yours. “We had an argument about you, actually.”

You held your breath, not daring to speak.

“I wanted to find you,” Jamie continued. “I wanted to find you and make you—” he swallowed hard, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “—I wanted to make you my wife. I thought you were the perfect woman to stand by my side on the throne. I assumed you were a noble woman in hiding.”

“Oh, dear…” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Jamie caught the remark and huffed a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He seemed to realize in that moment just how naive his assumptions had been.

“I just wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to do my duty as his son—to finally choose a bride. But when I told him I had decided it would be you, he…”

Jamie’s jaw clenched as he remembered the look in his father’s eyes—the look of a man who had no intention of letting his son claim the woman he wanted for himself.

“I’ve never seen him act like this,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept, eaten, or even changed his clothes since the ball ended. When I told him I was adamant about finding you, he raised his hand to me. And… I left. I couldn't stay in that palace a moment longer.”

He tried to sit up a little straighter, groaning.'

“My father is usually a cold, composed man. To see him lash out like this… to see him unravel over you—it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who wanted you. And who am I to compete against a King?”

He let out another laugh, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.

“My father,” Jamie swallowed hard, his sad blue eyes meeting yours. “He loves you. And I can see why. You’re kind, gentle, and…” he looked down at your frayed, dirty dress before tracing back up to your face, “even though you’re a maid, you’ve captured my father’s heart. Terrifyingly so.”

“Jamie,” you sighed, forcing a reassuring smile. You reached up, your hand gently cupping his cheek to try and calm him. “The King doesn’t love me. He loves the woman he saw at the ball. Nothing more.”

Jamie tilted his head, his brows furrowing. The look he gave you was hauntingly similar to Bucky’s—that same piercing, knowing gaze, as if he were silently calling you out on your bullshit.

“He didn’t fall in love with the woman at the ball,” Jamie corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. “He fell in love with the woman he saw at Martha’s dress shop.”

You froze, blinking at him in sheer disbelief. “M-Martha? You know her?”

“Martha is a long-time family friend,” he explained, his voice finally steadying. “She was the first person I ran to after I fled the palace. She told me everything.” He let out a weary, ragged sigh. “Turns out there’s a lot I don’t know about my father these days—like how he often sneaks out of the palace alone just to linger around her shop as a commoner.”

You bit your lip, the memory of that day rushing back vividly. You remembered him acting as a commoner who had been so charming, stumbling over his words as he spoke to you.

To say you hadn’t fallen for him right then and there would have been a lie.

With a tired sigh of your own, you shifted closer, looking him directly in the eye with the firm authority like someone scolding a stubborn child.

“Jamie, you need to go home,” you lectured softly. “There are guards posted everywhere looking for you. Your father must be worried sick in that lonely palace of his.”

You watched his eyes carefully, noticing the deep well of hurt and loneliness they held. It made you want to stay, to protect him—because you knew exactly what it felt like to be cast aside and alone.

“Your injury would be healed much faster by proper medics at the palace, not by one of my cheap rags and cold well water,” you added, offering a small smile and a forced, lighthearted laugh to ease the mood.

But Jamie didn’t budge.

“Probably,” Jamie whispered, his voice so vulnerable that it made your heart ache. He shrugged so weakly that it looked more like a shudder. “But this feels far better. It feels like I’m being cared for by a mother I never had.”

For a moment, you felt as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs.

For a man who held such a prestigious title and a legendary bloodline, he looked so small—so utterly defeated. Every word that left his lips felt like a needle pulling at the strings of your heart.

With a soft, resigned sigh, you knelt back down in the dirt in front of him. You couldn’t leave him like this; you couldn’t send him back to a cold palace when he was clearly starving for even a shred of genuine warmth.

“I know that feeling all too well,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as a sad, knowing smile touched your lips.

“I live in a house that feels far too big for the little space I’m allowed to occupy. I live among people who look at me but never truly see me—who see a pair of hands to do their bidding rather than a heart that’s breaking. I know what it’s like to starve for a kind word in a home that’s supposed to provide shelter.”

You looked at the dark bruising on his face, your own chest aching with every breath he took. “But Jamie… your father isn’t like my family. He doesn’t look at you and see a servant. I saw the way he looked at you at the ball; I heard the speech he made in your honor. He doesn't just love you—he lives for you.”

“He struck me,” Jamie whispered, his lip trembling.

“And you should’ve struck him right back,” you added firmly. “And God knows, if I had been there, I would’ve struck him, too.”

Jamie couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, breathy sound—at the absurdity of the image. “Strike the King? Do you truly wish for a death sentence for the both of us?”

You couldn’t help but giggle, and the sound seemed to make Jamie’s heavy shoulders ease just a little more. “He wouldn’t do that to you—he values you too much. Me, on the other hand? I’d be ‘off with my head’ before I could even blink.”

He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained curved in a soft, lingering smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.”

“So, you understand how kind your father is, despite everything?”

Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to the dirt wedged between the cobblestone. He knew the answer—but just like his father, his pride was a stubborn barrier, refusing to let him admit it aloud.

“I’ll return to the palace,” he said instead. “But only on one condition.” He reached out, taking your hand in his again. “I want you to come with me. My father… he’s been searching for you since the moment you left that ballroom. He’s going insane in there, and he needs you.”

“Jamie, I can’t,” you whispered, pulling back slightly. “I’m a commoner. A maid. I don’t belong in those halls.”

Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t try to persuade you with logic this time, or even use his title to his advantage.

He simply slumped back against the damp brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest with the indignant, brooding pout of a stubborn child.

“Then I won’t go,” he declared flatly, that princely entitlement coming back into his tone. “I’ll stay right here in this alley. I’ll rot in the dirt and let the guards find me like this. And it will be all your fault.”

You blinked, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”

“Oh, but I am.”

You stared at him, realizing that for all their power and prestige, the Barnes men were impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. You glanced toward the mouth of the alley where the guards were pacing.

You cared for him, but you had to put yourself first.

If Jamie returned, the hunt might end. The streets would clear. You could complete your chores without looking over your shoulder every five seconds.

You forced a smile and stood up, brushing the dirt from your skirt before grabbing your basket. You reached out a hand to him, and he looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with sudden hope.

“Fine,” you nodded. “Let’s go back to the palace then. Together.”

Jamie blinked at you, his expression frozen for a second as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually agreed.

Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. He gripped your hand, using it to hoist himself up—though he was clearly doing most of the heavy lifting—and began brushing the alley dust from his trousers.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”

You let go of his hand and motioned to the end of the alley, where the silhouettes of the guards were still visible against the sunlight. With the wicker basket tucked carefully into the crook of your arm, you gave him a playful bow.

“Lead the way, Prince Charming.”

Jamie couldn’t help but snicker, the sound light and boyish.

As he led you out of the alley, his chin held high and his hood pushed back, the market noise began to ripple and change. The chaotic noises of bartering died down, replaced by whispering as people realized exactly who was walking among them.

“Is that Prince Jamie?”

“Look at the bruises on his face!”

“What is Prince Jamie doing outside of the palace?”

“Is that why there are so many guards?”

One of the guards finally spotted him as the crowd parted like a sea of fish.

“Prince Jamie!” he shouted, stumbling forward as his eyes went wide. “Your Highness! The King has been worried sick—he’s nearly razed the palace to the ground—”

Jamie raised a hand, stopping the guard’s rambling. “I am here, and I am safe,” he said calmly. “Now, arrange a carriage immediately. For me and the maiden. We are going home.”

The guard blinked, visibly confused. “Y-your Highness?”

Jamie raised a brow, the Barnes temper flaring just slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping! I said arrange a carriage for me and—” he turned halfway, gesturing to the space at his side where you had been standing just a second ago. “—the maiden.”

But as Jamie looked back, the space was empty.

You were nowhere to be seen.

You found yourself back on your knees in the living room, tending to the flickering flames of the fireplace.

Ever since you’d returned, Beatrice had been even snappier with you than usual. Your encounter with Prince Jamie had made you much later than intended, and for Beatrice, whose patience was already paper thin, this was the final straw.

“Hurry up with those flames,” Beatrice barked from behind her teacup. “And once you’re finished, we need a fresh pot. Make it quick—you’re already falling far behind schedule.”

“Yes, ma’am—”

You hissed as a stray spark leapt from the hearth and bit into your finger. You dropped the iron poker in pain, the metal clattering loudly against the stone.

“Incompetent girl,” Beatrice sneered in disdain. She set her saucer down on the side table with a sharp clack and swept out of the room, leaving you alone in the dim light of the rising fire.

It had been days since Jamie returned to the palace. You felt a twinge of guilt for breaking your promise to go back with him, but you told yourself it was necessary. He was a smart boy— surely, he would understand that a dirty maid couldn’t simply walk through the front gates of a large, pristine palace.

With Jamie home, the number of guards roaming the town had decreased significantly. It was exactly what you had hoped for, yet a small, desperate part of you realized something that hurt.

Bucky hadn’t been looking for you all this time.

He was looking for his son.

Your eyes pricked with tears, though you tried to hide it behind the pain stinging your fingers from the fireplace spark.

It was selfish.

It was sad.

It was pathetic for you to crave the feeling of being desired—of being wanted by the King—yet push away every advance both he and the Prince had given you.

As you pushed yourself up to start a new pot of tea, Beatrice’s voice rang out from the other room, shrill and demanding. “The floors are disgusting! Clean them this instant!”

You called out a quick, “Yes, ma’am!” and retreated outside to the well. After fetching a heavy bucket of water and mixing in some soap, you began to scrub. The water, which had been clear only seconds ago, was already turning a murky gray. You had just deep cleaned these floors yesterday—what could they have possibly done to make them this filthy again so quickly?

As you scrubbed, your body began to ache with every movement. You leaned back on your heels for just a small moment of respite, trying to catch your breath. The sudden sound of horses’ hooves clacking against the cobblestone made you instinctively look out the window.

Your eyes widened as you saw the carriages—fancy, polished, and several of them in a row.

The horses looked powerful and well fed, taken care of far better than you were.

Through the glass, you watched as the carriage door opened, and you felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.

King Bucky stepped out, looking every bit the sovereign in his dark, tailored suit. For a moment, you didn’t believe a word Jamie had said about his father lacking sleep or refusing to change his clothes. This was the exact man you had encountered in the garden the night of the ball—clean, determined, and terrifyingly intimidating.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught your breath.

It was the small, delicate flash of white tucked into his breast pocket. Peeking out from the dark fabric was a lace glove.

Your glove.

“What are you doing? Did I tell you to stop?” Beatrice’s voice shrieked from the hallway, sharp enough to shatter your moment.

You flinched, tearing your gaze away from the window. “Sorry, ma’am,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you gripped the scrub brush.

You forced your head down, focusing entirely on the floor as you tried to make yourself invisible. You couldn’t understand it—why was he here?

He had already retrieved his son, hadn’t he? What more could he possibly want?

Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?

Three solid knocks echoed through the house. Beatrice let out an agitated groan as she stomped toward the door, completely oblivious to the royalty standing just outside. “Who could be here, disrupting my peace?”

As she swung the door open, her annoyed scowl instantly collapsed into a jaw drop.

“Y-Your Majesty!” she stammered, her face turning red in shock.

At the sound of the title, your stepsisters came tumbling down the stairs, silk skirts rustling as they shoved one another for a better view. You didn’t even need to look back to know they were vibrating with glee.

“The King is here!” Agnes whisper yelled into her sister’s ear.

“What is he doing here?” Margaret stood on her tippy toes, straining for a better view. “My, he’s even more handsome in person!”

Agnes’s eyes widened, grabbing her sister’s arm and bouncing. “Do you think the Prince is here, too? Do you think he’s calling on us?”

“He must be!” Margaret beamed, her smile so wide it looked painful.

They both smoothed their hair, convinced the Prince had finally sent his father to claim them after the ball. You wanted to snort at how ridiculous they were. After your time with Jamie in the alleyway, you knew for a fact he would never look twice at those two.

Bucky stood just right outside the door, his presence so massive it seemed to suck all the air out of the foyer. He didn’t look at the daughters. He didn’t even acknowledge Beatrice’s low, trembling curtsy. His eyes were already scanning the interior of the house, sharp and predatory.

“I am looking for someone,” Bucky stated. “A lady who I believe lives in this household. May I come in?”

Beatrice blinked, her hands fluttering nervously at her throat.

She looked back at the living room, where the bucket of gray water sat and you were still huddled on the floor. “Oh, Your Majesty... please, the house is quite a mess. Our maid is currently cleaning the floors—it’s hardly fit for a King—”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers, cold and dangerous. “Are you denying your King entry?”

Beatrice’s breath hitched, and she let out a small, terrified squeak. “N-No! Never, Your Majesty! Please... forgive me.”

Reluctantly, with her hands shaking, she stepped aside. Bucky crossed the doorframe with a heavy, purposeful stride, the heels of his boots clicking against the very floors you had just been scrubbing. He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze landing directly on you.

His stare was so heavy, it felt suffocating. Yet you didn’t dare lift your head. Beatrice scurried to his side.

“Are you here for my daughters, Your Majesty?” she gestured toward Agnes and Margaret, who were still lingering by the staircase. “Agnes, Margaret, come here—”

Bucky raised a hand, silencing her instantly. “No.”

Beatrice’s gaze followed the King’s, and when she saw how intently he was watching you, she let out an awkward chuckle. “I apologize. My maid must be in your way.” Then, her voice sharpened, loud enough to make you flinch. “The floor needs scrubbing over here!”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” you muttered, keeping your head down as you dropped the sponge back into the bucket. You groaned, trying to heave the heavy wooden bucket to the other corner of the room. Bucky watched you, his expression pained as he saw the dirt on your skin and the exhaustion in your movements.

“Well?” Beatrice urged, her voice tight with a forced smile. “Be quick! Don’t get in the King’s way.”

As you hurried your footsteps, your shoe caught a wet spot on the floor. With your arms aching from the weight of the bucket, you lost your balance. You gasped as the bucket tilted, and a wave of dirty, murky water splashed directly over the King’s pristine, polished shoes.

“Oh… my… God—” Agnes gasped from behind, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.

“That imbecile!” Margaret hissed, her eyes wide with shock.

Terrified, you didn’t even dare glance at Beatrice. Your head tilted up instinctively, your gaze locking onto Bucky’s with worried, pleading eyes.

In that split second, you didn’t think about statuses or your station; your eyes gave away everything.

Please, don’t be mad at me.

She’s going to kill me.

Save me, Bucky.

His expression remained completely unreadable, a mask of stone that made you feel utterly alone. Out of all the mistakes you could have made, this was the worst. This was enough to get you thrown onto the streets. All the hiding, all the rejecting the Prince and King’s advances—it would all be for nothing because you were clumsy enough to spill murky water all over the King’s pristine shoes.

Weakly, your voice trembled, so quiet that only he could hear. “B-Bucky—”

But before you could say anything else, Beatrice’s voice barked out like a whip crack. “What the hell are you doing just standing there, girl!”

You finally turned to face her. Her features were scrunched into such an ugly grimace of rage, you felt like you could collapse.

“Clean his shoes!” she commanded, her finger trembling as she pointed at the mess.

“I…”

“Don’t be stupid! Polish the King’s shoes this instant!”

Bucky swallowed hard, his voice thick. “That won’t be necessary.”

But you were already too far gone in your panic. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you dropped frantically to your knees. Your heart was beating so hard it actually ached. All you could think about was the cold rage in Beatrice’s eyes and the threat of being cast out, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back.

You grabbed the hem of your apron, reaching out to scrub the murky water from his leather boots with trembling hands.

Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight, he felt a muscle leaped in his cheek. His heart throbbed with sharp, visceral pain. He had spent every waking moment since the ball dreaming of seeing you again—of finally finding you—and now, here you were.

You were finally right in front of him, but you were on your knees. In tears.

In any other context, the sight of you beneath him might have stirred a much darker and hungrier feeling in his blood. But seeing you like this—utterly broken, terrified, and humiliated—only made him want to burn the house down with everyone else inside it.

“Get up, my dear,” he murmured gently.

His voice was so soft, intended only for your ears.

It was so gentle it felt out of place in this cold room, but you didn’t even hear him. You let out a small, pathetic sniffle, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your palm before returning to the frantic scrubbing. You were a mess of desperation at his feet, and Bucky couldn’t bear it.

“Sweetheart, please,” he pleaded.

You ignored him again, your hands moving in a blur as you kept scrubbing and scrubbing.

Bucky didn’t care about his suit or his dignity anymore.

He dropped to one knee right there in the dirty scrub water, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. His large hand shot out, firm but incredibly gentle as he always was with you, and clamped around your wrist to force you to stop.

“Darling,” Bucky’s voice broke, his brows pulling together, pleading. He sounded like a man on the verge of crumbling himself. “Please. Enough.”

As your chin was tilted upward, the wall you’d built around yourself finally crumbled. Your face scrunched up, the effort to stay composed failing as the tears spilled over your cheeks.

You were so tired. Your body ached, and your heart yearned for the very man in front of you.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, the words broken and barely audible, a raw confession that you’ve been holding in for years now.

Bucky let out a ragged, shaky sigh—a sound of pure heartbreak—and pulled you forward. He didn’t care how dirty you were, or that the murky water was soaking into his expensive suit. He had never cared about that. All he cared about was you.

He gathered you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if he could shield you from the very walls of this house.

“Oh, my dear,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing you in. “You have no reason to be afraid anymore. I have you.”

Beatrice watched the scene, her face contorting into a mask of absolute horror.

To her, this wasn’t a reunion; it was a scandal.

She saw her foolish stepdaughter throwing herself at the King, threatening the family’s entire existence.

“What do you think you’re doing to our King!” she shrieked, taking a frantic step forward. “Get up, girl! You’re making us look like a disgrace—Your Majesty, please, forgive her, she’s touched in the head—”

“Silence, you wretched harridan!” Bucky seethed. The insult was so sharp it made Beatrice’s eyes bulge out of her head. “The only thing that is a disgrace in this household is you.”

He stood up slowly, bringing you with him, his arm firm around your waist to keep you steady. He looked down at Beatrice and your sisters as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his boots—exactly the way they had always looked at you.

“You have treated this woman—the daughter of this house—as nothing more than a slave. In truth, you have treated her like trash,” he bit out harshly.

“I’ve read the family ledgers. Your husband—her father, may he rest in peace—was a nobleman of the highest order. This girl is a proper Lady of the house. She has noble blood in her veins, making her more significant than the whole lot of you. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a commoner who married into a title you don’t deserve.”

Beatrice gasped in disbelief, her hand flying to her heart as if she were the victim. “Y-Your Majesty!”

“Enough,” Bucky raised his hand, silencing her. “I don’t want to hear another syllable from you. I came here for one thing—and that was her. Now that I have her, we are leaving.”

He looked over his shoulder, beckoning to the line of attendants waiting by the door. “Collect her belongings. Every last item. Whatever she decides to keep, whether it be as large as a trunk or as small as a ribbon, package it into the carriages. We are returning to the palace immediately.”

All the attendants nodded, bowing low to their king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The attendants rushed into the house in a quick blur, you could barely process the shift in your reality.

Only minutes ago, you were on your knees in the dirty water. Now, the world was rearranging itself around you.

Bucky looked down at your sniffling face, his heart visibly breaking as he leaned down to bring himself eye to eye with you. His thumb, rough yet incredibly tender, brushed away the tears that traced your cheeks.

“You’re okay now, my dear.” Bucky cooed gently. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again.”

You had spent so much time pushing him away, fearing the consequences or the class divide, but now, even under the scrutiny of your step-family, you no longer cared. You felt your heart pulling toward his, and being in his arms felt like the only sanctuary you had ever known.

Behind you, Agnes and Margaret crept forward, clutching at their mother’s sleeves, their faces pale and twisted with confusion.

“Mother, what is happening?” Agnes whimpered. “Why is His Majesty touching her like that?”

Beatrice ignored them, her eyes locked on the King in a state of pure denial. She shook her head, her voice rising to a shrill squeak.

“Y-You’ve fallen for her, Your Majesty? Truly? B-but she’s just a maid! She’s a servant who spends her days in the kitchen and the dirt! She is nothing!”

Bucky stood back up to his full height, keeping you tucked securely against his side.

“She was a Lady long before you even knew how to spell the word,” Bucky growled, his hand tightening protectively on your waist. “And as for her being a maid? That ended the moment I stepped through that door. From this breath forward, she is the woman who holds the heart of the King. From this moment on, she is your Queen—and you will treat her as such.”

The room suddenly went very quiet.

You looked just as surprised as Beatrice, your breath hitching in your throat. He was actually going to do it. He was making good on every promise he had made to you in the dark room of his study.

Before you could even find your voice to speak, Bucky’s hand found itself on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.

“Come, my dear,” he gestured, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving.”

As he led you out of the house that had been your prison for so long, you couldn’t resist stealing one last glance over your shoulder. You weren’t looking to offer sympathy or a farewell, of course. You simply wanted to see if a fly might find its way into their mouths, given how far their jaws had hung.

Outside, a prestigious carriage awaited you. The doorman snapped to attention and pulled the door open as you and Bucky drew closer. Jamie was already waiting inside, seated comfortably on the plush velvet cushions.

Poking his head out, he beamed the moment he caught the sight of you. The bruises on his face already looked a million times better. It was clear that since returning to the palace, he had received the proper care and rest he so desperately needed.

Jamie scooted over, patting the velvet seat beside him with an enthusiastic grin. “I was going to step out to help, but I thought it’d be better if I stayed in here. Your stepsisters would’ve driven me up the wall the moment they saw my face.”

“Jamie,” Bucky interrupted. He stood at the carriage door, one hand on the frame as he leaned in, looking grumpier than ever.

“Out,” Bucky commanded, giving a sharp nod toward the slightly smaller—though still very fancy—carriage waiting behind them.

“What?” Jamie’s brows furrowed. “But we have plenty to talk about! I haven’t even told her about—”

“You can discuss it at dinner,” Bucky said, letting out a heavy, weary sigh. “Right now, I am tired. I want to sit with the woman I just spent three days hunting for without my son’s constant commentary. Move.”

“Oh, I see.” Jamie drawls, eyeing the both of you suspiciously. “The Great King Barnes finally finds his Lady and suddenly his favorite and only son is chopped liver? Is that how it is?”

“Son, consider this a mercy,” Bucky rumbled. “Think of it as punishment for using my name under a false command at the ball. Your sentence could be a lot worse than a private carriage and a bit of silence. Now, move.”

“Truly, the heart of a tyrant,” Jamie muttered.

After a roll of his eyes, he slid out the door, but as he passed his father, he stopped for a brief second. He turned to you, his gaze softening from playful to genuinely warm—like he missed you. He gave you a small little knowing smile—one that said he was glad you were safe, and even gladder that you were finally exactly where you belonged.

“See you at the palace.” He said to you softly.

With that, Jamie hopped down from the steps and retreated to the carriage behind yours. Bucky watched him go until he was settled, then stepped aside and raised a hand to help you up into the plush interior.

As you sat, Bucky occupied the seat across from you. He leaned back tiredly, the carriage creaking softly. For a long while, he just looked at you, his head tilted slightly as he let out a slow, exhausted breath.

Silence filled the carriage. Despite him already declaring you his Queen—his partner—you couldn’t help but sit up straight, folding your hands primly over your lap out of habit and respect for the King of Brooklynne.

You didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t know if you should thank him for dragging you out of that hellhole you called a home, or if you should apologize for the trouble he had gone through to do it.

“Your Majesty—”

“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky interrupted, his voice sounding almost agitated. “I lost sleep over you. I couldn’t eat. I… I couldn’t even think. I felt like I was losing my sanity every moment I was in that palace and you weren’t there.”

He paused, the clip-clopping of the hooves against the cobblestones filling the space for a second.

“My heart burns for you,” he rasped, almost painful. “The least you can do is offer me the decency of calling me Bucky—just as you did earlier.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse fluttering in your throat. Bucky’s eyes were a cold blue storm of conflicting emotions. You felt as if he were picking you apart, piece by piece, intending not only to love you but to devour you.

He said he couldn’t eat without you, and now that you were here in front of him, he looked as though you were going to be his next meal.

“I’m sorry. I… I just wanted to say thank you,” you admitted softly. You couldn’t maintain his intense gaze, so you looked down, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the coarse fabric of your skirt.

“Thank you for helping me out of that house, and thank you for never giving up on me.”

Your face flushed with a mix of warmth and embarrassment as you continued, still refusing to make eye contact.

“Both you and Prince Jamie have been nothing but kind to me—a mere maid with rags for clothes.”

You huffed a small, incredulous laugh, one tinged with sadness for yourself. “You both extended your hands to me and showed me worlds I never thought I’d experience. In your presence, despite the gulf between our social standings, I have never felt alone. And for that... I am truly grateful.”

Bucky’s frown tightened as he leaned forward, his large hands catching yours and squeezing them firmly to still your fidgeting. The movement forced you to go still, and when he hooked a thumb under your chin to tilt your face up, there was no escaping him anymore.

“Enough,” he rasped, almost desperate. “Enough of this talk about social standings. You know none of that matters to me, not when it comes to you.”

Those piercing blue eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing warmly over the curve of your cheek.

“When I told you I was falling for you in that study,” he continued, lowering himself to one knee in the narrow space between the seats, “I meant every single word with every beat of my heart.”

While one hand remained on your cheek, the other began a slow descent. It traced the line of your ribs down to your waist, giving your hip a firm, possessive squeeze through your dress before trailing lower to rest over your thigh.

“You aren’t a ‘mere’ anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “You are the very air I’ve been gasping for. Ever since the night of the ball, my body and my heart have been craving you. And now that you’re finally here…”

His hand found the hem of your skirt, lifting the fabric slowly, inch by painfully agonizing inch, past your knee. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, a small groan escaping him at the sight of your bare thigh.

“I finally get to have you.”

Bucky leaned forward, his head dipping low as he pressed his face against the skin he had just uncovered. You shuddered at the feel of his stubble pressing against your leg, and he snickered.

He started at your knee, his lips brushing against your skin.

A low, vibrating growl tickled against your thigh as he began to work his way upward. Each kiss was slow, wet, and worshipful. He moved with a starvation that made your breath hitch, his tongue darted out to taste you, marking you as his over and over again.

“These legs,” he growled, his voice muffled by your skin. “I missed feeling them wrapped tight around me. I missed the soft feeling of them in my hands. Did you miss that too, my dear?”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked down at the King of Brooklynne worshipping your body.

“I-I did, Bucky. I missed that too… being touched by you.”

“Good,” he soothed, his heavy, warm palm dragging up and down your leg possessively. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”

As he continued to worship the curve of your leg, his hand reached beneath the bunched up fabric of your skirt. His fingers hooked into the edge of your thin, worn undergarments, but he didn’t rush; he wanted to savor every second of your undoing.

With a slow tug, he began to peel them down, his knuckles grazing your hips and sending a wave of shivers through you. He watched your face the entire time, his blue eyes dark and hooded, waiting for the exact moment your composure finally shattered.

Bucky was barely holding on. His jaw hung slightly, his lips slick from the way he had been kissing and licking the skin of your legs.

It was an unbelievable sight—the King on his knees, panting over you like a loyal, starving hound.

“I want to break you,” he rasped. His words were threatening, yet his voice was coarse but soft spoken. “I want to see you cry for me while I ruin you. I want to see you come apart for me, just as I did for you when you left me.”

He looked up at you then, still kneeling between your legs, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you completely vulnerable in his carriage.

“God,” he breathed, taking in your wet slit hidden just beneath the hem of your flimsy skirt. “Is that so wrong of me to want? To see my own woman completely broken for me?”

Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, while his other hand went down to cup his own erection through his pants.

“I should hurt you,” he sighed, his voice pent up with frustration. “I should pull you over my knee for daring to leave me... for making me endure that kind of agony. I should bind your arms together so you never even think about defying me again.”

He let out a shaky and jagged breath, his forehead dropping against your knee for just a second before he looked back up, his eyes searching yours, his cock already throbbing at the sight of your pleading face.

“But I won’t,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the smooth flesh of your inner thigh. “I love you and respect you too much to ever truly lay a hand on your pretty little body in anger. You’re my Queen. You’re my soul.”

A dark, self-deprecating chuckle caught in his throat as his gaze dropped back to where he had bared you to the cool carriage air. His fingers twitched, hooking into the waistband of his trousers.

“But fuck, I’m already disrespecting you, aren’t I?” he moved closer, his body hot as he crowded your space, his chest heaving against your knees. “Because we’re nowhere near the palace, and I’m about to fuck you right here in this carriage. I’m about to claim you again before we even reach the front gates. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“You said I was yours, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “So you can do whatever you want to me. I’m not running anymore. I’m here to stay.”

Bucky let out a low groan of satisfaction, burying his face against your thigh for a moment as if trying to catch his breath. Every word you spoke was like music to his ears.

“Lean back,” he commanded in a rough, broken rasp. “Lean back against the seat and hold on.”

You obeyed excitedly. The moment your back hit the plush velvet cushion, he grabbed your leg, his large hand wrapping around your calf as he hoisted it up, propping your knee over his broad shoulder. The position left you completely open and vulnerable, your thin skirt bunched around your waist as you exposed your cunt to him.

Bucky didn’t waste time with a preamble. He ducked his head between your thighs, his tongue finding the sensitive peak of your clit. Your body jolted at the sudden, wet heat of the contact. He licked you with long, firm strokes, his tongue heavy and wet as he tasted your arousal.

A sharp, needy cry escaped your lips, echoing in the small space. You could only hope the driver was too disciplined to look back.

“Ah! Bu-Bucky…” your hands flew down to his hair, fingers tangling in his brown locks as your toes curled in the air.

Bucky only growled against you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to grip your hip, holding you steady.

His tongue continued to trace eagerly over your wet folds, sucking and lapping in ways that were anything but royal or noble. He was taking everything from you—your pleasure, your scent, the taste of your arousal.

He wanted everything.

When he finally lifted his head to look at you from below, you felt like your heart could leap out of your chest at the sight of him. Drool collected around his chin and his lips were slick and swollen from making out sloppily with your cunt.

Bucky’s smirk was slow and predatory as he took in the sight of you—chest heaving, face warm, and eyes glazed with the pleasure only he was giving you. He looked like a man who had finally reclaimed his throne, but the only kingdom he cared about in this moment was the one between your legs.

“Look at you,” he taunted. “Dripping all over my clean carriage.” He clicked his tongue. “Naughty girl.”

He lifted his hand, his long middle finger dragging slowly up the length of your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt from bottom to top, gently rubbing at the clit before dragging back down and poking his nub against your entrance.

He did it again and again, teasing the entrance until you were whimpering, your hips bucking on reflex for more of him.

“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Are you this desperate for your King?”

“Bucky, please,” you begged, arching your back against the seat. “Enough with the teasing. I can’t—oh!”

Before you could finish your sentence, Bucky buried his finger deep inside you.

The air left your lungs in a jagged gasp. You were agonizingly tight, your walls clenching and fluttering around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that spoke of how long you’d been empty without him. You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to pull him closer, your body trying to swallow his finger whole.

“Already making demands out of me,” he scoffed, though he was grinning. “You’ve got no shame, do you, my dear?”

He felt the internal squeeze of your muscles around his digit, making his jaw tighten so hard the bone looked ready to snap.

“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, deep circles against it. “Clenching around my finger like you’re never going to let me go. You’re going to break me before I even get my pants off, aren’t you?”

Your vision blurred as you felt yourself getting embarrassingly close. Your hips stuttered against his hand, your breath coming in shallow and broken hitches as you prepared to shatter all over his finger.

“I’m—I’m going to—don’t… don’t stop—”

But just as the peak approached, the sensation vanished.

Bucky abruptly retracted his hand, the wet, sliding sound of his finger leaving you squelching in the carriage. You let out a cry of pure frustration, your body slumped back against the velvet, twitching and unfulfilled.

“Bucky,” you panted in agitation, “why would you do that! I was close!”

He sat back on his heels, still kneeling in the narrow space between your legs. He looked up at you with a wicked light in his eyes, his chest heaving as he reached for the buckle of his belt.

“Not yet,” he teased. “I didn’t give you permission to finish, did I?”

His fingers worked the leather of his belt and the buttons of his trousers irritatingly slow, his gaze never leaving yours. He watched the way you squirmed on the seat, your legs still draped over his shoulders, trembling and desperate for the contact he had just stolen away.

“Look at you,” he scoffed softly, though his hands were shaking slightly with his own restrained need. “So impatient. I spent my time hunting the city for my Queen, and the moment I get her in my carriage, she’s already trying to come without me. Where are your manners, sweetheart?”

Once he finally freed himself, his length sprang forth, thick and pulsing with a bead of pre-cum bubbling at the tip.

You watched, enamored, as his left hand wrapped around your leg, giving it soft, possessive squeezes, while his other hand wrapped firmly around his cock—giving himself slow, deep pumps that made the veins in his forearm jump.

“Fuck, you missed me, my dear?” Bucky’s thumb catching a bead of his pre-cum and smearing it against your aching clit. “Did you spend every night thinking about this? About how I’d feel inside you again?”

You couldn’t even find the words to argue. You just nodded frantically, your head thrasing against the velvet cushion as you let out a broken whimper. Bucky absolutely loved seeing you like this—completely unraveled, stripped of your prim, timid manners, and desperate only for him.

“Good.”

He positioned himself, the slick head of his cock catching against your wet entrance. He paused for a second to catch his breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the seat, before he slowly—inch by torturous inch —slid inside.

“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth, the word sounding both like a prayer and a curse.

You were so tight—Bucky had to squeeze his eyes shut, his neck muscles flexed with every powerful effort to not simply snap and bury himself in you all at once.

He wanted to savor all of this.

He wanted to feel every ripple of your body as it stretched to accommodate him.

But fuck, you weren’t making it easy at all.

As he tried to maintain a slow, steady pace, your walls began to clench around his cock in desperate pulses. You were squeezing him so hard it was a wonder he could move at all.

“God... sweetheart, stop,” he choked out, his composure fracturing little by little. “If you keep... clenching like that...”

You couldn’t help it. You had missed Bucky, and your body missed being filled by him even more. Every deep, ragged pant he let out—driven by how unbearably good you felt—only made your muscles flutter and tighten more. He was so big, the feeling of him stretching you made your eyes roll back.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your nails digging into the firm muscle of his back through his clothes for support. “I can’t help it. I—I missed you. I missed this.”

“Christ...” the groan escaped Bucky’s lips as his head fell back.

He didn’t even try to be gentle anymore.

His hips surged forward, his massive hands sliding from the edge of the seat to your thighs and then your hips, his fingers digging through your dress as he kept you in place. He drew back just enough to gain momentum before slamming into you again, making your body jump against his.

“Ah!” you cried out as Bucky fucked into you again and again, driving his hips deeper each time.

“So… tight. Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a broken rasp of disbelief.

The carriage groaned under the violence of his movements. The wood creaked and strained, the vehicle rocking so violently that no one could possibly excuse the motion as a bumpy road. You were being jostled and slammed against the velvet cushions, the sheer size of him stretching you until you were sure you’d break—and yet, it wasn’t enough.

You wanted more.

He needed more.

“Bucky! Ah—!”

The sound echoed off the carriage walls, dangerously loud. Bucky’s eyes flared with as he quickly brought his hand up, his palm slamming over your mouth to stifle your cries.

“Shhh,” he hissed against your ear, though his own breathing was a series of ragged, wet gasps. “This is a royal carriage, my dear. All eyes are on us right now. Do you want the whole kingdom to hear me fuck you like a slut?”

He quickened his pace, his cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur of friction as he drove himself deeper into your sensitive pussy.

“If that’s what you want… then I’ll just drag you out of this carriage myself,” he threatened, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl. “I'll fuck you right there on the gravel where the whole kingdom can watch their King ruin his sweet little wife. Is that what you want, my dear?”

Wife.

You felt like you could collapse from just hearing the word.

The heat and smell of his warm palm against your lips only made you more frantic. You let out muffled, desperate whimpers into his hand, your eyes rolling back as your walls fluttered and spasmed around him. You were seconds away from release yet again, squeezing his cock so tightly he nearly choked on his own breath.

Bucky leaned in even closer, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he inhaled the scent of your skin—a intoxicating mix of salt, sweat, and the heavy musk of sex filling the carriage.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck. “You’re cumming already? Just from this?”

He taunted you, and although he would never admit it aloud, but he was barely hanging on. He was simply a determined King wanting to watch you shatter first.

“I—mmph, can’t,” you whined into his palm. Your legs hooked around his waist, ankles locking behind his back to pull him even deeper, inviting him in to breed and fill you right there.

“M’gonna—mph—cum…”

Your mind went dizzy, your breath hitching sharply against his hand as the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.

You no longer cared about the palace or the guards. You only cared about the burning sensation of coming around Bucky’s cock. It was explosive—a kind of release that your body had been starved of.

He felt the way you were milking him, the desperate, crushing tightness of your climax nearly forcing him to join you then and there. But he ground his teeth, refusing to let go just yet.

“This is just the beginning, darling,” he rasped, his palm still firm over your mouth to catch your muffled, high pitched cries. “After this, I’m going to fuck you in every inch of the palace. In every room, against every window, on the cold marble floors until you can’t even remember your own name.”

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, searching your face to ensure you understood the delicious lack of mercy waiting for you behind the palace walls.

“The next time I see you on your hands and knees, it won’t be for scrubbing floors,” he growled. “It’ll be with your pretty tongue out, servicing my cock.”

Between the sensitive aftermath of your climax and the filthy possessive promises pouring from his lips, your senses were screaming and overstimulated. Every time his cock thrusted back into you, it felt like he was branding your soul.

He slowed his pace slightly once he felt himself getting close. His hips grounded against you in a circular motion that made you whimper for mercy. He leaned down, his lips wetting your cheek as he began to recite your future.

“From this second on, no one touches you but me. I’m going to take such good care of you, my dear. You’re going to have the finest silks, the softest beds, and the heaviest crown—but you’re going to spend most of your time right here, pinned under me.”

He delivered a sharp, shallow thrust that made your hips twitch.

“I’m going to make you my pretty, perfect wife,” he continued, his hand moving from your mouth to cup your jaw, forcing you to look into his blown out, hungry eyes. “And I’m going to spend every single night making sure I knock you up. I want you heavy with my heirs, so round and beautiful that you’ll never even think about running away again. You’re going to be so full of me that there won’t be room for anything else.”

The thought of it, that same reminder of being his Queen, his wife, and the mother of his children—sent a fresh jolt of lightning through your core.

You were a mess of tears and sweat, clinging to his shoulders as he began to pick up the pace again, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic.

“I’m going to fill you so deep, you’ll feel my love in your chest,” he hissed, his cock pulsing inside as he felt himself get closer. “My wife. My Queen. My life.”

Bucky’s body suddenly went rigid, his muscles locking tight as he let out a final, guttural grunt of your name. His hips slammed into yours one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he was trying to merge with you as one.

“Fuck... cumming!” he choked out almost painfully.

His head snapped back, his eyes rolling back as he finally let his body go. His hips froze as his cock pulsed and throbbed. Then, you felt the scalding, thick ropes of cum pumping into your core—a seal on every promise he had just made.

“Mine,” he panted, holding you close. “All mine.”

He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving as he crushed you into the velvet cushions, his heart beating frantically in time with your own.

For the remainder of the ride, Bucky refused to let even an inch of space come between you, like he was scared of losing you again.

He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your shaking, overstimulated body. His large hands, which had been so rough and demanding only moments ago, were now impossibly gentle as he stroked your hair and traced the line of your jaw.

Between the sounds of heaving breathing and the trotting of horses, he kept his lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft, sweet promises into your ear, “My sweetheart,” “I finally have you again.” “My precious, darling girl.”

When the carriage finally lurched to a halt in the palace courtyard, the footman stepped forward, swinging the door wide and offering a steadying hand as Bucky allowed you to step out first.

Just in time, Jamie had hopped out of his own carriage and met up with you both, huffing a breath of relief.

“Finally!” Jamie called out. “That carriage ride felt so long—” he paused, stopping a few feet away, squinting as he took in the sight of you.

Your hair was a bird’s nest, both of your lips swollen, and Bucky’s collar was half-undone and his hair was disheveled with gray locks sticking out in unusual directions.

“Good grief,” he remarked, completely oblivious to the carnal acts that just happened inside the carriage.

“You guys look rough.”

thank you for all the love you guys showed for part one, and thank you for taking the time to read yet another lengthy fic <3 i wasn't planning on writing a sequel at all, let alone this soon, but the new season of bridgerton got me twirling my hair. i hope you guys like it!

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The two-tone ’78 Chevy sat wheezing on the shoulder, its hood punched open like a yawn in the late-afternoon heat. Beyond the ribbon of cracked asphalt, cane fields lay flat and humming, cicadas sawing at the silence. Bucky leaned both forearms on the grill, hair sticking to the sweat on his neck, and offered a lopsided grin that only made things worse.

“Relax, Stevie. Tank’s empty, not the end of the world.”

Steve slammed the driver’s door harder than he meant to; the truck shuddered like it might expire altogether. “Not the end of the world? We’re forty miles from a town anyone’s heard of, it’s a hundred degrees, we got eight dollars between us, and you didn’t think to check the gauge?”

Bucky shrugged, easy as a breeze. “Gauge is busted, remember? Besides, you were the one drivin’ last—”

“Because you were too busy sweet-talking that waitress to keep your eyes on the road.”

“Tyra?” Bucky’s smile widened. “She gave us pie for free.”

“Great. Maybe we can burn it for fuel.” Steve dragged a hand through his hair and squinted up the road; nothing but heat rippling off the tarmac. “We need a plan.”

“We got one,” Bucky said, straightening. He rapped the hood twice, like patting a tired mule. “We walk. Someone around here’s gotta sell gas. Maybe even trade a couple hours’ work for a full can.”

“Or they’ll run us off with an axe.” Steve’s voice softened despite himself; frustration never stuck to Bucky for long. “This was supposed to be different, Buck. Thought we’d find steady work in New Orleans—”

“And we did, for a minute. Things change.” Bucky’s gaze drifted past Steve to the hazy edge where pasture met cypress and moss. “Look, the road forks up ahead—left’s more fields, right’s water. Bayou country. People out here always need strong backs.” He slung their one duffel over his shoulder. “C’mon. Sun’s not gettin’ any kinder.”

Steve glanced at the truck and sighed. “You really think we’ll ‘figure it out’?”

“We always do.” Bucky’s grin turned conspiratorial, the one that had gotten them into brawls and out of worse. “Besides, you love savin’ my ass. Gives you purpose.”

“One of these days,” Steve muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth, “your luck’s gonna run out.”

“Then I’ll borrow yours.” Bucky tipped an imaginary hat and started down the asphalt, boots crunching gravel. After a beat, Steve fell in beside him.

The sun slid lower, painting the sky blood-orange. Somewhere to the east, a smear of water reflected the light. The air smelled of cane juice and distant brackish rot.

Eventually dusk bled over the cane fields in long bruised stripes, the sky turning molasses-thick and purple. For close to an hour, the only sounds had been boot soles on gravel and Bucky’s running commentary; little jokes about gator crossings, predictions of cold beer “just past the next bend,” memories of music drifting out of French Quarter bars.

He talked as if words could keep the darkness from settling on their shoulders.

Steve let most of it wash past. Sweat glued the back of his shirt to his spine; the sun had scalded the bridge of his nose raw. Every mile without a plan felt heavier than the duffel bumping against his hip. When Bucky announced, for the fourth time, that “things always work out,” Steve only answered with a quiet grunt and kept walking.

Then the road took a shallow dip and opened onto a low rise of pasture, and there it was—a farmhouse half-hidden behind live oaks, porch lights already flickering on like fireflies. Off to the right, a tin-roofed barn crouched at the edge of a bayou inlet, its stilts mirrored in dark water. Smoke drifted from a chimney in a lazy ribbon; somewhere close, a cow lowed.

Bucky stopped dead and threw out an arm as if presenting a miracle. “Told you, pal. Luck’s a lady tonight.”

Steve studied the place; fencing mended in patches, tractor parked beneath a tarp, rows of tomatoes staked with twine. Not prosperous, but lived-in, cared for. “Or it’s someone’s home, and we’re about to get run off for trespassing.”

“Won’t know ’til we ask.” Bucky’s grin caught the last shred of light, turning his eyes almost silver. “Guy like you knocks on a door, says ‘Sir, evening, we’re lookin’ for some shelter for the night,’ who’s gonna say no?”

“Plenty of people,” Steve muttered, but the fight had drained out of his voice. He glanced back the way they’d come, miles of empty asphalt slowly disappearing into night, and exhaled. “All right. We try.”

They left the road, boots whispering through knee-high grass that smelled of sun-baked sugarcane and river mud. A chorus of frogs started up, rhythmic and lewd, as if cheering them on. When they reached the split-rail fence, Bucky vaulted it in one easy swing; Steve followed, slower, feeling the rail creak beneath his weight.

Closer now, Steve noticed the details Bucky’s optimism had missed; shutters needing paint, porch boards warping at the ends, the faint uneven beat of a generator somewhere out back. A place run by sweat and necessity, not spare cash.

Bucky rolled his shoulders like a man warming up for a dance. “Let me talk first. I’ll soften ’em up.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “And if sweet talk doesn’t cover room and board?”

“Then you flex those big-boy muscles and show ’em we’re worth feeding.” He winked.

Steve looked past him to the porch. A screen door stood ajar, warm lamplight spilling through, and inside he caught a glimpse of movement—someone crossing a threshold.

“Yeah,” Steve said finally. “Could be worse.”

Behind them the sun sank, and the bayou lapped soft against the stilts, as if tasting something new in the twilight air.

The screen door slapped once against its frame and stayed half-open, lamplight spilling across warped porch boards. A man stepped out. A raw-boned figure in dungarees and a sweat-stained work shirt, the brim of his straw hat casting his face in shadow. The pump shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm said everything his tight mouth didn’t.

Bucky lifted one hand, palm out, easy smile already in place. “Evenin’, sir. Hate to trouble you—”

“You’re already doin’ it,” the man cut in, voice dry as crushed shell. His eyes flicked from Bucky’s scuffed boots to the duffel on Steve’s shoulder, then back. “Road’s that way if you’re passin’ through.”

Bucky chuckled like they were all sharing a joke. “Wish we were. Truck ran dry few miles back. Just lookin’ for a spot of ground to lay our heads, maybe point us toward gas come mornin’.”

Mr. Moreau, Steve caught the stitched name on a feed-store cap hooked to a nail by the door, didn’t blink. “Folks who show up empty always want more’n a night’s sleep.”

“Not us,” Bucky said, still smooth but softer now, reading the room. “Couple hours on a cot, we’re golden.”

Steve stepped forward, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it. “Sir, we don’t expect charity. We grew up working yards and warehouses in Brooklyn. Let us put in a day’s labour; repair fence, muck stalls, whatever needs doing, in exchange for a meal and a corner of your barn. Tomorrow we’ll walk to town, buy fuel, and be gone.”

The old man studied Steve’s hand like it might bite. Up close Steve could see the lines etched deep around his mouth, the cautious flare of his nostrils, the calculation behind the suspicion. When he finally spoke, he addressed Steve, not Bucky.

“You fix fence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Know your way around a baler?”

“Can learn quick.”

Moreau’s gaze shifted to Bucky. “And you?”

Bucky’s grin turned boyish. “I swing a hammer straight and don’t complain about blisters.”

A long moment of silence stretched, filled only by the bayou’s night chorus and the low thrum of a diesel generator. Then Moreau nodded once, sharp. “Barn’s there.” He jerked his chin past a line of pecan trees toward the weather-silvered structure on stilts. “You’ll sleep in the loft—floor’s solid. I’ll send my girl with sheets, pillows and supper.”

He paused, shotgun still resting easy but present. “Sunup, you start mending the northeast fence line where the posts lean. No smoking, no liquor, no wandering past the pens after dark. Gators like the warm water.”

Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Bucky tipped two fingers from his brow. “Much obliged, Mr. Moreau.”

Steve offered his hand again; Mr. Moreau finally considered the gesture, then shook once. It was firm and testing. “Careful, bayou’s mean at night, and I ain’t friendlier.”

They watched him retreat across the porch, boards groaning under deliberate steps. Inside, a screen door banged and lamplight shifted, framing a second silhouette for half a heartbeat, before it disappeared deeper into the house.

As they crossed the yard the porch lights dimmed, leaving only moon-slivered clouds and the distant lantern glow of the barn.

Bucky exhaled a satisfied breath. “See? Luck.”

Steve shot him a side-eye that was half exhaustion, but reluctant amusement won out. “Your kind of luck usually gets me shot at.”

“Guy didn’t even chamber a round. We’re fine,” Bucky said, swinging the duffel like a lunch pail. “C’mon, punk. We got hay to fluff before the linens arrive. Wouldn’t want the lady of the house thinking we’re ungrateful.”

They crossed the yard toward the barn as cicadas struck up their night chorus, and behind them the bayou breathed thick water-scent into the dark.

The barn’s lower doors groaned shut behind them, sealing in the smell of hay dust, old saddle soap, and the faint sweetness of cane. A thick ladder hugged one beam; Bucky scrambled up first, boots thudding on the rungs. When he pushed through the loft hatch he let out a low whistle that echoed off the rafters.

“Well, hell—thought we’d be beddin’ down with the cows.”

Steve followed, palms rough against the rails. The space wasn’t the raw hayloft he’d pictured. Slanted cedar walls glowed amber in the lamplight, and a faded striped couch sat center stage, its cushions sun-soft. A trunk doubled as a coffee table; books leaned drunkenly on handmade shelves beside a beaten-brass telescope aimed through a cut-out window toward the purpling sky.

Bucky flopped onto the couch, springs sighing. “Damn. Better than half the motels we’ve stayed in.” He stretched, hands locked behind his head, boots still on. “Called it—Barnes luck.”

Steve shot him a look. “Boots off. Don’t wreck the place five minutes in.”

“Boots are fine.” Bucky toed one heel against the other anyway, dropping them beside the trunk. Then he tipped his head back, scanning rafters strung with paper stars and a single model airplane dangling by fishing line. “Knew Moreau wasn’t as mean as he let on.”

“Or this belongs to his daughter, and he’ll tan you for putting your filthy socks on her couch.” Steve drifted to the telescope, brushing a thumb over its brass barrel.

In the corner sat a small writing desk cluttered with jars of dried flowers, a stub of vanilla candle, and a horsehair brush still catching the lamplight in its bristles. Feminine touches, but nothing frilly enough to feel staged.

He glanced at Bucky, who had already settled deeper, arms splayed like a victorious cat. “We’ve got one night of goodwill, Buck. Tomorrow we work till our backs snap, and then we’re still broke. Gas isn’t growin’ in that south field.”

Bucky closed one eye, pretending to sight something on the ceiling. “You worry too loud. We fix the fence, maybe fix the truck while we’re at it—they toss us a few extra dollars, or a jerry can. Folks out here respect elbow grease.”

“Respect doesn’t fuel an engine.”

“Neither does frettin’. You’ll give yourself ulcers before thirty.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on a bent elbow. “Come on, take a seat. Feel this cushion. It’s practically luxury.”

Steve ignored the invitation and set his eye to the telescope. Through dusty glass he caught a sliver of bayou, water black and mirror still, framed by cypress knees. Fireflies sparked like stray embers above the reeds. Something about the view stirred a bone-deep ache for order he couldn’t name.

Behind him Bucky huffed. “You’re really gonna stand there brooding? You’ll ruin my mood, Rogers.”

“You have a mood?”

“Best mood this side of the South, if you’d let it breathe.” The couch creaked again; Bucky’s feet thumped the floor. “Fine. I’ll do a full inspection. Make sure no ghosts under the bed.” He padded toward a curtained alcove where a narrow mattress crouched beneath more quilts.

Steve lowered the telescope. “Careful.”

“Relax, I’m just checking.” Bucky flipped back the curtain, paused, then called over his shoulder, softer, “There’s a vase of fresh magnolias in here, Steve.”

Steve nodded once. “All the more reason to treat this place right.” He dragged fingers through hair damp with sweat and twilight humidity. “Tomorrow, we fence. After that, we find a way to buy gas.”

Bucky chuckled, but it came out tired. “Tomorrow, we survive. Tonight, we sleep on feather cushions like kings.”

A scrape sounded below, the barn’s side door opening. Lantern light bobbed on the ladder rungs. Steve stepped forward, heart ticking faster despite himself, as he caught the soft shuffle of feet heading toward the loft.

“Guess Mr. Moreau’s ‘girl’ brought supper,” Bucky murmured, straightening his shirt, suddenly attentive.

Steve’s pulse thudded, nerves tight for reasons he couldn’t quite blame on hunger. He smoothed his face into politeness.

“Remember,” he muttered, “boots off the furniture. And be respectful.”

Bucky grinned, eyes flicking to the ladder hatch where a warm glow now haloed the first edge of a tray. “No promises, pal.”

Boot-steps creaked up the ladder—slow, sure.You appeared in the hatch with twilight at your back, balancing a tin tray loaded with two enamel plates, a fat mason jar of water beaded with condensation, pillows and neatly folded sheets tucked beneath one arm.

“Evenin’, boys.”

Bucky was on his feet before the last syllable hit the rafters, grin flashing like he’d been rehearsing it. “Evenin’.” He slid a hand under the tray, thumb brushing the outside of your wrist as he relieved you of the weight. “Smells incredible. You must be the angel Mr Moreau mentioned. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and the tall, worried lookin’ fella is Steve Rogers.”

You arched a brow, amused, “Angel, huh?” The word tasted ironic coming from you, syrupy drawl cut with something sharper. “More like delivery girl. Pillow-fairy if you’re polite.”

You set the pillows on the couch arm, smoothed the patterned sheet across the cushions. Up close, sweat-shine on their skin smelled of road dust and cut cane.

Steve cleared his throat, polite even with his sleeves rolled and collar limp. “Thank you for supper… and the linens, ma’am. This your cookin’?”

“Jambalaya,” you hummed, rolling the word slow. “Daddy says it keeps visitors honest—pepper’ll burn lies off a tongue. Hope you’re hungry.”

Bucky inhaled over the plate, eyes closing like a man at church. “Starvin’, darlin’.” Then, glancing around the loft, “Guess this is your spot? Kinda figured we’d be burrowin’ into hay bales.”

Your shrug said maybe tomorrow. “Daddy doesn’t usually let strangers sleep on his land, much less up here.” You perched on the trunk, unbothered by their looming height. “Guess he saw somethin’ useful in you.”

Steve straightened, earnest. “We appreciate it. If you’d rather we sleep downstairs—”

“Relax, Captain Courtesy,” Bucky cut in, throwing him a side-eye. “We’ll keep our boots off the sofa, promise.” To you, softer, “You’re welcome to sit a spell, if you’re not busy. Share a plate. Tell us the house rules.”

The offer hung there with the dust motes, cicadas whirring through the slats, night air thick with sweetgrass and something darker underneath. You let it linger, watching how Steve’s jaw flexed when Bucky talked, how Bucky’s fingertips tapped the tray like he had more to say with them.

Finally you leaned back on your palms, eyes flicking from one to the other. “House rule’s simple; earn your keep. Fence line’s a mess, cows need milkin’, and Daddy hates slackers.” A slow smile uncurled. “But I might come up later, see if the telescope’s still pointed true.”

Bucky’s grin sharpened. “We’ll set it for the moon.”

You rose, brushing hay dust from your jeans. “Eat while it’s hot. I’ll fetch y’all at first light.” At the hatch you paused, tilting your head just enough that lamp-glow kissed the line of your neck. “Sweet dreams, city boys.”

Boot-steps receded, leaving the scent of spices and warm wood in your wake. Bucky let out a low whistle, passing Steve a plate. “Tell me again why you thought today was a bad day.”

Steve didn’t answer. He just watched the ladder, heart knocking once, twice—like somebody’d tapped a match to kindling he’d forgotten was there.

The wire rasped through worn leather gloves as Steve cinched a new section taut against the post.

Morning heat hadn’t hit full force yet; the light was soft, hazy, dust motes floating like lazy sparks each time the staple met wood. Across from him, Bucky should’ve been driving the next nail, but his hammer paused halfway, blue eyes angled toward the paddock.

You were out by the dairy pen, skirt hem stopping at mid-thigh, knees braced to the churn of a milk pail. Every now and then you tipped the tin to pour a pale ribbon into the waiting bucket, the motion flexing your thighs.

Bucky’s lips pulled into a slow grin. “Tell me that view doesn’t make fence-mending a religious experience.”

“Eyes on the post,” Steve muttered, tamping the staple flat. “We finish the south line before the sun’s overhead.”

“M’hands are workin’, my eyes are multitaskin’.” Bucky leaned, deliberately stretching the thick cotton of his vest. “Can you blame me? Those legs could power a tractor.”

Steve followed the angle of Bucky’s gaze despite himself—caught the way morning light traced the curve of your calf, the slip of skin above a worn boot. He cleared his throat and yanked the next length of wire. “Point is, don’t stare. It’s rude. And we told Mr Moreau we’d act right.”

“Act right?” Bucky’s laugh was a slow roll, low enough only Steve heard. “Saint Rogers over here pretending he didn’t spend the last five minutes studying her ass like it’s a map to salvation.”

Steve’s jaw ticked. “I was making sure she wasn’t lifting more than she should.”

“She’s strong. Didn’t you see her lop that bale? Girl could throw you through the barn door if she tried.” Bucky’s hammer finally met the post—thunk, thunk—driving the nail, though his gaze drifted again to the milking stall. “Bet she smells like vanilla and brown sugar up close.”

“For God’s sake—”

“You’re the one sniffing the air like a bloodhound.” Bucky shot him a sideways grin. “Relax your righteous feathers, punk. We fix the fence, we earn lunch, maybe catch her eye after chores. No harm in looking.”

Steve said nothing, but his ears burned hotter than the sun. The fence gave a satisfied hum under tension. Beyond it, you straightened, wiping the back of your wrist over your brow before hoisting the sloshing bucket to your hip. The movement pulled your skirt higher; both men went still, identical pulses jumping in their throats.

You glanced over, caught them, and offered a small smile before turning toward the barn.

Bucky’s voice dropped, sincere in spite of the teasing. “That smile’s an invitation, pal.”

Steve set his hammer on the top rail, exhaling hard. “It’s a warning.”

“Same thing, if you read it right.” Bucky twirled the hammer once, then thunked it into his belt. “Come on, we finish quick, we wash up, maybe wander by the paddock—”

Steve lifted the next coil of wire, but a reluctant curve tugged his mouth. “Finish quick and it better be neat. If her dad sees a sloppy fence, we’re gone before sunset.”

Bucky nailed the last staple with a flourish, dusted his palms, and followed Steve down the line.

The sun hung lazy-low, just warm enough to slick skin but not yet cruel. Fence posts were set, woodchips scattered like confetti around the chopping stump where Steve swung the maul in steady, clean arcs. A few yards off, Bucky rolled hay bales into neat ranks, muscles jumping under sweat-dark cotton.

Bootheels tapped along the packed lane. You appeared with a mason jar in each hand, glass sweating so hard it dripped onto your bare thighs. The hem of your skirt rode high; your cropped tank left a sliver of midriff glowing. You stopped at the paddock rail, hips cocked, watching them work like it was your own private picture show.

“Y’all look parched.”

Bucky straightened first, forearm wiping grit from his brow. One lazy grin and he was sauntering over to you. “Angel, you’re a vision.”

“Uh-huh.” You handed a glass to Steve, eyes glittering. “Don’t spill it.”

Steve set the maul aside, palms broad and pink from the handle. He accepted the lemonade with a murmured thanks—voice gone rough in a way that wasn’t from thirst alone. “Smells like lemons and cane sugar. You make it yourself?”

“Fresh this mornin’. Daddy swears by it.” You sipped from Bucky’s jar, lips glistening, then handed it to him. His gaze tracked the curve of your mouth like a compass needle. “Saw you two knockin’ that fence line out fast. Figured a reward was fair.”

Bucky tipped the drink, throat working. “Could use more rewards just like this.” His eyes drifted down, unapologetic. “Gotta say, the scenery makes hard labour downright spiritual.”

Steve cleared his throat, shooting Bucky a side-long glance that begged for decorum. He turned to you instead. “Is it just you and Mr. Moreau runnin’ all of this?”

“Daddy’s got three hands from town come by Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays.” You shrugged, playful. “So he was mighty generous lettin’ you bunk the loft—already plenty of help around here.”

“Generous man,” Bucky echoed, elbow nudging Steve. “Maybe we earn a longer stay. Few more fences need mendin’? Any chores need extra muscle?”

Steve flicked him a warning, but you only smiled, amused at the jockeying. “We’ll see what Daddy thinks.”

Bucky leaned on the rail, voice dropping. “What about what you think?”

“I think city boys burn quick in bayou heat,” you teased, running a finger along the condensation of Steve’s jar. “But if you don’t mind a little sweat, maybe stick around. Could be fun.”

Steve’s ears coloured; Bucky’s grin stretched wolf-wide.

You tapped the rim of Steve’s glass, then Bucky’s. “Finish up. Lunch at the house in twenty. Don’t keep me waitin’.”

With that you turned, skirt swishing just enough to make both men swallow. The backs of your thighs glowed in the noon light as you sauntered toward the barn, humming something slow and sweet.

Bucky watched every step. “One more day, Stevie. Let’s charm the old man, top off the tank, see where the night goes.”

Steve drained the lemonade, eyes still on your retreating sway. “We charm him by working, Buck. And by keeping our mouths clean.”

“Hands might not stay that way, though,” Bucky muttered, rolling his shoulders before grabbing another bale.

Steve hefted the maul again, but there was a new looseness in the set of his jaw, in the way he glanced toward the barn door you’d slipped through.

The dining room smelled of fried catfish and sweet corn fritters—hot oil, cracked pepper, a shimmer of cayenne that clung to the air like summer sweat. Cedar-plank walls held the noon light soft and amber; a battered ceiling fan turned slow overhead, pushing the warm scent around.

At the rough-hewn table sat Mr. Moreau, back straight, elbows planted wide like fence-posts. His gaze pinned both men while your small radio whispered an old Fats Domino tune from the sideboard.

You settled first, bare calf crossing over knee, skirt riding high so a ribbon of thigh caught the fan breeze. No fuss, no apology, just a lazy slide into the chair to the left of the old man. Bucky and Steve perched side by side on the long bench, shoulders too broad for the narrow space.

Mr. Moreau cleared his throat. “So.”

Bucky flashed an easy grin. “Sir, we wanted to thank you for lunch—and for the loft last night. Fence is tight, wood’s stacked, goats’re lookin’ downright smug. Thought maybe we could hang on a bit. Give you a few more solid days’ work.”

Steve nodded, posture crisp. “We don’t expect pay. Just room, board, maybe a little gas when all’s done.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, slow as an eclipse. “Men who drift in askin’ favours are usually runnin’ from somethin’.”

Bucky’s grin softened, but didn’t falter. “Only thing we’re runnin’ from is bad luck and an empty tank.” He lifted a fried fillet in salute. “Figured we’d trade sweat for supper till fortune turns.”

Mr. Moreau grunted, slicing into cornbread. “Luck’s earned, not begged.”

Across the table, you leaned your chin into one hand, nails tracing idle circles on the lacquer. “Daddy.” The single word mild and amused. “Fence never looked that straight. Saved you two of the town boys this morning.”

Bucky shot you a grateful wink. Steve took a careful sip of sweet tea—eyes flicking from the old man to the curve of your mouth as you licked a crumb of batter from your bottom lip.

“Could use them on the west pasture, too,” you added, voice syrup-slow. “Boards are rotten through. And your back’s been talkin’.”

The old man’s jaw ticked, like admitting pain was heresy. “Mmph.”

You shrugged, turning your attention to the drifters. “Reckon they stay through the weekend, that job’s done.”

Bucky’s boot nudged Steve’s knee under the table. He straightened. “We’ll have that pasture tight by Sunday. After that, we’ll roll on, no trouble.”

Mr. Moreau studied them, then you. “Ain’t your habit takin’ strays, girl.”

You tucked a damp piece of hair behind your ear. “Maybe they’re useful strays.”

Bucky coughed a laugh; Steve nudged him this time—behave. But you’d already hooked a foot beneath Bucky’s boot-lace, giving it a slow teasing drag. His breath caught, just a fraction, before he masked it with another bite of fish.

Steve felt the shift, the invisible pull of your attention, and he flushed hotter than cayenne pepper. You shifted again, thigh brushing his denim under the table’s edge, bare skin against coarse cotton for half a heartbeat, then you broke contact, like a cat pretending no mischief at all.

Mr. Moreau missed all of it, “My daughter’s comfort counts first.”

Bucky leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a respectful drawl. “Sir, we’d sooner limp to Baton Rouge barefoot than disrespect your home or your daughter.”

You tipped your glass, amber iced tea shining against your mouth. “Told you they got manners, Daddy.”

Steve cleared his throat, earnest. “Mr. Moreau, we may have never grown up around farms… but work here feels right. Let us finish what we started.”

Silence stretched, thick as cane syrup. A fly buzzed the rim of the pepper sauce; the fan creaked overhead. Your toes traced a line up the inside seam of Bucky’s jeans, making him swallow hard. Steve’s knee jostled under your hand, and his fork stalled halfway to his mouth.

Finally Mr. Moreau set down his cornbread. “Two more days. West pasture, chicken-wire pen, then you go. I’ll spare a gallon for your tank—no more.”

Relief flickered across Steve’s face. Bucky grinned outright. “Much obliged, sir.”

“See it done proper.” He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping. “I got hogs to check.” Then he turned to Steve, stern but not unkind, “You strike me as a man who knows straight from crooked. Keep him,”—a nod at Bucky—“on the square.”

“Yes, sir.”

The old man left through the side door, screen slapping shut. The room exhaled, something easier curling in the hot air.

Bucky looked at you, mischief lighting every line of him. “Appreciate the save, darlin’. Didn’t think we’d pass inspection.”

You rose, gathering plates, the hem of your skirt lifting as you reached across Steve’s shoulder—letting him feel the soft brush of your hip before you eased away. “Didn’t do it for free. Fence straight Sunday means I pick my payment.”

Steve tried for steady. “And what payment is that?”

You stacked dishes on the sideboard, glancing back over your shoulder. “Surprise me.” Then, softer, to Bucky, “And y’all behave. Daddy’s got a rifle on the porch.”

Bucky’s grin widened. “Lucky for us I’m faster than buckshot.”

“We’ll see.” You disappeared through the kitchen arch, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle lotion in your wake.

Bucky exhaled a slow whistle. “Think she likes us.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “She’s teasing, Buck.”

“Teasing’s just foreplay writ large.” He elbowed Steve, leaning in. “Did you feel her on your leg? Damn near thought my heart’d stop.”

Steve pushed his chair out, cheeks flushed. “Focus, please.”

Sun-bleached boards thudded under their boots as they stepped off the porch. The cicadas had switched to their slow, drowsy rhythm—a back-of-the-throat drone.

Steve kept his voice low but firm. “We’ve got a good thing here, Buck. Two days’ work, a gallon for the Chevy, and a place that doesn’t smell like diesel. Don’t screw it up.”

Bucky shot him a sideways look, half-smile already fading. “Why’s it always ‘don’t screw it up,’ Stevie? Maybe let a man enjoy the view.”

“We promised Mr Moreau we’d behave,” Steve’s glare held steady. “You act like you’ve never seen a pretty girl before.”

“I promised to respect his house. Didn’t promise to walk around blind.” Bucky kicked a pebble off the path, hands sliding into his back pockets. “Besides, she’s not just ‘a pretty girl.’ She’s—” He paused, searching for the right weight of the word. “—a woman. Curves like a prayer and a mouth that could talk the devil into church.”

Steve stopped, jaw tight. “You’re thinking with your dick.”

“Guilty as charged.” Bucky’s grin flickered, then fell when Steve didn’t soften. “Come on, I’m not gonna leap on her in broad daylight. I can look.”

“Looking becomes touching, and touching gets us tossed back on the road.” Steve’s shoulders slumped with the day’s work, but the edge in his voice stayed sharp. “I’m tired, Buck. One calm weekend—that’s all I’m asking.”

Bucky dragged a hand through sweat-stiff hair, irritation creeping in. “You ever get tired of being the saint? Ever just… feel something and want it?”

“I’m not dead.” Steve’s gaze drifted back toward the house where you were in, then snapped back. “I just know consequences.”

Silence yawned between them, warm and weighty. A dragonfly skated past, wings catching the sunlight.

Finally Bucky exhaled, palms up in surrender. “Fine. No dirty business. Cross my heart. Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when we’re rolling down the highway with a full tank.” Steve started walking again. “Fence first. Daydreams later.”

Bucky fell in beside him, muttering, “Still gonna daydream,” but the bite had gone out of his voice. He cast one last glance at the house, wondering if you were watching from a window, then squared his shoulders and matched Steve’s pace.

Night pressed soft against the loft, all damp cricket-song and the slow pump of the bayou. Bucky slept hard—one arm flung over his face, snore sawing in and out like a loose screen door. Steve lay staring at the beams, sweat cooling on his chest, counting every creak of the rafters until the numbers tangled.

Finally he slid upright, feet finding the quilt-cool boards. Maybe a glance through the telescope would bleed off the restlessness. Just stargazing, nothing more.

The brass tube stood ready at the cut-out window, still flecked with dust from the afternoon. Steve angled it toward the water first—silver ripple, cypress knees shining. Pretty, but the hush didn’t fill him. The lens drifted past the dark smear of the barn roof, climbed to the house on the slight rise. One window glowed warm at the top floor—the only light left awake.

Curiosity, he told himself. He dialed the focus with thumb and forefinger, glass settling on the open curtains.

You moved into frame like a slow exhale, backlit amber. Bare shoulders, skin glinting where the lamp touched. A thin bra—lace maybe, pale against the line of your ribs. Matching panties sat low on your hips, soft fabric hugging the curve he’d pretended not to follow all day.

Steve’s breath stalled. He should pivot away, point the scope at the moon. Instead he watched, heartbeat thudding dull over the swamp’s night chorus.

You worked lotion over your body, hands moving over your chest, throat lengthening with each drag. Heat pooled low in Steve’s stomach, spreading tight. His underwear grew snug; he shifted, ashamed and hungry all at once.

Then your hands slid behind your back. A tiny hitch of shoulders, a flick—straps loosened, the bra easing forward before you peeled it off, slow as a secret. Breasts cupped the lamplight, perfect weight swaying when you dropped the scrap of lace onto a chair.

Steve’s palm tightened on the telescope barrel. He wanted to look away, give you privacy, keep the promise he’d made to himself and to Bucky, but he couldn’t. Not while you turned, adjusting the lamp wick, the soft underside of your breast catching the glow. His breath fogged the eyepiece; he wiped it with a trembling thumb and stared harder, pulse hammering through every inch of him.

Below, Bucky’s snore cut off, shifted, resumed. Steve froze, spine prickling, but the other man didn’t stir. Only the wind moved, pushing thick bayou air over Steve’s damp skin, over the ache pressing urgent inside his shorts.

In the window you stretched, arms above your head, nipples tightening against the night chill. A small satisfied sigh seemed to carry across the dark, Steve almost felt it on his tongue.

“God,” he whispered, a prayer or a curse, he wasn’t sure.

You turned then, facing the glass fully, eyes half-lidded, unaware of the distant drifter watching like a sinner. Steve’s heartbeat slammed. One more second, he promised himself, just one—

A floorboard groaned behind him. He jerked away from the telescope, heat flushing his face even in the dark. Bucky muttered, rolled, settled again. Steve pressed knuckles to his mouth, breathing through the thunder in his chest.

He lay back down but sleep didn’t come. The image of you; smooth skin, bare and unhurried, glowed behind his eyes, bright as the wildfire heat pooling low, refusing to let him go.

A pulse of want rolled through Steve so sharp it bordered on pain. He imagined stepping into that warm-lit room, sliding behind you, palms cupping the soft weight he could only see now in glass and reflections—thumbs circling your nipples until your breath stuttered.

He could almost feel the heat of your skin against his tongue, taste salt and honeysuckle lotion as he mouthed the tip and heard you sigh his name. The thought hit low and thick, tugging at him until his boxer briefs felt two sizes too small.

He tried to drag the vision back to something polite, tried to picture himself knocking on the door, asking if you needed help with chores, but the reel kept slipping; his hands spreading over your hips, his mouth trailing down to suck at the lush underside fo your breast where the lamplight painted shadows.

He wanted to trace every curve, let you arch beneath the weight of his body, feel you shiver when his tongue flicked over pebbled skin. The wanting rode him hard, ruthless, until he clenched his fists against the quilt and swallowed a groan, knowing the taste of you would haunt his tongue long after dawn.

Crickets sang louder, the bayou hummed, and Steve counted the beats until dawn, pulse trapped in the fist of his own wanting.

The next day the sun was high but merciful, tucked behind a gauzy veil of clouds. Steve worked the auger alone, shoulders bunching with every crank. He’d barely spoken since dawn, jaw tight enough to creak.

Across the pasture, you crossed the grass with a slow swing in your hips, skirt flirting just above your knees. Bucky spotted you first; the post-hole digger hit the dirt with a muffled thud. His grin arrived a heartbeat later.

“Afternoon, darlin’. Come to supervise?”

You stopped beside him, fingers trailing the rail he’d just set. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Your friend over there”—you nodded toward Steve—“can hardly look me in the eye without blushin’.”

Bucky followed your gaze. Steve never looked up, but his strokes came faster, as if he felt the attention. “That’s Stevie for ya. Spends half his life polishing a halo no one asked him to wear.”

“And you?” Your tone dropped silk-low. “What do you polish, hotshot?”

“Depends who’s askin’.” He leaned on the fence, sweat darkening the vee of his T-shirt. “If he’s the saint, guess that makes me the sinner.”

You hummed approval, thumb idly circling the rough grain near his wrist. “Sinner’s a big word.”

“Earned it.” His gaze dragged the length of your legs, unapologetic. “Figure sin’s just pleasure folks’re too scared to call by its proper name.”

“That right?” You shifted closer, the scent of hay and skin mingling. “Tell me a sin, then. One you’d commit if no one was watchin’.”

Bucky’s smile dipped wicked. “Start with a kiss, slow and sweet, right where that pulse flickers.” He trailed a knuckle just shy of the soft hollow beneath your ear. “Maybe taste that sheen of sweat on your throat—follow it down, see where it gathers.”

Your breath caught, but you kept your poise, folding arms under your breasts so they lifted, tempting. “Bold talk for a man on probation.”

“Two days’ probation.” His eyes sparkled. “Could make ’em holy or make ’em worth repentin’.”

You glanced back at Steve; he’d stopped, one hand braced on the auger, head dipped like a man praying for composure. A smirk curved your mouth. “Your boy looks ready to burst.”

“My boy’s got eyes.” Bucky lowered his voice. “Bet he’s thinkin’ the same dirty things. Just afraid to name ’em.” He leaned in until his lips almost grazed your ear. “Maybe we should show him sin ain’t so scary.”

Heat spiraled low in your belly at the promise. You slid a fingertip over the tops of Bucky’s work gloves, tracing the crease where leather met skin. “Maybe I like watching men wrestle temptation. Makes the reward sweeter when they finally give in.”

“Careful, angel. I’m a simple man once the rules come off.”

“So take ’em off,” you whispered, stepping back with a tease-slow smile. “When the work’s done.”

Your gaze drifted past the fenceline, toward the shimmer of water where the bayou curved like a dark ribbon through cane and cypress. Bucky’s eyes followed, hungry for whatever had your attention—even hungrier when they slid back to him.

“Pretty out there at night,” you murmured, thumb idly tracing the crease of his glove again. “Moon hangs low, fireflies float so thick it looks like somebody scattered diamonds over the water.”

“Sounds downright romantic,” he said, voice roughening on the word. His fingers twitched as if they’d rather close around your waist than the post-hole digger. “You a fan of romantic things, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hmm. When they’re done right.” You stepped just close enough that your skirt brushed his thigh, letting him feel the heat that lived in the inches between your thighs. “Question is—do you like romance, or are you all talk and no follow-through?”

“Oh, I follow through.” His grin tilted wicked. “Give me a porch swing, bit of night air, someone worth sittin’ close to? I’m a poet.”

“A poet?” You teased, but the word sparked a pleasant thrum low in your belly.

“Maybe more a—” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lowered, lingered at the neckline of your tank. “—hands-on storyteller.”

“Then maybe I’ll tell Daddy I’m takin’ the skiff after supper.” Your voice stayed soft, but the promise in it was as thick as the noon heat. “Could show you that view once your better half’s asleep.”

His breath hitched. “And what view would that be?”

“The one where moonlight paints the bayou silver…” Your fingers ghosted up the inside of his bare forearm. “…and nobody’s around to see if I dip my toes into the water.”

He swallowed hard. “Could be dangerous out there.”

“Only if you scare easy.” Your lips curved. “You strike me as the kind that doesn’t.”

“Saint back there might beg to differ,” he said, jerking his chin toward Steve, who was still hammering like salvation depended on it.

“He’s busy saving souls. I’m busy tempting sinners.” You stepped back, leaving the faintest drag of your nails along his wrist before the distance sealed. “Finish your posts, handsome. Meet me by the dock after dark. We’ll see if romance fits you.”

Bucky’s voice was just a rasp now. “Yes, ma’am.”

You turned toward the barn, hips swaying like slow jazz. Behind you, the clink of wire and rasp of shovel sounded suddenly frantic—as if the devil himself told him every nail he sets is one minute closer to sin.

Across the pasture, Steve finally looked up, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes. He watched Bucky watching you and couldn’t quite name the tightness curling in his gut; couldn’t decide if it was jealousy, dread, or something hotter than either.

The loft was heavy with darkness—rafters lost in shadow, only a ribbon of moonlight sneaking through the cut-out window. Steve rolled onto his back, blinked, and blinked again. The couch beside him should’ve been groaning under Bucky’s long sprawl, but the cushions sat empty, quilt folded neat as a flag.

“Damn it, Buck,” he muttered.

Boots in hand, he eased to the ladder, the barn’s hush broken only by the soft drip of night dew through the roof tin. Outside, the world glimmered silver—pasture brushed in moon-pale grass, house lights long since snuffed. Steve angled toward the porch first, nothing. He circled the truck, checked the tool shed, found only his own irritation sharpening.

Last option, water.

He followed the narrow path that cut between cane rows, the air warm and wet against his skin. Crickets chirred in lazy chirr-chirrs; now and then a bullfrog belched from some hidden hollow. The bayou opened ahead, black water reflecting slices of stars.

That’s when he heard it—soft at first, a breathy hum sliding into a low, bitten-off moan. Another, higher, drenched in pleasure and muffled by sleepy dark. Steve stopped dead. The sound floated from the dock where the skiff rocked, a rhythm that was distinctly human, distinctly intimate.

He swallowed, pulse thumping in his throat. A rustle followed, then a hushed male laugh—Bucky’s, unmistakable, husky with mischief. Another sigh answered him, velvet-sweet. Steve’s cheeks flamed; every warning he’d given rattled back in his skull.

He stepped closer, shoes silent on damp earth, but stayed behind the screen of cypress trunks. The voices blurred but the tone was clear—slow, wet kisses; a whispered “you like that, darlin’” that tightened his gut. Wood knocked softly, a back hitting the dock, maybe, then a tremor of breathy laughter, yours, sliding straight beneath Steve’s skin.

Steve’s boots sank into the soft mud as he edged forward, the cypress shadows cloaking him like a guilty secret. The air hung heavy, laced with the musky tang of the bayou and something sharper—sweat, skin, raw need.

His heart hammered against his ribs, each step pulling him deeper into the forbidden pull of those sounds; the slick glide of bodies, the creak of the dock under shifting weight, your gasps weaving through Bucky’s low, filthy murmurs.

He parted the low-hanging branches, breath held tight, and there it was—laid bare under the fractured moonlight. The old wooden dock stretched out over the inky water, a threadbare blanket rumpled beneath you, your body arched and exposed in stark naked glory.

Legs splayed wide, knees hooked over Bucky’s hips, you lay on your back, skin flushed and glistening, breasts heaving with every ragged inhale. Bucky loomed above you, just as bare, his muscled frame glistening with effort, driving into you with relentless force—like a piston hammering home, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm that made the skiff bob gently against the pilings.

“Goddamn, angel, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” Bucky rasped, voice gravel-rough and dripping with heat, his arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider.

He plunged deep, cock thick and veined, disappearing into your slick folds with each savage thrust, the wet squelch of your cunt taking him echoing softly over the water.

You encouraged him, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that made him hiss and buck harder.

“Yeah, just like that… fuck me deeper, honey, don’t stop,” you moaned, voice husky and demanding, hips rolling up to meet him, chasing the friction that had your toes curling against the blanket.

Steve’s gut twisted, a vicious knot of jealousy coiling tight. That smug son of a bitch—breaking their word, claiming you right here where anyone could stumble on it.

Part of him wanted to storm the dock, drag Bucky off you, demand answers—Why you? Why him? Why not…?

But his feet stayed rooted, eyes glued to the obscene union where Bucky’s cock stretched you wide, emerging slick and shining with your arousal before slamming back in, balls slapping heavy against your ass.

He couldn’t tear away. Watched, transfixed, as Bucky’s ass clenched with every drive—muscles bunching tight, flexing under the moonlight as he powered forward, burying himself to the hilt.

Your pussy lips clung to him on the outstroke, puffy and soaked, the connection a filthy, mesmerizing sight that sent heat surging through Steve’s veins. Jealousy warred with the fire building low in his belly, his cock swelling hard and insistent against his pants, throbbing with a need that shamed him even as it gripped him tighter.

Bucky leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, while his hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit, making you arch and cry out into his mouth.

“Come on, pretty girl, squeeze me—milk this cock like you own it,” he grunted against your lips, pace turning frantic, the dock groaning under the onslaught.

You bucked beneath him, moans spilling free, body trembling on the edge, and Steve’s hand drifted unconsciously to his zipper, palm pressing against the rigid length straining there, breath coming in shallow pants as arousal drowned the anger, leaving only the pounding urge to watch you shatter.

His resolve cracked like dry earth under the relentless pull of what was unfolding before him. His hand trembled as it fumbled with his belt, the zipper rasping down too loud in the humid night, but the bayou swallowed the sound.

Shame burned hot in his chest, a sick twist of disgust at his own weakness—spying like some pervert, palming his aching cock free into the cool air. It sprang out, thick and heavy, veins pulsing with the blood roaring through him, pre-cum already beading at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking slow at first, then matching the brutal rhythm Bucky set.

Bucky shifted, his thrusts deepening, hips grinding forward with a force that buried him balls-deep, your slick walls clenching around his length in greedy pulls. Steve’s eyes locked on the way your body yielded, pussy stretched taut around Bucky’s girth, juices coating him shiny and wet with every withdraw.

He pumped his fist tighter, breath hitching, hating how the sight made his balls draw up, how the jealousy gnawed deeper when Bucky dipped his head to your chest.

Bucky’s mouth latched onto one breast, sucking hard on the swollen nipple, tongue lashing the peak while his teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.

Your back bowed off the blanket, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, and Steve’s gut clenched like a fist—fuck, he wished that was him, his lips sealing over that pebbled flesh, tasting the salt of your skin, drawing those desperate sounds from your throat.

“Harder, handsome—suck ’em like you mean it,” you gasped, voice raw and pleading, and Steve’s strokes quickened, imagining those words spilling for him, your body writhing under his weight instead.

He leaned against the cypress trunk for support, the rough bark biting into his palm as he jerked himself off in frantic pulls, the wet schlick of his hand mirroring the obscene slap of Bucky’s hips against yours. Every encouragement you tossed out—“Yes, just like that, fill me up”—twisted the knife of envy, but he devoured them, pretending you meant him, that your heat was clenching around his cock, not Bucky’s.

Then it hit—you shattered with a loud, keening moan that sliced through the night, body convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you. Steve watched your pussy spasm, milking Bucky’s shaft in rhythmic squeezes, walls fluttering visibly around him.

Bucky groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating from his chest as he felt it, your release soaking him further.

“Fuck—yeah, cum all over me, sweet thing,” he grunted, pace turning savage, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own edge with short, brutal drives that made your tits bounce and the dock shudder.

Steve’s vision blurred, the coil in his gut snapping as he stared at the frenzy—your nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders, his ass flexing with each punishing thrust, cock slamming home through your climax.

It was too much; his balls tightened, and he came with a stifled grunt, hot spurts erupting over his fist, splattering the mud at his feet. Ecstasy flooded him in white-hot waves, cock twitching in his grip, but as the peak crested, shame crashed down like a Louisiana storm—disgust churning in his veins, sticky and vile, for getting off to his best friend fucking, to you choosing Bucky’s roughness over whatever Steve might have offered.

Bucky kept going, mouth claiming yours in a sloppy, devouring kiss, tongues tangling as he rode out the aftershocks, hips still rolling deep.

Steve’s hand shook as he tucked himself away, cum-smeared fingers fumbling the zipper up, heart pounding with the need to vanish before the guilt swallowed him whole.

He backed away silent as a ghost, retreating into the cane rows, the sounds of your shared breaths fading behind him, leaving only the bitter ache of what he’d seen, and what he’d done, in the humid dark.

Morning sweated slowly into afternoon, the sun floating white-hot behind a gauze of haze. Down in the west pasture the fence line rattled beneath the steady thunk of a post-hole digger, but today its rhythm belonged to only one pair of hands.

Steve drove the iron blades into the soil again and again—shirt plastered to his back, jaw set so tight the tendon jumped. Every few minutes he straightened, wiped the grit from his palms, and turned the next section of wire without so much as a glance toward the barn.

Bucky tried talking first thing, an easy joke about cane toads croaking love songs, but Steve answered with a curt nod and buried himself in work. Now, hours later, Bucky was done pretending it didn’t sting. He stalked up the fenceline, boots crunching weeds, sweat glistening on his forearms.

“Alright, punk, what crawled up your ass?”

No answer. Steve slammed another staple home, muscles flexing under sunburned skin.

“Come on, Rogers. Usually I can’t shut you up about alignments and load-bearing angles. Now you’re growlin’ like a kicked dog.”

The hammer paused mid-swing. Steve’s eyes cut sideways, bruised with sleeplessness. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, and ignoring me like I shot your horse.”

“You’d have to own a gun first,” Steve muttered, turning away.

The hammer came down hard, bending the staple sideways. Steve cursed under his breath, pried it out, tried again. Bucky leaned on a fencepost, arms folded.

“You gonna keep this up all day?” he asked, softer now. “Or tell me what I did.”

Steve’s shoulders heaved once, twice. Finally he tossed the hammer into the grass and faced him. “I saw you.”

Bucky blinked. “Saw me what?”

“Last night.” The words grated out like gravel. “By the bayou. With her.”

Silence sucked the air from between them. A cicada screeched somewhere overhead; the wind died.

Bucky’s mouth opened, shut, then set in a thin line. “You spying on me now?”

“I came looking because your dumb ass snuck off.” Steve’s voice cracked with heat—not anger alone, but something raw beneath it. “We agreed, Buck. No screwin’ around with Mr Moreau’s girl.”

“She’s not a girl, Steve. She’s a woman. And she made the first move.”

Steve barked a humorless laugh. “So that clears your conscience? She offered, you took, and the rest of us be damned?”

Bucky pushed off the post, expression hardening. “Don’t pretend it’s about conscience. It’s about you bein’ jealous I got there first.”

Steve flinched as if struck. “You think this is a competition?”

“Isn’t it?” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’m tired of tip-toeing around you so you can pretend you’re above wanting her.”

A flush crawled up Steve’s neck. “This isn’t about me. It’s about respect—”

“It’s about you not knowing what to do with what you feel,” Bucky shot back. “So you call me reckless to make yourself feel righteous.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “Reckless? You call sneaking out to fuck the farmer’s daughter on the dock responsible? You risked us getting thrown off the property.”

“Worth it,” Bucky said, and the word was all challenge, “I’m not ashamed of wanting her. She sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of wanting me.”

Steve’s breath hitched; the memory flashed—moonlight on skin, your voice breaking open. Shame burned inside him like lye. “We’re guests here,” he managed. “We owe Mr Moreau respect.”

“I didn’t touch her where he could see.”

“That’s not the point.” Steve turned away, picking up the wire as if work could armour him. “You never think past the next thrill. And I’m always the one patching whatever you tear up.”

“So patch this,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Or admit the real reason you’re mad is because you wanted to be where I was.”

Colour surged up Steve’s throat. He took a half-step back, fists clenching, then exhaled hard. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You think I can’t see it? You stare at her like she’s Sunday salvation—then play saint when she looks back.” Bucky shook his head, frustration edging his tone. “I’m not sorry, Steve.”

Steve’s gaze flicked toward the house, shutters still closed and curtains fluttering soft. His jaw worked. “If you cared half as much about respect as you do about getting off—”

“Respect?” Bucky scoffed. “I asked her what she wanted. She said yes—loud enough the gators could hear.”

Steve’s eyes flashed, hurt bleeding through. “You don’t get it.”

“What I get is a partner who can’t decide if he’s my brother or my warden.” Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “If you wanted her, you should’ve said so.”

Steve spun, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat words tangled unsaid—about loyalty, about how long he’d followed Bucky into trouble and how this, somehow, hurt worse than any fight in a back alley. Instead he grabbed the digger, drove it into the ground with a grunt.

“Go inside,” he muttered. “I’ll finish the line.”

Bucky took a step, but not back. His voice dropped to a thread. “You gonna tell her you watched?”

The tool froze mid-lift. Steve’s gaze snapped up, raw panic flickering before he masked it. “Don’t.”

Bucky’s anger faltered, replaced by something like wonder. “Jesus, you did more than watch, didn’t you?”

Steve’s face went white, then red. The digger slipped; he caught it, palms stinging. “Shut up.”

Bucky exhaled, disbelief softening into a rueful smile. “Saint Rogers,” he murmured. “Guess halos tarnish after all.”

Steve’s eyes glinted, hurt and humiliated. He dropped the tool, stepped past Bucky, shoulders stiff. “I’m done talking.”

“Steve—”

But Steve was already striding toward the cane rows, boots kicking dust, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The sky boiled with late-day clouds, thunder rumbling somewhere distant. Bucky watched him go, chest tight with something that wasn’t victory at all.

The stall smelled of clean straw and warm horsehide, lantern light pooling soft over the cedar boards. Steve stood at the far end, shirt stuck to him, shoulders working a curry brush over the sorrel mare’s flank. The rhythm was steady, measured—every stroke a word he couldn’t speak.

You eased between the stalls, plate balanced on your palm, hips brushing the half-open doors as you passed. “Skipped lunch,” you said, “Figured a man could use somethin’ besides self-reproach for fuel.”

He turned, blue eyes wary until they landed on the sandwich, then gentled. “Ma’am, you didn’t have to—”

“Didn’t ask if I had to.” You held the plate until he took it, fingers grazing his knuckles, a quick spark you pretended not to notice. “Eat before you faint and scare my horses.”

Steve managed a crooked smile, sank onto an overturned feed bucket. The first bite broke the tension in his shoulders; you leaned against the stall door, arms folding under your breasts, watching him chew like it was the most interesting thing in Louisiana.

“You work too hard,” you said after a moment. “Makes me nervous—like I’ve gone and offended you.”

His gaze flicked up, guilt flashing. “You haven’t. I’m… just wired tight today.”

“Wired tight.” You tasted the words, slow. “Could loosen you, if you’d let me.”

He focused on the sandwich, and cleared his voice, despite colour creeping up his throat. “Wasn’t raised to pester a lady while I’m a guest under her roof.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Feels more like you’re dodgin’ than mindin’ manners. You won’t hardly look at me unless I corner you.”

Steve set the plate on his thigh, thumb worrying the edge. “I—” He paused, swallowed. “You make it hard to keep my thoughts straight.”

“That so?” You pushed off the door, closed the distance until your boots touched his. Fingers slipped beneath the collar of his damp T-shirt, brushing the salty line of his neck. His breath caught hard.

“You ain’t doin’ anything wrong, sugar,” you whispered, letting your nails trace a half-moon before sliding away. “Least not with me.”

The mare huffed behind Steve, but neither of you moved. Your palm skimmed the line of his shoulder, slow and coaxing, to where the muscles knotted beneath damp cotton. “Tell me what’s eating you, pretty boy,” you murmured, thumb easing up the column of his throat to the sharp square of his jaw.

Steve’s lashes flickered. He tried to keep his eyes on the half-eaten sandwich, but the gentleness in your touch tugged his gaze up—and once he met your stare, whatever dam he’d built cracked. “I— last night,” he rasped, voice scraping raw. “I went looking for Bucky. I saw you two… by the bayou.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I stayed. Watched. Should’ve turned around, but I—”

The confession spilled in a tumble of guilt and want. “I hated how jealous I felt. Hated that I couldn’t stop.”

“Oh, baby.” The words were a hush, almost a lullaby. You slid your fingers into the short hair at his nape and guided his head forward until his brow rested against the fine cotton of your shirt just above your navel. He inhaled, sun-warmed linen and honeysuckle, and shuddered.

“You didn’t do wrong by me,” you whispered, stroking the back of his neck. “Feelings aren’t sins.”

Steve’s hands hovered, uncertain, then settled at the backs of your thighs, big and tentative. You stroked his hair once more, let the silence breathe. Outside, the afternoon cicadas blurred into a single shimmering note.

“You can want something without tearing the roof down,” you said, voice low. “All that goodness in you doesn’t disappear ‘cause your body woke up.”

He nodded against you, and the movement, the trust in it, pulled a soft ache in your chest. You tilted his chin, thumb brushing the stubble-rough corner of his mouth. “Look at me, Steve.”

He did, eyes ocean-deep and storm-tossed at once. Your pulse skipped. “Let me show you it’s all right,” you breathed.

You bent, brushing your lips to his—a feather’s kiss, barely there. Steve’s exhale trembled, lashes falling shut as though the simplest touch was sacred. You tasted salt and sun and something sweeter before you lifted away a sliver. His eyes opened, dark with wanting, but he waited, polite even here, and that patience lit a spark low in your belly.

So you kissed him again, surer this time. The soft drag of mouths lingered, then opened; tongues met in a slow glide that tasted like a promise. Steve’s grip tightened at your thighs, thumbs sweeping small circles against your skin as though mapping sacred ground. You inched forward a fraction, pressing him back onto the overturned feed bucket; the move stole a breathy groan from him, swallowed into the kiss.

The stables seemed to narrow around you—lantern glow pooling honey-thick, dust motes floating like sparks in the slanted light. Somewhere a horse stamped, but the world had fallen to heat, straw, and the soft slick slide of lips.

You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth. “Still feel like you’ve done wrong?”

His eyes opened; blue storm clearing to summer sky. He shook his head, a dazed smile ghosting. “Feel like I’m still figuring out what right feels like,” he murmured.

Your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip, swollen now, beautifully kiss-bitten. “Right’s easy,” you said. “It’s what makes you breathe easier, not harder.”

Steve’s gaze dipped to your mouth, then to the stretch of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Courage flickered. One big hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the curve just beneath your hemline—a question more than a claim. You answered with a slow nod, lowering your weight a breath closer until his knuckles pressed warm between your ribs.

You slid the half-eaten sandwich and tin plate to the floor with one careless sweep, then eased a knee onto Steve’s lap, settling astride him. The overturned feed bucket creaked; Steve’s hands darted automatically to steady your hips, then froze as if he touched fire.

“Wait—” His voice was a husky scrape. “What about Bucky?”

You leaned in, thumbs brushing the fine blond stubble at his jaw. “Bucky’s not here, sugar.” Your hips sank a fraction, finding the thick shape straining beneath his work jeans. A tremor ripped through him; his eyelids fluttered.

“I can feel how bad you want it,” you murmured, amusement curling in the words like smoke. “Been feelin’ it since I met you. You think I didn’t notice?”

Heat bloomed crimson along Steve’s cheekbones. “I— I keep tryin’ to be respectful.”

“You are.” You cradled his face between your palms. It was steady and reassuring. “Respect doesn’t mean pretendin’ you don’t ache.”

His fingers finally unclenched, sliding up your thighs, rough thumbs stroking slow circles that raised gooseflesh. You rocked once, lazy and testing, and the low sound that spilled from his throat made the lantern sway on its hook.

“I want you too,” you confessed, voice just above a breath. “Want to hear you forget every polite word you know.”

Steve swallowed hard. “That might… take some coaxin’.”

You smiled, nose brushing his. “Lucky I have time.”

Storm-cloud light flickered through the high slats; somewhere beyond the stables a first fat drop of rain hit the tin roof with a hollow ping. You tilted his head back, claiming his mouth again—slow at first, letting him taste the yes in every slide of your tongue. His hands gripped your waist now, anchoring you as though the whole building could spin away.

“Tell me,” you whispered against his lips, “does this feel wrong?”

“No,” he exhaled, breath shivering through the single syllable.

“Then let it feel right.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, guiding him to the soft hollow of your throat. He pressed his mouth there, and the sharp sigh he let out bloomed heat low in your belly.

Rain pattered harder, drumming steady on the roof—cover for any sound you might choose to make. You rolled your hips once more; Steve answered instinctively with a slow lift of his own. The friction dragged a gasp from you both, tangled in the humid air.

You ground against him harder, hips circling with deliberate pressure, the denim barrier between you doing nothing to dull the rigid heat of his cock pressing up into your core. Steve’s mouth yielded under yours, the kiss turning rough—tongues clashing wet and urgent, his lips bruised from the depth of it. He looked utterly lost in it, eyes half-lidded and glassy, like a man three shots deep into whiskey, chasing the burn of your flavor.

Your teeth nipped his lower lip, drawing a ragged inhale from him as you murmured against the corner of his mouth, “That’s it. Touch me, honey. Feel how wet you’re makin’ me already.”

His palms hesitated for a split second, then surged upward, callused fingers digging into the swell of your ass, kneading the flesh through your skirt with a grip that bordered on desperate.

“Good boy,” you breathed, nipping his earlobe before sucking it between your teeth, the vibration of your praise humming into his skin, “pull me down harder. Make me ride that thick length of yours.”

Emboldened, Steve’s hands clenched tighter, yanking you flush against him with a low groan that rumbled from his chest. The force of it slammed your clit right over his bulge, friction sparking white-hot through your veins, your pussy throbbing with the need to be filled.

He bucked up to meet your rhythm, the overturned bucket groaning under the strain as you rutted rougher, denim grinding cotton in slick, heated drags that had slickness soaking through your panties.

Steve’s breaths came in hot pants against your neck, his confidence blooming like the storm outside—fingers spreading wide to cup your cheeks fully, thumbs pressing into the cleft, urging you to grind faster, deeper.

“God, you feel so good,” he rasped, voice thick and broken, finally shedding that polite shell as his hips rolled up hard, chasing the pressure building between you both.

The storm raged fiercer, rain lashing the roof like a thousand frantic fingers, drowning out the world beyond these weathered walls. Impatience clawed through you, a hot coil tightening low in your gut—you needed more than this teasing grind, needed him bare and buried deep.

With a frustrated sound against his lips, you lifted your hips just enough to break the contact, the sudden absence making your clit ache from the loss of friction.

Steve chased it instinctively, a desperate buck of his hips upward, his bulge straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.

“Easy, baby,” you soothed, voice a husky purr as you pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath sweat-damp cotton. “I got you… gonna take care of that ache right now.” His eyes were wild, pupils blown dark with lust, but he stilled under your touch, breath ragged and waiting.

Your fingers fumbled hastily at his belt buckle, the metal clinking sharp in the humid air before you yanked the zipper down with a swift tug. Steve’s mouth never left your skin, latching onto the pulse point at your throat with hot, open-mouthed sucks that sent shivers racing down your spine—teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue lapping greedily like he was starving for your taste.

His hands, bold now in their roaming, shoved up under your shirt, palms rough and seeking as they cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your hardening nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He squeezed , rolling the peaks until you arched into him with a sharp gasp, the dual assault of his mouth and hands making your cunt clench with raw need.

Diving into the open fly of his jeans, your hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around the thick, velvety length of his cock. God, he was huge. Hot and heavy in your grip, the foreskin sliding smooth over the swollen head as you gave him a testing stroke.

Excitement surged through you, a fresh gush of wetness soaking your panties. “Fuck, Steve,” you breathed, as you pumped him slowly, feeling the way he throbbed and leaked pre-cum against your palm.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes hazy and uncertain, searching your face for that green light—like a man on the edge, waiting for permission to shatter.

You smiled, thumbing over the flushed tip to smear his slickness down the shaft. “I love uncut men,” you murmured, low and filthy, watching heat flood his cheeks even as his cock twitched harder in your fist.

“Makes ’em feel so damn good… sensitive and real. Yours is perfect, honey. Thick and ready to stretch me wide.” Confident, you stroked him firmer, twisting your wrist at the base where veins pulsed hot under your fingers, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

You released him just long enough to hike up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist to expose the damp lace clinging to your thighs. Hooking your fingers into the crotch of your panties, you shoved them aside roughly, the cool air kissing your slick folds for a heartbeat before you positioned yourself above him.

His cock stood rigid, flushed and glistening from your touch, the head nudging insistently at your entrance as you hovered there, teasing the tip through your wetness—letting the anticipation build until his hands gripped your hips like iron, urging you down with a plea in his eyes.

Slowly you sank down onto his cock, the thick head parting your slick folds and stretching you inch by agonizing inch. A sharp hiss escaped your lips at the burn of it—uncut skin gliding smooth against your inner walls, every ridge and vein dragging delicious friction as you took him deeper.

You watched him like a predator savoring prey, drinking in the way his jaw clenched, brows furrowing in overwhelmed bliss, those blue eyes fluttering half-shut before snapping back to yours. The power of it surged through you, your pussy clenching around him just to feel him twitch inside, the sight of his restraint cracking making your clit throb with wicked satisfaction.

“That’s it,” you murmured, voice a sultry rasp laced with filth, leaning in close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “Feel how wet I am for you? Squeezin’ this fat cock like it belongs in me. Tell me how it feels—c’mon, baby, use those words.”

Your hips settled fully, grinding in a lazy circle to seat him to the hilt, his balls pressed snug against your ass, but you held still for a beat, teasing him with the velvet grip of your heat. The rain might as well have been a memory; all you heard was his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies joined.

Slowly, you started to move—lifting just enough to let half his length slide free before easing back down, the drag pulling a low moan from your throat.

“Take what you want, sugar,” you encouraged, nails digging into his shoulders for leverage, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Grab my ass, my tits—fuck me like you’ve been dreamin’ about. I ain’t fragile; I want it rough, want you to ruin me with this thing.”

He answered in groans at first, deep and guttural, vibrating through his chest as his hips jerked up to meet your descent. “God... so tight,” he murmured, the words tumbling out low and broken, like they were dragged from some hidden place.

“Feels... too good... can’t—” Another thrust from below cut him off, his cock spearing deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His hands roamed hungrily now, one sliding down to grip your thigh, the other tangling in your hair to pull you into a messy kiss, his tongue thrusting in time with his subtle bucks.

The pace quickened as impatience won out; you bounced a little harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down to soak his jeans. Steve’s control frayed further; he shoved your tank top down with a rough yank, the fabric bunching at your waist and dragging your bra along with it.

Your breasts spilled free, heavy and bouncing with each rise, nipples peaked and begging for attention in the humid air. He stared for a split second, awe flickering in his lust-glazed eyes, before his hands were on them—palms cupping the soft weight, thumbs flicking over the sensitive tips.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, voice sweet and polite even in the haze, like a gentleman undone. “These... perfect. So full, so soft—wanna taste ’em, if that’s alright.”

The contrast hit you like lightning, his polite words amid the filth of what you were doing, making your core clench tighter around him. You arched into his touch, moaning as he leaned up to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard while you bounced faster, the dual sensations coiling that heat low and fierce.

The rhythm turned frantic as you picked up speed, hips slamming down harder onto Steve’s cock. Your ass slapped against his thighs, the wet smack mingling with the creak of hay beneath you and the thunder rumbling outside. He thrust up to meet you now, powerful bucks from below that jolted through your core, his body finally surrendering to the instinct you’d been coaxing out.

You reveled in it, a smile splitting your face as you caught him still fixated on your tits—bouncing wildly with each bounce, nipples grazing his chest when you leaned forward, flushed and heaving from the effort.

“Yeah, that’s it baby,” you murmured, voice breathy, threading your fingers through his hair to tug his head back just enough to force his eyes to yours.

“Fuck me back like you mean it—tell me, Stevie, you like poundin’ into me? Like how my pussy milks this cock?” Your words were a filthy prod, urging him past the groans into something more, wanting to hear that polite facade shatter completely.

He groaned louder, the sound raw and desperate, but he managed words this time, spilling them between gritted teeth as his mouth returned to your breast—sucking the peak hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting.

“Love it... shit, love how you take me,” he rasped, voice muffled against your skin, one hand squeezing your ass to pull you down firmer.

“These tits drivin’ me crazy, so damn perfect, bouncin’ like that. And you... tight, hot, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.” The sweetness laced his filth, his blue eyes locking on yours mid-thrust. It fueled you, that mix of gentlemanly sweetness and primal drive, making your walls flutter around his length as you rode him relentlessly.

Eventually, you reached between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit amid the slick mess where you joined. You rubbed in firm circles, the pressure building fast under your touch, chasing that edge while his cock stretched you full.

“Keep talkin’, sugar,” you gasped, bouncing even more furiously, the pace turning punishing, your juices soaking his balls with every slap. “Tell me what you like about me—my tight little cunt? How I ride you like I own this cock?”

Steve’s response was a guttural curse, his free hand joining yours briefly to press your fingers harder against your clit, like he couldn’t help but take over even there.

“Everything... your fire, the way you squeeze me—god,” he murmured, thrusting up with a force that nearly unseated you, his cock throbbing inside.

The words tipped you over; your orgasm crashed through like lightning, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses around him, milking his shaft as waves of pleasure ripped cries from your throat. You shuddered through it, grinding down to ride out the bliss, clit pulsing under your touch while your body trembled atop him.

He followed seconds later, the vice of your release undoing him completely. “Shit—cummin’...”

Steve groaned, hips snapping up one last time, burying himself to the root as he erupted. Hot spurts flooded you, his cock jerking with each pulse, filling your spasming heat until it leaked out around him, mixing with your own wetness.

His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, holding you in place as he rode the high, face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths ragged against your skin. The stables seemed to spin for a moment, the rain’s roar returning as your pulses slowed, bodies slick and spent in the humid aftermath.

Steve stayed where he was, like he didn’t quite trust his own limbs yet—face pressed into the warm softness of your chest, breath still uneven against your skin. His hands hadn’t moved either, still anchored at your hips like if he let go too fast you might disappear on him.

You smoothed your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, easing him down from that sharp edge he’d been riding. “Easy, baby… breathe,” you murmured, voice soft, coaxing. “That’s it.”

He let out a shaky exhale, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The tension in him didn’t vanish, but it softened, melted under your touch instead of snapping tight like it had all morning.

“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, words catching somewhere between guilt and something softer. “I didn’t think I’d… be like that.”

You tipped his chin just enough to look at him, thumb brushing the flush still high on his cheek. “Like what?” you asked gently.

“Needy,” he admitted, quiet. “Rough. Thought I was better at keepin’ things… under control.”

You huffed a quiet little laugh, not mocking, just warm. “Control’s overrated.” Your hand drifted down his arm, tracing the muscle there, feeling the last little tremors still working through him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with wanting somebody. Ain’t nothing wrong with taking what’s given, either.”

His eyes searched yours, still unsure. “Even… like this?”

“Especially like this.” You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re a man, Steve. You feel things. You want things. That don’t make you bad.”

He swallowed, something easing in his expression, though a crease of doubt lingered. “Doesn’t feel like the way I was raised.”

“Maybe the way you were raised ain’t the only way to live.” Your fingers slid back into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, coaxing another quiet exhale from him. “You keep tryin’ to fit yourself into something too tight. No wonder you’re all wound up.”

His grip on your hips loosened, hands shifting instead to rest like he was finally allowing himself to just be there with you instead of bracing for what came next.

“You didn’t look like you thought it was wrong,” you added, a teasing lilt slipping back into your tone, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Not when you took me like a rowdy bull.”

A faint, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “No… guess I didn’t.”

“There you go.” You nudged his nose with yours, playful now. “Honest for once.”

He let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the sound low and a little disbelieving, like he wasn’t used to feeling this light after something that intense.

Outside, the rain had started to ease—softening from a roar to a steady patter. Inside the stall, the air stayed thick and warm, the kind that made it easy to linger. Steve shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to your back, resting there more confidently now.

“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat, then smiled. “Don’t start getting all polite on me again,” you warned lightly. “We just fixed that problem.”

That earned a small huff from him, the ghost of his usual composure returning, but looser now, less rigid. Your fingers traced idly along his shoulder again, slow, absentminded, like you had all the time in the world.

“Better?” you asked, softer.

Steve nodded, eyes lingering on your face—then dipping, just briefly, before coming back up. There was still heat there, still want, but now it sat easier on him. Less like something to fight. More like something he was starting to understand.

“Yeah,” he said. “Better.”

Rain sheeted against the loft’s tin roof hard enough to rattle the rafters, a steady percussion that should’ve lulled tired muscles to sleep.

Instead, Steve lay flat on the thin mattress pulled beside the couch, eyes fixed on the low slope of the ceiling where moon-gray water stains mapped the wood. The darkness felt thick, scented with damp hay and the copper tang of dying storm, but it was the silence between the two men that really pressed on his ribs.

Across the narrow space Bucky shifted, springs creaking under the old couch cushions. Not asleep. Steve could tell from the rhythm of his breathing; too shallow.

They’d worked the afternoon in tense near-silence, traded a few practical words over supper, then climbed to the loft when Mr. Moreau doused the lanterns downstairs. Since then… nothing.

Steve’s guilt gnawed as loud as the rain. All the righteous bullshit he’d thrown at Bucky that morning felt paper-thin now, ripped by the memory of your thighs bracketing his hips, the slick pull of your body around him. He’d sinned in the very place he’d condemned… maybe deeper. Bucky had broken a promise, sure, but Steve had broken it twice. First by watching, then by taking.

If he spoke first, will it sound like confession or a challenge? He imagined Bucky’s face if he admitted what happened in the stables—those bright blue eyes narrowing, that crooked grin folding into something sharp and hurt. Bucky was reckless, yes, but he was proud; jealousy cut him close to the bone. Steve couldn’t blame him. He felt the same knife when he’d watched Bucky with you, a sick cocktail of envy and desire he still tasted on the back of his tongue.

A board popped in the loft floor; Steve flinched. Bucky exhaled, a quick huff that could’ve been a sigh… or a laugh, it was hard to tell.

“Storm’s loud tonight,” Bucky muttered into the dark.

Steve swallowed. “Yeah.”

Another beat. Rain drummed harder, then softened in waves. Steve could picture the bayou swelling, black water rising under the dock where everything had changed. He tried not to think about how your moans had sounded layered over the water, how his own had answered hours later in a dusty stable.

“You finish that west line tomorrow,” Bucky said finally, voice low, almost casual. “We’ll have Moreau paid up.”

“Almost done,” Steve answered. He wet his lips, searching for something, anything really, to ease the weight in the room. The apology caught behind his teeth.

Bucky shifted again, the couch springs squealed. “Punk, you gonna stew all night?”

Steve closed his eyes. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to lie either.

Outside, lightning flashed white through the high window slats, illuminating dust motes and the curve of the telescope aimed at dripping darkness. The quick burst etched Bucky’s silhouette; hands behind his head, stare fixed on the rafters, then vanished.

Steve drew a breath, let it out slow. “We should get some sleep,” he managed. “Finish early.”

Bucky’s chuckle was soft, humorless. “Sure.” A pause. “Night, Stevie.”

“Night, Buck.”

The rain settled into a gentle hiss, but sleep stayed distant. Steve lay listening to the space between heartbeats, wondering how long secrets could hang in rafters before they dripped down like stormwater, soaking everything beneath.

Dawn slipped through the loft slats in gauzy stripes, lighting dust motes and the tired curve of two backs turned on one another. Steve sat on the edge of his mattress, boots half-laced, guilt thrumming like an ache in his teeth. Across the aisle, Bucky tugged yesterday’s shirt over his head, humming nothing in particular, almost normal again after a night of storm-soaked silence.

Steve cleared his throat. “Mornin’, Buck.”

Bucky flicked him a sideways grin. “Look who’s talkin’ to me.”

Steve managed a huff of a laugh, tension easing a notch. “Didn’t mean to be a bear yesterday.”

“Figured you were just hungry.” Bucky stretched, joints popping. “Or constipated.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Steve stood, wiped his palms on his thighs. “Listen—there’s somethin’ I gotta say before we head out.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, but the grin stayed. “Alright, preacher. Floor’s yours.”

For a heartbeat Steve couldn’t find air; the loft felt too small for the words. He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the warped floorboard between them. “Yesterday… after the rain started… I was in the stables.” He forced his gaze up, blue meeting blue. “She came by to give me some lunch and— and things got… outta hand.”

The smile died on Bucky’s mouth, shoulders stiffening under crumpled cotton. “Outta hand how?”

Steve swallowed. “We— I—” The confession lodged, then fell. “I slept with her.”

Silence crashed heavier than the storm. Bucky’s jaw ticked once, twice… his eyes flared a darker shade. “You mean right after you tore me a new one for fucking her?”

Steve winced. “Yeah.”

Bucky laughed. It was short, sharp and no humour in it. “That’s rich, Stevie. Real righteous.”

“I know it’s hypocritical,” Steve said, voice clipped. “But it happened.”

“‘Just respect Mr. Moreau,’” Bucky mocked, pitching his voice higher. “‘We’re guests, Buck.’ Then you go and fuck his daughter in the hay like a damn barn animal.”

“Wasn’t like that.” Heat licked up Steve’s neck. “It wasn’t planned. We—talked, and—”

“And you forgot all about your sermon.” Bucky crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “Tell me, did you watch yourself grunt and moan the way you watched me?”

Steve’s cheeks flamed. “Don’t make this dirtier than it is.”

“Dirtier? Brother, the mud’s already up to our knees.” Bucky stepped closer, anger bright and brittle. “You wouldn’t even let me feel good of what I had with her. Now you want me to swallow this and play nice?”

“I’m not askin’ for forgiveness.” Steve’s voice rose. “But you deserved the truth.”

“Truth is you’re jealous as hell and didn’t want to admit it,” Bucky shot back. “So you took your turn and still wanna be the saint.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “You think this feels right to me? I don’t think I can even look her father in the eye.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll choke on that guilt.” Bucky pivoted, pacing a tight line, boots thumping. He stopped, spun. “Fine. Let’s skip the guilt. Let’s ask her straight out who she wants. Winner keeps the girl, loser keeps their mouth shut.”

“That’s childish,” Steve snapped.

“Better than self-righteous,” Bucky muttered.

They stared each other down, breath quickening with a frustration edged in something hotter. Outside the loft, a rooster crowed. The tension held, buzzing like a live wire between their chests.

Steve exhaled first, the fight draining to weary honesty. “We can’t turn her into a prize, Buck. That ain’t right, and you know it.”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged, but the jealousy still smouldered in his eyes. “Then what? We keep sneakin’ behind each other until Mr. Moreau shoots one of us?”

“I don’t know.” Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “But we finish that fence today. After that—figure it out with her, together. No more secrets.”

Bucky studied him, jaw working. Finally he nodded stiffly. “Finish the fence,” he echoed. “Then we talk.”

The afternoon never quite decided if it was rain or sleet; it just hurled water sideways until the posts sagged in the muck and both men were soaked to the bone. By the time they slogged back to the barn, the sky looked like a dull bruise and the west line was still three rails short. No one said it, but they were glad for the excuse to quit early.

Up in the loft, Steve kicked off his mud-caked boots and dropped onto the couch, hair plastered to his forehead. Bucky lingered at the hatch, stripping and changing out of his drenched shirt, drops tapping the floorboards. He found a rag, swiped at his face, then tossed the cloth aside.

Tense didn’t begin to cover it. They moved around each other the way soldiers do when the truce is thin—careful, eyes sliding away after the briefest glance. Steve rummaged for dry socks, Bucky fished for a cigarette he never lit. Rain pattered on the roof, steady as a clock.

The ladder creaked.

You appeared with a bundle of quilts over one arm, hair damp, skin glowing from kitchen heat. “Thought y’all could use somethin’ dry,” you said, voice gentle, eyes flicking from Steve’s rigid shoulders to Bucky’s tight jaw.

Neither man answered right off, and the hush sharpened until even the rain felt awkward. You crossed to the couch, shaking out a faded patchwork, the cotton smelling of starch and chamomile. Steve took it with a muttered thanks, knuckles brushing yours; his gaze skittered away before it could catch.

“Fence fight back?” you teased, hoping to coax a smile. It earned only a grunt from Bucky and a shrug from Steve.

You laid another quilt over the couch arm, slower this time—testing the air, feeling the edge in it. “Storm’s supposed to clear by dawn,” you offered, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing. “Plenty of time to finish tomorrow before ya’ll leave.”

Still the silence. Bucky’s cigarette twirled restlessly between his fingers; Steve’s fingers dug into quilt batting like he might wring the tension out of the fabric.

You straightened, eyes narrowing just a touch. “The weather ain’t the only thing foul up here,” you said softly, but there was firmness under the honey. “Y’all gonna tell me what’s crawled between you, or am I supposed to guess?”

Neither answered, but their gazes finally met. It was brief, charged… and you felt the spark skip the space between them like summer lightning.

Bucky broke first, voice rough. “Y’know what this is, sweetheart? A game. You’ve been playin’ us—fuckin’ us both and watchin’ which dog growls louder.”

You propped a hip against the couch arm, arms loose across your chest, unbothered. “Playin’? Honey, I just like good company. Can’t a girl enjoy both flavors without pickin’ a favourite?”

Steve’s tone came gentler but no less raw. “Why, though? If you care for either of us, why throw a match on gasoline?”

“Why not?” You lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “World’s big enough for more than one kind of want. I didn’t hear either of you complainin’ at the time.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “’Cause I thought it meant somethin’—til I find out you rode him next like a county fair row-pony.”

You arched a brow. “Meanin’ like you cared about Stevie’s feelin’s when you waited ‘til he was dead asleep to slide into my bayou and make me holler? Glass houses, James.”

The barb hit; he flinched, fingers whitening around the cigarette he still hadn’t lit. Steve opened his mouth, a protest half-formed, and you cut him a sidelong glance. “And you—moral high ground looked real pretty till you let me grind it to dust in the hay. Hypocrite suits you about as tight as those jeans did yesterday.”

Colour scorched Steve’s ears. “I won’t deny it,” he said quietly. “I was jealous. Still am.”

“Same,” Bucky snapped, softer now, wounded pride bleeding through. “Feels like we’re bein’ measured for sport.”

You blew out a breath, voice dropping to something low, coaxing. “I’m measurin’ the way I measure ripe peaches—by taste, not by pit. Didn’t reckon either one of you wanted claim-stakes hammered down.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, restless. “Can’t keep splittin the difference. Not without someone gettin’ cut.”

You let a slow breath roll out, smoothing the air like a hand over rumpled sheets.

“Alright—enough chest-thumping,” you murmured, voice a lazy drawl meant to soothe. You pivoted first to Bucky, stepping in just close enough that the lantern light caught the silver flecks in his eyes.

“Y’know what I like about you, Bucky?” Your fingers brushed the inside of his forearm—just a ghost of touch, but it made his shoulders ease a notch. “It’s that wildfire charm. You see somethin’ you want, and you grab it like life’s too short for second thoughts. Had me tremblin’ on that dock, remember? You move like you own the night, and for a minute I believed you did.”

A faint, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still smouldering there.

Then you turned to Steve, reaching to smooth a wet lock from his forehead. “And you? Gentleman on the surface, but lord—the heat underneath once you let it out.” Your hand slid to cup his jaw; Steve leaned into it without meaning to, “You made me feel wanted in every sweet, filthy way a woman craves. Like I was worth every ounce of that control you dropped.”

Their gazes flicked to each other, some of the sharpness dulling with your words.

“You boys’ve been best friends forever, ain’t that right?” you asked, stepping back so you could see them both. “Shared bruises, shared bottles… but you never learned to share a woman?”

Bucky’s brows knitted. “Ain’t exactly the way we were taught.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to Bucky, then you. “Not sure how that even works.”

“Works however we want it to,” you said with a shrug. “Could be one night. Could be more. Only rule is nobody’s feelings get shoved in a dark corner.”

They traded another look. This one was longer, uncertainty warring with curiosity. Rain pinged softly on the roof, a gentler rhythm now, like the storm itself was catching its breath.

You smiled. “Me? I’d rather see the two of you side-by-side than at each other’s throats. Twice the fun, half the guilt.”

Silence hovered, but the tension had shifted, no longer a taut wire ready to snap, more a low hum in the rafters. Bucky wet his lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Steve exhaled, shoulders softening, as if the idea wasn’t as impossible as it had sounded a minute ago.

Lantern-light flickered across the loft as you stepped between them, storm-tamed curls brushing Steve’s cheek. One hand found the back of his neck, guiding him down; your mouth covered his in a slow, coaxing seal. At first he held himself still, surprised, then his hands rose, steadying at your waist while he answered, tongue sweeping to taste the invitation you offered. The kiss went deep, unhurried, a warm pull that drew a hum from somewhere low in his chest.

Across the narrow space Bucky watched, arms folded but jaw tight, jealousy flashing bright before he masked it. You felt the weight of his stare; when you finally let Steve breathe you kept your gaze on those blue eyes gone hazy, then pivoted without missing a beat.

Your free hand snagged the front of Bucky’s T-shirt, knuckles brushing the hard plane beneath, and you tugged him forward.

“C’mere, hotshot,” you whispered.

He came, like the magnet he’d always been, meeting your mouth with none of Steve’s hesitation. The kiss landed hungry, teeth grazing, his hand sliding to cup the side of your throat. Where Steve’s earlier sweetness lingered, Bucky’s heat sparked bright, and you let both flavors mingle on your tongue a heartbeat longer than strictly fair.

When you broke away the air felt thicker, three sets of breaths stirring the dust motes. Your lips, plush now and tingling, curved into a satisfied smile.

“See?” you murmured, voice lazy as molasses. “Turns out sharing ain’t so hard.”

Steve stood rooted, wide eyes flicking from your mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky’s stare, darker now, drifted to Steve, sharp edge softened by the flush riding both their cheeks. Rain pattered gentle drums on the roof above, the storm’s worst anger spent, leaving only a hush that felt charged rather than tense.

“You pull us in opposite directions long enough,” Bucky said, half-grin creeping back, “might find we land in the same place.”

“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” you answered, giving his shirt a playful tug before smoothing the crumpled cotton flat. You turned, letting your knuckles brush Steve’s knuckles—an invitation to stay right where he was. “The three of us could keep warmer than any blanket in this loft.”

Neither man moved to argue. Steve’s throat bobbed, eyes searching Bucky’s. Bucky’s shoulders shifted, like he was trying on the feel of standing this close without bristling. A tentative thread of curiosity stretched between them stronger than the jealousy that had ruled the morning.

You stepped back just far enough to see them both, palms open. “Fence can wait,” you said. “Weather looks set to keep us indoors.” Outside, thunder rumbled a soft bass note, agreeing.

The air in the loft hung heavy, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the raw edge of anticipation. You stood between them, Bucky and Steve, their breaths syncing in ragged pulls, eyes locked on you like you’d become the only fixed point in the dim lantern glow.

Your fingers hooked under the hem of your damp shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin from the earlier drizzle. You peeled it up slowly letting the cool air kiss your ribs before it whispered over the swell of your breasts still trapped in lace. Their gazes followed every inch, darkening as you tossed the shirt aside onto the couch.

Then came the bra—clips snapping free with a flick, straps sliding down your shoulders. Your breasts spilled out, full and heavy, nipples tightening into stiff peaks under the weight of their stares. Bucky’s tongue darted over his lips, a low sound rumbling in his throat, while Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping straight to the soft curves, tracing the way they rose with each breath you took.

Not done yet. Your hands moved to the button of your jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged quiet. The zipper rasped down, and you shoved the denim over your hips, hooking your thumbs into your panties and dragging them along for the ride. They pooled at your ankles, and you kicked them free, standing bare before them—skin flushed, thighs slick with the ache building between them.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his cock straining visibly against his jeans, and Steve shifted, a flush creeping up his neck as he drank in the sight of your naked body, every curve and shadow laid out like an offering.

“Who wants to touch first?” you purred, voice husky, letting the words drip like honey over the tension.

It took barely a second—Bucky, of course, moving like he’d been coiled for it. His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, crashing his mouth against yours. His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your throat with a possessive thrust that made your knees weak, tasting of salt and coffee and that unashamed want.

He hauled you flush against him, your bare tits mashing into the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric as his free arm banded around your waist, grinding his hard length into your belly through his clothes.

You melted into the kiss, moaning around his invading tongue, but then—hands. Warm, callused palms sliding onto your waist from behind, tentative at first, then firmer as Steve pressed his body against your back. His chest was a solid wall of heat, his cock throbbing hot against the cleft of your ass even through his jeans.

Those hands trailed up, slow and careful, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted Bucky’s roughness—thumbs brushing the undersides before squeezing soft, kneading the flesh until your nipples ached under the pressure.

A shiver raced down your spine as his mouth found your throat, lips parting to suckle the pulse there, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks straight to your clit.

Bucky didn’t let up, his kiss turning sloppier, wetter, tongue battling yours while Steve’s breaths fanned hot against your neck, his squeezes growing bolder, rolling your breasts in his palms like he couldn’t get enough of the weight, the give.

The kiss with Bucky lingered like a brand, his tongue retreating with a final, teasing swipe that left your lips swollen and slick. You twisted in his grip, turning your head to capture Steve’s mouth instead, and he met you halfway—eager, almost desperate, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that stole your breath.

His tongue delved deep, exploring with a fervor that matched the way his hands still cradled your tits, thumbs circling your hardened nipples until they throbbed under his touch.

Bucky didn’t yield an inch, his mouth shifting to the curve of your neck, hot and insistent, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as he sucked a mark into place. One of his hands slid down, palming the swell of your ass with a firm squeeze, fingers digging in to guide your hips forward. You ground against him instinctively, feeling the rigid bulge of his cock press into your belly through the denim, thick and insistent, pulsing with every roll of your body.

Steve’s kiss deepened in response, turning rougher, his free hand tangling in your hair to angle your head just right, devouring your mouth like he needed to erase Bucky’s taste.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Bucky rasped against your throat, his voice a gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine, his breath fanning over the damp spot he’d left behind.

You hummed into Steve’s kiss, the sound vibrating between your pressed lips.

Steve broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, whispering hot against your ear, “You’re perfect... so soft, so sweet,” his affirmations spilling out like confessions, voice thick with awe and need as he nuzzled into your shoulder.

You pushed at their chests, firm but playful, breaking their hold. “I want both of ya’ll to eat my pussy,” you said, eyes flicking between them as you backed toward the small mattress piled with worn blankets on the loft floor.

You sank down onto the makeshift bed, the rough weave scratching your bare skin just enough to heighten the thrill. Spreading your legs wide, you exposed yourself fully—the swollen folds of your cunt glistening with arousal, clit peeking out begging for attention.

Bucky and Steve froze mid-step, their eyes locking onto the sight between your thighs, breaths catching in unison. Bucky’s jaw went slack, that smirk faltering into raw want, while Steve’s flush deepened, his cock tenting his jeans obscenely as he swallowed hard.

Then, like a dam breaking, they lunged,both scrambling forward in a tangle of limbs, shoulders bumping as they vied for position.

“Move over, punk,” Bucky murmured, shoving at Steve’s arm, trying to wedge in closer.

Steve pushed back, his voice a strained mutter, “There’s room—back off a sec.” They bickered like that, half-hearted jabs and elbows, but neither stopped advancing, knees hitting the mattress as they crowded between your open legs.

Their argument dissolved into action, mouths descending on your pussy in a frenzy of heat and hunger. Bucky got there first, his tongue lapping broad and flat up your slit, collecting your wetness with a groan that rumbled against your sensitive flesh. Steve wasn’t far behind, angling in from the side to suckle at your inner thigh before dragging his lips to your clit, enveloping it in wet suction that made your hips buck.

They jostled for space, Bucky’s shoulder knocking Steve’s as he delved deeper, tongue fucking into your entrance with sloppy thrusts, while Steve latched onto your nub, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.

The dual assault overwhelmed you—Bucky’s mouth devouring your hole, slurping noisily at the gush of arousal leaking out, his stubble scraping your thighs raw; Steve’s lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to pull whimpers from your throat, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” Bucky mumbled between licks, the words vibrating into you, while Steve hummed agreement, his tongue circling faster, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.

Their mouths battled over your dripping cunt like starving men, tongues and lips a chaotic symphony of slick heat that had you mesmerized. You watched through half-lidded eyes, pulse hammering in your ears, the way Bucky’s tongue plunged deep into your hole, fucking in and out with obscene wet sounds, only for Steve to shove in closer, latching onto your clit with a fierce suck that made your toes curl.

Their faces were inches apart, cheeks brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged, and fuck, the sight of it twisted something filthy in your gut. You imagined it—their tongues slipping free from you, tangling together in a messy, saliva-slick kiss, tasting you on each other, and the thought alone shoved you toward the edge.

“God, yes—right there,” you gasped, hips grinding up into their faces, fingers yanking at their hair to hold them in place.

Bucky groaned low, the vibration humming straight through your core, “You like watchin’ us fight over this pretty pussy, huh?” Steve mumbled something incoherent against your thigh, too lost in the feast to form words, but his tongue flicked faster, relentless.

It hit you like a storm surge, that orgasm sneaking up fast and brutal—your walls clenching on nothing, release gushing out in hot waves that soaked their chins. You cried out, back arching off the mattress, thighs quaking as pleasure ripped through you. Bucky and Steve didn’t pull back; if anything, they dove deeper.

“So damn good,” Steve finally rasped, voice muffled as he licked a stripe up your seam, sharing the taste with a quick, accidental brush of his tongue against Bucky’s.

The intensity bordered on too much, sparks of overstimulation prickling like needles as their mouths kept working, tongues still probing and sucking without mercy. “Wait—fuck, too much,” you panted, hands flying to their heads, trying to shove them away, but your pushes were weak, body still humming from the high.

They lingered a second longer, reluctant, before Bucky’s eyes flashed with that predatory glint. In a blur, he shouldered Steve aside, “My turn, Stevie”—the bigger man stumbling back on his knees, jeans strained tight over his erection.

Bucky didn’t waste a beat, fingers fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal echoing in the loft as he yanked it open. His jeans shoved down just enough, his cock sprang free—thick, veined, the flushed head already leaking pre-cum, curving up with a slight leftward tilt.

He gripped the base, stroking once, twice, before dragging the length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The friction teased your entrance, bumping your clit with each pass, and you bit your lip, doing nothing to stop him—hell, you spread your legs wider, inviting the invasion.

“Yeah, just like that,” Bucky muttered, voice rough as gravel, lining up and sinking in slow, inch by torturous inch, your pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that blurred into bliss.

He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls slapping against your ass as he started thrusting—deep, claiming strokes that rocked your body against the mattress. “Still so tight... takin’ me so good,” he grunted, hands pinning your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin filling the air, mingling with the rain’s fury outside.

You took it, moaning with each plunge, walls fluttering around him, but your gaze flicked to Steve, who knelt there looking adrift—lips shiny with your juices, chest heaving, cock throbbing untouched in his pants, a mix of uncertainty and need in his blue eyes.

“Aw, c’mere, sugar,” you cooed softly, voice breathy from Bucky’s relentless pace, reaching out a hand to beckon him closer. He hesitated for a split second, then crawled forward, drawn like a moth to flame.

You pulled him down, crashing your lips to his in a messy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Bucky’s thrusts didn’t falter, each one jolting you into Steve’s mouth, making the kiss deeper, hungrier. “Mmm, don’t look so lost,” you murmured against Steve’s lips, nipping at his bottom one before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want you in my mouth—wanna taste that big cock of yours while he fucks me.”

Steve’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck, but he nodded, fumbling with his zipper as Bucky chuckled, hips snapping harder. “You heard her, pal. Feed her that dick.”

Steve’s fingers trembled on his zipper, the metallic rasp cutting through the humid air as he finally freed himself—his cock springing out, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and glistening with pre-cum. You watched for a beat, heat pooling fresh in your belly, but then impulse hit like lightning. With a hum, you planted your hands on Bucky’s chest and shoved hard. He blinked up at you, confusion flashing in those blue eyes as his cock slipped free from your clenching heat with a wet pop, leaving you achingly empty for just a second.

“What the—” Bucky started, but you didn’t let him finish, pushing him sideways until he toppled onto his back, jeans still bunched around his thighs, legs splayed. The mattress creaked under his weight, and before he could protest, you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. His dick slapped against your inner thigh, hot and insistent, as you gripped it at the base and sank down in one fluid motion, taking him balls-deep with a satisfied moan.

“Fuck yeah, angel,” Bucky rasped, hands flying to your waist, thumbs digging into your skin as he bucked up once, testing. “Ride me like one of them horses out in the pasture—hard and wild.” His voice was all gravel and hunger, that smirk creeping back as he watched you take control.

You laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips in a slow grind before lifting up and slamming down, “You’ve got a real dirty mouth on you, handsome,” you teased, picking up the pace, bouncing steadily now, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your thighs with each drop. The friction added a bite to the bliss, making you hiss through your teeth.

Bucky groaned, head tipping back against the mattress, but his eyes stayed locked on you. “Shit, just like that. Tighter, darlin’, squeeze me.”

Your gaze shifted to Steve, who hovered there, cock in hand, looking equal parts left out and starved. You flashed him a soft, encouraging smile, slowing your rhythm just enough to beckon him with a crook of your finger. “C’mon, honey. I want you right here.”

He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, but he shuffled closer on his knees, positioning himself near Bucky’s head, close enough that the scent of his arousal mixed with the musk of sweat and rain-soaked hay.

You leaned forward without missing a beat, your breasts swaying with the motion, and wrapped your lips around the tip of Steve’s cock. He was pretty—long and girthy, the foreskin peeling back as you sucked gently, tongue swirling over the sensitive head to taste the salty bead of pre-cum. “Mmm,” you hummed around him, the vibration pulling a choked gasp from his throat.

Steve’s hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you licked a broad stripe up the underside, tracing the thick vein before taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing with the suction.

“God, your mouth... feels so damn good, beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and genuine, hips twitching forward instinctively.

Bucky’s thrusts didn’t let up—he drove into you from below, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it pebbled hard under his touch.

“Look at you, takin’ us both like a champ,” he panted, pinching lightly, sending sparks straight to your core.

But then his rhythm faltered for a split second, eyes darting sideways as your head bobbed right next to his face, the wet sounds of your sucking filling his ears. Steve’s cock glistened with your saliva, inches from Bucky’s cheek, and you caught the way Bucky’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something strange and curious in his expression.

“Hey, eyes on me,” you pulled off Steve with a pop, grinning down at Bucky as you clenched around him on purpose, making him curse under his breath. “Or you wanna join in? Taste him too?”

Bucky chuckled hesitantly, squeezing your other breast in retaliation. “Temptin’, but I’m good buried in this pussy for now.” He bucked harder, the scrape of denim biting into your skin again, urging you back to work.

You obliged, moaning around Steve’s length as you took him to the back of your throat, nose brushing the unkept hair at his base. Steve’s free hand braced on Bucky’s shoulder for balance, the accidental touch making both men tense, breaths syncing in the charged air.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Steve warned, fingers tightening in your hair, but you just hummed encouragement, riding Bucky faster.

Bucky’s eyes gaze flicked back up, locking onto the way your lips stretched around Steve’s throbbing dick, slurping and sucking with greedy abandon. Steve’s face was a mask of pure ecstasy; eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a silent groan, and Bucky couldn’t resist. “Hey, punk, she’s got you leakin’ like a damn faucet.”

Steve’s breath hitched, his hand flexing in your hair, but he shot Bucky a glare through half-lidded eyes. “Shut it, Buck,feels too good to argue.”

You hummed around Steve’s length, the vibration making him buck forward, your free hand cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten as he teetered on the edge.

Bucky hummed, spreading your ass cheeks wider, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where his cock pistoned in and out. “Nah, saint, you’re blushin’ like a virgin. Gonna blow already?”

“Screw you,” Steve panted, but there was no heat in it, just desperate need as his cock twitched against your tongue. You could feel him swelling, the salty pulse of pre-cum flooding your mouth, he was seconds from exploding.

But you weren’t ready to let him go over yet. With a deliberate pop, you pulled off, your hand still stroking his slick shaft lazily, denying him that final push. Steve’s eyes flew open, pained and pleading, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.

“Please... don’t stop,” he begged, voice cracking, hips jerking futilely into your grip.

You paused your bounces on Bucky, clenching around him to keep him buried deep but holding still, the ache of denial making your thighs quiver. Leaning up slightly, you cupped Steve’s jaw with your free hand, thumb tracing his lower lip as you met his gaze softly. “Shh, pretty boy. I want you to finish inside me… fill me up proper. Not like this.”

Bucky stilled beneath you, his hands loosening on your ass just a fraction, brows knitting in confusion as he glanced between you and Steve. “You kickin’ me out now?”

Steve mirrored the look, his cock bobbing neglected in the air, still rock-hard and dripping. “But... Buck’s already...”

You grinned, sweet and reassuring, “Fellas, I’ve got room for two. Plenty of space in me.”

Your words hung in the humid air like a challenge, that smile still playing on your lips as you picked up the pace, bouncing with renewed vigor, your ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sounds of your pussy devouring him echoing in the dim loft.

Steve shifted behind you, his uncertainty clear in the way his hands trembled slightly on your waist. He was rock-hard, tip leaking and flushed, but his mind raced ahead—assuming you meant something else entirely. With a hesitant nudge, he pressed the head of his cock against your ass, the pressure firm but tentative, like he was testing uncharted waters.

A soft laugh bubbled out of you, light and teasing, cutting through the tension as you twisted your head to glance back at him. “Oh sweetheart, that’s not quite what I had in mind.”

Steve froze, cheeks burning even in the low light, his cock twitching against your skin. “I... thought... shit, sorry. You said—”

Before he could finish fumbling, you reached back with one arm, your fingers wrapping around his thick shaft—hot and pulsing in your palm. You stroked him once, firmly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips, then guided him downward, angling him right toward your soaked entrance where Bucky was already buried deep.

The tip brushed against your folds, slick with your arousal and Bucky’s pre-cum, nudging insistently at the stretched opening.

Steve’s eyes widened, confusion etching deeper lines on his face as he stared down at the impossible sight. “Wait, but... how the hell—?”

You paused your grinding just enough to lean forward, bracing one hand on Bucky’s chest, nails digging into his skin for leverage. “There’s enough room in this greedy little pussy, honey. Stretch me wide, fill me up until I can’t think straight.”

Your words were a sultry command, eyes fluttering half-shut in anticipation, but you shot Steve a reassuring wink over your shoulder.

Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes meeting Steve’s in a shared look of stunned disbelief. “You serious, darlin’? Both of us... in there? Shit, that’s—”

“Insane,” Steve finished, voice hoarse, but his hips inched forward anyway, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance alongside Bucky’s girth. They exchanged another glance; uncertain, a flicker of worry in Bucky’s eyes and Steve’s furrowed brow. This wasn’t some quick tumble; it was pushing boundaries they’d never imagined.

“Yeah, insane,” Bucky echoed, but his voice dropped an octave, laced with a sliver of excitement as he held still inside you, letting you feel the throb of him. “You sure you can take it, angel?”

“Mm, more than sure,” you murmured, rocking your hips experimentally, which only wedged Steve’s tip a fraction deeper, the dual pressure making your breath catch. “Come on, Stevie—push. I want to feel you both sliding in, rubbing against each other in me.”

Steve swallowed hard, resolve flickering to life in his gaze as he nodded, hands steadying on your hips. “Alright... alright, if that’s what you want, sweetheart.” He started pushing in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch burning sweet and intense as your walls accommodated him.

You breathed in deep, eyes squeezing shut, a shudder rippling through you as you balanced on Bucky’s chest—fingers splaying wide over his pounding heart, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin.

Bucky groaned low, his cock twitching inside you as he felt Steve’s length pressing in against him.

Steve’s breath stuttered, his forehead beading with sweat as he sank deeper, the sensation overwhelming—your pussy clenching around them both, hot and velvety, while Bucky’s cock pulsed right against his own. “It’s—tight as hell. You okay?”

You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a whimper, the fullness bordering on too much but tipping straight into ecstasy. “Keep goin’... just like that. Oh, fuck. Yeah, both of you, right there.”

The stretch was exquisite agony, your body locked in place between them, every nerve ending firing as Bucky and Steve filled you to the brink—two thick cocks wedged deep in your pussy, pulsing hot and insistent against each other through your slick walls.

You could barely shift, let alone move, the overwhelming fullness pinning you like a vice, your thighs quivering from the strain. A hazy fog clouded your mind, cockdrunk and drifting in the haze of sensation, every shallow breath pulling a whimper from your lips.

“F-Fellas,” you gasped, voice slurred with lust, fingers clutching at Bucky’s shoulders for any semblance of control. “I... I can’t—move for me. You gotta fuck me like this.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, a feral glint cutting through the sweat beading on his brow. He nodded once, rough and sure, his hands clamping harder on your hips. “Yeah? You want us to use you, sweet thing? Pound this greedy little hole till she breaks?” His voice was gravel, hips shifting first—tentative at the start, pulling back an inch before slamming upward, the drag of his shaft grinding against Steve’s in the tight confines of your cunt.

Steve mirrored him a beat later, hesitant but hungry, his broad chest heaving as he withdrew slightly, then thrust in—the dual motion sending sparks exploding behind your eyes. “God, it’s... too much,” he groaned, voice cracking on the edge of a moan, his cock sliding against Bucky’s.

They found a rhythm, tentative thrusts syncing into something primal, back and forth like a seesaw of pure heat—Bucky pushing deep as Steve eased out, then reversing, their groans mingling with the wet slap of skin and the creak of the mattress beneath.

You were their plaything now, jolted between them like a ragdoll, body bouncing on the wave of their cocks, the pressure building in your core until it bordered on delirium. Lost in the rhythm, Bucky’s hand snaked up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to yank you down, crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss—tongue plunging deep, tasting the salt of your shared sweat, devouring you like he owned every gasp. You melted into it, moaning into his mouth as their cocks speared you harder.

But Steve wasn’t going to be left out anymore. As Bucky released you, Steve’s strong arm hooked around your waist, pulling you upright with a possessive tug, his free hand cupping your jaw to turn your face to him. As he sealed his lips over yours—kissing you slower but no less fierce, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, drawing out a needy whine as his hips snapped forward, grinding deeper alongside Bucky.

Your mind spun, pleasure dazing you into a stupor, words tumbling out in a breathless haze. “Kiss... kiss each other.”

Bucky faltered for a split second, his blue eyes flicking up to Steve’s, surprise flashing before lust swallowed it whole. “What—darlin’, you—”

You didn’t let him finish, one hand snaking behind Steve’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair and pushing down firmly, guiding him toward Bucky’s waiting mouth. “C’mon, hotshot, kiss your golden boy for me.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, resistance crumbling under the weight of your words and the relentless pump of his hips. They kept moving, cocks buried to the hilt, sliding in tandem as their faces drew closer—lips brushing tentative at first, then crashing together in a passionate lock. Bucky’s tongue darted out, claiming Steve’s mouth with the same hunger he fucked you with, a muffled groan escaping them both as the kiss deepened.

You watched, transfixed, the sight of their mouths fusing; tongues tangling, breaths mingling, pushing you over the edge. The coil in your belly snapped, orgasm ripping through you like lightning, your pussy spasming wildly around them both, walls fluttering and squeezing in rhythmic pulses.

“Fuck—yes, oh god, I’m cumming!” you cried, body arching as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, soaking their cocks in your release.

Their kiss broke on a shared gasp, Bucky pulling back first, eyes wide and wild as he felt the vice-like grip of your climax. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” Bucky grunted, voice strained, his grip bruising your hips as he drove up into the slick chaos of your pussy, feeling the hot flood of your release coat him. “Gonna make me—”

Steve beat him to it, a choked groan tearing from his throat as his body seized. “Oh shit—can’t hold—”

His cock throbbed wildly inside you, swelling against Bucky’s before unleashing thick ropes of cum, pulsing deep and flooding your core. The warmth spread instantly, mixing with your own juices, the sensation of his load spilling out around their joined shafts pushing Bucky right to the brink.

That was it—the wet heat of Steve’s release seeping through your walls, drenching Bucky’s cock in the messy proof of his friend’s orgasm. Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut, a guttural moan ripping free as he slammed home one last time. His shaft jerked violently, erupting in heavy spurts, pumping load after load into you until it overflowed, the combined seed sloshing with every twitch.

They emptied everything, cocks twitching with brutal oversensitivity, veins pulsing against your fluttering insides. You shuddered between them, body limp and quaking, every nerve raw from the overload.

Bucky’s hands roamed your sweat-slick skin—tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your ass, kneading your thighs—as if grounding himself in the aftermath, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your ear. “Easy, angel... we got you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, fingers digging in just enough to soothe the lingering ache.

Steve, still buried deep, pressed his lips to the pulse at your neck, kissing softly at first, then with more urgency, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. “So good... you feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling closer, his chest heaving against your back as he fought to steady the tremors racking his frame.

Steve was the first to stir, reluctance clear in the way his hands lingered on your waist. With a careful shift, he eased back, his softening cock slipping free with a lewd, wet pop. The rush hit immediately—a gush of warmth spilling from you, their mingled cum trickling down in thick rivulets, soaking the denim of Bucky’s jeans beneath.

“Ah—sorry,” Steve muttered, flushed and spent, collapsing onto the mattress beside Bucky, his arm draping loosely over his eyes as if to block out the intensity.

You let out a shaky breath, muscles protesting as you lifted yourself off Bucky next, the drag of his cock pulling a sharp whine from your throat. More seed followed, sliding hot and sticky down your thighs, pooling where you’d been joined. Bucky hissed through his teeth, hips bucking involuntarily at the loss.

“Fuckin’ hell—that’s... messy,” he rasped, a low chuckle rumbling out despite the sensitivity, his hand coming up to swipe at the spill on his jeans.

Exhausted, you collapsed between them, body sinking into the rumpled sheets, limbs twitching with aftershocks. Silence fell, broken only by the trio of heaving breaths syncing in the humid loft air, thick with the musk of heat and raw sex, undercut by the distant patter of rain on the roof and the faint, the sweet trace of your honeysuckle lotion clinging to sweat-damp skin.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through the hush, like he was trying to toss a joke over something that felt too big to stare at.

“Well… guess we learned how to share after all.”

You let out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh if you’d had more air in your lungs, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Your body still felt like it was humming—too warm, too wrung-out, like you’d been shaken up and put back together wrong in the best way.

Steve made a sound that could’ve been a chuckle, “S’pose that’s one way to put it,” he murmured.

Above your head, Steve turned his head towards Bucky. That familiar, easy glance they’d shared a thousand times in their lives, the one that always said you good? and yeah, I’m good, the one that had carried them through worse than a Louisiana storm. Only now it didn’t land the same.

Because now “you good?” had more weight.

Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s mouth, just a fraction too long, and something tightened in his chest, warm and confusing. A flash of it, all over again, the wet press of tongues, the wrongness-turned-rightness of it, the way it had sparked through the whole loft like lightning.

The two of them had spent their whole lives calling it brotherhood because that word was safe. Best friends. End of the line. A story you could tell people without watching them look too closely.

But you had made them look too closely.

Bucky broke eye contact first, like he felt the heat of the thought and didn’t want to stand in it, his gaze dropping to you like he needed somewhere safer to look. His hand came up, fingers warm and careful at your throat, thumb resting at your pulse like he could feel your heartbeat still stuttering there. He tilted your face toward him with a gentleness that didn’t match his normal charm at all.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, and there was no swagger in it, no performance. “One hell of a woman.”

“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you breathed back, a lazy little smile tugging at your mouth.

He kissed you, slow and lingering, like he was claiming the moment for himself. You let him. Let him have the softness. Let him taste the last traces of you on your own lips without making it a fight.

And you felt Steve’s attention sharpen across your skin.

At first it was just presence. Then it became something else, that ugly twist of jealousy rising in him again, quick and hot, like he’d hated it earlier and still couldn’t stop it now.

Only this time it wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t just Bucky’s kissing you and I’m not.

It was tangled up with the memory of Bucky’s mouth against his, with the fact Steve had felt it… felt how it changed the air, how it changed the shape of his chest when he thought about it too long. It was the unsettling realization that what he wanted wasn’t cleanly separated into categories anymore.

He didn’t want to name that.

So he did what Steve always did when he didn’t want to name something, he acted.

His hand came up, palm warm against your cheek, and he guided your face toward him with a firmness that bordered on petulant—like he couldn’t stand being left out even for a breath anymore.

“Hey,” he muttered, as if the word could justify what he was about to take.

Then he kissed you.

Deeper than Bucky had, because Steve kissed like he was trying to anchor himself, like if he could taste you hard enough, he could drown out every complicated thought trying to rise. His mouth was hot and sure, tongue slipping in with a confidence he hadn’t carried before the stables, before the loft, before you pulled all the polite restraint out of him and taught him what he looked like without it.

You hummed into the kiss, letting it be messy, letting him be greedy.

Bucky watched, jaw tightening, though not angry exactly, not anymore. Just… lit up. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, his pride, his hunger. Like the sight of Steve taking something he wanted did something ugly and thrilling to him at the same time.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes heavy. Your voice came out soft and unhurried like you weren’t about to let either of them pretend this was simple.

“You boys keep lookin’ at each other like you don’t know what you’re seein’,” you murmured, eyes flicking between them. “Ain’t like you didn’t already cross the line.”

Steve’s throat bobbed. His gaze cut away for half a second, reflex and denial, then returned.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “She’s got a point, punk.”

Steve shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m not startin’,” Bucky said, almost too calm. “I’m just… takin’ inventory.”

That made Steve’s brow furrow, something wary and pulled-tight in his expression.

You shifted between them, the movement small but enough to draw both their eyes, enough to remind them you were still the center of gravity here, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

Steve felt it in the quiet seconds after, watching you push yourself upright, stretching like a cat that’d just had its fill. The lamp on the little trunk threw a golden wash over you, catching the curve of your shoulder, the soft hollow at your throat, the confidence in the way you didn’t rush to cover yourself.

And in his head, Steve hated how perfectly Bucky’s pet name fit you now. Angel.

He had always thought angels were meant to guide you back toward the straight path. You were the opposite kind. The kind that smiled sweetly and led you off the road on purpose, deeper into the dark, deeper into want, like sin wasn’t something to fear but something to finally stop lying about.

He should’ve hated that.

Instead it felt… like relief.

It felt like coming home to a part of himself he’d kept locked up tight, because being Steve Rogers meant being good, meant being steady, meant being the one who held the line. Out here… on this farm, in this heat, with your hands on him and your mouth on his—he didn’t have to perform holiness. He could just be a man. Hungry, human and wanted.

And Bucky, reckless, charming and always halfway out the door, had been tempted into stillness for once. Steve could see it. Even now, with Bucky sprawled beside him, breathing slower, eyes heavy, there was a calm in him that didn’t usually last longer than a cigarette.

You’d done that. To both of them.

Then you spoke again, and the words hit like cold water.

“Shame you boys’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.”

You said it so goddamn easy. Like you were talking about weather. Like you hadn’t just cracked something open between them that didn’t fit back the same way.

The warmth in the loft went cold.

Steve’s throat tightened. He glanced at Bucky without meaning to, like he needed confirmation he hadn’t imagined the sting. Bucky’s face had gone still, brows drawn together, mouth set in a line that looked almost… hurt. Just that faint pout of a man who didn’t like realizing he’d started wanting something he couldn’t have.

Steve recognized the expression because it was sitting on his own face too.

Leaving had always been the plan. Finish the fence. Get the gas. Roll out. Keep moving. That was Bucky’s rhythm. That was the only rhythm Steve had been able to follow for months without losing him.

But now, hearing you say it out loud, Steve felt something stubborn rise up in him. Possessive in a quiet way. Not of you exactly… though that was in it. Of the whole thing. The strange little pocket of peace this place had offered. The way his shoulders had stopped riding his ears. The way he’d slept deeper here, even on a hayloft mattress.

He could feel that same resistance in Bucky, of all people.

Steve swallowed, voice coming out quieter than he meant. “Who says we have to leave tomorrow?”

“My daddy’s got you on a job. Fence gets finished, you take your gas, you go,” you said. “That was the arrangement.”

Bucky shifted beside you, shoulder tightening. “Arrangements can change,” he muttered, rougher than necessary.

Steve’s eyes snapped to him, surprised by how fast the words came out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky didn’t meet his gaze. He stared at the sheets instead, jaw working like he was annoyed at himself for saying anything at all.

Steve felt a tug in his chest.

You tilted your head, studying them both. “Y’all don’t like bein’ told when to leave, huh,” you murmured, almost amused. “Thought drifters lived for the road.”

Bucky’s laugh came out flat. “Usually.”

Steve looked at you, really looked, and he didn’t like what he saw. You didn’t look afraid of losing them. You looked like you knew exactly what it did to men to feel wanted, then be reminded it had an end date.

Steve’s voice dropped, honest without meaning to be. “This place… it’s been good for us.”

Bucky’s fingers flexed against the quilt. “Don’t start getting sentimental,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only discomfort.

Steve glanced at him again, then back at you. “If we asked, again, would your father consider letting us stay a few more days?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than the rain outside. Bucky finally looked up, and for a second their eyes met again.

You let the silence sit just long enough for it to sting. The lamp warmed your skin into gold again, turning you soft around the edges, almost holy if a person didn’t look too closely. But Steve knew better now. Bucky did too.

Two grown men were lying on either side of you like you were the altar and they were the ones who’d come to kneel.

Your mouth curved. “I’ll talk to Daddy,” you said, voice lazy, sweet as iced tea. “If he’s in a good mood.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, hope and irritation tangled. “And what puts him in a good mood?”

You hummed, rolling a shoulder in a shrug that made Steve’s throat go dry. “Could be the fence looks right. Could be he slept decent. Could be the Lord whispers in his ear.” Your eyes flicked to Steve. “Could be the sun decides to shine.”

Steve felt his chest tighten on a rough breath. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grit his teeth.

Bucky shifted beside you, restless. “So we’re just… waitin’ on weather?”

“Mm-hmm.” You let your lashes lower. “Seems y’all are good at waitin’ when you want somethin’ bad enough.”

Steve had been stuck his whole life being the good one, the noble one, and you’d given him freedom not to be. Bucky had waited his whole life for something to matter enough to make him stay. And now here they were, both acting like it was anything but your hand on the leash.

You didn’t even have to tug it.

You simply settled back down between them, shoulder brushing Steve’s arm, thigh sliding against Bucky’s, casual contact that made both men go quiet. You fit there too easily, like you belonged in the seam between them.

You lay between them like a secret, like a blessing, like a sin dressed up in honeysuckle and honeyed words.

Angel, Steve thought again—then corrected himself. No. Not an angel. A temptation that looked like one.

Your hand drifted lazily up Steve’s chest, fingers splaying over his heartbeat as if counting it. Your other hand found Bucky’s wrist on your waist, thumb stroking once, absentminded.

You sighed, content, as if the question of tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that tonight was still yours.

“If the morning’s kind,” you murmured, voice soft as prayer, “maybe I’ll keep you boys a little longer.”

And you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t promise, didn’t explain, didn’t give them the comfort of certainty. You just settled deeper between them, warm and wicked and impossibly at ease, like the devil himself could’ve learned a thing or two from you about patience.

And outside, rain kept whispering its steady sermon against the roof.

a/n | hope ya'll enjoyed my freakiness, tell me what you think, also im thing abt starting a fresh new taglist, so let me know. and i had to a lotttt of research, so i hope my potrayal of New Orleans, Louisianna is the tiniest bit accurate. the title is based on the movie Wild Things, obviously this fic has no relation, except for the very heated sex and erotica

also the barn loft was based on my man, Clark Kent's favourite spot

They walked into the library, and the first thing Soldier Boy noticed was that it was warm and cool all at once. Like stepping into a building made of springtime. Sunlight poured in, but there was a soft hum in the background from the fans. The furniture was cozy, but everything was perfectly clean. Butcher called out a name, lazily bouncing on his feet, and an angelic voice called back.

“Be right there!”

Butcher smirked. Hughie shifted nervously, shooting Soldier Boy looks like he’d explode in this little fairy book house. He wouldn’t. Place wasn’t worth wasting his bomb on anyways.

Then you floated into view, and Soldier Boy felt the ground under his feet shift. You weren’t a molding, self-important, four-eyed bitch. If this was a fairy book house, you were a fairy. If you had the voice of an angel, it was because you were an angle, and the world twisted itself to give you everything you needed. The sunlight bended, hitting you like some scene from those romance movies he’d always refused to shoot. You floated more than walked. You smiled like you knew everything, and it didn’t even piss him off. 

Soldier Boy hadn’t been a teenager in almost a hundred years, but suddenly he remembered. How it felt for his face to heat and his cock to twitch and his heart to race under his palms. He kicked himself silently, gritting his jaw and standing a little taller. He was a grown fucking man. An American icon. A hero. He wasn’t going to tip over his fucking feet like some kid, especially not for some pretty girl that probably looked down on him. On everyone. The smart ones always did.

They were also the most fun to get in bed. They got bratty, then stupid when he fucked them nice and slow. All the mocking and sass draining out of their pussy, onto Soldier Boy’s hands and cock. Sharp eyes go dazed and sneers fall into open, shocked lips.  

You’ve got those sharp eyes, as you take their little group in. They’re like a hawk, picking them apart with a single look. A hawk in a doll’s body. A sexy, smart little doll.

But there’s no sneer. Even as you glare at Butcher, you’re more pouting than anything else. Solider Boy wonders if you’d pout while begging for him, or just get defiant and bitchy. He’d love to find out.

“You’re getting blood on the carpet,” you tell Butcher, and he shrugs.

“Ain’t you worried about where I’m leakin’ the blood from, love-“

“No.” You cross your arms, lifting you chin. “You’re going to clean it up.”

Butcher’s shoulders curve slightly. Like a scolded fucking child. “C’mon, I got other shit to be workin’ on-“

“Then you shouldn’t have dragged blood on my carpet.”

“But- I got work I needed ya for-“

“Hughie can tell me about it.” You offer Hughie a small smile, and he waves in return.

Soldier Boy stands a little taller. Maybe you just haven’t noticed him yet.

“Clean,” you snap at Butcher, turning on your heels and marching back between the shelves.

Butcher looks at Hughie and Soldier Boy, like they’re supposed to save him from this shit. Hughie gives him an apologetic smile, and follows you into the back. Soldier Boy grins, clapping Butcher on the shoulder before following.

“You didn’t tell me she was a firecracker-“

“She ain’t a firecracker,” Butcher muttered, rolling up his sleeves and glaring around the entryway for whatever people use to clean things. “She’s a fuckin’ problem.”

Soldier Boy smirked, looking back to where you disappeared. “Even fuckin’ better.”

Butcher snorted, giving Soldier Boy a strange, half-amused look. “Good luck with that one, Gov. Don’t blow the fuckin’ job.”

Soldier Boy flipped him off. He’d never blown the job over a woman before—not even an ethereal, enchanting one—and he’s not about to start now. He stood in the corner of your little office, while Hughie asked you questions about books and chemicals and other, smartass shit that Soldier Boy’s never bothered with. He always had people like you on payroll, to give him those answers when he needed them, but usually he didn’t. You punch anything hard enough, it breaks. And he was pretty fucking good at punching.

He said that, at one point. Hughie sighed like he was in physical pain—kid was fucking dramatic—and you just gave him a curious tilt of your head.

“You’re good at punching?”

“I’ m the fuckin’ best.” Soldier Boy pushed off the wall, crossing over to the desk. “Could show you sometimes. Teach you how to defend yourself.”

“Hm.”

You looked him up and down, and Soldier Boy found himself puffing out his chest and flexing his arms. He’d dealt with hard to get girls before. They always cave, when he chases long enough. When he gives them a bit of a show, and promises them it’ll be worth their time.

“What would I be defending myself against?” You asked, soft and sweet. Your voice was like honey. Soldier Boy wanted to get trapped in it, like a fly.

“There are evil people out there,” he drawled, leaning over the desk.

You didn’t lean away, but you blink, and Soldier Boy hears your heartbeat skip. Any reaction is a good one. Meant he was doing something to your body, and that was the first step in getting his foot through the door.

“But I’m here to protect you,” Soldier Boy winked, and stuck out a hand. That was his favorite line. It always fucking worked. “Soldier Boy, doll. Pleasure to meet you.”

Usually, that line made women of all ages and makes swoon. They’d bat their lashes and giggle if they were easy, roll their eyes and flush if they were hard, get starry-eyed if they were innocent, or twirl their hair of they were just as sinful as Soldier Boy himself. But you looked him up and down, and your heartbeat was at a steady baseline. You watched him like you were trying to read him. Like he had thoughts written over his face, and you were  skimming through them. Through him.

“I know,” you said, taking his hand and shaking once. Your fingers weren’t trembling. Your smile was kind, but controlled. “Nice to meet you.”

Soldier Boy blinked, hand still hanging in the air as you turned back to your computer. He’d felt an unsteady heartbeat under his fingers, when you’d touched. But it wasn’t yours. It was his. He wasn’t fucking nervous. His mouth was oddly dry. He cleared his throat and stood back up, trying to strangle some fucking dignity into his body. He wasn’t about to fold in half like some fucking pussy. He just hadn’t gotten properly laid in too fucking long. You were pretty. That was fucking it.

You helped Butcher and Hughie with the job, tracking down books and flipping through them with nimble fingers. Soldier Boy imagined them wrapped around his cock, and forced himself not to rub himself through his pants. He wasn’t about to be that fucking pathetic, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how he couldn’t look away from you for a single second, in case you just turned into mist and turned out to be some kind of fucked up hallucination.

Soldier Boy watched you, as you read and spoke to Butcher. You were polite. Please and thank you and tiny fucking giggles that made his balls heavy. It would be fun to fuck all that out of you. All those sweet words pouring out of your lips, as you’d cry and sing for him.

Butcher seemed to respect you, which said something Soldier Boy wasn’t sure how to hear. Nothing and everything good. When Hughie told you what supes they were going after, you didn’t blink or crow uselessly about murder not being right. You’d just rolled up your sleeves and gotten to fucking work. Soldier Boy could appreciate that. No use in crying about shit that had to be done.

“How’d Butcher find someone like you,” Soldier Boy asked when it was just the two of you. You looked up with raised brows, he almost fucking balked.

 Pretty fucking doe-eyes that ripped right through him. Fucking dangerous.

“Someone like me?” You echoed, and he grunted.

“You’re too fucking gorgeous to be tangled up in this shit-“

“Am I?” Your lips twitched. “I wish someone would’ve told me that. I would’ve kicked you out.”

Soldier Boy opened his mouth, his tongue dragging over his lips. You kept fucking smiling and talking, and he was asking you to smile and talk, but it did something drug-like to his brain and he didn’t fucking like it.

“You know, I used to watch your movies as a kid,” you said casually.

Soldier Boy smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He could fucking work with that. “Yeah? You a groupie?”

That got another, breathy little laugh from your lips. Christ, the sound was addicting. “Not quite. I’m not- That’s not really something I do.”

“Somethin’ you do? The fuck does that mean.”

You shrugged. “Hero worship.”

Soldier Boy frowned. The fuck were heroes for, if not to be worshipped. “You think you’re too good for that shit? For getting wet from seein’ someone you want on a screen?”

That got a flush. It’s the best fucking color he’d seen, on your face. He wanted to kiss over it, make it bloom down your neck and over your tits.

“I bet you were a dirty fuckin’ girl, weren’t you,” he leaned further forward, and dared to reach over the desk. To brush his fingers against your arm, and revel in the way you shivered from his touch. “Had posters of me in your room, didn’t you. Used to touch yourself, thinkin’ about me breaking through the fucking wall and taking you right there.”

You blinked at him, with those pretty fucking eyes. They were glossy, now. Another step. He was closer, to what he wanted, and it was the best damn feeling in the world.

“Well, I’m here to make dreams come true, doll,” he traced down your arm, and your breath caught. “Just tell me how you want it, I’ll fuck you ‘till you’re too cross-eyed to read this shit.”

He jerked his head to the books, and waited. This was the part where you told him to bend you over the desk, to pin you to the wall, to pull you into his lap and let you ride him until you passed out.

But instead, you fucking laughed. You pulled your arm back and giggled, shaking your head like he’d said something funny. Soldier Boy’s mouth fell open, and he felt like a fucking idiot. You flipped through your little book, ignoring his dumbfounded expression. He opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

“My favorite was Ghosts of Hanai,” you told him, offering another one of those mind-numbing smiles. “Did you know it was a book first?”

Soldier Boy did not know that. He couldn’t remember how to speak, to tell you that.

“It’s a really good book. Obviously you’re not the main character- In the book- But I kind of liked the adaptation anyway. It wasn’t as- You know- Good. But it was more fun.”

“I’ll show you fun,” he muttered before he could stop himself, and you just giggled again.

If you did that shit one more time, he was going to have to go into the bathroom to beat himself off. Soldier Boy knew why Butcher called you a problem, now. You were perfect, and infuriating, and he should’ve wanted to put your head through a wall for fucking laughing at him, but he didn’t. He wanted to hear that songbird sound again. He wanted to fucking get under your skin, the way you’d seeped under his.

“Bye, Soldier Boy,” you waved to him like a sweet siren, when they were ready to go. He grunted, and waved back.

“You sure she ain’t some kind of supe,” he asked Butcher in the van, and Butcher snorted.

“I’ve wondered, but nah. Just a fuckin’ human.”

Butcher gave Hughie some kind of secret look that Soldier Boy didn’t concern himself with. He was too busy thinking about you. He’d have to go back to you see you. He’d make up a reason why. But he wasn’t used to not getting things he wanted, and he was worried he might want you so much his annoying fucking heart was going to give out about it. He couldn’t allow that.

You’d remember him. You’d laugh for him more. He’d figure out what made you like him, and he’d do it, and then this annoying buzz in his bloodstream could fuck off.

This annoying fucking feeling better fuck off.

It wouldn’t fuck off.

Soldier Boy found himself back at your library after a week. If anyone asked, he’d say he tried to stay away. It would be to preserve dignity. To pretend he hadn’t been hoping they’d need more stupid books so he could go back and see you.

You were clinging to the edge of his every thought. That laugh, that smile, the magnetic way you’d spoken and sat and been. Gentle but not weak. Kind but not stupid. A rare kind of thing to be, when you knew the dark kind of shit that grew in the corners of the world. Part of Soldier Boy prayed it was just an act. That he’d talk to you a little more, and you’d be no better than the rest of them. Then he could fuck you and forget after, like he’d done with almost every other person on his long, stained list of bodies.

But you were just fucking like that. And it was insufferable and enchanting and fucking amazing.

“Soldier Boy,” you said when he returned, blinking in surprise, and something else he couldn’t read. “You’re… back?”

He grunted. “Obviously.”

“Do you need help with another-“

“No.”

You frowned at him. Did that little head tilt, and Christ, what he wouldn’t give to just bury his fucking face in your neck and breathe you in. 

“I just here to get a book,” he heard himself say, and Jesus, you were doing something to him. He didn’t give a fuck about books. He certainly didn’t want one.

But you were here. And Soldier Boy had a feeling you wouldn’t be open to him just being here to see you.

And you lit up, when he said he wanted a book. Great. Now he was going to have to fucking read, just to get some pussy.

“What book?”

“A- Big one.” That had to be impressive. “Biggest you’ve got, doll.”

He winked, looping his thumbs through his belt. You made that face again, brow raising slightly. “Big as in long, or complicated?”

Soldier Boy shrugged. “Both.”

“Fiction or Nonfiction?”

Why were there so many kinds of fucking books. “Whichever one you like better. I trust you won’t give me something shit.”

That made your lips twitch, and it hit Soldier Boy like a rush of coke. His head got lighter and the world got sharper, and you smiled at him, and that heartbeat was his again. He really was worse than a fucking teenager.

“Wait here,” you told him, and he did. Like a fucking dog.

You came back with a massive heap of a book. There couldn’t be that many words in the world, let alone enough sentances to make something that long. Anything worth saying shouldn’t take more than a fucking page.

“Infinite Jest.” You passed him the book, and he stared at you. “Long and complicated.”

Soldier Boy grunted, not bothering to spare the book a glance. You were what he was here for, and if you just fucking walked away, he felt like he might explode.

“You like this thing?” He almost barked, and you paused, already a half-step back.

“It’s okay,” you said slowly. Actually fucking thinking about your answer. “I like his essays better.”

“Essays?” Soldier Boy frowned. “You like his fuckin’ book reports?”

You gave him one of those coy, honeyed half-smiles again. He was worried he was going to fucking drool. “Creative essays. Like- Book reports about your life.”