☽✧ witchywithwhiskey's fics ✧☾

First, you waited on the long list of applications and the verification process. Then, once you got approved, your first steps into the seductive molasses of BDSM were wobbly at best. 

But it was expected, you told yourself. Master Simon assured you of that, as well, serving as a chaperone and guidance through the black marble walls and crystals glittering like diamonds. Astonishing, glamorous background for the most carnal, dirty acts. Some of which terrified, or straight repulsed you; some you yearned after.

With the excitement and hope, however, a gloomier mood started appearing. Not because of the club itself, but because each night you attended, you returned home with a heavy ache in your chest. Sadness. Anger. Disgust with yourself. How you wished that disgust came from experiencing filthy things and battling your appalled sense of propriety! Instead, it was from the growing conviction of being a huge disappointment.

As a new submissive in the club, you drew curious stares at first - which was both overwhelming and pleasant. But it didn’t correlate with active interest. Sure, the first two weekends consisted of a few conversations, as well three invitations to scene. 

Which, in a way, were more than you imagined, then later brought a sense of annoyance and disappointment. As if something was missing and the submissive creature inside you wasn’t satisfied with what you got. 

As weeks passed, the worse it became. Doms didn’t approach you. When you mustered all your shaky courage and tried to initiate an interaction yourself, you were very politely declined. Which was okay, you told yourself. Not every Dom had to be interested in you. With each failed attempt, though, a voice in your head cried louder and louder - No one is interested in you. 

The club organised particular activities that allowed all single submissives and Dominants to participate and find unexpected matches for a scene. Those games terrified you with the unknown - of which Dom might pick you, what thing they would do to you - yet you forced yourself to be a part of it. Again, for that flickering hope of clicking with someone for more than just a single scene after which they’d avoid you like the plague.

Thrill at the prospect of another night at the Black Diamond started diminishing. It still bubbled under your skin when you entered the marble halls and re-dressed in the changing room. However, as hours passed with you sitting in the submissives’ lounge, watching the spectacles around you, with no one approaching you even for a short conversation, the thrill died down.

Instead, that awful dread of going back home unfulfilled and forgotten rose. 

You couldn’t say you didn’t get a single scene, that you didn’t moan in a delirious orgasm, or felt the sting of a palm on your asscheek. But each of these scenes built up to something amazing, only to flatline afterwards. 

The Doms provided aftercare, though it felt like an obligation to be checked off the list rather than a genuine interest in making sure you were alright. No Dom asked you to scene with them for a second time.

So your mind worked overtime, thinking up the reasons for your complete failure. 

That night, despite being convinced it would be another night with you crying yourself to sleep, you walked into the club with the same hope you tried to maintain each time. Even if it faded faster and faster. 

As usual, you greeted other submissives with a smile, politely bowed your head to any Dom passed who glanced your way. You were on your route to the sitting area for submissives when Master Simon appeared in your way. 

“Would you please come with me?” Hazel eyes looked at you with a certain glint. You were unsure if it foreshadowed good, or bad things to come. 

“There’s someone who wants to meet you.” He tossed over his shoulder, already turned forward and walked across the club. 

You padded behind him, heart panging in your chest with a sudden jolt. Someone wanted to meet you?! Was it someone new? Newer than you? Or was it another of Simon’s attempts to arrange a scene for you - an act of pity which made you feel ashamed, yet you still clung to it like a starved orphan ready to eat a burned scrap of bread from the street. 

The man Simon took you to was seated on one of the chaises in the resting area. His pose was relaxed, but in a way a lion might be relaxed in the middle of the road in savannah. Legs slightly spread, back resting fully against the cushions, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand. 

He had blonde hair, with darker streaks here and there, all styled back in a soft swipe. His beard was trimmed. A pair of glasses rested on his nose, behind them striking blue eyes watched your approach. 

Master Simon said your name, pointing at you to stand in front of the man, whom he then introduced:

“Master Raymond.” 

With that, Simon simply turned around and walked away. He was always quite direct, and a man of few words, but he also showed care and attention in small doses. That he didn’t bother to do that meant he was sure you weren’t in any kind of danger. 

Or, at least, not in a bad kind of danger. 

You swallowed nervously, fingers fidgeting at the hem of the silky dress you chose to wear that night (it might as well serve as a nightie). Raymond studied you for a silent moment longer, before he spread his legs wider and tossed one of the cushions on the floor between them.

It took you only a single heartbeat of hesitation before you moved forward and dropped onto your knees. 

When you filled out all the forms and signed the contracts for the club membership, there was a thick file of rules. You always had the right of refusing a scene, not only stopping it if your limits were crossed, but simply not starting one. However, as a submissive in Black Diamond, you were also expected to kneel down for a Dom, if they required it (without any sexual acts following), as well undress on command. You quickly figured out it was to reinforce the thrilling power imbalance between a Dom and a sub. 

“I’m Raymond Smith.” The man introduced himself fully. A name you instantly recognized.

“Hello, Sir.” You forced your hands to rest gracefully on your thighs as you looked up at the owner of the club. The man who decided to accept you. 

“You know who I am,” he wasn’t asking, not really, so you only nodded. “We didn’t get a chance to meet earlier,” Raymond continued, “but I returned to find out what an unusual case you are.” 

There was no jab in his words, yet they strummed a sensitive chord within you. Your own insecurities intoned a chorus of hateful words and promises of exile. 

“Black Diamond exists so people can explore and get a fill of their desires. They get to learn about themselves, find themselves, find others who match their needs. So tell me-” slowly, Raymond leaned forward; blue eyes peeking at you from behind the glasses- “why aren’t you thriving?” 

You could shrink on yourself and say that you don’t know. Maybe even lie that you were most appreciative and happy with what the club provided. 

But Raymond was an experienced Dom, who would see right through poorly veiled bullshit. 

You just had to admit the truth without appearing the most pathetic. 

“I’m grateful for the attention I got so far, Sir,” you replied, measuring your breath to take hold of the shaky emotions that were threatening to resurface. “I guess it’s limited because I’m not what most of the Doms look for. Which is understandable, I’m not a jar of Nutella for everyone to like me,” you added with a fake easy smile. 

Raymond didn’t grin back. 

He didn’t glower, either. Simply watched you with the same patience. 

“Not what most of the Doms look for,” he repeated your words slowly, setting his tumbler onto the side table. “Elaborate, please.”

“Um-” you had to quickly regroup, knowing that if you spilled it all out in one rush, your hurt feelings would seep through your words. 

“I’m not a cute, sweet submissive, who needs protection or saving.” You started in what you hoped was a calm, unbothered tone. “For a lot of men, Dominants especially, being a protector and provider is a kink itself. I don’t stir that for them. I’m too put together and independent.” 

“I’m also not a cheeky brat,” you listed, “I don’t provide challenge, I don’t call out to tame me-”

A gasp interrupted your own words when Raymond’s fingers brushed along your collarbones unexpectedly. 

“Continue.” He ordered, trailing light touch further. 

“I-” your voice wavered slightly as he slipped his fingers beneath the straps of your dress. “I don’t have a knack for niche kinks, which could interest some sadists. And I’m not a bombshell to draw attention just by-”

Raymond pushed the straps of your dress down. Silk slipped down like liquid, exposing your breasts fully. 

With wide eyes, you stared at the Dom, chest rising on a hitched breath. His touch alone interrupted your thought process, but being bared unexpectedly completely scrambled your neatly prepared explanations. 

“Ah.” Raymond made a short, pleased sound. “Found the control switch.” 

He caressed the swell of your breasts with the backs of his curled fingers. Lightly. Yet goosebumps appeared on your forearms and your nipples stiffened into hard points. 

“Here you were,” his voice had a warm timbre, but his piercing gaze was terrifying like a sharp blade about to cut you open- “talking about something sensitive for you, yet you kept yourself all locked.”

Raymond observed you as you talked. Your body didn’t match the heaviness of your words. Dressed in logic, he heard the vulnerability and hurt behind each sentence - each comparison. But you didn’t allow yourself to show that ache beyond relaying it like cold facts. 

Only faint flickers he caught betrayed that the wounds ran deeply, only you didn’t allow them to show. 

Which meant you had connection to your feelings, but chose not to display them. Not to show vulnerability.

And what was true submissiveness, if not a raw exposition of everything. 

“I didn’t-” you started objecting, but Raymond’s hands cupping your breasts short circuited your train of thought. 

“Can’t hold up the walls when I tip your balance?” The corner of his mouth tilted in a smirk.

Your lips parted, to counter his assumption, but the words stuck somewhere on your tongue as he began playing with your boobs. Soft kneading turning into a harsher squeeze. Fingers splayed over the heavy roundness suddenly clenched around your nipple in a stinging pinch. 

The zap of pleasure surged straight to your clit. Your core filled with heat, even as your mind couldn’t comprehend how it can be happening when it’s not even a negotiated scene. 

“You give me a tale of being bland and boring, yet here I am intrigued by a subby who doesn’t fit the mould.” Raymond didn’t shift his gaze from your face as he continued to torment your breasts.

“Some Doms proved to be lazy arseholes, too glutted with well-known dynamics to dust off their skills. They brushed the surface of sexual kink, not really looking at you. Not seeing that you want much more than just intense orgasms. And instead of being angry with it, you lock it all up and convince yourself you don’t have a right to those feelings.”

Tears pooled in your eyes at his words. 

You wanted to hiss that you have all that anger and resentment, but you dealt with them on your own. In the safety of your own bed, where no one saw your tears and mocked you for them. 

You had no trouble sharing your joy with others. Smiling, laughing. You always displayed those. Sadness and anger? Desire and need? Fragility of any kind was supposed to be kept secret. They invited mockery and judgement, chinking at your pride and confidence. Controlling them meant you were closer to being a graceful, admirable woman, not some dramatic sap who grated on a partner’s nerves. 

“You’ve experienced disappointment and rejection here, yet you keep coming back.” Raymond’s touch switched to soothing caress again. 

“I suspect it’s because you don’t want anyone to see how much it hurt you, but I believe it’s also because you still hope someone notices those walls and shatters them down. Your eyes-” his gaze seemed to soften a fraction, and he moved one of his hands to tilt your chin up.

“So much fear and hope. Even now, when you hate me for dissecting you.”

“Please, Sir,” your voice was barely above a whisper. 

If you tried to speak up, you’d undoubtedly let out a sob. Beneath your eyelids tears still stung, but a deeply ingrained habit stopped them from falling. That voice in your head screeched about how pathetic Raymond would find you, if you cried. 

“You won’t find mercy with me.” He shook his head slowly. “But you can find what you’ve been craving. The sexual side and everything beneath.” 

Though you didn’t admit it, a part of you was also relieved when your nights at the Black Diamond turned to fiasco - because you remained protected within your safe bubble. No Dom brought you to a state that would cause the shell to crack. Which, in turn, meant you didn’t have to risk being hurt emotionally. 

It was your first interaction with Master Raymond and he was already barging in, unapologetically determined to set your safe space on fire. 

It was fucking terrifying. 

“You’ll have to be very brave,” he gripped your chin tighter, the other hand pinching your nipple again - the jolt of sexual pain once again messing with your head. Messing with your honed skills in putting up walls quickly. 

“You’re all buttoned up, but I’m going to cut off and rip all of those buttons and get you bare for me. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Every. Single. Damn. Time.” 

Maybe if he didn’t have you half naked; maybe if he didn’t hold your chin in an unyielding grip, forcing you to look him in the eye; maybe if he didn’t exude dominance in levels unparalleled to what you’ve been fantasising about; maybe if he didn’t cut you open with perceptive assessment… 

maybe then you would be able to calmly refuse his claim, maintaining a stubborn stance that you only wanted to be sexually satisfied. 

“Do you want that, Button?” Raymond leaned closer, scent of warmed spices and wood of his cologne were like a brush of soft blanket when you were held in an iron grip. “Or do you want to return to your weekly visits that end with nothing but hours on a sofa, keeping yourself away from hurt, but also away from connection?” 

A single tear slipped onto your eyelashes. You held back the rest. 

You tethered between the ache in your chest and the heat still licking between your thighs. 

Often, when emotions were close to the surface, your desire disappeared completely. Somehow, Raymond brought out the raw feelings, yet still kept your body buzzing with arousal. For the first time, one didn’t extinguish the other.

When you began your learning journey with BDSM, you read a lot upon the deep, intimate connection between physicality of it and the psychological and emotional sides. You tended to think of it as the emotional aspect of aftercare after a rough sexual act. You didn’t stop to think how the sex part could influence the process of feeling itself - intensify it, or soothe it. 

“I want to try.” You murmured. 

Raymond didn’t smile with triumph. He didn’t move away. He held you still, tugging on your nipple as he swiped his thumb up your chin and toward your bottom lip. 

“That’s very brave of you.” He praised. “Thank you for not giving up, and for trusting me with yourself.” 

Only then did he gently release you. He gave your cheek a tender caress, before reaching down to pull your dress up into place. Your abused nipples were straining against the silky fabric. 

“I meant what I said about not showing mercy, but I will never cross any boundary you set in the hard limits. I’ll push you, Button. Hard. But I promise to never give you what you can’t take.” 

“Instead, you’ll prove that I can and will take it?” You sighed, giving him a half-defeated, half-unamused look. 

Raymond smiled at that. A sinful gleam that heralded serious trouble for you. 

He leaned back and reached for the unfinished drink. He didn’t allow you to get up yet, so you remained on your knees. Your breasts were throbbing. Between your thighs, clit pulsed in demand for more. Your heart seemed to be bleeding open, yet it didn’t hurt as you might’ve expected. With the pleasure thrumming in your veins and the prospect of a Dom who - at least for now - wouldn’t drop you, the strewn feelings didn’t appear so awful. 

“Come tomorrow.” Raymond ordered. “Wear your highest heels. And nothing else.”

Heat immediately burst through your whole body.

“Nothing else?” You repeated, voice slightly stuttering.

“Once you’re in the club’s changing room, lose all your clothes. Then walk in wearing only high heels. Don’t stop to talk to anyone, you come straight to me.”

Each night you came to the Black Diamond meant being barely dressed and a high risk of ending up completely naked, but it was vastly different from walking inside already fully on display. Having to walk across the marble floors naked, with the sound of heels clicking against the polished stone, would draw all the attention to you. 

The auctioneer welcomes you out onto the stage, and you tentatively step out into the spotlight. All told, you’re nothing necessarily special. You’re wearing a relatively simple sundress, which, even though it only comes down to mid-thigh, is much more modest than the more scantily dressed women being auctioned off. 

There’s an innocence about you even as you straighten your spine and stand tall, refusing to be cowed by the men hooting and hollering in the crowd, calling for you to take your dress off. You don’t do any such thing, raising your chin higher and looking down on the club like a queen overlooking her court.

And big, bad Steve Rogers, the leader of Brooklyn’s most feared mafia organization, is struck dumb. He’s unable to respond when Bucky makes some comment about you causing a riot because the mafia boss has been rendered speechless. It would’ve been funny, if it had happened to anyone else but him.

Steve only snaps back to reality when it’s announced that you’re selling your freedom for a whole year, and the mafia boss knows he has to have you. He’s already thinking about the ways he can put your body to good use, fucking you in that pretty little sundress in the filthy back alley behind his club. He knows, deep in his bones, that you’re going to be so fucking pretty when you cum on his cock. 

It strikes Steve that even a whole year with you might not be enough. But that’s a problem for future Steve. For now, he needs to focus on winning you, buying your freedom, and then he can worry later about keeping you beyond the year. 

Thankfully, Steve regains enough of his senses not to jump in too early in the bidding. His life is one long power play, and he knows how to win an auction. Compared to negotiating peace with Tony Stark’s Manhattan organization, this should be like child’s play. 

So Steve feigns disinterest, sipping on his whiskey and watching as the price of your freedom racks up. He ignores Bucky’s low whistles and mocking scoffs, his best friend eventually realizing what’s going on and that the mafia boss is going to make a play for you. Steve doesn’t need to say that you’re worth every penny, Bucky figures it out.

When the bidding slows down at $1.5 million, Steve knows it’s time to strike.

“Two million dollars,” he calls across the club, the sheer authority in his voice ringing through the space. He watches with a sense of predatory satisfaction when your attention turns to him, your eyes widening almost imperceptibly as you take him in. It takes everything in Steve not to puff up like some peacock. 

The other men who’ve been bidding on you look around uneasily, still trying to discern where the offer came from. Deciding to reveal himself, Steve rises from his seat, taking one last drink from his glass before he shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and begins prowling up toward the stage.

Recognition ripples through the room, uneasy whispers circling the tables of the gentlemen’s club. A few obstinate men look like they’re gathering the courage to try to outbid the mafia boss, but before they can open their mouths, the auctioneer saves them from making the mistake of trying to cross Steve Rogers.

“Sold! To the proprietor of the club,” the auctioneer crows, ushering Steve up onto the stage, even though it’s clear to anyone watching that the imposing mafia boss is going to do as he pleases anyway. “Happy birthday, sir,” the other man simpers.

Steve stalks across the stage while the auctioneer leads the club in a motley rendition of “Happy Birthday,” but the intimidating mafia boss ignores the crowd. He only has eyes for you, the birthday present he’s gifting to himself.

You try to swallow past the lump in your throat, your eyes wide as you stare up at the tall, blond man, using all your strength to keep the steel in your spine and not wilt beneath the intensity in his bright, blue eyes. 

He exudes an aura of danger and violence that has nothing to do with the way his broad shoulders and thick biceps fill out the suit he wears. Instead, it has everything to do with who he is. 

You may not know much about the underworld of New York City, but you know enough to recognize—and be intimidated by—the Brooklyn mafia boss, Steve Rogers. 

It had never been your intention to catch the attention of someone so notorious, so infamous for bloodshed, and now not only are you in his sights, you’ve officially sold your freedom to him for an entire year. 

If that’s not bad enough, you can already read the mafia boss’s depraved intentions all over his face. It’s clear in the way he’s staring at you like a starving predator whose set his sights on his prey—and that prey is you. 

The truth solidifies in your gut, Steve Rogers is going to eat you alive.

Tears prick at the back of your eyes, but you blink them quickly away, cursing yourself for being so stupidly naive. You’d just wanted to help your boyfriend. He’d gotten himself deep into some gambling debts, and you hadn’t even known he’d borrowed money from some seriously scary people until it was almost too late.

He’d been the one to suggest the auction at the gentlemen’s club. The two of you had concocted a plan for you to sell your freedom for a year, both so that you’d earn enough money to clear your boyfriend’s debts, and because the length of time might mean someone would buy you to be a glorified house maid. 

Now that it’s done, though, you can’t help but realize you’d deluded yourself. The look in Steve Rogers’ eyes, filled with hunger and promise, makes it clear that the mafia boss has plans for you—and those plans include using your body in every filthy depraved way he can think of. For a whole year. 

However, when you expect to feel fear at that realization, you feel only…a tentative thrill. A thrumming kind of…excitement. You tell yourself you’ll do anything the mafia boss asks of you so that you can help your boyfriend, but a not-so-small part of you is intrigued about what exactly he’ll do with you…

Only a few seconds have passed since Steve came to a stop in front of you, the echoing refrain of “Happy Birthday” only just tapering off in the club. As you watch him, Steve holds out his big hand to you, and for a moment all you can do is stare at it. 

You know the hand he’s presented to you has been stained with blood on more than one occasion, but it’s also a lifeline. It’s an escape from the mess your boyfriend created, the one that could’ve easily led to you being kidnapped and hurt in order to make him pay back his debts. 

When you continue to hesitate, Steve speaks, and his tone is so soft, so gentle, that it wraps around your heart and soul like a blanket. 

“My diamond,” he says, his voice low like the rumbling purr of a lion. “I believe you’re mine now.”

There’s a question in his words, so subtle you barely notice it, but it’s there. He’s giving you a chance to back out, to rebuff his offer of $2 million and try your luck elsewhere. But your only other options are less money or leaving your fate in the hands of the men your boyfriend owes money to.

Even with the depraved promise in Steve’s eyes, you know he’s your best option. So you slip your hand into his. You’re instantly struck by the warmth of his palm, and the electric sparks that have your body lighting up for him even before his calloused fingers close around your hand.

“Yes, sir, I belong to you,” you murmur, almost forgetting to tack on, “For one year.”

A slow smile spreads across Steve’s handsome face, sharp as the edge of a knife, and far more dangerous if the way your heart flutters is any indication. Quick as a shot, Steve bends over your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, the promise of depravity in the ostensibly modest gesture.

“Right, for one year,” he repeats, and there’s a dark kind of humor sparkling in his eyes before he blinks it away, like he finds something about that statement funny. He draws you in closer, securing you against his side and leading you off the stage. 

When you enter the VIP section on the arm of the mafia boss, a man with brown, messy hair and a scowl on his pouty mouth greets Steve with a question of, “What the fuck, boss?”

Steve smirks, unruffled by the rude question, and squeezes your hip possessively. You only realize he’s not going to explain himself to this man when the mafia boss lowers himself onto one of the leather couches, sprawling out like a king on his throne.

You don’t move until Steve grabs your hand and guides you to sit on his lap, your body leaning against his broad chest while he snags a fresh glass of whiskey off a server’s tray. He asks what you’d like to drink, and you’re grateful for the consideration, asking for something strong, which makes him chuckle, the sound vibrating through your body to settle heavily between your thighs. 

Relaxing into Steve’s big body, you’re distracted by the thick muscle of his leg beneath your ass, and the weight and warmth of his hand where it’s settled on your hip. His thumb rubs maddening circles into your skin through your sundress, the gesture both teasing and comforting. 

You don’t know how you’re going to deal with Steve’s closeness for a whole year—especially when you know he has every intention of stripping you bare and having his way with you. But you’re brought back into the moment when the mafia boss speaks to his friend. 

“It’s my birthday, Buck,” Steve is saying to the other man, hiding a smug smile behind his glass as he takes a sip. “I deserve to get myself something nice—like a little diamond doll.”

Steve turns his smile on you, stealing the breath from your lungs with how handsome he is. It’s ridiculous how good it feels to have him look at you like you’re something precious to him, and you can already tell you’re greedy for more of his attention.

It strikes you all over again that you’re in way over your head. If you’re not careful, you’ll enjoy being Steve Rogers’ diamond doll a little too much and forget the entire reason you sold your freedom in the first place. But would that be so bad?

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

You were proud of yourself for getting the words out without stumbling, but the feeling was quickly extinguished when Steve stalked toward you like the predator he was.

On instinct, you backed up until your ass hit his desk, but he kept coming, planting his hands on either side of your thighs. He was caging you in between his strong arms and broad body, ducking his head so close, you could practically taste the whiskey on his breath.

“Tell me, angel,” Steve purred, his voice silky and smooth. “What did you do that was so bad Stark would throw you to the wolves?” 

Your gaze flicked up, finding the anger had melted from Steve’s handsome face, and he was staring at you with naked curiosity in his eyes.

“M-my father,” you stammered, unsure why Steve was so interested in a nobody like you. “He owes Mr. Stark a lot of money.” You paused, blinking back tears as you thought of your father bruised and bloodied by Stark’s men. “M-Mr. Stark said if I did this, he’d cut my father’s debts in half.”

“Half!?” 

Steve’s outburst was so sudden, you flinched, burying your face in your shoulder as you braced for a blow. 

But it never came. Instead, you felt fingers gently brush your chin and tip your face up. 

You blinked your eyes open to find Steve Rogers standing above you, looking like a vengeful god limned in moonlight. The roiling rage and fury in his eyes should’ve scared you, but his hand was impossibly gentle as he slowly cupped your face, thumb brushing sweetly over the apple of your cheek.

“Let me give you a better offer, angel,” Steve rumbled, his eyes darting back and forth between yours, like he was trying to read your thoughts—your very soul—through your gaze. “Be mine, and I’ll settle your father’s debts. All of them.”

“You would do that? For me?” you asked skeptically, not daring to hope for kindness from one of the most ruthless men in all of New York City.

But if you’d had any delusions that Steve Rogers was making his offer out of the kindness of his heart, he dispelled them then. The corner of his mouth quirked in a smirk, and the hand not holding your face settled possessively on your waist, squeezing you firmly.

“Make no mistake, angel, I’m a demanding man.” Steve’s voice was back to a silky purr, and it did things to your body—a shiver skating down your spine that had little to do with fear and much more to do with the warmth blooming between your thighs. “If you’re mine, then your body belongs to me, and the things I’ll do to you…”

Steve trailed off, his hand skimmed down over your waist, grabbing a fistfull of your ass and dragging your body flush against his. All your soft curves molded to the hard planes of his muscles—including the thick ridge of his cock. 

You gasped, more heat building between your thighs, and you pressed your hands against Steve’s chest to brace yourself. Blinking up at the mafia boss, your lips fell open at the unrestrained lust in his eyes. 

“Wh-what will you do to me?” you asked, your voice soft and breathy. Even you could hear the hint of eagerness in your words.

Steve grinned wolfishly, rocking his hips and rubbing his cock against you until you were squirming in his arms. Only then did he answer your question.

“I’ll do whatever I want, wife.” 

The mafia boss punctuated his final word by lifting your thigh over his hip and pressing the hard length of his cock against the soft slit of your pussy. Pleasure burst through your body, and your head fell back as you moaned loudly.

Steve chuckled, the sound pure masculine satisfaction. “So, do we have a deal, angel?” he purred into the corner of your mouth, so close you could feel the smug smirk curving his lips.

You knew what he was doing, using your body to coerce you, but you didn’t need much convincing. Even in your short time with him, you could tell Steve was a better man than your boss, and the thought of giving yourself to him body and soul was becoming more appealing by the moment. 

So you accepted his offer.

“Yes,” you cried softly, staring up into Steve’s darkened eyes and rocking your hips to meet his rocking thrusts. “I’m yours—I’m yours.”

“Good girl,” Steve growled seconds before capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, sealing the deal. He devoured your mouth, grinding his cock against your clit until you unraveled beneath him. 

Once you’d recovered, he lifted you into his arms, carrying you bridal style to the sofa in his office. There, you gave yourself fully to the most feared man in Brooklyn, taking the better offer and consummating your future marriage to Steve Rogers.

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

Steve has to bite back a snicker when he notices the bit of drool at the corner of your mouth, but the sound dies in his throat when he notices that your arms are wrapped around a pillow—one you’ve covered with one of his shirts. 

When he realizes that you’re clinging so tightly to something of his, even in your sleep, Steve’s heart thumps hard in his chest and he knows he can’t keep himself away from you for even a moment longer. He’s been gone too long, and he misses you too badly. 

In just a few quick strides, Steve crosses the room to the bed and slips beneath the blankets behind you. 

You always keep the air conditioner on high in the summer, needing the weight of your blankets to sleep, so Steve doesn’t notice that you’re completely naked until he bundles you up in his arms. He pulls your back into his front, slotting you in perfectly against his body.

Suddenly, there’s so much warm, bare skin pressing against Steve’s chest, his arms, his legs, that for an entire minute, his mind completely blanks out. He knows, deep down, that you did this for him. Normally, you wear one of his shirts to bed, so the fact that you’re naked means you were waiting for him—that you’re ready for him.

While Steve’s short-circuiting behind you, you rouse from sleep, giving a sleepy mumble of his name.

“Steve?”

That snaps him out of it, and he squeezes you a little tighter in his arms. “It’s me, angel,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, reveling in the way you shiver at the rasp of his beard. “Had to see my best girl on my birthday.”

“Mmm,” you hum in agreement. Wiggling your ass, you rub sleepily against Steve’s hardening cock, the tantalizing warmth of your pussy teasing him and making him groan softly against your cheek. “Want you, Steve. Inside. Please.”

The soft, broken sound of your voice begging for his cock is too much for Steve. All he can do is give you exactly what you asked for. It takes him very little time to shove his briefs down and line up the tip of his cock with your warm, welcoming entrance. 

Steve works himself inside you slowly, one of his hands slipping around your hip and dipping between your thighs to stroke your clit sweetly, teasing you open. Helpless moans fall from your lips and you bury your face in the pillow wrapped in Steve’s shirt, letting the soft cotton muffle your sounds of pleasure. 

It feels endless, the stretch and ache of taking the super-soldier’s thick cock after so long, and by the time Steve hilts himself in your pussy, you’re both breathing hard. He sucks a hickey into your shoulder, making you whine and clench around his fat dick. 

“Baby, baby, ‘m not gonna last long,” Steve rumbles, trailing kisses up your neck to nip at the edge of your jaw. “You feel too good and it’s been too long.”

You’re nodding your head before he’s finished speaking, biting back a sob of pleasure even as you roll your hips impatiently. “Too long,” you echo, and the subtle thread of sadness in your voice nearly breaks Steve’s heart.

He captures your chin in one hand, turning your head enough so his mouth can find yours. He kisses you hard, fierce, as he begins to fuck you, hard and deep. “I miss you so fucking much when I’m gone, angel,” he rumbles against your mouth, lifting up enough so that he can look into your pretty eyes, see your face as pleasure surges through your body.

You stare up at Steve like he’s your everything, one hand cupping his jaw, fingers sinking possessively into his beard and yanking him down for another kiss. “I miss you, too, Steve,” you confess against his mouth before kissing him again harder, pouring all your love for him into it as tears spill down your cheeks. 

The hard things go unsaid. Steve’s birthday isn’t the time to talk about how you wish he didn’t have to leave again, even though you know he’ll have to. And you’re grateful he doesn’t make promises he can’t keep about when he’ll be able to come home for good. For the day, the two of you will just enjoy each other. 

Steve’s hand slips back between your thighs, rubbing your clit, determined to make you cum first. He uses everything he knows about your body to ratchet your pleasure higher, getting you to the edge before he lets himself cum. Still, it’s a near thing. But he manages to find the spot inside you that drives you wild, and he pounds into it until you’re quaking in his arms. 

You pull away from Steve’s mouth to muffle your cries of pleasure in his beard, just beneath his jaw, the vibrations of you coming apart shooting down his spine and straight to his dick. He twitches inside you, your cunt clenching hard around him, and then he’s coming inside you. 

Steve ducks his head, searching for your mouth. He kisses you breathless before you both sag back into the pillows on the bed, relaxing into the post-sex haze.

The two of you fall asleep like that, you curled up in the super-soldier’s arms, his cock still buried in your body, plugging you full of his cum. You keep him warm while he sleeps, and he keeps you safe—and when you wake up, it’s to spend the day with your man, Steve Rogers, celebrating his birthday.

At least, until he has to leave again.

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But the rockstar of your dreams is praising you, telling you how pretty you look as a messy little slut on your knees for him. So you do your best to suffer through it, to breathe through your nose while he skull-fucks your mouth. You can almost pretend you’re having as much fun as he clearly is—and anyway, it’s his birthday. You just want him to have a good time, and you’re still grateful he chose you.

Before he can cum down your throat, Steve pulls out of your mouth and picks you up, tossing you onto the bed. You’re gasping for breath and before you can say a word, he’s on top of you, tearing your clothes off your body and sinking his cock, dripping wet with your spit, into your barely ready pussy. 

It stings a little, and you wince, but Steve only laughs in your ear, amused at your pain and groaning at how tight you feel around him. He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust, already moving his hips in a rolling motion that, despite the ache in your core, starts to feel good. The rockstar teases you for being such a tight little slut for him, moaning loudly when your cunt clenches around his cock.

It’s only then that you realize Steve didn’t put on a condom, and you consider asking him to pull out and put one on, but then he’s bottoming out in you again, grinding the base of his cock against your clit. Between the pleasure, the delicious stretch of his cock in your cunt, and the drinks you’d had and the weed you smoked, your thoughts about protection are lost in the ether. 

Steve fucks you hard and fast, emptying his balls inside you before you even have a hope of coming—but he’s not done with you. He hauls you up, arranging the two of you so he’s sitting against the headboard with you perched on his cock, using your pussy to keep his half-hard length warm while you drink and smoke some more. 

He shotguns twice as much weed smoke into your mouth, until you’re floating and so hazy, you barely know what’s going on. It helps make everything feel good, though, including the way his big dick stretches your pussy nearly to its limit, and the way his hands grab your tits roughly, pinching your nipples and slapping the soft mounds with the flat of his palm. 

You don’t know how much time passes like that, but sometime later, Steve is fucking you again, bouncing you on his cock while you giggle like a dumb little ditz, your bare body on full display for the rockstar. He doesn’t leave any part of you untouched, sucking hickeys into your skin, groping your tits and hips hard enough to leave bruises behind. It’s rough, but you’re so high that everything feels good.

You cum on Steve’s cock like that, and he groans when he feels your cunt gripping him tight, following you over the edge with his face buried in your tits. His cock throbs in your pussy, spilling a second load in your body, his cum starting to leak out around where he’s plugging you full. 

The rockstar rewards you for making him cum again with more drinks and more weed, shotgunning even more smoke into your mouth until you black out. One of the last thoughts you have before your mind slips into darkness is how happy you are that you got to spend the night with your favorite rockstar on his birthday. 

But if you think that’s all Steve Rogers has planned for you, you discover you’re very, very wrong.

For the rest of the night, you’re barely aware of your surroundings, coming in and out of consciousness to find Steve fucking you again—wait, no, not Steve. That’s Bucky Barnes behind you, pounding ruthlessly into your cunt while Steve’s cock is stuffed deep in your mouth. You can taste yourself on the rockstar’s dick, and you can feel an ache in your throat from how hard he’s thrusting, fucking your mouth like it’s a pussy.

Your head spins from lack of air and alcohol and weed, and you black out again. The next time you come to, you’re on your back, Sam Wilson above you, fucking into your aching cunt with slow, deep strokes. His thumb brushes your clit, and his lips whisper praise, calling you a sweet slut, making you cum hard enough that you lose consciousness again.

Bucky is on top of you again, rutting into your messy pussy while he sucks a hickey into the sensitive skin on your throat. You moan, the sound part pleasure and part pain, and Bucky chuckles meanly, telling you to be a good groupie whore and take his cock without complaint. You were made for this after all, isn’t that why you wanted to be chosen by Steve so badly?

Impossibly, you cum again at Bucky’s mean words and his even meaner fucking, your body shaking uncontrollably as pleasure tears ruthlessly through your exhausted body. It’s a relief when the darkness welcomes you back into its waiting arms, and you sink into it happily.

The next time you wake, you search for Steve. He’s sitting in a chair beside the bed, smoking, drinking and chatting with Bucky and Sam while he strums idly on an acoustic guitar. Slowly, you become aware of more men on top of you, but if Bucky and Sam are with Steve, who’s fucking you now? 

It takes you a long moment to turn your head and focus your eyes enough to find two roadies on top of you—John Walker and Joaquín Torres. Their names surface from the dark depths of your mind. Steve had introduced them to you when you’d first gotten on the bus. 

You’re too tired to do anything but lay in the soiled bed at the back of the band’s tour bus and take the cocks John and Joaquín are giving you—alternately thrusting into your pussy. You cling to the meager pleasure they offer, coming weakly once more before they pull out and jerk their cocks until they’re coating your bare skin with their seed.

Finally, you slip into a deep sleep, and you don’t wake again for many, many hours.

It’s early afternoon by the time you’re woken by the gentle rumble of the bus, and you take quick stock of your situation. You’re alone, surrounded only by the thick stench of sex, the sheets of the bed tangled around your naked limbs. 

Your entire body aches, the pounding headache of a hangover beating against your skull, and it takes a very long time before you’re able to wrench your eyes open. When you do, your stomach sinks to see the landscape passing by the windows in the back room, taking you away from your home city where you saw the band play.

Steve enters the room, and you watch him warily. He doesn’t bother to close the door behind him as he rounds the bed and drops an unopened bottle of water and a couple painkillers on the side table built into the back wall. When you don’t move, he leans over and slaps your ass hard, making you jump and let out a tortured groan. 

Distantly, you hear the laughter of a group of men at the front of the bus and your mind is inundated with flashes of vivid memories of how Steve had let his friends fuck you all night. A shiver races down your spine, something between fear and excitement filling your gut as your pussy flutters, cum leaking out of your well-used hole.

“Thanks for the birthday fuck, sweetheart. I had fun,” Steve says with an all-too-charming grin. He sits down on the edge of the bed, watching you roll over onto your back so you can sit up. 

You take the ibuprofen and chug half the bottle of water, watching the rockstar. You want to ask Steve where the bus is going, already knowing it’s left your city behind, but your throat hurts. He must suspect what you want to ask because he volunteers the information.

“We’re headed to the next stop on the tour,” Steve explains, one of his hands settling lightly on your thigh. “If you want, we can drop you off there, and you can find your own way home…” He trails off, his hand skating up your leg until his fingers are teasing the entrance to your thoroughly fucked pussy. “Or you can stick around and keep having fun with us—all of us.”

Steve’s pretty blue eyes glitter like he hopes you’ll choose the second option. The tip of his finger circles your clit and just that little bit of pleasure has your body melting into the pillows at your back, your legs falling open. Steve’s grin widens, brightening so much, he’s almost too handsome to look at. You feel like a flower unfurling beneath the sun.

Even with the ache in your body, you think it might be worth it to stay on the bus, just to earn more praise from your favorite rockstar. So what if he lets his friends fuck you while you’re passed out, getting to belong to Steve Rogers is all you’ve ever wanted. 

Besides, it’s not like you can afford to get yourself home. If the band leaves you at the next stop, you’ll have no way of getting back to your city. You only really have one option, so you might as well make the best of it. Steve, Bucky, Sam, John and Joaquín are handsome and they can make you cum, you’d be stupid to pass up the chance to be their free use fuck toy. 

At least, that’s what you tell yourself to rationalize the only choice you have.

“I’ll stay,” you murmur. 

You catch sight of Steve’s eager, feral grin before your eyes slip closed, and you will the ibuprofen to take effect. You lay limply in the bed as the rockstar climbs on top of you, his hands already pulling his dick out of his jeans. 

“I hoped you’d say that,” Steve rumbles in your ear, sinking into your dripping pussy, not seeming to care that it’s his friends’ cum that’s making the slide so easy. 

The stretch has you letting out a helpless moan, and you can feel the man on top of you chuckling against your cheek. He pulls his hips back, thrusting forward with punishing fierceness, clearly not caring about your comfort as he uses your cunt to get himself off.

“Be a good cock slave,” your favorite rockstar, Steve Rogers, tells you. “Let me fuck you like every night is my birthday, and I’ll take good care of you, sweetheart.”

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