Mavis (not from Transylvania)

Waiting by the door had become a ritual for you; on your knees, patiently waiting for your boyfriend to step in, your eager eyes finding his tired ones. It was like that most of the time, except for today. 

He’d be running unusually late. A long, strenuous day of working with his hands, and you were left alone, trying to pass the time, attempting to ignore the dull ache between your thighs when he texted you–a little text, reminding you that he missed you. That was all it took for you to grow needier than usual.

It was wrong; he always told you never to touch yourself when he wasn’t around. He was to control your pleasure; when you cum, when you can’t cum, how fast you can go, how slow you can go. He was in charge of that domain, and touching yourself defied him; if he found out, you knew he wouldn’t be pleased.

You were in the bedroom, propped on the soft sheets of your shared bed, a firm pillow–his pillow–between your thighs, head tipped back in awe. Your hips are moving lazily, eyes closed in a hazy bliss. Nothing compares to his thigh or face, but with your imagination mixed with how pent up you were, anything seems to be getting you off.

You’re moaning softly, lolling yourself into your own universe where he’s praising you and kissing you, encouraging you, solid, warm hands guiding your hips against the pillow. Instead, you’re alone in the bedroom, grasping at the pillow, and trying to extract as much pleasure as you can before he walks into the house and finds you.

The front door opens, and you don’t hear it, but he hears you; the soft sounds coming from the bedroom, the sound of your sweet voice whining and crying out for something, his name following the quiet pleas. It’s enough for him not even to bother taking off his boots; instead, he just begins walking towards the bedroom, making sure to be as quiet as possible. He doesn’t want you to know.

He opens the bedroom door and his eyes narrow at the sight; your back turned to him, his pillow placed between your thighs, whimpering quietly as you grind and grind, desperately seeking friction from something so wrong. And he’s watching, not saying a word.

His shoulder is against the door frame, and he doesn’t speak to you; he wants you to get close, and the minute he hears those familiar mewls and the stutter of your hips, he stands straight and tilts his head to the side.

“Stop,” his stern voice calls into the bedroom, and the breath is knocked from your lungs.

Your eyes shoot open, quickly realizing you were too far gone, completely forgetting about the fact he was on his way home, and now he was right there. You swallow hard, your body frozen against the pillow, and you slump your shoulders forward like a kicked puppy.

“What the fuck are you doin’?” he grunts, his footsteps heavy along the wooden floorboards as he stands beside the bed. “Jesus Christ, humpin’ my fuckin’ pillow like a dog in heat, are you that impatient?” he spits out, reaching over and snatching the pillow from between your thighs.

You whimper and keep your head down, shaking your head.

“Fuckin’ soaked my god damn pillow, can’t even wait twenty minutes until you start ruttin’ against shit like a whore,” he grunts, tossing the pillow across the room. “Think I wouldn’t smell it? The mess you’re incapable of not making?”

You whine, still keeping your head down, refusing to look at him, and it’s not until he yanks you by the hair that you look at him. You cry out, his hand hooked into the back of your hair, pulling you back until you’re looking at him.

“Know what you did, don't you?” he asks through gritted teeth. “Know you didn’t listen to the easiest fuckin’ rule I give you,” he groans out, shaking his head in disappointment.

“I’m–I’m sorry… I was needy, and… and you left me, you left me alone,” you whine quietly, shaking your head. “I couldn’t wait, sir, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t give me this sad, little girl needy bullshit,” he scoffs, lightly pushing your head away from him. “Makes you look like a dumb bitch,” he shakes his head, leaving you on the bed, a slumped-over mess.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you shake your head, crawling to the edge of the bed, and he turns back around to see you in the pathetic position, on your knees against the mattress.

“You’re not,” he shakes his head this time, clicking his tongue. “Watched you for a good five minutes; whining, whimpering, doin’ the whole fuckin’ scene like a camera or some shit is watchin’ you puttin’ on a little show,” he stares at you, and your eyes are red and glossy.

“I was… I was thinking about you,” you nod quickly, hoping that soothes it.

“Yeah? You were thinkin’ about me, sweetheart?” he asks with the most condescending smile and tone you’ve heard. “Thinkin’ about me while you disobey me?”

“I-I… It’s not like that,” you shake your head, whining, and he’s stepping closer.

“Right, it’s not,” he shakes his head, a firm hand reaching out to grab your face. “It was just innocent, yeah? Touching yourself when I asked you not to… just an accident?”

You bite your lip, feeling his strong hands against your cheeks, and that narrowed look in his eyes. You don’t respond, and he grins.

“Fucked yourself so hard on a pillow, can’t even respond,” he says in disbelief, pushing your face back. “Was it better than my thigh, baby? Maybe you never need my thigh again,” he shrugs, and your eyes widen.

“What–no, no,” you cry out instantly, shaking your head. “I… I love your thigh, please,” you whine some more, swallowing back the urge to cry.

“Love it so much, but can’t wait a few fuckin’ minutes,” he drawls out, crossing his arms over his chest. “Was gonna take my time with you tonight too, darlin’; was gonna let you ride my thigh for as long as you wanted, you know?”

You pout at his words and crawl off the bed, on your knees before him, and he gazes down at you, tilting his head at the sight of you. You reach out and gently grasp his leg, pushing your face into his thigh, right against the denim jeans.

“Please,” you mumble into the fabric, hands grabbing at his calf. “Won’t do it again, won’t even do anything like it again, sir,” you whine, shifting closer.

“Don’t believe you, sweet thing,” he coos, reaching down to ruffle the top of your head. “Can’t even trust you bein’ alone anymore, might go off and fuck somethin’ else next, maybe another guy, yeah?” he accuses you, and you look up.

“No–no, no, no, I would never, no,” you cry softly, feeling your eyes brimming with tears. “Would never… I wouldn’t please, you… you know me, you know I wouldn’t,” you beg.

“Do I?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, wetting his lips. “Didn’t expect you to be bein’ a little slut behind my back, in my own house, on my own bed, with my own pillow… and look what I found, baby,” he coos, and you whimper.

“I’m… I’m sorry, please,” you whine, and tears are streaming down your cheeks now, and he grins.

“Cryin’ because I caught you bein’ a dumb puppy,” he taunts lightly, lifting his leg to nudge your core with the tip of his boot. “Grind.”

Your eyes widen at the pressure beneath you, a sudden firmness against your clit through your underwear. It’s his work boot, and it’s pressing right against you, and he’s coaxing you to grind against it. You look up at him again, a familiar, confused, innocent look in your eyes.

“Show me you really grind on anythin’, baby,” he drawls, nudging the tip of it against your clit again. 

“What,” you whimper, and he does it again, and you whimper as he lowers his foot.

You swallow hard when you realize he’s serious, and you slowly shift forward, kneeling against his boot, your hands grabbing at his leg again. Your dignity is ripped out of you the minute you start grinding your hips, gently moving against it, and he’s watching you, scoffing.

“Lookin’ fuckin’ pathetic right now,” he shakes his head, watching you helplessly move against his shoe. “Wish you could see yourself, baby… humiliating yourself all for nothin’,” he says.

You push your face against his thigh, closing your eyes as you moan softly, and you shake your head. It feels good, and you hate that it does–it’s degrading, shameful, and you’re doing it like it’s nothing.

“You know I’m not lettin’ you cum, and you’re actin’ like I will,” he drawls out, and you don’t stop, don’t even hesitate. “Won’t be cummin’ for a fuckin’ week, actually.”

You whine softly into his thigh, tears streaming down your cheek, dampening the front of his jeans, and his arms are still crossed. He’s watching your hips move, a hypnotizing movement, and he looks away, poking his cheek with his tongue.

“Bet it feels good bein’ such a whore,” he taunts more, and you squeeze your eyes shut. “Just fuckin’ against anythin’ when you get any urge, like an untrained puppy,” he clicks his tongue, raising his brows. “Thought I trained my girl better.”

He lifts his boot a little and pushes you back, forcing you to lie against the wooden floor. Your eyes widen, and he pushes the front of his boot against your core, and your head tips back against the hard surface, a loud whine leaving your mouth.

“Never seen anythin’ like this,” he almost laughs, noticing the wet mark on your underwear, and his boot stays right there, applying pressure. “Gettin’ all wet again, from my boot, you poor thing,” he shakes his head, pressing down harder.

You cry out softly, more so in humiliation; you’re against the bedroom floor, legs spread, your boyfriend’s boot against your core, and you’re so turned on that your brain is fuzzy.

“Did your daddy raise you to like things like this?” he asks, tilting his head to his side again, and you whine louder at his words. “Zero fuckin’ manners, just takin’ what you want, not even thinkin’ properly–no manners, none,” he spits out, and he actually does spit on you.

You’re crying and squirming against the floor, lightly lifting your hips and grinding into the bottom of his boot, and all he can do is watch. He shakes his head, sighing, just keeping his foot there.

“Gonna make you do this for hours, baby,” he tells you, nodding. “No cummin’, not until you realize how much of a whore you really are.”

You and your dad always had a plan for the Fourth of July weekend.

In the morning, you both would go to the 24-hour diner just a few blocks away in your pajamas and order the classic All American Breakfast. It was a tower of buttermilk pancakes with a side of bacon and sunny side up eggs cooked to perfection.

By noon, you’d be swimming with friends and family under the bright, burning sunlight while your dad took over the backyard. He would have the grill ready, making the best burgers— the kind that were a little burnt at the edges, and hot dogs that were charred and crispy on the outside but soft and juicy on the inside.

Beers and seltzers would already be chilled in the coolers, the ice nearly melted because it couldn’t keep up with the summer heat, and you’d crack a cold one just as the sun went down and the fireworks began to light up the sky.

Fourth of July weekend was the holiday you looked forward to most—so when your dad told you he wouldn’t be home for it, you could only imagine your disappointment.

You were lying in your bedroom with every intention of sleeping in since every plan for the weekend was out window, but the sun piercing through the glass window and the sound of rustling in the living room downstairs woke you up.

Climbing out of bed tiredly, your bare feet padded softly down the wooden steps. You were still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes by the time you reached the kitchen.

“Dad?” you mumbled sleepily. “You’re home already—?”

Once the sleepy vision fog cleared, what you found in your kitchen was not your father, but rather...

“Not your daddy,” Steve said, turning to face you from the kitchen island. He set the mail he’d just picked up and his spare keys down on the counter. “But someone better.”

The spare keys.

The ones your dad had lent to Steve for ‘emergencies’—which he never actually used them for but instead used them to come over whenever he wanted, watch TV, and crash on the couch. But you didn’t mind, because you liked and respected Steve.

Plus, it had been a while since you had last seen him.

“Well, are you just gonna stand there and gawk? Or are you gonna give your good ol’ Steve a hug?”

You flashed a droopy, sleepy grin as you met him at the counter. Getting up on your tippy toes, you raised your hands to wrap them around his neck, and he returned the gesture with a tight hug around your waist.

“Mmm,” he hummed with a squeeze. “There she is.”

“What are you doing here, Stevie?” you asked as you pulled away.

“What? You don’t like seeing your dad’s favorite best friend over?” he asked with a playful grin and a matching head tilt.

You chuckled tiredly. “That’s not it, and you know it. It’s just… what brings you here? My dad isn’t even in town.”

“That’s the point, sweetie.” He leaned back against the counter, folding his large arms over his broad chest.

You swore he was too old to be wearing shirts that were always one size too small for him.

“I know how much celebrating the Fourth of July means to you—and since he’s out of town… well… I figured I’d take over the celebration.”

You crossed your arms and raised a brow, half suspicious yet half amused. “Did he make you do this?”

“What? No. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my old heart,” he chuckled lightly. “And besides, I wouldn’t want to celebrate my birthday alone this year. So… how ‘bout it? A fun weekend with just you and me?”

Hanging out with Steve on the Fourth of July weekend was far better than doing nothing all alone. And by hanging out with Steve, it meant he’d pay for everything—breakfast and all. You knew you couldn’t turn him down—not that you wanted to—but you still wanted to try and pull his leg.

“I don’t know,” you sighed dramatically, running a finger along the tile of the counter. “You should’ve asked me a lot sooner. My friends already planned something this week.”

You didn’t even need to look up to see Steve’s frown.

“But it’s also my birthday,” he said pathetically. “You wouldn’t leave me all alone on the Fourth of July now, would you?”

You had to bite back a smile. He looked like a kicked golden retriever. It was never a question of how or why your dad became friends with Steve Rogers—he was just too much of a likable guy all around.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—I guess I’ll spend it with you.”

His smile was so wide it was contagious.

“That’s my girl.”

Steve swiped the keys off the counter and twirled the keychain around his rough finger. “Your dad told me all about your guys’ adventures over a beer one time. Wouldn’t shut up about it. So the only right way to do this is by starting off with breakfast at a diner, right?”

Your lips quirked into a half smile as you bit your lip. “Not just any diner. It’s Mama Joann’s, just a few blocks away. And not just any breakfast, either. We get the—”

“—All American,” Steve finished with a smug grin. “I know. Your old man talks a lot.”

He pocketed his phone and wallet into his jeans and nodded towards the front door. “I’ll get the car started. Go on and get dressed now.”

When you didn’t move an inch, he paused and raised a brow at you.

“Guess my ‘old man’ forgot to mention during his ramblings that we actually go in our pajamas,” you explained, waving a finger at him. “So technically—you’re the one who isn't dressed.”

Steve’s face was unreadable as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.

“Honey, if you wanted to see me in nothing but my underwear, you should’ve just told me.”

Your face immediately warmed at his bold statement. “Y-you—! What—!”

But before you could even stammer out a coherent sentence, Steve was already walking out the front door to wait for you.

A red 1966 Ford Mustang was parked at the curb of your house. It was an old thing that made more odd sounds than it did distance.

It was Steve’s pride and joy—that typical man project he was always working on in his garage. He rarely ever took it out, occasionally driving it around the neighborhood just to keep the engine breathing. You guessed he had actually planned on spending time with you this weekend before today, because he’d gotten it all fixed up and ready just for you.

The car creaked and groaned as it made its way to Mama Joann’s, the radio connected to an aux cord playing Bob Dylan—his favorite.

He had the top down, leaving your hair to whip wildly in the wind. You caught him glancing at you through the side mirrors.

“What are you staring at, Stevie?” you asked without looking at him.

Steve held the wheel with one hand, while the other rested casually on the gear shift. “Nothin’,” he said, a grin evident in his tone. “It’s just… your pajamas.”

“And what about them?” You looked down at yourself, peering over the rim of your sunglasses. You were wearing a soft white tank top and a pair of light pink plaid sleeping shorts. “Did you take me out to breakfast just to make fun of my sleeping clothes?”

He chuckled—deep and raspy. He glanced over at you, blue eyes dancing over the rim of his own dark sunglasses as they traced the curve of your bare leg up to your tank top. You realized just then that you weren’t wearing a bra, since you never slept in one and hadn’t bothered to put one on.

“Not making fun of you, sweetie,” he said, pinning his focus back on the road. “Just think the shorts are cute and all.”

Despite the wind blowing in your face, you still felt warm.

Finally pulling into Mama Joann’s busy parking lot, Steve stepped out of the car.

When riding with Steve, he never let you open the doors yourself. He would quickly park, scramble over to your side, and hold the door open for you. Every time he did it, your dad would always say, “See what Uncle Stevie does for you? This is why I won’t let you settle for anybody less.”

“Thank you,” you said with a smile, grabbing his hand. “But you know you don’t have to do that when my dad’s not around, right?”

“When has your dad being here ever mattered?” he asked genuinely, raising an eyebrow as he shut the door behind you and locked it.

You shrugged. “You know how he is—he’ll always be like, ‘Look at Steve! When you get a boyfriend, make sure he respects you like Steve does,’ yadayada.”

A short snort left his lips as he held the diner door open for you. “Honey, I don’t think there’s any man out there who’ll be respectable enough for you anyway. It’s best you save yourself from the disappointment and stay single.”

You raised a brow at that. Sometimes, you found him acting more paternal than your actual father did with how often he lectured you.

The bell chimed with a welcoming jingle, and Steve stepped in right behind you.

As always, Joann was walking around with a black apron wrapped around her waist, refilling the coffee cups of everyone seated at the booths. The bell chiming caught her attention, and she smiled upon seeing you.

“There you are!” she greeted so loudly it caused the customers to look up at you and Steve. “You had me believin’ for a second that you’d be missin’ out on a yearly tradition.”

She set the pot down, motioning to the booth by the window that she always gave to you and your dad.

Speaking of which…

“Now, this handsome man next to you ain’t your daddy,” she said, nodding to the six foot two man standing right beside you. “Who’s this? And is he single?” she asked shamelessly.

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m Steve—a good friend of her dad’s.”

“Hey, Joann,” you waved with a smile. “My dad is out of town for a work trip, so Steve insisted on taking me out for the Fourth of July weekend.”

You two slid into the booth as Joann laid two menus over the sticky wooden table.

“Well, ain’t he sweet,” she cooed. “I know you and your dad always get the All American, but in case your friend here wants somethin’ different, I’ll give you guys some time to look over the menu.”

Then, before leaving, she threw a wink in Steve’s direction, though she was talking to you. “And if Mr. Steve wants to hang out with someone more… age-appropriate—just know that the folks in town call me Mama for a reason—”

“—Okay, thanks, Joann!” you quickly dismissed her with a burning face and an embarrassed wave of your hand.

Steve chuckled, lifting the menu and leaning back in the booth. It looked way too small for a man his size with the way he filled the space.

“She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” he joked.

You blew a raspberry and gave him a look, glancing at your own menu despite already knowing what you were going to order. “Should I invite her back over to have breakfast with us, then?”

Steve grinned wolfishly. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve assumed you were jealous. His eyes raked over the menu. “So, the All American, you said?”

You nodded enthusiastically, looking giddy as you smiled brightly over the top of the menu. “It’s the best thing here. Joann’s buttermilk pancakes are the best—better than anything you can get from a chain.”

You pointed to where it said ‘with a side of bacon and sausage’ on the menu, and tapped on the bacon text. “And make sure to get the bacon extra crispy.”

“Geez,” Steve huffed a laugh, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling up handsomely. “Sounds like you and your dad know what you’re doing.”

You laughed at the fond memory of your father taking you to this same diner since you were a little girl. The fact that he wasn’t here to celebrate was saddening, but you couldn’t have asked for a better man to spend it with than Steve.

You watched as he reached for his coffee mug, his large hands cradling the ceramic. It looked tiny and weightless in his grip, the tight hold emphasizing the veins and roughness of his hands. He lifted the mug to his lips, blowing on it gently before swallowing in slow gulps that made his Adam’s apple bob.

You swallowed hard and tried to avert your gaze so he wouldn’t catch you staring. But instead, your eyes trailed lower to his built chest and the way his stomach slightly pushed against his tight shirt.

He set his mug down and glanced up.

He caught you staring, and he smiled.

You quickly tried to save face.

“Yeah, um—I bet the calorie intake will probably throw off your entire game,” you stammered out with a chuckle that sounded awkward and nervous. Jesus. What were you saying?

‘Nervous’, however, wasn’t in Steve’s vocabulary.

Awkward? Probably.

“What?” he frowned.

Steve glanced down at himself, noticing his slouch and the way his belly seemed… a bit softer as of late. He had one too many steaks and far too many beers.

He looked back up at you, his grin turning slow and lazy. He rested his large forearms on the edge of the table, leaning in just enough to make himself look even more imposing.

“What’s the matter?” he murmured, his voice dropping deep and gravelly in a way that made your nerves dance. “A girl like you doesn’t like a man with a little meat on his bones?”

Your breath hitched and your eyes widened. Before you could even stammer out a response, he continued.

“Besides,” his blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he maintained eye contact, “don’t you think I need a little extra fuel if I’m gonna keep up with you all weekend? Unless you’re planning on keeping me busy enough to burn it all off, that is.”

It was way too early for Steve fucking Rogers, of all people, to be making you feel this way.

This unexpected, flustered and butterflies-in-your-stomach type of feeling caused by your own father’s best friend.

You had never seen Steve in any light other than as your father’s highly respectable, closest friend. At this point, you couldn’t tell if he was just taunting you like he normally did, or if he was actually flirting. But with the way he was looking and smiling at you—no.

Surely, he wouldn’t take that risk.

Then again, with your dad out of town, maybe there was a side to Steve he usually kept hidden—one you knew nothing about, but was now curious to unravel.

Desperate for a distraction, you grabbed your own coffee mug, which had cooled down enough for you to swallow it in big, hasty gulps.

“Easy, girl.”

“Just…” you wiped your lips, “…thirsty.”

Steve grinned. “Coffee is a diuretic, silly goose.”

And there was the taunt. You mentally groaned, wanting to kick yourself for even entertaining the possibility that Steve would ever blur the line between himself and his best friend’s daughter.

“It’s too early for you to be teasing me like this, Stevie,” you mumbled shyly, tracing your finger along the wooden table.

Steve wore a wolfish grin, resting both of his large arms on the table as they crossed over each other, taking up even more space in the tiny booth. “Sorry, I can’t help it,” he snickered. “Especially when you react the way you do.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean—” you started to say, but your words died in your throat as a large presence that was hard to ignore fell over the booth.

“What do we have here?”

The voice was gruff and deep, lacking the playful warmth you and Steve had just been exchanging. You and Steve both froze, staring up at Bucky, who stood at the edge of the table holding his own coffee mug. His expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes glancing back and forth between the two of you as you sat there completely dumbfounded.

He raised a brow at your silent, wide eyed stares. “There a party going on that I don’t know about?”

While your father was best friends with Steve, you didn’t know how your father also managed to become best friends with a man like Bucky Barnes.

Growing up, Bucky had his share of good moments—he helped you learn how to drive, despite snapping at you impatiently whenever you hit the curb. He picked you up from parties whenever you were too drunk to get yourself home, and he would often spoil you with sweet treats or something he found at a store, always with a simple, “Saw this running errands, thought you might like it.”

But, in return, Bucky also had plenty of bad moments.

He was incredibly specific about how he liked things. If you ever tried to help him or your dad with something—like the grill or fixing a drink— Bucky would already be over your shoulder, nudging you away and taking the tongs right out of your hands.

“I got it. You’re just making a mess.”

There were times where you would be dressed up to go out with friends, and he would be sitting on the porch with your dad for a smoke. He would look you up and down, eyes lingering, and say something like, “You’re really going out looking like that? Go put a jacket on.”

Or sometimes, when your dad was away and you needed a hand around the house whether it be checking on the locks or fixing a leak, Bucky would show up, but he’d be short tempered the entire time. He would constantly scoff while he worked, acting like he had a million better places to be.

Your dad always told you that Bucky was part of the family—that it was just how he was, and that was how he showed his love.

But you didn’t buy it.

You felt like he had something personal against you.

And… it also felt like he might have something personal against Steve, too.

“Bucky,” Steve greeted, though it sounded more like a warning.

Or maybe, it was Steve that had something personal against him.

Bucky’s eyes flickered down to meet Steve’s, holding his gaze for a long moment. “Steve.”

While the two men stared at each other in a silent competition, you took this opportunity to take in Bucky. He wore a dark leather jacket that had seen better days with a white tank top—that strained against his thick lower belly—tucked beneath his belt and jeans.

Bucky tore his gaze away from Steve to look down at you.

“Well?” Bucky’s lips tugged into a lazy, tired smirk. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

There were times when Bucky would disappear, going M.I.A. for weeks at a time. It had gotten to the point where even your father had gotten involved, leaving late at night, scrambling out the door with nothing but a hasty, “Don’t wait up for me, okay? Uncle Bucky is… uh, going through something and he needs me right now.”

It hadn’t taken you long to piece together that your father kept having to pick him up from bars, or even the police station. Yet despite his recent wrongdoings, just like your father, you still had a soft spot for him that you could never push away, no matter how much he worried you.

“Of course I am,” you finally said.

Even with your lack of enthusiasm, Bucky seemed pleased with your answer. His leather jacket creaked as he gestured with his coffee mug to the empty spot on the bench right next to you. “Mind if I sit? Or is this seat reserved for someone else?”

“Sit down, Buck,” Steve said. All the warmth he had shared with you gone and thrown out the window now that Bucky was here. “We were just about to order.”

Bucky glanced at Steve, pursing his lips as he gave a short nod. “Good.”

He set his mug down on the wooden table and slid right next to you in the booth. His denim clad knee brushed roughly against your bare leg, making you shudder and feel even smaller. “Because I’m starving.”

Bucky rested his hands on the table, intertwining his fingers. He looked like he worked with his hands, and he smelled like Marlboro Reds.

You could see the dirt trapped underneath his fingernails, his skin calloused—the rough texture of someone who spent his life either fixing things or breaking them. He scratched the stubble on his chin.

Just like Steve, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.

He caught your gaze and smiled, letting his eyes trail down to your legs. “Cute pajamas.”

Steve’s eyebrow twitched.

“Thanks,” you said shyly, looking down and playing with a stray string that had come loose from your shorts. “My dad—well, when he’s actually in town—likes to take me to this diner on the morning of the Fourth of July weekend. It’s usually our tradition.”

While Steve already knew your tradition with your father like the back of his hand, Bucky had no clue.

“Ain’t that sweet,” Bucky hummed in amusement, giving you his full attention. “What else do you and your dad do? I wanna hear all about it.”

You smiled just thinking about it. “We always host—”

“—a party in their backyard, grilling burgers, drinking beer, and swimming,” Steve cut in, taking a sip of his coffee as he glared a sharp dagger straight into Bucky’s eyes. “The one he hosted last year was fun. And the one before that too. It’s a shame you missed it, Buck.”

Steve wasn’t being sympathetic at all, and both of you knew it. He was being petty, even immature, throwing it in Bucky's face that he hadn’t been around for any of the holidays—or that he didn't even know your father was out of town, for that matter.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he kept his smile up, trying to save face just for you.

“Is that right?” he murmured. “Guess I had some important business to take care of last summer. But I’m here now, Stevie. So why don’t you fill me in on what else I missed?

Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something offensive.

“You missed a lot, Buck,” Steve said flatly. “More than you think.”

You sat there, sandwiched between a tension that was rapidly becoming suffocating.

It was clear that whatever Steve and Bucky had going on—which you had no clue about—they never communicated or resolved. You figured it might have had something to do with Bucky and his recent downward spiral—traveling down a wrong, bumpy path with signs that led to nowhere. But you weren’t going to sit here and become their mediator.

Clearing your throat, you caught both of their attention.

“I have to use the bathroom,” you announced. “If Joann comes by, you already know what to order for me. Bucky, will you excuse me, please?”

Bucky nodded before sliding out of the seat. He offered his hand to help you out of the booth, and the two older men watched you walk off towards the restroom. As you left, Bucky wore a grin that Steve knew all too well—a smile that meant nothing but trouble.

“Look at her,” Bucky said, watching you from afar with a soft look in his eyes. “Our baby is all grown up.”

Steve scoffed in disbelief. “Our baby?”

The smile Bucky was wearing quickly dropped into an annoyed frown now that you were no longer there to witness it. He slid back into the booth, leaning across the table as he glared at Steve.

“What the hell is your problem?” Bucky hissed, ditching his good boy facade entirely.

“My problem?” Steve sneered, leaning across the table to meet Bucky halfway. “My problem is that you show up after months of silence whenever it’s convenient for you—bringing all sorts of trouble with you.”

Steve kept his voice low, trying to maintain enough control to avoid drawing attention to their booth.

“What the hell have you been doing these past few months?”

Bucky’s brows drew together so closely as he glared back at his childhood best friend. Before your father came into the picture, Steve and Bucky had been two peas in a pod. They were inseparable growing up, but as they got older, they naturally drifted into their own separate lives, with only occasional chatter here and there.

Steve had already gone through the whole marriage routine. He had tried to start a family with his ex-wife, Peggy, but after she cheated on him, he went through a heartbreaking divorce. Meanwhile, Bucky had suffered a string of devastating losses.

Bucky had always prided himself on being a family man, and when he lost it all, he felt like he had nothing left. His mother, Winnie, and his sister, Rebecca, had both passed away in the same year. From there, Bucky fell into a dark stupor, finding comfort only in solitude and alcohol.

Over time, Steve grew to despise the way Bucky coped—hating to watch his best friend drink himself silly and end up in places he shouldn’t be. Bucky, on the other hand, hated being lectured by Steve. He believed that a true friend should support him at all costs, through all the good and the bad.

Eventually, they both just kept their distance, leaving you and your dad as the middle ground.

“I’m in recovery, Steve,” Bucky protested weakly, his fingers digging into his palm as he tightened his fist.

“Yeah?” Steve scoffed with a bitter smile. “And how’s that working out for you?”

Regret washed over Bucky’s blue eyes, and for a split second, Steve nearly softened. But he couldn’t. His friend had pulled his leg for far too long. The mental reminders of Bucky taking advantage of him over the years were enough to make Steve push down his guilt.

“Look, I’m trying, okay?” Bucky muttered, staring into his half-empty mug. “I just wanted to pay a quick visit to town—see how you and her dad are doing.”

“See how he and I are doing?” Steve folded his arms across his chest, sitting back. “Or see how she’s doing?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He kept his head down but raised his eyes to glare back at him. “And if I was, is there something wrong with that?”

Steve really tried his best to keep his composure. Bucky knew exactly how to get under his skin—using a voice that could pass for innocent when it was anything but.

“You have no right showing up back in town after all the bullshit you pulled. Did you even know her father was out of town? Or did you take advantage of him being gone just so you could spend time with her?” When Steve realized how loud he was getting—catching the attention of some of the diner staff—he dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.

“If you’re still involved with whatever shit you were getting into, leave it behind. Don’t drag her into this—”

“—Jesus. Where the hell is the waitress?” Bucky muttered, throwing his arm over the back of the seat and looking behind him.

Steve snapped his fingers to yank his attention back. “And don’t think for a second I didn’t notice you checking her out. Are you fucking kidding me, Buck? She’s your best friend’s daughter!”

“Hey—all I did was call her shorts cute.” Bucky turned back to Steve. “I was just being nice.”

Steve ran out of scoffs to give. “You’re a lot of things, Bucky, but you’ve never been subtle.”

Bucky could feel his own patience frying. “Wanna know what’s funny, Stevie?”

“What?”

Now, it was Bucky’s turn to lean in so no one else could eavesdrop. “To an outsider, you look like an old, perverted man taking a young, respectable lady out on a date. Come on, Steve. How old are you again?” he tilted his head with that taunting tone that made Steve’s blood boil. “You’re drilling me so hard over something so trivial, but you’re no saint either.”

Steve slammed his hand on the table, causing the wood to shake and making the family of four at the next table gasp. So much for being discreet.

“What the hell kind of person are you trying to make me out to be?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” Bucky shot back. “A pretty girl like her—looking up at you the way she does, with that cute smile of hers.”

Steve opened his mouth, his face turning a furious shade of crimson. “What are you saying—!”

Bucky held his gaze, his eyes boring deeply into Steve’s. “Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought about fucking her, Steve.”

Neither of them had noticed Joann standing there, her pen poised over her notepad. She stared at them completely dumbfounded, her mouth slightly agape in shock.

“Uh,” she drawled, her gaze shifting slowly between the two grown men. “What’ll it be, boys?”

Both Steve and Bucky blinked up at her.

They cleared their throats rapidly and sat back, trying to put as much distance between each other as the small booth allowed. Steve forced his charming smile back onto his face, acting as if he hadn’t just slammed his hand down and yelled a second ago. Across from him, Bucky crossed his leg and turned his head, pressing a hand over his mouth to hide his frustration as he forced himself to look out the window.

“We’ll have the All American,” Steve said.

Joann jotted down their orders—along with an extra chocolate milkshake added by Bucky, which earned him a side-eye from Steve, since Steve was the one paying for it all.

On your way back from the bathroom, you bumped right into her.

“Oh, hey Joann. Did you already take our orders?”

“Sure did, but honey, you better be careful with those two,” Joann warned, pointing her pen over her shoulder toward your booth with a worried expression. “They look like they bite.”

The chance to elaborate was long gone as she was already walking off towards the kitchen. Turning your attention back to the booth, you saw Steve pressing his cheek against his palm, staring morosely out the window, while Bucky casually sipped his coffee.

You smiled to yourself, oblivious to all the tension.

From where you stood, it looked like they had gotten along just fine while you were gone.

The breakfast platters were already cleared away, leaving nothing but a pile of crumpled napkins and Bucky’s drained milkshake glass.

Up front by the old cash register, Steve stood with his back to the booth, digging into his wallet as Mama Joann rang up the bill. Even from behind, Steve’s broad shoulders were still stiff from his earlier irritation.

Breakfast had gone by smoothly enough—though it wasn’t quite as fun as it normally was with your dad, you still appreciated their company. The entire time, however, it felt like they were talking to you rather than to each other. Every time Bucky asked you a question, you would answer, only for Steve to immediately grab your attention next. Once you replied to Steve, Bucky would subtly try to fight for your focus again.

The whole dining experience felt more like a job interview than spending time with close family friends.

Now, you were left alone in the booth with Bucky. With Steve away from the table, Bucky’s shoulders eased up just slightly.

“So,” he drawled. “What are you and Stevie going to do after this?”

You thought about it for a moment, realizing you and Steve hadn’t actually planned much of anything.

“I’m… I’m actually not sure,” you replied with a shrug. “Breakfast was all we talked about today.”

“Sounds boring, and sounds just like Steve,” Bucky said, leaning back against the seat and draping his arm over the top as he looked down at you.

Under his cold stare, you always felt so small.

You knew Bucky was the kind of man who just took what he wanted—and right now, it felt like he only wanted you.

“You remember Becca’s old house? The one by the lake?” he asked.

You blinked, caught off guard. Ever since his sister’s passing, your father had strictly warned you never to bring up Bucky’s family. It was only safe to do so if Bucky brought them up first, and even then, you had to be careful to avoid any painful triggers.

“I do,” you nodded, keeping your response brief to let him control the conversation.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been over there,” Bucky explained, his blue eyes studying your face. “I think I can fix up her old boat in the shed. Maybe we can take it out for a spin on the lake.”

Your mouth parted slightly with a loss for words. Bucky was inviting you to his late sister’s house? To ride on her boat, no less? He rarely ever spoke about Rebecca, let alone extended an invitation to her place. You were pretty sure not even your dad had ever been invited over there.

“And considering it’s been some time since I last saw you, I think it’d be a great opportunity for us to catch up,” Bucky added.

“Catch up on what?”

Both you and Bucky looked up to find Steve standing at the edge of the booth. He was pocketing his wallet in the back of his jeans, taking in your wide eyes and Bucky’s slouched, unbothered posture.

Bucky kept his arm draped casually over the seat behind you. “Just telling her about Becca’s old place,” he said with that smug tone. “Thinking about going down to the lake later. Get some fresh air. You know, since you didn’t make any plans.”

Steve’s jaw clenched so hard you were sure you heard his teeth click. He crossed his arms tightly over his broad chest, glaring down at Bucky.

“Oh, is that so?” Steve huffed. He then shifted his gaze to you. “And what did she say about it?”

Being put on the spot made your stomach drop. It felt like there was no right answer.

Your eyes flickered back and forth between them. You could understand Steve’s apprehension—Bucky’s reputation hadn’t been... the best, as of late. But looking at Bucky, seeing as much hope as he could muster in those tired blue eyes and the vulnerability of him sharing a piece of his late sister’s memory with you, you already knew your answer.

“I’d love to check out Becca’s house and ride on the boat,” you finally said.

Bucky let out a quiet breath of relief, while Steve’s brows pinched together in disbelief.

“…But,” you added quickly, “I think it’d be fun if Steve tagged along, too.”

The disgruntled noise that left Bucky’s mouth would’ve made you laugh, but the way Steve’s eyes nearly bulged out of his sockets beat you to it.

Bucky pulled his arm back, throwing you an incredulous look that he didn't even bother trying to hide. “Sweetheart, I was actually hoping it would be just the two of us—”

“I would love to come,” Steve interjected, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face that Bucky wanted nothing more than to wipe off.

A smile broke across your face. You knew there was still an underlying tension between them, but the prospect of visiting Rebecca’s old house for the first time and riding in a boat was far better than sitting around doing nothing.

“Yay!” You clasped your hands together, your enthusiastic gaze flickering between the two of them. “Steve and I will stop by the house first so I can change—”

“No,” Bucky interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “You already extended an unwanted invite to Steve, and I’ll only forgive you if you don’t keep me waiting.”

He kept his eyes locked on Steve as he slid out of the booth, rising to his full height to meet him face to face.

“You remember the way to Becca’s house?” he asked.

“‘Course I do.”

“Good.” Bucky spared a quick glance down at you as you began sliding out of the booth yourself, before turning his attention back to Steve. He leaned in, voice dripping quietly so only Steve could catch it.

“Don’t have too much fun with her on the way, yeah?”

Steve only glared harder.

On the drive to Rebecca’s house, you noticed Steve’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles taut. One of his favorite songs came on the radio, and he didn’t even care to acknowledge it.

There was something deeply wrong between him and Bucky—something you had missed entirely while you were in the bathroom.

Finally mustering the courage, you decided to address it. “Steve—”

“There’s something you should know about Bucky,” Steve cut you off, deciding to it for you.

“Okay,” you murmured, prompting him to continue.

“I don’t know how much your dad has told you,” Steve said, letting out a deep breath through his nose. “But Bucky’s been through a lot. He isn’t the same guy he used to be. I know he’s… family to you, and I know your dad trusts him. But Bucky’s been running with a bad crowd lately. Getting into things he shouldn’t be, making promises he can’t keep. He’s reckless.”

You leaned back slightly in your seat, your right arm propped on the window sill as you watched Bucky’s truck ahead of you. Everything he was saying to you wasn’t exactly new.

“Where are you going with this?”

“He treats everything like a game. People, relationships,” Steve continued.

He paused for a moment, chewing his bottom lip in apprehension as he tried to find the right words.

“I recognize the way he’s looking at you, and I don’t like it one bit. He’s looking at you like a distraction from his own mess. I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt, or caught in the middle of whatever trouble he’s dragging behind him.”

You slowly let out the breath you had been holding.

For the most part, you were grateful that Steve was actually being open with you about Bucky and his bad habits. Whenever Bucky’s name came up around your father, your dad was always quick to beat around the bush, never addressing anything seriously.

“Ah, Bucky is just going through a rough patch right now.”

“He’s just in another one of his moods. Leave him be.”

“I invited Bucky to your birthday party, but he… he couldn’t make it. You know how he is.”

Even though Bucky was everything a girl like you should avoid, at the end of the day, he was like family. And the idea of him being alone this weekend while he was back in town killed you.

He had his ups and downs, and as much of a grumpy old man he could be now, you weren’t going to throw away all the good times just because of the bad.

“I’m a big girl, Steve,” you reassured him, glancing over. He kept his gaze locked on the road. “I can make my own decisions. Bucky invited me to his late sister’s boat—and despite everything, I couldn’t refuse that. You know why.”

Up ahead, Bucky’s truck slowed down, turning left onto a narrow, gravel driveway lined with overgrown pine trees. The reflection of the sun hit the lake and shone through the branches in the distance.

Steve pulled up right behind him, shifting the car into park but keeping his foot firmly on the brake. He turned fully in his seat to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours with earnesty.

“I know. It’s just… promise me you’ll stay close to me today,” Steve pleaded softly.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and gave him a reassuring smile. You nodded towards Bucky’s truck, where he was just hopping out of the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut.

“You act like he’s going to murder me.”

Despite your attempt at a joke, Steve’s expression didn’t waver.

“Your dad left you under my watch, so in a way, I feel responsible for protecting you—”

“—protecting her from what?” Bucky asked, slapping his calloused hands against Steve’s window and leaning over. “Woah—this car is still running? You know, my sister used to love this thing. Coulda’ sworn you were gonna win her over with it every time you pulled up to the house.”

Steve gave Bucky a deadpan look. With a grunt, he pushed his door open—forcing Bucky out of the way. But just as Steve started walking around to your side to open your door, Bucky beat him to it.

“Watch your step,” Bucky said, holding your hand to help you out of the seat. “Lots of rocks.”

“Since when did you get so sweet?” you teased, sandals stepping down onto the crunching gravel.

Bucky chuckled—a low, raspy sound as he shook his head. “Geez, you really think I’m an awful guy, don’t you?”

You gave him a small smile, which he returned with a gentle one of his own before letting go of your fingers.

Steve kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He didn’t like this interaction one bit, but he swallowed down his pride for your sake.

He looked around the property, taking in the overgrown grass and the faded paint on the siding of the old house. The place hadn’t been maintained in what looked and felt like years. The fences had once been painted a bright coral blue—Rebecca’s favorite color—but now, they were stained with dirt and weathered from years of neglect.

Steve glanced at you, knowing you were thinking the same thing. A solemn look settled into your eyes. You knew how close Bucky and his sister had been, and leaving this house to him had obviously been more than he could handle.

Bucky stood there stiffly, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. The playful twinkle his eyes had held for you just moments ago slowly faded the longer he stared at the house.

“It hasn’t changed much,” Steve said quietly, clearing his throat. He was trying to ease the tension, even though they both knew it was a lie.

Something between a snort and a self-deprecating laugh left Bucky’s lungs.

He nodded towards the path wrapping around the side of the building. “Come on. The shed’s down by the dock.”

The three of you fell into a single file line, with you taking the middle spot. As you approached the shed, Bucky fished around in his pocket for the keys. It took him a moment to find the right one, but when he finally pushed the door open, it revealed an eighteen foot wooden motorboat right in the middle.

The deep emerald green paint on the hull was flaking away in brittle scabs, exposing the gray, sun bleached wood underneath. Inside, the white oak ribs were coated in dust and cobwebs, and the stagnant rainwater pooling in the bilge smelled faintly of rot, causing you to wrinkle your nose.

Bucky took the first step inside, his hand reaching out to gently touch the worn steering wheel.

“We’ll get her fixed up today,” he murmured. “We’ll take her out on the lake.”

He spoke so softly you weren’t sure if he was talking to you, or to himself.

“I don’t know, Buck,” Steve hesitated, dragging a finger along the side. “She might leak like a sieve if you put her in the water right now. You’re gonna need a miracle to get this thing to turn over, let alone idle.”

Bucky’s shoulders dropped, his expression turning somber. He knew Steve was right, and seeing that defeated look pulled at your heart. He was already carrying so much emotionally, it ached to watch him rarely try to plan something special, only to see it fall apart.

“Chin up, you guys,” you spoke up enthusiastically, breaking the silence. “It doesn’t look that bad. Especially since there’s three of us—we can fix this in no time.”

Steve raised a skeptical brow at you. “You’ve never even touched a boat, sweetheart. There’s a lot of heavy lifting to be done here.”

“Well—it’s a good thing I’ve got two strong men by my side!” you joked, hopeful eyes flickering between the two of them. “Even if we don’t fix it completely, even if we just end up floating out there,” you shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips, “at least we got it on the lake, right?”

That, at least, managed to pull a small smile from Bucky.

And with the soft spot Steve always had for you, he knew he couldn’t deny your wishes.

With a reluctant sigh, he started moving around the shed, scanning the shelves for the tools they would need. “Well? What are we standing around for, then?”

For the rest of the afternoon, the three of you worked side by side to bring Rebecca’s old boat back to life.

Steve and Bucky took turns with the heavy lifting, hauling out the rusted battery and helping each other realign the heavy parts of the inboard motor. Bucky insisted on handling the delicate mechanical work—scraping away layers of rust, cleaning out the gummed up carburetor, and replacing the brittle fuel lines.

You did your best to help where you could, taking a wire brush to the flaking paint on the hull and wiping down the dusty wooden benches. Mostly, you acted as their mediator, passing wrenches and screwdrivers back and forth while they worked in relative silence.

By the time the sun began to slip behind the trees, painting the sky in beautiful shades of orange and pink, the boat was far from perfect, but it finally looked cared for again.

Bucky stood over the engine block, hands on his hips. He had discarded his leather jacket hours ago, and his shirt was now thoroughly drenched in sweat.

He looked over at you with a grin. “Think she’s good enough to take for a spin?”

Your lips started to tug into a smile. “Yes—!”

Steve shook his head, shutting you down. “No. The bilge pump is shot. It needs to be replaced before we put her in the water.”

Sitting on the wooden bench inside the boat, you glanced over your shoulder and met Steve’s eyes with a frown. “But we worked on it all day. Are you sure we can’t take it out? Not even for a little bit?”

“Without that pump, water is going to leak through the planks like crazy,” Steve explained.

But caught between your crestfallen look and the disappointed crease between Bucky’s brows, he sighed and gave in.

He checked his watch, tapping the glass. “It’s just past five. The auto parts store in town closes at seven on Fridays. If I leave right now, I can grab a replacement pump and be back before it gets dark.”

“Really? You’d do that, Stevie?” you beamed, your excitement returning in an instant.

Steve’s eyes softened. He hated how easily he gave in to you. “Yeah. I’ll be quick—just stay here, alright?”

Bucky shifted, rocking back on his heels with a rare and slightly sheepish look. “Thanks, Steve.”

Steve stepped away from the boat, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. Before he turned around, he pointed a stern finger at Bucky. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

To anyone else, that saying could have passed as typical, lighthearted banter between two old friends. But you knew Steve well enough to hear the real warning underneath it.

Bucky just shrugged, unbothered. “How can I? When you’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Steve was already walking briskly up the path towards the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. He muttered something under his breath and shook his head, ignoring Bucky’s comment entirely.

The two of you watched him get into his car and drive off. The moment the sounds of Steve’s engine faded away, Bucky turned back to you.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face—it was a look that insinuated he was up to no good.

“How ‘bout we take her out anyway?” Bucky asked, nodding to the lake. “Just to see how long she’ll float?”

You gasped. “Bucky, no! Steve literally just said she’ll leak—”

“Steve worries too much,” Bucky scoffed, clicking his tongue. He stepped over to the stern and began pushing the boat towards the lake, ignoring the fact that you were still sitting inside. “It’ll take time for the water to really start coming in. We’ll just go out a hundred yards, turn around, and come right back.”

You knew Steve would be furious, and logically, sitting in a boat that was destined to take on water was a terrible idea. But looking at the sudden, bright spark of life in Bucky’s eyes—the first real glimpse of the carefree guy your dad used to talk about—you found yourself softening.

“A hundred yards,” you bargained, pointing a stern finger at him. “And the second my feet get wet, we turn right around.”

“Deal.”

Before you could change your mind, he shoved the boat down the wooden launch ramp. “Hold on tight!”

The cedar hull hit the once calm glassy surface of the lake with a splash, sending a hard ripple across the water. Bucky tied her off to the dock quickly, then vaulted over and immediately went to work on the flywheel.

He wrapped a pull rope around the starter, took a deep breath, and gave it a hard yank.

The engine coughed, sputtering out a cloud of blue gray smoke, but failed to catch.

“Come on,” Bucky muttered to the machine, wrapping the rope again. He gave it another tug.

This time, the engine sputtered, groaned, and then loudly chugged to life. Bucky laughed triumphantly, the sound so raspy and genuine— it made butterflies swarm in your belly.

He unhooked the mooring line from the dock and tossed it into the bow, then hopped back to the center of the boat to take the steering wheel, gliding the boat away from the dock and further into the water.

The cool lakeside breeze greeted your face, a godsend from working under the sun for hours. Surprisingly enough, the engine and boat remained stable while the sun turned the lake into a pretty pool of liquid gold.

Bucky had a gentle look on his face, the lines around his eyes creasing slightly as he wore a soft smile.

“My sister and I used to ride this boat all the time,” he explained softly, eyes boring into the sun dipping past the lake line. “We would go fishing—and she’d always hate me for catching the biggest fish.”

You smiled softly. It wasn’t often that Bucky shared a part of himself, but every time he did, it was beautiful.

“We should go fishing one day,” you said. “My dad loves fishing, and it’s been a long time since he saw you. Maybe we could do it when he gets back.” You chuckled quietly to yourself at the idea. “He’d probably be so jealous if he found out I got to ride your boat before he did.”

Bucky hummed, the corners of his lips quirking up.

The two of you stayed quiet for a moment as he steered the boat deeper into the lake. Compared to you and Steve, your conversations with Bucky weren’t as lighthearted or enthusiastic. Majority of the time, it’s just you sitting in awkward silence—well, awkward for you—while Bucky just basks in the moment.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around these days,” he suddenly murmured, back still turned to you as he kept his focus on the sunset. “I’ve been caught up with a lot of things. I’m sure your father has told you, and I’m also sure I lost all his respect for me.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh as he added, “Not that I deserve it, anyway.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself.” Even though he wouldn’t look at you, you kept your eyes on his back. “He still respects you.”

Then, Bucky slowly looked over his shoulder, eyes half lidded and tired.

“And what about you?” he rasped. “Do you still respect me?”

You tilted your head and raised a brow, not expecting him to care about your respect for him of all things.

“Of course I do, Bucky.”

“Good,” he nodded, looking back at the lake. “That’s good…”

While on the topic of respect, you couldn’t help but wonder…

“What about you? Do you respect me?”

Bucky’s lips curved up into an even bigger impish grin. “I don’t know yet,” he teased.

Your eyes bulged. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean—!”

But the already short teasing interaction got cut even shorter, a wet sensation seeping through your sandals and between your toes.

You glanced down, catching the way the water was bubbling up through the gaps in the floorboards like tiny miniature fountains. The dark pool in the bilge had risen past the soles of your sandals, and with every small wave that hit the hull, the water level crept higher toward your ankles.

“Bucky,” you gasped, lifting your foot. “Bucky! Look down!”

Bucky glanced down, that impish grin stripped off his features as he lifted his boot, now dampened with water. “Shit.”

Your eyes flickered in a panic around you. The dock looked tiny in the distance. The shoreline was far away—way further than the promised a hundred yards. In the middle of your conversation, Bucky had kept driving obliviously and you were now stranded right in the deep center of the lake.

“Bucky, we’re too far out!” you shrieked as you lifted your knees to your chest, trying to keep your feet out of the freezing water.

The bilge was filling fast, making the boat feel heavy and sluggish.

“Turn it around!” you urged.

“I’m trying—” Bucky grabbed the lever, but the moment he shifted it into reverse to swing the boat around, the engine made a startling noise with a sputter that choked on the rising water. And died.

“Shit. It’s not turning—can you swim?” He met you in the center of the boat, where it rocked dangerously, and he grabbed your wrist.

“Oh, God,” you felt your heart race in horror. Being stranded in the middle of a lake with no life vest was a far reach from your usual swimming capabilities that only belonged in a swimming pool.

“Bucky—I don’t know how—”

“It’s okay,” he tried to reassure you, grabbing both your wrists, which only caused you to panic even more. “Just hold still—”

He tried to widen his stance to keep his balance, but your flailing caused him to hiss impatiently, pulling you closer to his chest with a harsh and sudden tug.

He was strong—strong enough to cause you to collide into his chest, and without the engine running to keep the boat steady, the sudden movement tipped the vessel. The momentum caused you to fall over, bringing Bucky down with you.

A shriek managed to escape your lips before you were engulfed completely under the freezing lake water.

You flailed your arms, trying to figure out which way was up. Bucky found your wrists again, pulling you upward with him as your head broke the surface. You gasped for air, blinking the dirty lake water out of your eyes.

“I got you—I got you, okay? Just stay with me,” he reassured, his deep and asserting voice overriding your panic momentarily as his long, dark hair hung wet over his gruff face. “Don’t let go.”

You stood in the middle of the first floor bathroom with Bucky. He was frantically rubbing you down with a towel, ruffling your hair into an even wetter mop than it already was as he kept mumbling things about not wanting to get you sick, and how both your father and Steve would kill him if he did.

“I’ll be okay, Bucky,” you grabbed the towel from his hands, pausing him. “You need to take care of yourself too. You’re drenched.”

“Right. Well, I was only able to find one towel in here—” He started browsing through the other cabinets, his large hands shifting through expired bottles and dusty toiletries out of the way.

As he rummaged deeper, his movements started to slow.

Hidden behind a stack of old soap bars was a small, dusty bottle of vanilla perfume and a faded pink hair ribbon—things left abandoned by Rebecca years ago, who was… no longer around to use them.

His shoulders dropped as he just stood there, staring at them.

You frowned softly, watching the change in his expression. “Are you okay?”

He closed the cabinet door slowly and shrugged, trying to shake it off, but there was no use. “I couldn’t find another towel, so I’ll just air dry.” He answered instead.

Your frown deepened as the water droplets from his hair hit the cold tile floor.

He was soaked from head to toe, and he was shivering. You knew there might have been a spare towel somewhere in the house, but you knew Bucky didn’t want to look. It had been clear that there weren’t any signs of life in this house after his sister’s passing up until now, and if he got shaken up from just seeing the perfume bottle and hair tie alone, then you could only imagine what he’d go through if he walked through the rest of the house.

“Don’t be stupid,” you murmured softly, gathering the damp towel and pressing it against his hair.

Bucky went still, his breath hitching as you began to dry his wet strands. You wiped the back of his neck, then moved down to gently dab at his broad shoulders and the damp fabric of his shirt.

“You should take your shirt off,” you explained. “You’ll get sick.”

He huffed a short laugh, glancing subtly over his shoulder down at you. “I could say the same thing to you, but that’d be inappropriate.”

Pausing, you quickly glanced down at yourself and realized just how inappropriate this already was—even with your shirt still on.

Your white cotton tank top was soaked right through, your cold and perky nipples poking against the fabric obscenely. Your shorts, completely damp, clung tightly to the curves of your body, riding up as water drippled down your thighs.

The entire sight was improper, and you were sure Bucky was thinking the same thing—he just didn’t want to address it.

Slowly, he turned around to face you, his hands finding your wrists and gently catching them to stop you.

“Thank you for riding the boat with me,” he murmured, gently guiding your hand with the towel over his damp and stubbled cheek.

Your breath shuddered. Bucky—your dad’s friend, who was usually always walking around with grumpy frown lines and his arms crossed—looked so utterly small and vulnerable in the small space of this cold bathroom.

“Of course,” you whispered.

Bucky’s grip on your wrists loosened, his large hands sliding slowly up your forearms, past your elbows, until they found comfort on your waist.

Even though he was drenched, his hands felt warm against your skin. Pulling you closer, his thumb brushed against the bare skin of your hip bones where your tank top had rose up.

“Every time I leave town, my mind always screams at me—telling me to come back to one thing,” he spoke quietly, his eyes tracing the vulnerable column of your neck. “Not even to your dad, or to Steve, or even… this house.”

He stepped closer, one strong leg finding its way between yours as he pushed you gently back against the sink’s counter.

“But to you. Isn’t that so wrong of me?”

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you found out he was actually waiting for an answer.

“I don’t see how that can be wrong,” you spoke, more timidly than you’d like. “We’re like family, aren’t we?”

Bucky’s brows furrowed so deep it should’ve scared you.

“That’s what makes it so wrong,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, letting his thumb glide over the curve. “Because I have these thoughts—thoughts a man like me shouldn’t have for a girl like you. Like how badly I want to kiss you.” Bucky rasped, his voice conflicted as he pulled you closer against him, until no space was left. “I know I shouldn’t. But hell, everything in my body is telling me to.”

The look in his eyes matched the conflict he poured into every single word.

His hands held you tight, keeping you trapped between the counter and his body, but the look in his eyes was begging himself to let you go.

You knew you shouldn’t encourage this. You knew this wasn’t right.

And yet…

You reached up, your fingers tangling into the wet strands of his hair, and pulled him down and met his lips with yours.

The gasp that caught in his throat was overcome by the warm sensation of your mouth. Shock paralyzed him, but the longer he felt your lips press against his, he lost all the resolve that was screaming at him to stop.

Bucky took the control he wanted to have over you for a long time. His hands gripped your waist, meeting your first gentle kiss with a rough, demanding one. He slipped his tongue in as he lifted your body up until you were sitting right on the edge of the sink counter. He stepped closer, forcing your legs to open and let him in.

He didn’t want this moment to slip away, or even grace you with the opportunity to change your mind. His hands explored all over your body, large palms sliding to cup the curve of your ass, rocking the erection that grew in his pants within seconds just from being close to you.

“Fuck—we shouldn’t do this,” he rasped against your lips before pulling away to catch his breath. “We shouldn’t—shit—”

“I don’t care,” you whimpered, your pleading eyes meeting his hungry ones. “I want this.”

A dark, raspy chuckle left his lips. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

His mouth trailed down your jawline to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He bit and suckled at your sensitive skin, making you arch your back as his hot breath and wet tongue sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid up, fingers hooking under the hem of your soaked white tank top and pushing the fabric up until it was bunched beneath your chin.

You shuddered as the cold air hit your skin. Bucky’s eyes were dark and hungry, staring at the water dripping down between your breasts like a taunt.

“Christ, look at you. Looking like every man’s dream,” he groaned, greedy hands coming up to cup your tits before pressing both of them together. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

He leaned down to capture one cold, perky nipple between his lips. He swirled his tongue around the peak, sucking it deep into his mouth with a tug that had your fingers gripping his shoulders in pleasure, your hips rolling up against the bulge of his lower stomach as you filled the bathroom with the slutty sounds of your breath.

You arched your back, tugging at his hair while his tongue feverishly licked and sucked at the sensitive bud. While his mouth gave its attention to one nipple, his rough fingers would play with the other. Then he would switch between the two, giving your body all the love he knew it was lacking.

Bucky pulled his face away with a wet pop of his mouth, a string of saliva connecting to your chest as he licked his lips clean.

“This… this is so wrong,” his words drifted uselessly in the air as he broke the space again, his nose to your neck as his tongue found something new to play with.

His warm mouth danced around the skin of your neck, sucking, biting, and groaning with every nibble.

He was sure to leave marks, but you didn’t have the strength to tell him to stop—you didn’t want him to.

“Keep going,” you said breathlessly, your head rolling to the side while he made love to your neck and memorized your body with his hands. “Don’t stop, Bucky—”

Suddenly, all the tension in the room shifted into something far more wicked than what was transpiring between you and Bucky.

The door slammed open, hard enough that the knob left an indent on the wall, and right there, standing in the doorframe, was Steve—who had once been holding the brand new bilge pump that had fallen and hit the floor.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

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The last few weeks had been agonizing. A spontaneous outing had led your mother to meet a man, and the encounter quickly blossomed into a relationship; suddenly, she was breaking the news that the three of you would be abandoning your hometown and moving states away, completely isolated from family and friends.

You stand in your bedroom, faintly decorated with memorabilia from your old house; stuffed animals lining your bed, a few knicknacks on your dresser, books piled high on your desk, and even a poster you pinned up with a few tacks. It didn’t feel like home, not an ounce of it did.

Maybe it was the stranger walking around who your mother nudged you to call ‘dad ’; you refused that idea, scoffing at even the thought of referring to another man as your dad. It was off the table, the only way you could reclaim some sense of agency after being forced to move hours away, prying yourself from the job at the library you scored at sixteen, and having to leave behind everything you knew, for some man.

You resented him, and he knew it.

It could’ve been worse–the house is nice; a large forest surrounds it, in the middle of nowhere, an open, long road without a single person living on it for miles. You were isolated in this small town, though it was barely a town; you hadn’t seen the mailman, yet papers ended up at the door every Sunday, and you had started to think it was haunted. Maybe.

“Night shift tonight, sweetheart,” your mother butts in, leaning on the doorframe of your bedroom. “Not sure if there’s anything in the fridge to eat; you can ask your dad to order in, or something,” she shrugs, clad in her pink scrubs.

“Not my dad,” you say back instantly, setting down the picture you had been staring at. “There’s nowhere to even order in from–we’re miles away from a restaurant, Mom.” 

“You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure it out,” she reassures and walks across the floorboards towards you. “I promise, he’ll get you something if you ask politely.” She lifts a hand and pinches your cheek like you’re five again.

“He gives me the creeps,” you counter, tilting your head to the side and blinking slowly.

“Because you haven’t spoken to him,” she responds, rubbing her thumb over her cheek. “Tonight would be a good night… to talk to him; I’m not here to make it awkward,” she smiles. 

“Whatever,” you dismiss and pull back from her gentle grip–it’s annoying, the way she’s trying to act like she didn’t rip you away from your roots and place you in the middle of nowhere with nothing.

She had secured a job as a nurse at the small medical clinic an hour or so down the road; you found that out when the three of you pulled into the driveway, and her boyfriend congratulated her on finding a job so easily. It made a lot more sense that she didn’t care she was leaving behind her small job.

“Be good,” she points her finger at you and turns on her heel, blowing you a chaste kiss before disappearing behind the doorframe and down the hallway. 

You groan softly and tilt your head back at the thought of being forced to spend time alone with this man. The most communication you have with him is over breakfast, when he prys and prys, hoping you’ll crack and tell him some detailed college story, but your one-word answers deter him, and he sips his coffee, accepting defeat. 

The night settles in, and your mom is working away, all while he lingers somewhere in the house. He’s probably on the couch, sipping beer and flicking through channels, and you’re a hostage in your bedroom, sitting on your bed, a book in your lap.

“Haven’t eaten anything, have you?” a low voice comes from the doorframe, and he stands there; hair damp, shaggy with excess water, and you realize he wasn’t in the living room. He had just showered.

“No,” you shake your head and look back down at your book, and he clenches his jaw.

Before all of this, he worked with the public–analyzing people, sifting through parts of their brains they didn’t want others to know about, and you were this spread-out, glorious puzzle he was trying to connect and fit together. It was impossible with you, and it was an undeniable pull he had towards you because of it. 

“Well, you need to,” he states plainly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m old enough to know these things,” you say without looking up from your book, mindlessly flipping through the pages, and he grits his teeth together.

“You act like a child, though,” he counters, taking a few steps into your bedroom, and he’s wrapped in the familiar scent that usually follows you around like a tail; sweet, sickeningly sweet, a combination of desserts and what else they can shove into tubes and bottles with pink packaging. 

“But I’m not,” you respond drily, not even noticing that he is now in your bedroom, his eyes scanning your walls and desk. Maybe he’s taking an interest.

He’s quiet as he leans against your desk that faces the end of your bed, and he crosses his arms again, his ankle over the other one, too. You try to ignore him, but you can smell the shampoo and lotion he used when he got out of the shower. You look up.

“You have to eat something,” he states once more, and he stares at you.

“My mom said we don’t even have any food,” you shake your head, placing your book onto the bed beside you. “What is there to eat?”

“While you were hiding in here, I got pizza,” he shrugs, rubbing his hand over his scruff. “Didn’t even notice I was gone for hours,” he shakes his head, and you sigh.

You almost feel bad–this poor man trying to build a relationship with you, and your walls are built so high that he doesn’t know where to even start with tearing them down. Pizza sounds like a peace offering, and you lick your lips.

“I’ll have some pizza.” You nod hesitantly, and he shoots you a half-grin.

“You like that vanilla ice cream too, yeah?” he asks, blinking. “Convenience store beside the joint had some, got you a tub,” he nods slowly, and you shift against your mattress, appreciating his efforts despite despising him.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and he’s standing off your desk.

“Come on,” he waves towards you, gesturing for you to join him in the kitchen to eat.

Just the light above the oven is flicked on when you enter the kitchen, the television running, and the pizza reheated on a different plate. The drive was a long one, and you knew the pizza had to be put in the oven again, and the ice cream probably melted–it had it all laid out perfectly, and you suddenly feel guilty.

“Great signal,” he comments, gesturing toward the television, then leaning over to grab himself a slice of pizza. “Middle of nowhere and works like a charm,” he shrugs, trying to make small talk.

“Barely worked at the old place,” you reply, sliding a piece of pizza onto the plate. “Kept skipping, and half the time it froze on ads,” you laugh, shaking your head.

“Happens,” he says, watching your hands holding the ceramic plate, contemplating whether to head back to your bedroom or to join him on the couch to watch a movie.

You glance at the bedroom, then at the living room, and decide to sit on the small couch, sinking into the cushions. He joins you and takes a seat beside you, this time cracking open a beer, and you take a bite of the pizza. He watches you out of the corner of his eye, relief flooding his body at the small nod of satisfaction.

The movie playing on the television is random, something that you watch when you just want background noise, not when you’re trying to curb the awkward tension between you and your mom’s boyfriend.

“Getting sleepy?” he asks when he notices your head resting against your palm, your elbow against the armrest. Both of your plates are on the coffee table, and he’s on his third beer.

“No,” you mumble, shaking your head, but you yawn, and he smiles.

“Seem sleepy,” he shoots back, his beer bottle resting against his sweatpants over his thigh.

“Just… my body kind of hurts,” you shrug, unsure of why you’re telling him this.

He furrows his eyebrows. “Why? What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You turn your head to look at him when the pet name slips from his lips, and he’s unfazed, his eyes blinking, concerned about your soft complaint. He didn’t mean anything by it.

“Went on that long walk in the forest earlier,” you explain, looking back at the television. “My feet hurt, my shoes aren’t the best… for that kind of stuff,” you shrug, and he listens carefully.

The long walks in the forest were what was keeping you sane. Being stuck in the house, listening to your mother fawn over the dude she just met, all while shoving the relationship down your throat–the combination was sickening, and roaming around seemed a lot better. Even if your shoes were uncomfortable, and your heels bled.

“That’s not good,” he shakes his head, his eyes taking a peek at your feet, curled up on the couch, and he licks his tongue over his teeth, contemplating.

“I know, it hurts,” you reply, sighing quietly.

“Hand ‘em over,” he says, and you look over at him, your brows stitching together and a small, confused smile twitching at your lips. “Your feet.”

You scoff and look around the living room like there’s a hidden camera picking this up, and slowly turn back to gaze at the genuine man, his eyes revealing something beyond the lust and evil you usually find when a man older than you looks at you. You nod.

His hand is warm when it covers your feet, and you let them rest in his lap, gentle touches roaming over your ankle; his thumb brushes the ball of your ankle, dipping to the arch, the other hand lightly roaming over your calf. You watch quietly as he soothes the ache from moving on your feet all day–they wouldn’t hurt if you weren’t trying to escape his presence, and now here he is, making you feel better. You blink.

“That feels okay, right?” he checks in, and you’re almost falling asleep from the affectionate touch. You mumble something inaudible and mindlessly nod, yawning once more, and your eyes suddenly feel heavy, then shut.

The next time your eyes flick open, you realize that you had fallen asleep on the couch–feet in his lap, and he’s asleep too; his head against the back of the couch, eyes closed, and his hair messily dried- and your eyes widen at the realization. You suck in a breath and look over at the television. The time flashes six o’clock in the morning, and your mom is usually home by seven.

You curse quietly to yourself and slowly pull your feet from his grip, biting your lip to keep from waking him, and tiptoe your way back into your bedroom, glancing over your shoulder at him. You wonder when you dozed off, and how long you were on the couch with him; legs over his lap, his hand rubbing your calf, and you swallow hard.

When you wake up for breakfast, he’s already awake too, moving through the kitchen with plates and pans, and your mom is sitting half-asleep at the dining table.

“Good morning,” he says to you casually, and you give a slight grin, taking a seat beside your mom, who is sipping copious amounts of black coffee.

“Honey, I’m going out today with the girls,” your mom tells you with a shrug, her lips still around the mug.

You furrow your eyebrows. “The girls? We just… moved here? And we don’t have neighbours.”

“Met some ladies on my shift last night, really sweet, wanted to invite me to lunch and stuff with them,” she smiles, giving you a nod. “Cute town about an hour or so away.”

Her boyfriend is in the kitchen listening, mentally preparing to spend the day alone with you–and you’re doing it too, wondering if it’ll be him rubbing your feet and legs on the couch again until you fall asleep type of night. You glance at the back of his head.

“And you’re not tired?” you ask your mom, noticing her boyfriend dipping into the dining room.

“Holy hell, am I ever,” she laughs, taking a longer sip of coffee.

You don’t reply; you merely shift in the wooden chair, watching as a plate is slid in front of you. The food is already cut up, like you’re a toddler incapable of using utensils, and you look to your mom’s boyfriend, who is walking away and coming back to bring the plates for the two of you. The food isn’t cut up.

You pick at the pre-sliced pancake and take a bite, glancing up at him. He sits across from you, picking around at his eggs with his fork and knife, reaching for a piece of bacon, and your mom is beaming with delight. Her ex-husband, your dad, never did things like this. Ever.

“You know,” your mom starts, nudging you with her elbow. “This little lady doesn’t even have her license yet,” she says, looking over at you through a bite of toast.

“Mom,” you scold lightly and look to her, knowing how pathetic it was not to have your license at your age–you never wanted it, never thought you needed it, and now that you were miles away from everything, it was kind of crucial.

“Maybe… he can teach you,” she offers, and her boyfriend sighs quietly, looking at you, but your head is down. “He has that old truck out back, perfect for practicing,” she adds.

“No, it’s okay,” you shake your head quickly and shove a piece of syrup-soaked pancake into your mouth. “It’s… not that important; I don’t need lessons, or anything.”

“I don’t mind,” he speaks up and shakes his head, taking a long sip of coffee. “Truck is easy to drive, even if it’s older than you are,” he comments, and your eyes meet his.

“See? Now you won’t be bored while I’m at lunch,” your mom grins, nodding in excitement.

“Thanks,” you mumble, your eyes more focused on the pool of butter than pancakes than anything else in the dining room. 

Today is going to be a long day.

When you emerge from your bedroom, you’re wearing the white dress your mom had bought you before the move, a gift to make up for the fact she was ruining your life–cotton and lacy, perfectly short for the summer, and you thought that it actually suited you, rather than hid your body like you were used to.

“You ready?” he calls from the kitchen, and you hear the jingle of keys in his hand, and you walk around the corner, nodding.

It’s not like he doesn’t know that you’re pretty; of course he does. Your hair moving over your shoulders, the way your legs peek out of the shorts you wear, and your shirt riding up when you reach for something, or that embarrassed smile he sees when your mom teases you. He noticed it all.

“I’m ready,” you say, and he’s already heading out of the front door, keys on hand. 

The truck is parked in the driveway, old and beaten up, mostly used for short trips or for working on the large lot behind the house. He opens the doors, and you climb into the passenger seat, gazing around the small interior: no centre console like most trucks, and the seats were actually comfortable.

“You ever drive, at all?” he asks, the truck coming to life with a turn of the key as he backs out of the driveway, glancing over his shoulder.

“I had a job at a golfing place, had to drive the carts,” you explain, turning your head to watch him, and he’s focusing on maneuvering the truck out of the dirt path.

“Pretty much the same,” he reassures, glancing over at you before shifting into drive. “Just a lot bigger,” he nods, the truck chugging down the road.

He drives the truck down the road, getting a few feet away from the house before pausing in the middle of the street. It didn’t matter; barely any drove through, and he looks to you, carefully patting his thigh. He watches your eyebrows raise.

“I’ll control the peddles,” he explains with a nod, leaning a little back into the truck. “You can steer, yeah?” he says, and you’re too busy looking down at the thigh he just suggested you sit on.

It’s thick, all muscle pressing against the denim, and you hesitantly nod, shuffling across the seats until he’s helping you onto his thigh. His hands are careful, never touching where they shouldn’t, only on your hips and waist, never straying too far away. 

“This comfortable?” He asks through a laugh, and you’re trying to act like it’s not straight cotton underwear against his denim thigh; all rough between your legs, and you shift awkwardly.

“It’s fine,” you smile nervously and gulp, your hands finding the thin steering wheel. He pats your hip.

“Steering is the easiest part,” he says, looking over your shoulder at the open road. “Truck is a little… sensitive; don’t need much of a turn for it to turn left or right,” he explains, his thumb rubbing against the fabric of your dress.

You stare at the open road too, hesitantly nodding when he guides you through it. His hand is warm through the dress, and large enough to span most of it. You’re trying to ignore how firm he is between your thighs, and how gentle he’s being. It’s such an innocent moment, and you’re making it perverted.

“I’m gonna ease off the brake,” he tells you, lifting his boot off the pedal. “And now the gas,” he adds, squeezing your hip, and you squeeze the wheel.

The truck starts rolling ahead, and you lightly tweak the wheel, swerving more into the right lane, and he’s smiling as you do it. He looks ahead; no cars for miles. Perfect.

“Don’t know what your mama was talking about,” he shakes his head, referencing a conversation you weren’t a part of. “You’re doing just fine.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, biting your lip in focus, guiding the truck along. He watches, focusing just like you are.

“How about we make it fun?” He offers, and you feel your cheeks blooming with warmth. “I’ll tell you to swerve, and then you have to do it as quickly as possible,” he says, and you feel relief.

You need to stop being so damn perverted.

“Okay, I can do that,” you nod confidently, and he grins, patting your hip again.

“Gonna pick up the speed a bit, okay? Make it harder for you,” he replies, easing his boot onto the gas even more, and the truck chugs in response to the extra kick.

The trick starts moving along a bit quicker, and you sit up, adjusting your hips against his thigh, and you hate how that small tingle settles there, an uncomfortable ache that shouldn’t be appearing. It’s your mom’s boyfriend teaching you to drive, and you’re getting horny from his thigh. 

“Swerve,” he says softly, and you instantly turn the wheel, a sharp divet, and he laughs at your reaction time. 

You’re laughing, too, at how quickly the truck moved and how quickly your response time was. He’s impressed and presses his thumb into the dress.

“Look at you,” he says, grinning as he looks at the side of your face. “Driving like a pro,” he teases.

“I am,” you nod quickly, looking back to him, and your faces are much too close together. You quickly look back and away from him.

“How about we switch now?” he suggests, slowly hitting the brake. “I’ll steer, you control the pedals.”

You nod again, and he slowly shifts position, his fingers lightly brushing yours as you pull back from him. He carefully puts just one hand on the steering wheel, and you have to shift further up his thigh. You close your eyes slightly, feeling the friction as you settle on the edge, and your foot holds the brake.

“Atta girl, there,” he praises, and he squeezes your hip. “A little gas, go ahead,” he encourages, and you listen.

The truck starts moving again, and he’s immediately teasing you, swerving a bit and making you laugh louder, your foot subconsciously pressing down, making you go faster. He’s smiling, listening to you laugh—it might be the first damn time he’s heard it, and it’s like sunshine against his skin. He soaks it up.

“How about we put the two together now,” he says, not asking, but telling. “You steer, and control the pedals now,” he grins, and you hesitantly nod.

He takes one hand off the steering wheel and now holds both of your hips, and you place your two hands on the wheel. You lightly grip the wheel, and ease onto the gas again—you’re fully driving, and he’s watching.

“Good girl, that’s perfect,” he shakes his head, blinking slowly. “We can already take you to your test,” he jokes, and you shake your head, too.

“Can’t even park,” you respond, biting your lip, focusing on staying in the lines. “They’d call the cops on me. I’d be crashing all over the place,” you joke.

“Yeah, right, look at you,” he scoffs, sliding a hand further around your hip, gently holding your stomach. “Staying in the lines, not even swerving, looking like a pro to me.”

You smile to yourself, feeling his warm hand on your abdomen, his thumb rubbing gently there too. It feels good; his thigh between your legs, and his hand holding your stomach. You swallow hard. 

“How about… I make it a little more difficult,” he prompts, and you nod, accepting the little challenge. He grins.

He starts lightly bouncing his knee, and your eyes widen as you grip the steering wheel tighter than ever. You know he’s just trying to jostle you around, making you lose balance and focus, but it’s doing a third thing you can’t bring yourself to say aloud.

“Hey—“ you gasp out, feeling the constant pressure between your thighs, and he can feel them squeezing around his. “That’s—really distracting,” you grumble out, and he’s smiling.

“That’s the point,” he counters, holding your body against his thigh, lightly bouncing it up and down. “Real-life scenario; bumpy roads, can’t be flailing all over the place like a doll,” he teases, and you want to tell him how different this is.

“Are—you… you sure?” You stutter, slowly moving your foot to the brake, pressing down on it and tapping out. You know you can’t sit there any longer. 

“Maybe you’re not a pro,” he says, laughing, and you frown a little, feeling him stop bouncing. “Need to perfect it, even when you can’t think straight.”

You sigh loudly, not knowing whether he was doing it on purpose or because he truly thought it was just a little joke, jostling you around, making it hard to steer and focus. He probably knew; he definitely did.

“Shut up, I was doing good,” you retort, slowly moving off his lap, and he slides his hands back, leaning further into the leather seat.

“Yeah, best driver I’ve seen in a minute,” he praises, glancing over at you. “Even if you can’t handle a bit of movement,” he says, shrugging and looking back at the road.

“It was unrealistic, I was trying to balance on your thigh,” you counter, and he nods in understanding, ticking his head to his side.

“Maybe we can try after dinner,” he suggests, shifting the truck back into drive. “Teach you how to balance on my thigh,” he mumbles, and you squeeze your thighs together.

“Yeah, we can,” you nod, knowing there was definitely some innuendo you were picking up on. It makes your cheeks red, and you look out of the window.

“Great,” he taps the wheel with his thumb. “Your mama won’t mind; she wants us to be close,” he tells you as you drive back to the house.

“Yeah, she won’t get off my ass about it,” you sigh again, and he reaches over, flicking your thigh.

“Well, then we oughta’ spend more time together,” he jokes, already pulling into the long driveway. “I think we get along just fine; you’re just stubborn.”

“I am not stubborn,” you furrow your eyebrows at him, and he grins, setting the truck in park.

“This is the first time we’ve had a full conversation in weeks,” he explains, leaning into the seat, his arm resting against its length. “Stubborn girl, and that’s fine.”

“I was just nervous,” you explain, looking into your lap.

“Yeah? About what?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I don’t know, you’re… older than me, and you… where did you meet my mom again?” You ask, tilting your head to the side

“I kept coming into her job,” he nods, tapping his thumb on the seat. “Thought she was a pretty thing.”

You almost gag and look away, your eyes wide. 

“I guess… that’s cute,” you shake your head, and he laughs.

“You’re pretty too,” he says casually, and you look over at him, and he’s smiling. “Real pretty.”

“Thank you,” you whisper shyly, and nod a little.

“No problem,” he says, shrugging, feeling an uncomfortable sensation behind the zipper of his jeans. “Just hope you know that.”

He’s overheard the conversations; you crying to your mom about feeling ugly, and she doesn’t deny it—your relationship has been rocky, and you know it, and he does too. It’s a unique feeling, and you close your eyes for a second.

“I think you’re prettier than she is,” he whispers to you, and you have to keep quiet—you can’t believe he just said that, and you slowly look at him.

“What?” You ask quietly, your eyes soft and wide.

“You’re a pretty girl,” he states again, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Always thought that,” he adds, his free hand coming up to rub his chin.

“Why are you with my mom, then?” You ask quietly, tilting your head to the side.

“I like her,” he responds, breathing out through his nostrils. “I don’t know why I said that,” he shakes his head.

“I think you’re handsome,” you speak up, and a stupid smirk quirks at his lips.

“You don’t have to say that to make it better, sweetheart,” he looks at you, blinking slowly.

“I’m not,” you deny. “That’s why I never wanted to talk to you.”

“Right, cause there’s just some… strong attraction to me, yeah?” He teases, grinning.

“Intimidating, tall, handsome… my new dad,” you go on, looking around the truck, your lips parted, laughing a little.

“You don’t have to call me ‘daddy’, you know? None of that stuff is fine,” he reassures, running his tongue over his teeth.

“Maybe I want to call you ‘daddy’,” you suggest, and he furrows his eyebrows at your bold words and clears his throat.

“Seemed pretty against it, maybe two days ago,” he tells you, suggesting he’d heard another conversation between you and your mother.

“I don’t know… you aren’t really my daddy,” you respond, biting your lip. “Just my… mom’s boyfriend.”

“Call me what you want to, sweetheart,” he says, and pats your bare thigh again. “Do whatever.”

At the dinner table, you’re practically scarfing down the food, shovelling carrots and mashed potatoes into your mouth, barely swallowing each mouthful. Your mom watches in amusement, her eyes blinking slowly at her daughter’s manners.

“Honey, there’s… a lot more on the stove,” he gestures with her wine glass from across the table, her boyfriend sipping a beer. “Nobody is taking it from you.” 

“I know,” you mumble through a mouthful, your eyes flickering to him; he’s watching with a soft grin curled into his lips. 

You want to be finished dinner so you can get out and practice again, alone, in the dark, on his thigh. The odd confessions in the truck made a tension wrap around you two, and now he’s trying his best to act like he doesn’t know why you’re clearing your plate.

“Sweetheart,” your mom says a bit more firmly, eyebrows furrowing. “I thought we talked about… how much you should be eating,” she mumbles under her breath.

You grit your teeth, and suddenly feel less guilty for wanting to have an affair with her boyfriend. You push away the plate in front of you, and he’s quiet, looking down at his almost finished plate.

“I’ll be in my room,” you say, standing up, your mom's lips parting—you were never to leave the dinner table until everyone had finished. 

“What a bitch she’s been lately,” your mom mumbles to her boyfriend, her eyes glaring over her shoulder and at your bedroom door around the corner. “Bring her here, beautiful house, for free, and she treats me like this.”

“She’s young,” he shakes his head, pushing around his steak with his fork. “At her age, I was doing drugs, three girlfriends,” he comments, and your mom rolls her eyes.

“Well, she’s never had a boyfriend,” she explains, digging into her potatoes. “It worries me, almost. No romantic interaction… almost mid-20s,” she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s normal,” he responds, looking at his girlfriend. “She could be sleeping around, giving you pregnancy scares constantly,” he waves his fork around in exaggeration.

“I guess,” she breathes out, taking a sip of her wine. “What do you think of her?”

His jaw clenches. “She’s sweet.”

“Sweet?” Your mother scoffs, looking over at her boyfriend. “She’s the devil incarnate; almost threatened to make her get an apartment.”

“She was good today, while driving,” he praises you behind your back, and your mom scoffs again.

“Good, because the minute she can get her license… I want her out, just the two of us,” she sips her wine again, and his shoulders relax, shaking his head.

“Teaching her more after dinner,” he comments, thinking it’s a good idea to judge in the plan. “I’ll get her… all prepared, in no time.”

“You’re the best, you know that?” Your mom smiles, leaning over and gently kissing the side of her boyfriend’s cheek. He looks over his shoulder.

When he’s finished his dinner, he comes around your bedroom door again, knocking softly, and you smile when he stands there, smiling. The truck keys are in one of his hands, and he nods towards the front door.

You dip by him, and he watches you head to the door; your dress is flowy and long, the hem against your thighs, and he feels less guilty looking at you. His girlfriend is a bitch.

The leather seats are warm against your thighs when you get in, the sun almost down completely, and crickets already buzz in the bushes. He smiles when he gets in next, looking over at you.

“You ready to learn it all over again?” He teases, shifting the truck into reverse and slowly pulling out of the driveway, pulling onto the long road.

“I am,” you smile, and nod quickly, watching him drive a little further this time. You pass the gravel road sign, realizing he’s taking you farther down the road, farther from the house.

He slowly eases off the gas and hits the brake, looking over at you and patting his thigh again. This time, you don’t hesitate to climb over, and you settle against it.

There it is; that gentle pressure, that warmth, that tingle. It feels so good, and you remember why you wanted to eat dinner so quickly. All for this, just a fleeting moment of pleasure against his thigh. It was embarrassing.

He starts bouncing it slightly, but you’re not even driving—the truck isn’t even in drive; it’s parked —and your eyes widen.

“Just a trial run,” he teases, sliding his hands to hold your hips. “Thought we’d practice without the driving first.”

“Yeah... okay,” you breathe out, nodding, feeling the way he just bounces; his knee nudging its way against your core, right between your thighs, and past your cotton dress.

He squeezes your hips, and you breathe out, quickly biting your lip when you realize he might’ve heard that sound—quiet and breathy, but evident. He heard it, and he breathes out too.

“How you holding up?” He asks quietly, no longer talking about balancing, or driving, or anything you’re supposed to be talking about.

“I’m… I’m fine,” you nod slowly, swallowing hard, your head bowing forward slightly, and he clenches his jaw.

“You sure?” He almost whispers, leaning his head forward, letting his mouth linger by your ear. “Just fine? Or doing good?”

“Really good, yeah,” you nod in agreement, and he smiles, letting his hands tighten on your hips and he does it. He begins guiding your hips.

You moan softly the minute he starts guiding you to grind against his thigh; your underwear moving against his denim jeans, feeling the warmth seeping through the cotton fabric, right onto his muscular thigh. It feels good, and your eyes flutter, lips parting. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, nodding. “You ever do this?”

He knows you haven’t. Your mom aired out your virginity at dinner.

“No,” you shake your head quickly, moaning again. “Just—my pillows, stuff like that,” you confess, and his eyebrows raise.

“Humping your pillows,” he laughs out, gently kissing the side of your neck. “This feels better than that?”

“A lot better,” you nod quickly, feeling everything. “So… so much better,” you almost whine out. 

“I’m glad,” he mumbles, assisting your hesitant grinds. “Nice and firm, yeah? Hits that spot,” he teases some more, and you grit your teeth, nodding.

Pillows weren’t this firm or warm—didn’t have a man’s voice connected to it, or lips against your neck. This is something you’ve never experienced, and it’s more than you thought it would be.

“Yeah… feels so much better,” you babble again, and he uses his hand to sweep your head from the side of your neck, but quickly holds your hip again.

“Gonna make you cum for the first time too,” he whispers, now lightly kissing your neck. “Assuming… you haven’t before,” he says, smiling as he moans at your jaw.

“Haven’t,” you shake your head and bite your lip, gazing down at his thigh in the dimly lit truck. “Don’t wanna cum.”

“Why not?” He asks quietly, nuzzling his nose against your neck. “Most women beg for that,” he laughs.

“Embarrassing,” you nod quickly out of shame, and he nods in understanding.

“Not embarrassing, baby,” he coos, sliding a hand to rest against your stomach. “Want you to cum from  humping my thigh.”

He rubs your andomen lightly, like he knows that it feels impossibly tight and warm—a squeeze you're trying to keep in, and you’re groaning now, hips speeding up, rutting against him like an eager puppy. He’s smiling.

“Think… I’m gonna cum,” you babble to him, and he holds your hip with one hand, ensuring you keep the same pace that’s making you close.

“Cum, then,” he encourages, kissing your jaw. “Just cum, baby, will feel so good,” he whispers, licking your sweat.

You do cum, and it’s a feeling you’re unfamiliar with; it’s like you want to hold your breath and breathe out at the same time, and an impossibly tight coil in your stomach, and you clench your thighs around his thigh, squeezing and squeezing, trying your best not to collapse completely.

“There you go… shh,” he coos softly, now noticing how heavily you’re panting, clearly struggling to grasp the surge of feelings. “Made a little mess, that’s fine.”

“Ah—” you mumble, your hips stalled, and all he can feel is a damp warmth across his denim jeans, and he blinks. The truck is so warm.

“Maybe I’ll give you a lesson every day, yeah? How does that sound?” He whispers to you, still rubbing your stomach. “Sound good?”

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!)✦

jack’s eyes soften as he takes in your form. they travel up your legs to the gentle curve of your hips, the swell of your tits, and then up to your pretty face. your skin is still smooth, while his has its fair share of lines. jack reaches out, his calloused fingers brushing along your jawline.

"those girls, they're probably moms now. i'm sure they've got husbands, and minivans, and PTA meetings..." his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone gently as he speaks.

"... but you, you’re right here. my pretty, perfect girl."

a part of him still can't believe someone so young and beautiful isn't put off by him being older. no one, not even any of the groupies from his youth, has ever looked at his body the way you do. you seem to adore his crows feet, his smile lines, the softness around his stomach, the fact that he doesn't look like some 25-year-old frat boy anymore.

"hell, there's a chance i might not even live to see you get your first wrinkle." jack muses in a low rumble. he stubs his cigarette out before he tugs you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. he pulls you into his lap, settling you against his chest so you can feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek.

"my little girl." the words roll sweetly off his tongue, and he hums under his breath as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. "my good little girl."

getting wetter the longer he looked at you and he hadn’t even done anything yet. couldn’t even see your clit like this, just a glimpse of your inner folds, of your little hole as it tensed and then relaxed repeatedly. but the anticipation was enough, the scrutiny was enough. to make your belly warm, to cause the desire to spiral and tug.

jack had finally spread your pussy open with his fingers, his thumbs on either side, and exposed your clit, not even puffy, just beginning to peek out behind its hood. shy and barely awake like the rest of you, a little dazed as you came out of an impromptu nap. linen-creases on your arms and legs, body still warm with sleep. he exposed your hole too, the skin stretching taut and shiny with how wet you had become.

jack made a soft cooing noise, his breath ghosting over your clit and making your hips jump a little off the bed.

‘so pretty,’ he said, his eyes heavy between your legs, dragging over every inch as the heat in your cheeks suffused down your neck and your chest, blooming in your nipples, your mouth dropping open to suck in much needed air. ‘my baby’s pretty little pussy.’

you let slip a noise when he pressed a closed-mouth kiss to your mound, almost chaste in the same way he would often kiss the top of your head. close enough to your clit that it felt like a missing limb, something he was doing to deliberately tease you. he gave you another kiss and your belly twitched.

‘daddy just needs to make sure there’s nothing wrong with his little girl,’ he said, ‘gotta check her pretty pussy from the inside.’

and then jack had slipped his entire thumb inside your cunt and dragged the pad of it along your upper wall, right below your pubic bone.

‘nggngg—,’ you couldn’t help but moan, eyelashes fluttering, an unintelligible not-word from deep inside your throat. his big thumb felt particularly massive today, dipping in again and rubbing that perfect spot that always made you dizzy.

jack hummed in faux-concern. ‘so tight and wet around my finger, baby. you feeling alright?’

you looked away from the amused glint in his eyes, thought the embarrassment might burn right through you. so attuned to jack and the pleasure he gave you, that he barely had to look or touch you and your cunt was dripping, more than ready to take him inside.

your hole twitched around nothing as he slipped his thumb out, moving it over your clit, softly petting. your hips jumped again.

‘so sensitive too,’ jack said, lightly clicking his tongue. ‘daddy might have to bring you to work with him, baby, take a closer look at you.’

a vision of you completely naked in stirrups while jack looked deep inside your cunt with a speculum flashed in front of your eyes, and the noise you made was so high it couldn’t be classified as anything other than a desperate whine.

he huffed a quiet laugh that made you burn hotter. ‘yeah, you like that idea? being daddy’s perfect patient?’

you couldn’t look at him but you could nod your head, so you did, your hair sliding against the sheets.

jack began to slowly circle your clit with his thumb. ‘daddy’s gonna spread you out on his table and inspect every inch of you, baby. gotta take a look at all your pretty holes to make sure my little girl is exactly as soft and wet as she should be.’

oh my god. you squeezed your eyes shut.

he kept his thumb on your clit and slipped inside two fingers. your mouth opened, a shaky little gasp escaping, as he stretched you to the base of his knuckles.

‘think i'll start with this one, make it come all over my hand,’ jack said and started to undulate his fingers, pressing into that spot under your pubic bone again and again.

it was deliciously good and you whined, knees lowering so you could plant your feet and rock into it, increasing the pressure of his fingers, the angle they fucked in and out of you.

‘that’s it, baby, c’mon,’ jack said, keeping the same measured and devastating pace, ‘give daddy an orgasm before he goes off to work.’

you moaned, the sloppy sound of your cunt getting fingered so loud and obscene that your neighbors could probably hear it through the window.

‘harder, please,’ you begged him.

jack pressed an open-mouth kiss to the inside of your knee, and set his left hand onto the bed next to your hip, giving himself better leverage to increase the intensity of his fingers, the sloshing sound that was coming from deep inside your cunt.

‘good girl, baby, good girl,’ he encouraged, ‘come all over the bed for me. come on, i know you can do it.’

you grasped blindly at jack's shoulder, pleasure mounting so fast it frightened you a little, and snagged your fingers on the edge of his shirt collar, eyes locked onto his. the pressure behind your pubic bone near unbearable as he milked your g-spot, legs shaking.

‘do it cause i told you to. come on, baby girl, soak my fucking hand.’

‘oh,’ you squeaked, holding onto jack for dear life as your back bowed off the mattress, eyes wide and mouth working around a silent scream. your belly spasmed, cunt suddenly gushing around jack’s fingers as you squirted all over the bed.

‘that's my fucking girl,’ jack half-said, half-laughed, sounding utterly delighted by the way you had just ruined all his clean sheets. ‘knew you could fucking do it.’

he leaned down to press sweet, wet kisses to your forehead, humming against your skin, only slipping his fingers out of your pussy once you had stopped clenching around them. you were still holding onto his shirt collar, breathing hard, the lower half of your body experiencing a certain bonelessness, comparable to that of melted wax.

‘gonna take a shower and go to work, okay?’ jack murmured, after a minute of this, kissing your cheekbone a few more times and then your mouth. his stubble scratched a little as his lips moved against yours.

‘okay,’ you said, breathless, when he pulled back, letting go of his shirt, your hand dropping to the bed with a quiet thump.

‘please eat while i’m gone,’ jack said over his shoulder, fitting his arms into his crutches. ‘there’s leftovers in the fridge.’

‘okay,’ you repeated.

you promptly rolled over and fell right back asleep.

*

There were a few things you could respect Steve Rogers for.

He always seemed to know what was best for the team, he had a good head on his shoulders, and he always tried to find a way to resolve conflict with the least amount of bloodshed possible. He was a respectable man—respectable enough for people like you to follow him into hell.

But there were also plenty of things you disliked about him.

Namely, once he had a plan, he stuck to it whether the people around him agreed or not. Unfortunately for you, his current plan involved you babysitting the world’s most wanted Hydra assassin.

And that was the Winter Soldier.

“What!” you barked in disbelief, throwing your hands in the air. “No! I am not watching him. I’m coming with you—”

Steve was already gearing up—wearing the suit he stole from the Smithsonian and strapping on his shield last.

“No,” he replied, sharp and firm. “Trust me, it’s better if you stay put. If I show up with Buck by my side, it’s not gonna look good.”

Steve motioned towards Bucky, who just stood there looking about as useful and clueless as a bag of bricks.

The kicked puppy look on his face almost made you feel bad for him. Almost. Because if it weren’t for him, and your own stubborn loyalty to Steve, nobody would be in this mess in the first place.

“Look, you’re going to talk to Stark, right? Nat’s with him. Let me come. I can talk to her while you work things out with Stark, and maybe we can figure out a better solution—”

“We shouldn’t even consider talking to Nat. She’s in deep with Tony and the Accords. And besides, I don’t trust—” Steve cut himself off, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes flickered between you and Bucky. “Never mind.”

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes. “Don’t trust what?”

The tension in the parking garage turned uncomfortable really fast.

No one dared speak or move—it felt like a bunch of kids walking in on Mom and Dad arguing and refusing to pick sides. Even though you already knew what he was going to say, you kept your eyes fixed on Steve with a silent threat for him to continue.

Steve sighed and stepped forward, mentally cursing himself for letting the words slip.

“You Widows—they’re known to be deceptive,” Steve explained as calmly and gently as he could, though it didn’t help.

“I just… can’t risk you talking to Natasha. It’s too dangerous.”

Offended wasn’t even the right word for it.

Everyone in this line of work—including you, especially you — knew about the Black Widows and their reputation. You were a group of young girls broken down and rebuilt into perfect chameleons. Widows were trained to whisper sweet nothings into a victim’s ear, only to hold a blade to their throat, slit it without remorse, and go about the rest of their day as if nothing had happened.

Steve wasn’t wrong, but the hypocrisy of his logic made you feel sour.

He didn’t trust your background, yet in the very same breath, he was willing to leave you entirely alone with Bucky—his best friend, and the only piece of his past he had left. If you were truly so deceptive, so inherently untrustworthy, what was stopping you from turning Bucky over to Stark the second Steve cleared this garage?

You wanted to cry. You had been loyal to Steve, standing by his side while the rest of the team split up and tore at each other’s throats—and this was how he repaid you? By humiliating you in front of everyone?

But you’d die before you let a single tear fall in front of Steve, or anyone else for that matter.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tightened your jaw until your teeth hurt and forced your gaze away.

“Fine.”

You were going to protect his precious best friend—not out of submission, but to shove his own prejudice right back down his throat. You would prove to him, definitively, that you could be trusted.

“I’ll watch over him,” you added, trying to keep cool. “I’ll keep my comms open, too—just in case you want to pop in and check if he’s still alive.”

Steve returned your sarcasm with a relieved exhale. “Thank you—”

“Don’t mention it,” you cut him off, waving a hand dismissively as you walked past Bucky—who was standing there looking like a child of divorce. You headed for your motorcycle.

“Are you coming, Barnes?”

Before joining you at the bike, Bucky walked over to Steve with a fond look in his eyes. They shared the same brotherly hug they'd been exchanging since they reunited. Steve mumbled something into his shoulder—probably reassurance that everything was going to be okay—before finally sending him off to you.

You rolled your eyes, slipping your helmet on to block them out.

As everyone else cleared out of the garage, Bucky walked over to your bike. You handed him a helmet, and he started strapping it on.

“Should I drive?” He asked.

You blinked at him, your face going blank despite him not being able to see it.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been hiding in Bucharest for a while,” Bucky explained. “I know some discreet spots where they won’t find us.”

Even though neither of you could see the other’s expression, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky was testing your competence—and on top of everything that had led to this moment, especially that little conversation with Steve, your patience was wearing dangerously thin.

“Barnes, I assure you that whatever spot you’re thinking of, a SWAT team is already sweeping it.” You revved the engine. “Get on.”

Bucky muffled a deep sigh inside his helmet. Based on his stiff posture, you thought he might argue, but he finally conceded, swinging his long leg over the back of the seat.

As you gripped the handlebars, you waited for him to hold on, but nothing happened.

Glancing at your side mirrors, you saw him awkwardly plant his hands at the edge of his seat, leaning back as far away from you as the space would allow.

“I’m gonna need you to hold on,” you ordered without looking back.

Bucky hesitated, not moving an inch.

Annoyed, you killed the revving engine for a second and glared at him over your shoulder. “Do you want to fall off?”

Bucky still didn’t budge. He kept his posture uncomfortably stiff, his eyes boring down at the empty space between his hips and the arch of your back.

“I’ll be fine right here.”

You couldn’t believe the gall of this guy. You had been tasked with something that was supposed to be so simple—tedious, sure, but easy enough—yet he was making your job twice as difficult. You glared at him through your visor, your voice strict even through the muffle of your headgear.

“Steve entrusted me to look after you. If he finds out on the evening news that his most wanted best friend fell off the back of my motorcycle and got captured by the government, then he’s never going to talk to me again. And everyone who is risking their lives for you did it all for nothing because you chose to be stubborn. Now, I am not going to repeat myself. Hold. On. To. Me.”

You couldn’t make out his expression, but slowly and reluctantly, he leaned forward and wrapped his thick arms around your waist.

“Tighter,” you commanded.

From the short time Bucky had known you, he already knew there was no point in arguing.

He let out a sigh into his helmet and wrapped his arms around you just a little tighter than before—but still kept his hold loose and, well… as respectful as he could manage.

“Bucky, I need you to hold me tighter,” you urged again.

It had already been a good five minutes since everyone left—and here you were, stuck with the man who, if caught, could risk your life and your position, all because he refused to hold onto you properly.

To you, this was nothing but a nuisance.

But for Bucky…

Bucky was holding onto every thread and reminder left from the forties of what it meant to be a respectful man. Especially since it had been so long since he’d not only been this close to a woman, but held one.

“Tighter!” you shrieked, patience finally snapping.

“Fuck, you know what? Fine!” he snapped back, adjusting his hips so that his chest was pressed up right against your back, wrapping his strong arms around you tightly enough to make you gasp.

“Is that tight enough for you?”

“Perfect,” you croaked sarcastically.

Without giving him another second to respond, you kicked the bike into gear and finally steered it out of the garage.

You were determined to keep your pride intact. His broad chest was pressed up against your back, trapping your body heat until your leather jacket felt burning hot against your skin. His metal arm was a hard band across your midsection, while his flesh arm gripped you still.

You were so small compared to him. He could easily take over—yet here he was, being your obedient puppy.

“Where are you taking me?” Bucky shouted over the rush of wind as the two of you whipped through the busy streets of Bucharest.

“To an amusement park,” you shouted back. “Don’t you want to ride a roller coaster?”

Bucky let out a tired sigh.

You managed to find sanctuary at an abandoned, overgrown rooftop greenhouse. Located on the very outskirts of Bucharest, it was far enough from the city center to avoid suspicion, but still close enough to keep your comms within range of Steve.

You paced the rooftop, feeling restless as your mind overworked with what Steve and the rest of the team could be doing right now.

Were they already fighting? Would Stark actually listen to reason and put all of this to rest?

Letting out a defeated sigh, you kicked a stray pebble, watching it skid across the concrete of the rooftop.

“This is ridiculous,” you mumbled to yourself. “Stuck on babysitting duty when I should be out there.”

Lifting your head, your eyes locked onto Bucky. He was standing dangerously close to the edge of the roof, peering down at the distant streets below.

“Hey!” you barked, pointing a finger at him like a mother scolding a child. “Step away from the edge! You’re going to fall.”

“I’m just keeping a lookout,” Bucky mumbled, his back still facing you as he refused to step away from the edge.

“You’re just making my job harder than it already is,” you argued, throwing your hands up in exasperation.

You pointed aggressively to the dusty wooden crate tucked against the brick wall.

“Just go sit over there or something.”

Bucky’s brow twitched the same time his patience snapped. He turned around to finally face you, his jaw clenched so tight his molars were crying for help.

“Would you stop talking to me like I’m a child?” he snapped, stepping away from the edge—not because you had ordered him to, but to match your hostile stance as he stalked toward you. “I’m sorry you got stuck with the shitty job of watching over me, but I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”

His defensive outburst made you raise a brow.

“Oh, really? You can handle yourself just fine?” you crossed your arms and scoffed. “Is that why the entire global government is hunting you down right now? Is that why Steve had to throw away his entire reputation just to keep you out of a cage? Because you’ve got it all handled?”

Bucky’s chest heaved, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides.

The mention of Steve’s sacrifice definitely hit a nerve, you could see the guilt in his eyes.

A part of you wished you hadn’t said it at all, and you were just about ready swallow your pride and apologize, until…

“You’re from the Red Room,” he said, stepping closer. An involuntary shudder went down your spine. “You’ve done terrible things in the past—just as I have. You know exactly what it’s like to have someone like Steve bend over backwards for lowlifes like us.”

You didn’t realize just how close he was standing until his hot breath hit your face, only shortening your temper.

“We don’t ask for the help, yet they do it for us anyway,” Bucky’s voice graveled into a whisper. “Don’t talk down to me like you don’t know what it’s like. When in fact, you’re worse—”

You were already seeing red before he could even finish his sentence.

You quickly unsheathed a pocket knife from your belt and lunged at him, aiming straight for his throat just as a threat to silence him.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me!”

But Bucky was faster.

He brought his metal forearm up just in time to block the blade, making an ugly scraping sound. He twisted his wrist to disarm you, but your grip on the knife was tight. While one arm was held captive by his, you used your other to try and deliver a punch—which he also dodged.

You resorted to your legs, bucking them up to deliver hard kicks to his stomach. He grunted after each hit your leg managed to put out, but his hands moved quickly to grab the collar of your jacket and hurl you backwards to the nearest wall.

You cried out, face scrunching into a wince as your back slammed into hard brick.

The impact made you drop your knife. Bucky pressed his heavy body right against yours, aggressively tucking his legs between your thighs so you couldn’t use the space to swing your knees at him again.

“I can’t believe this is who Steve decided to trust me with,” he hissed in your face.

“Get off of me!” you yelled, squirming beneath his body.

“You drew your knife at me,” Bucky roared back. “Maybe Steve was right. All you Widows have a tendency to break your vows whenever things go even remotely south for you—”

You weren’t going to sit there and take his insults. Gritting your teeth with a brace, you pulled your head back and slammed your forehead directly into his face.

Bucky groaned out in pain, his grip on you loosening as he stumbled back with a hand to his face. Seizing the small window of opportunity, you shoved his chest away and dove towards the floor, reaching for the dropped pocket knife.

Before your fingers could even brush the hilt, his large hands grabbed you from behind and slammed you right back into the brick wall again.

You let out a breathless gasp as your face was forcefully squished up against the brick.

Bucky’s flesh hand came to the back of your head, pushing your skull firmly against the wall to keep your vision pinned away from him. At the same time, his metal hand gathered both your wrists behind your back, locking your two arms prone.

“Let go of me!”

You started to violently squirm and writhe, trying to buck your back against him—to tire him out, but Bucky moved his entire lower body to seal the space. His hips pressed tightly up against your bottom, his chest to your back, pinning you completely helpless as you were left trapped between him and the wall.

“No. I don’t care if you’re Steve’s friend, or if Steve respects you,” Bucky hissed, his breath right at your ear. “If I find my life in danger—after finally being free from Hydra, I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way. Even you.”

Bucky’s chest was heaving against your back.

He was angry.

He hated how much a woman like you could get under his skin with just a few sarcastic words and petty jabs.

One moment he was flustered just holding onto your waist during the bike ride, and now, he had you pinned up against the wall, your life completely in his hands.

You grit your teeth. “Dammit, Barnes—”

“—do you hear me? Hello? Anyone copy?”

You and Bucky froze. His eyes went wide as he leaned his head down toward the earpiece tucked just behind your earlobe where Steve’s voice was emitting. You glared at Bucky through the corner of your eye.

“Steve’s calling for me. I can’t answer it unless you let me go.”

“Status check. Code Blue-Alpha. Repeat, Code Blue-Alpha. Do you copy?”

Bucky was hesitant.

He didn’t want to let you go—afraid that you might actually threaten his life again the second he backed off.

Instead of releasing you, his metal hand kept the tight grip on both your wrists, while his flesh hand finally let your head free. Shifting his body closer, his finger reached around to press the button on your earpiece, activating the channel and allowing you to speak.

“Steve,” you breathed, catching your breath. “I’m here.”

“There you are!” Steve let out a relieved, staticky sigh through the comms. “How are things over there? Are you two alright?”

You and Bucky side eyed each other.

The situation was ridiculous—the two of you were still tangled in each other’s limbs, bodies pressed tight against one another, chests heaving in sync as the adrenaline from the fight slowly began to die down.

“We’re fine,” you lied. “Your boyfriend’s still alive.”

Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh right against your ear. He didn’t say it out loud, but you could already hear his thoughts. This fucking woman.

Steve wasn’t laughing, however. His voice was serious.

“Listen to me carefully. We just got word that there are traps set up around the highest points of Bucharest. They’re wired to release an airborne toxin—specifically meant to target the biology of a super soldier.”

You watched Bucky’s eyes. His brows furrowed, concentrating on Steve’s voice as his grip on your wrists loosened slightly.

“They’re trying to smoke him out,” you reasoned. “What about the regular civilians? Will it affect them?”

“No. Just us. I’m already wearing a rebreather mask on my end,” Steve continued with a rasp. It sounded like he was running from something. “But Bucky doesn’t have one. You need to keep him inside and be extremely careful.”

There was a cold knot forming in the pit of your stomach.

Steve was thinking about Bucky, and Bucky was thinking about himself, but neither of them knew your full medical history—how could they?

During your time in the Red Room, they had pumped your veins full of a biochemical serum. It wasn’t the exact super soldier formula that created Captain America, but it was a heavily modified variation meant to enhance your physical abilities, speed up your healing, and maximize your strength.

It was what made you into a Widow. And right now, you had no idea if that same chemical footprint was enough to trigger the airborne toxin.

“Steve,” you swallowed hard, your voice shaking with worry. “How is Natasha doing? Is she with you?”

If Natasha was fine, then maybe you would be, too.

Behind you, Bucky must have sensed the sudden spike of panic in your posture. He took a step back and finally released his tight grip on your wrists—relinquishing his hold over your body.

He inhaled a deep breath to steady himself, but stopped midway, choking as if something had gotten stuck in his lungs. His chest hitched. He sniffed the air again, letting out a harsh, hacking cough in return.

“Fuck—” Bucky choked out, his hand flying to his throat.

You spun around, catching the way Bucky stumbled blindly against a wooden crate. Your heart started to race in a panic.

“Steve?” you called into the earpiece, your eyes scanning the rooftop for any signs of the trap he had just mentioned over comms. “Steve, do you copy?”

There was no answer.

The static on the other end had cut out completely. Steve had already ended the line to focus on his own escape—either that, or his comms had been jammed. You tapped the button behind your earlobe again desperately, but there was nothing.

“Steve! Respond!”

Bucky called your name from where he held himself against the crate—a sound that was broken, small, and almost whiny.

“Bucky!” you cried out, abandoning the comm line completely and focusing entirely on the man you were tasked to protect. “Are you okay?”

“Hot,” he winced, letting out a deep groan. “It feels... hot.”

You knelt by his side, the palm of your hand flying to his forehead to check his temperature. Your eyes widened at how warm he had suddenly become. He wasn’t nearly this hot when he had you pressed up against the wall just mere seconds ago.

“Fuck. Did the toxins get to you already? But how! We’re on the outskirts—”

Bucky lazily raised a finger just past your head. You whipped your head around, squinting past the sunlight that pierced the clouds.

There, you saw a hazy, almost pollen like fog beginning to drift from across the rooftop building far from you.

“Shit,” you cursed, wrapping your arm around his waist and positioning his heavy arm over your shoulders to help him up.

“Come on, we’ve gotta hide you somewhere. You’re too weak to run if you get caught.”

You tried lifting him up, but he was too heavy to carry just on your own. You groaned beneath him, using every bit of your strength to try and keep him steady.

While you struggled, Bucky’s breathing grew heavier. His eyes were half lidded and unfocused—he could barely keep them open.

“Stay with me, Bucky,” you murmured against him with a grunt, dragging your feet to get him inside the greenhouse.

It was a glass enclosure, but the walls were muddied with dirt and the plants were overgrown enough to provide decent cover. It wasn’t as indoors as you’d like, but it was the closest place you could take him with your current strength.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered down to you, letting out a heavy sigh.

“I think… I need to sit.”

Suddenly, he felt like he was suffocating in his own clothes. The breeze in Bucharest was cool, but his body felt like it was burning up from the inside. What was even worse was your touch—having your body pressed up against his made him react in ways he never thought he would.

Or at least, not anytime soon.

You stumbled over an overgrown branch, losing your balance and your grip on Bucky.

“Shit—I’m sorry,” you mumbled.

Bucky lay on the ground, adjusting his body so that he was flat on his back. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest, the organ trying to tear its way out. His vision and mind went hazy, and his flesh hand was clammy.

The tension was even worse whenever he looked at you. His pupils would dilate the second his eyes landed on your body, his breath getting stuck in his throat.

You knelt down, trying to get your hands under his arms to haul him back up, but Bucky flinched away with a sharp hiss.

“No,” he rasped. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”

You furrowed your brows. You had no idea what kind of side effects the airborne toxins had been released—Steve hadn’t specified. But right now, you couldn’t afford to stand around and ponder it. You groaned, trying to lift him up one more time, but your body suddenly felt even weaker than before.

Your knees buckled as a strange aroma began to drift into your nose. It was a musky, almost tangy smell filling the deep pockets of your lungs.

“W-what the hell…?”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell heavily from where he lay on the floor, his dark, half lidded eyes meeting yours. “Do you feel it, too?”

Meeting Bucky’s eyes in this state was the worst thing you could have possibly done.

Suddenly, the greenhouse felt smaller—a glass enclosure closing in on the two of you. Your body felt molten, and you wanted nothing more than to strip your clothes off.

Grunting, you began to pull down the zipper of your jacket, and Bucky inhaled sharply.

“Hey—what… what are you doing?”

“It’s hot,” you breathed, your head spinning. “Need to take my jacket off.”

The heat inside your own skin was hurting, but for Bucky, it was absolute torture.

The super soldier serum in his veins processed the toxin at an accelerated rate, making his flesh feel like it was working overtime. His blood was rushing—hot and heavy—pooling lower until he was completely and unapologetically hard under his pants.

He wanted to rip his own clothes off. He just hoped you wouldn’t notice the tent poking between his legs—or maybe a dark part of him did, and he wanted you to offer to take care of it.

Fuck. What was he thinking?

But it wasn’t like you were thinking straight, either. Abandoning your jacket, you were left in just a tank top that clung tightly to your chest, offering Bucky a full view of your tits. You knelt right back down beside him, your hands clumsily reaching for his shoulders to lift him up again.

This was going bad for Bucky.

Too close.

Too close. Too close. Too close.

Bucky caught your scent—a natural floral and feminine smell mixed with an underlying musk of sweat that made his head spin with an overwhelmingly dangerous amount of desire.

“Stop,” Bucky choked out, his voice dropping deep and dangerous.

His right hand shot out, wrapping tightly around your bare wrist, while his metal hand gripped your hip to keep you from leaning any closer.

“Don’t... don’t do this. Get away from me right now.”

“Bucky,” you panted. “I need you to get up for me.”

“I can’t,” he groaned, letting his head fall back against the floor. “I mean it. Move away… or I swear to God, I won’t be able to control myself—”

Your gaze drifted down his body, your eyes widening at the prominent bulge waiting for you between his large, strong legs.

It throbbed and twitched beneath his pants, growing harder and more unbearable by the second.

This position was too compromising—too vulnerable, and far too dangerous for you both.

Bucky had no strength to get up on his own, and you could feel your own body betraying you by the second. You would have to relieve this for him now, or it would be doom for you both.

“Goddammit,” you cursed, bracing yourself mentally.

You moved to cradle Bucky between your thighs, mounting his lap while he was pinned weak to the floor.

His eyelids flew open, and he used all the strength left in his body to lift his head and stare up at you, bewildered and off guard.

“What the hell are you doing—!”

“We need to take care of this,” you muttered, grinding your hips tight and firm against his, making him let out a groan.

“We need to fix your problem before they find us. They set up that trap not too far from this building. There’s a chance they’re already scouting it out. It’s only a matter of time—”

Bucky’s eyes were filled with hungry lust as he stared at the point where your hips were rubbing against his. He was so hard it fucking hurt. He didn’t dare touch you—because if his hands made contact with your waist, with that warm, smooth skin just beneath your tank top that was begging to be licked, he would probably embarrass himself and cum in his pants right then and there.

“Shit—wait. Hold on. I—fuck.”

You reached for his zipper, tugging it down, and the sudden movement made his hips buck up against yours.

“Now’s not the time to talk, Barnes,” you panted, the toxin blurring your thoughts. “We need to take care of this now, or we’ll be in deep trouble. And Steve’ll have my head—”

“Fuck, shit. Wait—! I’ve never…”

You were losing your patience. You stopped your hands, glaring down at him. “Never what, Barnes?”

His face burned an embarrassing shade of red. He refused to look at you, his eyes suddenly far more interested in the overgrown plants next to him than your face.

“I’ve never had… sex,” he admitted quietly, swallowing hard.

Oh.

Oh.

Bucky was a virgin?

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

You felt incredibly foolish straddling him with your hands still hovering over his open zipper.

You felt shameful—you felt like a harlot, throwing yourself onto him and thinking you could resolve this entire crisis just by getting him off with a few strokes. You felt dirty, humiliated, and deeply guilty.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammered, quickly scrambling off his lap.

Your legs felt like jelly—a testament to the toxin fully taking hold of your own system.

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I didn’t know. I mean, that doesn’t excuse it, but—”

“No,” Bucky rasped, his hand catching your wrist before you could back away entirely.

His grip on you was so tight and dominant, it felt like a pickaxe slowly chipping away at your remaining resolve.

“Don’t go,” he broke out, his voice a desperate, tortured rasp. “Please. Keep going. It hurts. I need you to relieve it.”

If he had said that to reassure you, you felt anything but. In fact, you felt even guiltier because of how broken and desperate he sounded.

“Bucky, I can’t.”

His brows knitted together tightly, his face twisting unpleasantly—he was upset.

“Why the hell not?”

“Because—”

“Because what!” he barked back, rolling onto his side to give you his full attention. You tried really hard not to look at the outline of his hard cock pressing against his pants. “You threw yourself onto me. You promised Steve you’d take care of me—so you’re going to come back here and finish it.”

“Bucky, I’m not going to be your first!” you yelled out, and that finally stunned him into silence.

Your chest was heaving with a frustration you didn’t even know how to name.

With confusion and a flash of embarrassment taking over his gaze, his fingers finally loosened, releasing your wrist reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” you said, much softer this time. “I’m sorry. Just… if you need a minute to take care of it yourself, I’ll be over there—” you pointed to the far end of the greenhouse “—I’ll keep watch.”

“And what about you?” he asked, his dark eyes trailing down your body in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. “Don’t you need to take care of yourself, too? You feel it, don’t you? That… primal need.”

You pressed your lips tight and tore your gaze away, not trusting yourself to look at his pained, desperate expression. You couldn’t look at the way his body was open and inviting you back in, or the way his voice went so coarse when he said the word need.

“I’ll be fine.”

You were not fine. And Bucky certainly wasn’t, either.

You tried to keep your concentration focused outside the greenhouse, forcing your hazy eyes to stare through the glass panes to keep watch. But your gaze kept betraying you, drifting right back to the corner to watch Bucky where he sat propped up against a wooden crate, his legs spread wide.

His chest was still rising and falling heavily, his long hair damp with sweat and falling over his darkened eyes.

You had told him to take care of his business, but he hadn’t made a single move since you stepped away from him. Your own urges were becoming impossible to control, too. You found yourself squeezing your thighs tightly together, trying to find any form of friction, any relief from the ache that had been building up ever since the toxin first wafted into your lungs.

It didn’t help that you could feel Bucky’s eyes on you, watching you from behind, tracing your silhouette.

It felt telepathic—as if his silent gaze was speaking directly to your body, knowing you wanted exactly what he was desperately craving too.

No. You couldn’t go to him.

If you walked up to him right now, neither of you would have any control left, and you would both submit to the drug completely.

He was a virgin. You couldn’t take something so precious from him. He had already been through a lifetime of torture and lost autonomy. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you took his first time over a stupid, weaponized toxin.

Sex was meant to be reserved for someone special—and you were far from it.

“Bucky,” you finally called out, still refusing to turn around and look at him. “Are you okay back there?”

“…No,” he muttered with a thick rasp. “Come here.”

You sucked in a breath.

Every instinct in your brain was telling you stay exactly where you were, but your body was entirely out of your control now.

Your feet dragged you across the dirty floor until you were standing over him again.

You dropped to your knees in front of him with a sigh. Trying to frame it as purely medical check, you lifted a hand and pressed your palm flat against his forehead to check his temperature once more.

He was still burning up, but the fever felt even worse.

Every hot breath he exhaled hit your exposed collarbones, and the way he was sitting—legs spread wide with you kneeling directly between them—made you feel like a mouse being lured into a trap.

Realizing just how dangerous this proximity was, you swallowed hard and began to pull your hand away. But Bucky didn’t let you. His fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist to hold you back. He let his heavy eyelids flutter shut and slowly leaned his head into your touch, rubbing his stubbled cheek right against your warm, open palm.

“Stay,” Bucky pleaded as he his metal hand came to hold your hip. “Stay here. I need you.”

A breathless groan rumbled warmly into your palm. You froze, your eyes locked onto him as you watched the lethal super soldier—the very man who had pinned you up against the wall just minutes ago—unravel helplessly right in front of you.

As he held you there, you felt an unbearable heat trickle between your legs.

Your cunt pulsed, and you squeezed your thighs tightly together to soothe the desperate ache spreading through your lower body.

The friction was a temporary fix, but the tight grind of your thighs only made you ache for more.

Bucky nuzzled his face deeper into your palm, inhaling your scent like a dying man catching a breath of fresh air.

Then, his parted lips pressed a soft, wet kiss against the center of your hand. And another one. Then another, right against the inner skin of your wrist.

“Bucky… what are you—”

“Please,” Bucky whispered against your skin, looking up at you through his dark, thick lashes.

His eyes were dilated, the blue completely washed out by a lust that made you burn from the inside out.

“I need you.”

“You… You don’t know what you’re saying,” you muttered, shaking your head in a desperate attempt to find your reason.

Bucky held your hand tighter, refusing to give you any chance to escape.

“Please, don’t go. Fuck—I need you so bad, it hurts,” he choked out. “This ache won’t go away until you help me take care of it.”

His eyes never left yours. Under normal circumstances, every confession leaving his lips should have left him feeling deeply ashamed or embarrassed. But right now, he didn’t care. His body was on fire, and your touch was only stroking each and every flame.

“I know I’m a virgin, but I don’t care—and you shouldn’t, either,” Bucky rasped.

His large hand covered yours, forcing your palm down his chest—slick and damp with sweat—until he guided your hand directly over the heavy erection waiting for you beneath his pants.

“I can make you feel so good. I can fix this for both of us. Please.” He begged.

You let out a shudder as his large hand swallowed yours, guiding your palm to slide up and down against the length of his cock. Even through the denim, you could feel him throb and harden rapidly beneath your touch, his breathing turning incredibly shallow and fast.

“It hurts so bad,” he groaned, his eyes unhinged by the toxin. “Doesn’t it hurt you, too?”

You looked down, biting your lip hard at the sight of Bucky’s thick bulge pressing directly against your fingers. He twitched beneath your touch.

There was nothing you wanted more than to finish the job you had started earlier—to finish unzipping his pants, sink right down onto him, and show him exactly what it felt like to be inside a woman for the very first time.

But you couldn’t.

Not like this.

“Bucky, I can’t—” you whispered so softly, it sounded like a whine. “I can’t be your first.”

Bucky trembled a sigh, his head falling back against the wooden crate. But he didn’t let go of your wrist. He began to subtly shift his weight, rocking his hips up in a tilt that forced his thick length to slide right against your captive palm.

“Why not?” he murmured, deep and gravelly. “You don’t think… you don’t think I’d do a good job?”

His question was so innocent, though the very thing he was doing wasn’t. He kept grinding his clothed cock into your hand—seeking pleasure from just your palm—and you felt yourself going insane.

“No, it’s not that,” you tried to pull your hand back, but he held you tight, using your trapped hand for his own pleasure. “Sex is supposed to be something that you save. And your virginity is something you give away to someone special. Not… not a casual teammate—not someone like me—”

Bucky interrupted you with a groan, his hips bucking up higher against your palm. All of your words went in one ear and out the other. The only thing he could process right now was how good your hand felt—and how much better it would feel if he sunk into something tight, wet, and warm.

Like your mouth… or your…

“I don’t care about any of that,” he choked out.

His hips rolled into your palm with a needy jerk.

“I need this. I need you. I’d be more than happy to give it to you. Fuck—I’ll give it to you so good. You’re the one I want. I need you—”

Bucky’s mouth dropped into an o shape, a sharp hiss of breath filling his lungs as his hips bucked uncontrollably. His eyes never left yours as he suddenly started spilling in his pants. A warm, thick liquid began to seep through his jeans, leaving your fingers sticky with his seed and musk.

You couldn’t believe it.

Bucky had just finished right in his pants.

“Bucky…”

His face was unreadable.

His head was tilted back against the crate, his eyes boring into yours through heavy lids and long lashes. He was breathing heavily, trying to catch his breath while letting his cum shamelessly pool in the tight space of his pants.

You figured he’d pull your hand away any second now—that finally releasing all that pent up frustration would make him feel well enough to move to a safer location.

You tried not to point it out to save him from the embarrassment. And most importantly, you tried not to give in to the intense sensation of his warm spunk right beneath your fingertips.

“You should be feeling better now, right? We should keep moving—”

With his grip on your wrist tightening, he hauled you forward until you collapsed back to the ground. Two strong arms wrapped completely around your body, caging you flush against his chest.

Your knees—already so weak—forced you to straddle his lap. Your hands flew to his broad shoulders for balance as you found yourself perched directly over his ruined pants.

“Hey—what are you—!”

Bucky nuzzled his face straight into the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breaths turning into open mouthed kisses against your skin.

“More,” he begged, the deep vibration of his voice tickling you. “S’not enough. I need more.”

Your breath hitched when his hands started to roam over your body. His fingers tickled beneath the hem of your tank top, the metal fingers cooling your skin and making you gasp out loud from the sudden cold.

No.

I won’t let this happen.

I refuse to be Bucky’s first.

But despite your emotional turmoil, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Not with the way his hands were roaming around your body, claiming every inch of you as his through touch alone. Not with the way he was looking at you, his mouth parted with desperation.

And especially not when he had just let himself spill in his jeans from nothing but your touch and closeness.

“I know you feel it too,” Bucky rasped against your neck. “I know you’re wet down there, begging to be touched. Begging to be filled. I can fix you, baby. Just let me take care of you, please.”

He pulled back slightly, looking up at you with wide puppy blue eyes that made your heart ache and your pussy clench.

“Can I kiss you?”

You searched his gaze, breathless. “You want to kiss me?”

His metal hand left your waist, slowly crawling up your spine until his fingers tangled firmly in the hair at the back of your head, keeping your eyes pinned to his. His pupils were completely blown out, his gaze demanding an answer right now.

You should have said no. You should have pushed his chest, reminded him of the drug, and scrambled away to safety.

He was a virgin, sure. But with the way he was looking at you while holding you tight—you felt like you were going to be ravaged.

But your resolve was already a fragile thing. And with the way he was looking at you, you knew you were in too deep. Your body was hurting—aching for him in the exact same ways he was aching for you. The only way you two could fix it was each other.

You pressed your lips hard against his, and Bucky let out a rough, needy sound into your mouth.

His grip tightened in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.

The fever burned through your veins, and the way his tongue danced with yours only made the fire burn hotter. He was tasting you, broken whimpers tearing from his lips with every slick slide of his tongue. Saliva mixed together, leaving you both completely breathless, your lips and limbs tangled.

You rolled your hips back, grinding yourself deeper against Bucky’s pelvis.

His cock twitched inside his jeans, poking hard against you. You didn’t know how—but he felt even bigger and harder than he had before.

“I can’t take it anymore,” he panted against your mouth. “Fuck, I can’t—I need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”

His hands scrambled down to your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of your pants. He popped it open with a rough tug—threatening to break the button itself—as his knuckles brushed against your hot skin.

Bucky groaned at the sight.

The lace of your panties was poking through the opening, damp with sweat and your scent. He inhaled deeply, and you wondered just how much his heightened senses were actually taking you in.

When he let out a satisfied sigh, you knew he could smell everything.

“Look at you,” he praised, his eyes tracing the curves of your body. “You’re so beautiful. It makes me want to ruin you.”

You chuckled—a sound that came out raspy and sultry without your intention, making Bucky’s cock twitch beneath you.

“Quite a bold statement for someone who’s never had sex before,” you teased, your hands trailing slowly down his chest.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He accepted your challenge, gripping the waistband of your unzipped pants and yanking them down your thighs.

The moment your bare skin was exposed to the cool air, Bucky wasted no time traveling his eyes down the expanse of your legs. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from drooling like a madman, his gaze raked over the inner and outer curves of your thighs. His mouth went dry at the sight of the little wet spot that had collected near your clit.

His large hands slid up your thighs and behind you, squeezing your ass firmly in his rough palms.

“So fucking beautiful,” he growled, his thumb swiping over your clit, smearing your own juice all over the lace.

“Fuck—you’ve been dripping all this time. You need this just as bad as I do, and you’ve been holding back?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not too late. We don’t have to—oh!”

You cried out once his fingers slipped past the hem of your panties. His fingers dipped between your folds, collecting your arousal with embarrassing wet noises as he tried to rub at your clit.

“No, Bucky… it’s right here—” You grabbed his forearm, guiding him to the right spot, and arched your back with a sharp cry when he started rubbing deep circles against the sensitive bud.

“Oh my god,” you gasped.

This was the pleasure you were looking for—but it wasn’t nearly enough.

There was an empty ache deep inside you that was begging to be filled. But you weren’t going to demand that of him just yet, in case he changed his mind.

A lazy, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he watched you come undone from his fingers.

“Yeah?” he huffed out a breath. “That feel good, baby?”

“Yes—don’t stop, please,” you cried helplessly.

His other hand lifted your tank top up and over your head, quickly unhooking your bra to fully reveal your tits. With a low grunt, he leaned forward, capturing one of your perky nipples into the wet warmth of his mouth.

You moaned loudly, your hand flying to the back of his head and giving his hair a hard, desperate tug. He liked that a lot, moaning against your skin in pleasure.

Bucky’s tongue swirled around your nipple, licking and sucking until you were arching off his lap at his mercy.

He was making a beautiful mess of you, switching between both buds and letting his mouth worship your body. His rough stubble tickled your chest while his fingers continued their clumsy work down below, sliding through your slick folds and rubbing messy circles right against your clit.

The wet, squelching sounds of his fingers moving against your soaking flesh filled the greenhouse—the filth of it only making you wetter and causing the toxin to course even harder.

He suddenly pulled his mouth away from your chest, a string of saliva connecting his lips to your skin, and finally looked up at you.

His lips and chin were slick and shining from giving your breasts such sloppy, adoring kisses.

“I need to be inside you,” he pleaded. “Please… I need to put it in. I need to stuff you so full of me, baby. Please, let me fuck you.”

Your eyes searched Bucky’s.

He looked like an even bigger mess than before. He looked and sounded utterly helpless, his chest rising and falling heavily, his face tight with an expression that made it look like he was physically hurting.

Even though he had just come in his pants moments ago, he needed so much more.

You knew that once you gave in to him completely, there would be no holding back for either of you. He would have to live with the fact that you would be his first.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Bucky slowly slipped his hand out of your panties, bringing his fingers up to his lips and licking the juices clean. “You’re scared, but I’m not. I know what I want, and what I want right now is you.”

Bucky gripped your waist, raising you off his lap and pinning you flat against the ground.

He slipped his large body directly between your legs, his strong thighs forcing yours wide open as he covered your frame with his.

Your hair was messy across the dirt floor, framing your face as you laid beneath him breathless. The toxin was taking over control of your body—every single nerve demanding to be touched by the man between your legs.

You felt like you were in heat, consumed by a fever that only Bucky could cure.

His eyes fell over your body, tracing your tits and stomach, his gaze locking onto the way your panties—already a soaked mess—looked like they were begging to be torn away by his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his hands making quick work of your underwear.

With a harsh tug and a sharp tearing sound, the fabric gave away.

“I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do to you.”

Your panties didn’t even make it past your knees before tearing clean off your thighs. You winced slightly.

It was dizzying to think about how you had found the strength to fight Bucky earlier, only to now be reduced to a breathless, aching mess over a piece of torn fabric.

Bucky leaned back on his heels, unbuckling his belt and shoving open his unzipped, stained denim jeans.

The moment he pulled his cock free, it sprang forward then back—the tip slapping against his abdomen.

He was thick, his cock fully engorged and begging to be wrapped in something tight and warm. Pre-cum glistened at the tip, trailing down his shaft and mixing with the creamy white essence from his earlier release.

His eyes were glued to your soaking center, legs spread wide and inviting. His jaw slacked as he lazily pumped himself at the shaft, prepping his cock for your warm embrace.

He claimed he was a virgin, but the way he was looking at you with such a hungry look in his eyes made you think otherwise.

“Bucky,” you breathed, heart racing. “Are you sure you want to do this? With… me?”

Bucky leaned over your body, using his metal elbow to prop himself up while he slapped the tip of his cock against your entrance.

You weren’t sure where he learned that from, but the dirty act left you clenching around nothing.

“The more you ask, the harder it is for me to stay in control,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “I’m just gonna have to stuff you full of my cock just to prove how much I want you.”

You craned your neck, watching Bucky rub his tip up and down your folds—smearing his pre-cum while coating his shaft in your own slick juice.

When he positioned himself right at your opening and poked gently, testing your stretch, your folds immediately parted for him. You were so wet and pliable from the toxin that you were sure he would slip right in without a fight, despite how big he was.

“Just… just enough to get rid of the side effects, okay?” you muttered, though it sounded like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.

Bucky either didn’t hear you, or maybe he did and he just chose to ignore it.

With a clench of his jaw, he slowly pushed his hips forward, his eyes glued to the spot where your cunt wrapped around the head of his cock.

The sensation was delicious. Your body was burning hot, tight, and dangerously wet. He had only sunk the tip in, but it was already the greatest thing he had ever felt in his life. His eyes rolled back as a deep groan tore in his chest.

“Ohhh…”

Despite the toxin making your body more accommodating, you were still tighter than either of you expected.

You were being stretched completely and fully as Bucky kept going, relentlessly sinking his cock all the way inside until his dark, hairy base pressed flush against your folds. He was so big, and a part of you was grateful that he had already come once before this—because right now, his entire body was shaking with an uncontrollable need.

“So goddamn tight,” he cursed, his face twisting that looked almost like pain. “I never… fuck, I never expected pussy to feel this good… Christ.”

He stilled inside you, letting your body adjust to his size. But in reality, he was the one who needed time to adjust to your tightness.

You paced your breathing. Being stretched full by him made you want to scream at him to hurry up and move, to fuck you right into the dirt floor of the greenhouse—but you couldn’t make that kind of demand of a virgin.

Since it was his first time, despite the unfortunate circumstances, you were going to guide him gently.

“Hold me here,” you murmured, taking his hands and guiding them back to your thighs. “Feel me. It’s soft, isn’t it?”

Bucky breathed hard, nodding as he held you.

“When you’re ready, just move your hips nice and slow. Take your time.”

His face fell into a tight scowl, as if displeased with that order.

Every single one of his base instincts was screaming at him to fuck you hard and fast—to claim every surface of your pussy with his cock.

“F—fine,” he reluctantly agreed, his voice strained. He gripped your thighs tightly, spreading you open as he began rocking his hips back and forth.

His eyes were glossy with desire, transfixed by the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of your body.

A thick, creamy white ring was forming around the base of his shaft, staining the unruly dark curls that sat at his pelvis.

Every time he pulled out, he made sure to sink back in even deeper, rolling his hips forward until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.

Your eyes rolled back, your hands clutching his broad shoulders as he buried himself inside you.

“Fuck… just like that,” you moaned. “Keep going.”

“Does… does that feel good?” He swallowed hard, fingers digging deeper into your thigh.

You nodded fast. “So good—I don’t want you to stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Your breathless plea made him scowl , a frustrated snarl leaving his lips.

“This is torture.” He groaned.

You furrowed your brows, looking at his angry expression in concern. Torture? That wasn’t what sex was supposed to feel like. The last thing you wanted to do was hurt him.

“Bucky,” you said, pressing your hand against his sweating chest. “If this is hurting you, we need to stop right now. Pull out of me—”

You gasped as his metal hand circled tight around your wrist, prying it away from his chest and pinning it over your head. He slammed you back to the floor, his large body shadowing yours as his face hovered.

His dark eyes bored deeply into yours—and you felt like if you so much as looked away, he might take it as a threat.

“No, I can’t—I can’t do slow,” he growled. “The drug in my veins, it’s like it's yelling at me to take what I want. And what I want is to fuck you until you cry.”

Your breath left your lungs as Bucky slammed his hips forward, burying himself inside you.

He pulled out halfway before fucking right back in, a broken gasp leaving your lips as you arched your back against the floor from the pleasure. You hadn’t expected him to fuck you this hard—being a virgin and all—but you couldn’t complain.

You had been craving to be taken like this since the moment the drug first entered your system.

“Oh my god—!” You cried out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

“Ah—fuck, you’re so tight,” Bucky cried out.

He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breath scalding against your skin as he relentlessly pumped his hips in and out of you, using your vulnerable body like his own personal sex toy.

“It feels too good, fuck, baby. Everything feels too good—I can’t stop,” he moaned.

Your moans blended together into a dirty symphony.

The toxin was amplifying every single touch, his thick shaft stretching you out completely—turning your usually strong and poised body into mush with every thrust.

Your wet walls clenched down on him every time he threatened to pull out, as if sucking him right back in. Bucky was entirely lost, his mind short circuiting from the pleasure.

Every time he buried himself deep, your swollen pussy tightened around him like your body was trying to milk him dry. You whimpered with every single thrust he gave you, your teary eyes meeting his in a lustful haze as you wrapped your legs tight around his hips for support.

“Fuck—my god, don’t do that—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re squeezing me so tight. God—if this is what sex feels like, I never want to stop.”

He tilted his head down, his sweaty strands of hair tickling your hot face as he stared back down at the exact point where his hips got lost with yours.

Every stroke of his cock inside your tight body came with a hot wave of pleasure, amplified by the toxin coursing through your blood.

The sensation was addicting.

Bucky had never felt a pleasure like this before. He’d jerked off a few times in his apartment just to quickly relieve some stress, but that was always by himself.

He was a curious boy back in the forties, but he had never been close to getting any action like this.

To him, this was like a dream come true.

But he needed to go deeper. These regular, sloppy thrusts weren’t enough. He needed to feel more.

With a snarl, he leaned back to grip the backs of your thighs and shoved your knees up towards your chest, folding you into a tight mating press.

Before you could adjust to the new position, he pressed his hips against yours to lock you in place and sank down even deeper than he had before.

Your eyes flew wide, nearly bulging from their sockets as a sharp gasp ripped from your throat. His cock was stretching you at an impossible angle, burying himself so deep you could’ve sworn you saw stars.

Because you were already so sensitive from the toxin, having him bottom out so hard against your cervix made your core shudder uncontrollably, causing your legs to shake. Your head fell back against the floor, your toes curling in the air as your vision went hazy.

“Oh my god!” you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. “It’s too much—I can’t… you’re gonna make me cum!”

You felt your walls start to hyperventilate around his length. You knew he felt it, too, because he immediately doubled his pace.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, but it didn’t sound sincere. “Fuck—I’m so sorry. It just feels too good—fuck, I—”

His voice broke into a pained moan the moment your pussy tightened. You came hard around him without warning, your neck arching as a loud moan strained your vocal cords.

Bucky’s entire body tensed, his face twisting in a grimace from how your climax was squeezing him.

The feeling was exquisite, and fuck, he wasn’t going to last another second when he was buried this deep inside of you.

He knew your body was sensitive and overworked, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop moving. His balls had never felt this full, this heavy. He was close, so fucking close, and the more your pussy fluttered around his shaft, the more desperate he became to chase that same release.

“Shit. M’gonna cum,” he cursed, his hips stuttering as he hilted himself deep inside.

His cock twitched—he had never came inside a girl before, but he was determined to do so now.

He was going to make sure he filled you, to stuff your tight hole to the brim with his backed up super soldier seed.

“Gonna cum inside,” he warned, his metal hand sliding beneath your lower back and lifting your hips up to meet his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum inside—fuck, I hope that’s okay. I’m sorry. I can’t—I can’t control myself.”

You couldn’t muster a single coherent word. Only muffles and teary whimpers escaped you, but it didn’t matter what you said while Bucky was in this state. He had no intention of stopping.

His blue eyes were crazed, rolled back so far in his sockets you could see the white. He grit his teeth, meeting your hips with sloppy and wet thrusts. A litany of curses mumbled in broken strings under his breath, until finally…

“Oh my god—I’m cumming. Take it, baby. Take every single drop of me. Don’t let it go to waste. Please, I need this. I need this so fucking bad—”

With a firm grip on your thigh, he pinned you down and pushed his hips against yours.

His tip kissed your cervix, pulsing twice before his body gave way to your tightness. You were being filled by the thick, heavy pumping of his seed. You could feel his cock twitching relentlessly against your walls, determined to flood every inch of your pussy.

He buried his face in your neck, his chest heaving violently as he stuffed you so completely full that your lower belly felt heavy.

“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded brokenly.

Bucky trembled from head to toe, and despite his mumbled apologies, he kept your hips pinned securely so that not a single drop of his release could escape. He was spent, breathing in shaky and ragged gasps against your skin. He didn’t want to pull out yet, still savoring the feeling of your pulsing walls squeezing the very last drops from.

The two of you lay on the floor, tangled and sweaty in each other’s limbs. Once you finally caught your breath, your hands gently caressed his broad back, a comforting gesture that caught even you off guard.

“How… how are you feeling?” you finally mumbled.

Your body tensed as you braced yourself for an answer.

Now that the side effects of the toxin seemed to be wearing off, dread started trickling in.

You were terrified that everything you had just done with Bucky would be something he’d immediately regret. A part of you tried to tell yourself that you didn’t care—that he had despised you before this, and he would simply go back to hating you again.

But after being his first, there was an undeniable connection in the way you felt beneath him.

If he was already starting to feel regret... well, you weren’t sure how you would handle it. Guilt? Probably. The longer he stayed silent, the more the worry gnawed at you.

He eventually huffed a breath, but he didn’t pull away.

“If you’re wondering if I’m going to regret this,” Bucky began, his voice so raspy and tired that it sent a shiver down your spine. “The answer is no.”

You sucked in a breath, expecting a but to follow.

Bucky attempted to lift himself up slightly so he wasn’t crushing you, but he was still so sensitive that the movement made him wince sharply. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out yet, so he collapsed right back against you with a soft huff.

“I wish I could just stay like this,” he muttered, wrapping both arms around you while resting his head against your sweaty chest.

He looked so small and vulnerable in that moment, and it made your heart ache for him.

“Just holding you,” he whispered, hugging you tighter as his voice grew quieter. “Instead of constantly running, fearing for my life, or being taken away. I just want to stay like this. Holding a pretty girl.”

The tension was starting to become too much for you to handle. Your face burned, unsure of how to process the sudden compliment. Trying to break the tension, you huffed a soft laugh and continued to rub your hand up and down his broad back. He seemed to like your touch very much.

“I’m sorry you lost your virginity this way.” you tried to joke.

Bucky chuckled against your chest. “The man I was in the forties probably would’ve done a much better job.”

“Well, this wasn’t bad at all—I’ll tell you that much.”

The two of you lay there, chuckling softly in each other’s arms, until the loud, sudden static of your earpiece made you both jolt.

“Do you copy? Report in.”

You both froze, your hearts beating rapidly for an entirely different reason now.

Bucky cleared his throat as he reluctantly tried lifting himself up. The friction of his slick and semi-hard cock sliding out of you made you let out an involuntary whimper.

“Status update,” Steve pressed, his tone anxious. “Are you two safe, or are you compromised?”

Compromised, sure. But definitely not in the way Steve meant.

Suppressing a giggle, you tapped your earpiece with a bright smile, catching Bucky's eye.

“Glad to hear your comms didn’t break, Steve.”

A relieved sigh came from the other end. “Give me a status report. How are you two? How’s Bucky?”

You watched as Bucky began to pull his clothes back on, his face an embarrassing shade of red as he tried to compose himself. You chuckled softly.

“We’re fine.”

halfway through proofreading this i lowk realized this was slop. i thought i had a good idea and then lost the plot. if you actually liked this please consider leaving a like and hit that subscribe button *epic outro music*

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