Marvel

You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.

Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.

The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.

It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.

“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.

You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.

Bucky.

James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.

In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.

But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.

You do love him.

Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.

At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.

That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.

But Bucky likes to ruin your life.

It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.

You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.

“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.

James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.

“My… Mother.”

He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.

“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.

“I did say that.”

“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”

Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”  

“What-“

“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”

You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”

There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.

You don’t succeed.

But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.

Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.

Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.

So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.

You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.

Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-

No.

Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.

You’d rather have the gloves.

“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”

You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”

“Okay?”

“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.

“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”

“Hm.”

“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”

“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“

“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”

“Told you, nothing-“

“What.”

Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.

With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.

“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”

“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.

“Yeah, I thought you did.”

“Then why’d you ask-“

“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”

Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.

You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.

There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.

He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-

You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.

But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-

You need a date.

It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.

Which leaves one option.

Dating apps.

There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.

They won’t see. None of them will see.

And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.

“You never tell me about your family.”

Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.

“You never ask.”

His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”

“So?”

“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”

“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”

“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”

“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”

“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”

“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.

He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.

“Why?”

“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”

“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”

“She doesn’t adore me-“

“She adores you.”

He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”

“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”

You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“

“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.

He’s not making that part easy, either.

“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”

“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”

You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.

“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.

“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”

“My favorite flower-“

Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”

“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”

“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”

You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.

If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.

“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.

You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.

“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.

They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-

You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”

Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”

“Yes, sir.” You drawl.

Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.

“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”

“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”

Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.

“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”

He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.

“James, are you-“

“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”

You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.

It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I

Sweetheart.

You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.

You really need to find that date.

It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.

Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.

The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.

Hence, the dating apps.

It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.

But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.

Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.

Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.

You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.

You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.

James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.

You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-

Located thirty feet away.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.   

Fucking- Fuck-

You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.

Next photo.

Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.

Which means-

You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.

Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.

He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.

You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.

Your thumb drifts a little to the right.

You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.

And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.

You scream, and throw your phone across the room.

Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.

“Are you-“

“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.

You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.

He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.

Like he can sense you, he looks up.

Your eyes meet.

And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.

Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.

“But- I can help-“

“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”

“Steve-“

“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.

“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.

“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“

“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.

Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.

Barely.

Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.

It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.

But he matched with you, too.

He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.

Bucky’s not the type to do that.

He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.

But you’re pretty sure you do.

This is making your head hurt.

Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-

Your phone buzzes.

Message from James.

You throw your phone again. He knows.

Death is looking lovely right now.

Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.

“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.

“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.

“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”

“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.

“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”

You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“

“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“

“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.

“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”

You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”

“But you’re not.”

Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.

“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“

“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.

“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”

You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.

Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.

And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.

“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”

Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.

But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.

You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.

Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.

And Bucky.

Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.

Almost.

He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.

“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”

He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.

You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.

Like nothing ever happened.

But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.

Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.

“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”

You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”

Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”

“I know. I’ve read the about page.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”

“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.

“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“

“I’m aware.”

“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”

He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”

It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.

But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.

“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”

Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.

“By everyone.”

You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.

Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.

You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.

When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.

His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.

“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.

“Thank you.”

He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”

“I’ve been told-“

“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.

You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-

“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“

“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”

He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.

You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.

Endlessly and uselessly love it.

Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.

It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.

You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.

You are resting.

By catching up on emails.

There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.

Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.

Not a mistake.

Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.

You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.

When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.

You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.

“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.

“Hey.”

“What’re you-“

“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”

You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”

You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“

“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.

Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.

“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.

“You’re not my boss.”

Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”

Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.

“James…”

“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.

“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“

“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.

He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.

Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.

“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”

You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.

And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-

No.

You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.

He brought you flowers.

To apologize for breaking your heart.

Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.

“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”

“Bucky-“

“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.

Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.

“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“

“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”

You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you meant it?”

You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.

“Could you?”

“What?”

“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.

“Ja-  Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”

“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”

“Is it you?”

“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“

You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“

“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”

He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.

But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.

“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.

“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”

“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”

His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”

Oh.

What.

Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.  

You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.

“You read my messages, right?”

You shake your head, and he groans.

“I- I’m sorry-“

“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“

You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“

“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”

You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.

He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.

Bucky follows you.

Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.

And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.

“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”

Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.

“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”

He tenses around you. “Don’t?”

“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”

Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“

“Bucky-“

“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.

“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“

“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“

“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.

Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.

“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.

Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.

“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.

“You.”

“Me?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.

“What about me isn’t nice?”

You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”

“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”

“You don’t mean it.”

Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“

“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”

You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”

“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“

“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.

“James-“

“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.

Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”

You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.

“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”

“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”

“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”

You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.

“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”

And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.

But-

“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.

“Okay-“

“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”

You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“That a problem, doll?”

“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“

Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.

You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.

And nothing has done it justice at all.

Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.

One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.

The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.

Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.

His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.

“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.

“Bucky-“

“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”

You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.

But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.

“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.

“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.

“How long-“

“The same.”

“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“

You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.

Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.

“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“

“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”

His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“

“Then show me.”

Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.

“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.

He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.

“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”

“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”

You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.

“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”

You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.

“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.

“Yeah. Yes. Please-“

He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.

“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”

You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.

“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”

“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“

You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.

“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.

It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.

Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.  

“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”

Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“

“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.

You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.

“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”

“You- You didn’t-“

“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”

You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.

“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“

Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.

“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”

His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.

Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.

“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”

You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.

“Trust me?”

“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.

“Good girl.”

Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.

Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”

You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.

“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”

“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”

Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.

“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”

He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.

“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“

“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.

“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.

“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”

“Wha- Bucky-“

He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.

“Bucky, come back-“

“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”

You scowl. “James-“

“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”

He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.

“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Strip.”

“Like, completely?”

“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”

He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.

But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.

Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.

Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.

“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.

“Please?”

Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“

“It’s polite-“

“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”

You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-

Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.

“Next time?”

He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”

You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.

And he’s just watching you.

Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.

You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.

Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.

“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”

“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“

“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“

His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.

Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.

“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”

You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.

“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”

You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“

“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”

If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.

“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”

“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“

He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”

You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.

“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”

You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”

“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”

There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.

“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”

“You’re- You’re touching me-“

“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”

He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“

“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”

“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”

Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”

“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.

Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.

“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.

“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“

“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“

“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.

“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.

“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“

“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.

Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.

“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”

You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.

With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.

Being fucked by him might kill you.

It’s a risk you’re willing to take.

“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.

“Hi.”

“You still in this?”

You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“I’d like you to say it-“

“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.

It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”

You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.

“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”

You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-

“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”

He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.

“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”

You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down. 

“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”

“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“

You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.

He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.

Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.

“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.

Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.

“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“

Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.

This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”

You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”

You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.

Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.

“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”

You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.

And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.

Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.

His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.

Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.

“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”

You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.

Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.

“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”

You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”

He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”

You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.

“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.

“But you’re so pretty when I do.”

He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.

He’s going to treat you well.

“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”

“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”

Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”

You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.

And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.

This is different.

Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”

You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.

He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.

“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.

“Are you-“

“Yes- Fuuuuck-“

You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.

Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.

“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“

The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.

Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.

“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”

Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.

You might have already lost your mind.

“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.

The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.

“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.

“You gotta stop doin’ that-“

“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“

His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.

You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.

“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”

“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“

“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”

He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.

“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”

Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“

His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.

“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”

There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else. 

“Ye- Yes.” 

“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”

“I- I was-“

“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”

“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“

You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.

Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.

“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”

You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.

“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“

He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.

“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”

“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“

“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”

You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.

“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”

He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.

“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”

“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.

“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.

“Buuccky-“

“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”

And he does.

Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.

He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.

He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.

Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.

“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“

You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.

“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.

You nod, shaking with the need to snap.  Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.

“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”

Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.

Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.

There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.

He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.

Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.

“That wasn’t too-“

“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.

“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.

For a second, you just watch each other.

And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.

He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.

He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.

You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.

He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.

“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.

“I know.”

“I was serious, about all of it-“

“I believe you.”

Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.

It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.

To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.

“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“

“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”

Chapter 1 - The Role

Chapter 2 - Introductions

Chapter 3 - Coming soon

Chapter 4 - Coming soon

You grip the fork and poke the noodle and twirl. You wrap the linguine around the tines and hunch over the plate. You push it into your mouth. Your stomach hurts but the hunger is so deep it’s next to revulsion. You suck the noodle off the fork and drone as you chew.

You close your eyes as you swallow it down. It’s good but too much. The flavour makes you nauseous. 

You don’t want to be ungrateful. You open your eyes and twist up some more. The second bite turns to bile in your mouth. You groan and quiver. You spit it onto the plate as your insides constrict. You spew up the first mouthful and some acid.

You shudder and whine. You suck in a willowy breath and shake your head. You push the plate forward and lift it over the gap between the table and the couch. You get it just onto the edge of the table and slide it forward.

You let go as you tip and collapse onto the floor. You sob and shiver as footsteps barrel from another room. Bucky comes to stand above you.

“Doll,” he drops to one knee and pets your head. “What’s going on?”

“S-sorry,” You murmur. “It was… good…”

He looks up at the plate and clucks. “Too much,” he says. “Broth. We’ll get you some broth.”

He bends over you and wraps his arms around you. He lifts you back onto the couch and sits close. He strokes your cheek and hair and your neck. His hands settle on your shoulders as he keeps you from slouching over.

“We should get you washed up, doll. I got some nice clothes for you to put on. You’ll feel better.” He coaxes as his thumbs circle on your skin. “Does that sound good?”

You slump back against the couch weakly and your head lolls, “I…o…kay.”

You don’t have a choice. Even if he keeps asking like you do. He slips and arm around your back and the other under your legs. He slides you into his lap and turns. He stands and carries you around the couch. You weigh nothing in his embrace.

He takes you out of the room and up the stairs. He pushes through a door with his shoulder and reveals a spacious bathroom. The tile is deep blueish gray, the trim a dark hardwood, and the mirrors and faucets burnished silver. He places you on a bench against the wall next to the large oval tub.

If this were any other circumstance, you would marvel at it all. Your tiny apartment is nothing compared to this. The bathroom alone would take up about half of your own letted space.

He bends his legs as he steadies you. He brushes his hands over your shoulders and down your arms. Your teeth chatter as his touch stirs your insides. He tugs at your shirt and you whine.

“It’s okay, doll,” he purrs. “I’m taking care of you. Just like I said.”

You can do nothing as he peels the sweaty, dingy, tee shirt off of you. He gets it past your head and you turn your head away. You stare at the wall as he tickles up your stomach.

“So soft,” he growls.

He covers your tits with his hands and lifts them beneath your bra. He hums and squeezes. You tense.

“Gotta…” he begins and his throat clicks. “Get you clean…”

You’re not sure he was thinking of that at first. He unhooks the front of your bra and drags it off. You quiver again.

“You’re so beautiful, doll,” he rasps. “So good.”

He tosses the bra onto your shirt. He grabs your wrists and guides your hands over his shoulders. He trails his hands back up your arms.

“You hang onto me. I gotta get pants off, okay?”

You nod and your head falls against his shoulder. You bend your arms and cling to his neck. He stands and takes you with him. He pushes down your pants and your panties in a single motion, his hand crawling up your rear as the fabric drops to your ankles.

He puts you back down and you press yourself to the wall. He gets to his knees and untangles your feet from the mess. You push your legs together and quake. He bunches up the fabric and shoves it with the rest.

He stands up and groans as he stretches his fingers wide. His middle finger twitches as his lips move silently. He goes to the tub and bends over the edge to twist on the high faucet. He pulls the lever to lock the stopper then straightens up again.

He lingers by the tub and watches the water spill into the porcelain. He lets out a long breath and reaches over his head. He grabs the back of his shirt and swoops it up over his head. Your blood turns cold.

He reveals the thick muscles of his back. You watch them move as lowers his arms and flings his shirt. You gulp and look down at your knees. He continues to undress as you shiver against the wall.

His breath grits as he moves around you. You wince away from him but he turns away. He stops by the counter and you glance up as he detaches his metal arm. You blink in surprise. He lays down the prosthetic and clucks.

He faces you and cower. You quickly tear your eyes away but not without noticing his body. He’s hard, his dick bobbing as he comes closer to you. 

“Hang onto me doll,” he offers his arm.

Your heart flutters. You reach to clasp onto him and he helps you up. He leads you to the tub. He steps in first then gets you over the edge. He hums and angles you in front of him. He steps close and draws you flush to him.

He lowers himself down with you on him. You feel his erection firm against you. He growls as he reclines and his hand crawls up your stomach. The rigidity slowly seeps from his body as he exhales it out.

There’s a strange, antiseptic hush to the air. It’s not the silence of abandonment, but rather the curated quiet of a building that’s well-staffed and well-run, the audio equivalent of pressed linens and folded toilet paper points. You’re not sure if this makes things better or much, much worse.

You are still wearing last night’s exhaustion, not to mention the raw furnace of humiliation—the memory of Andy’s mouth, his words, the smothering press of your own hand as you performed for him on the king-sized stage. A part of you expects to find evidence of it: handprints on your skin, bruises or bite marks or at least the crust of dried tears on your cheeks. But your body is curiously unmarked. Your skin looks innocent, betraying nothing. Worse, you find that you’re clean. At some point in the night, someone must have come in, wiped the dried mess from between your legs, even removed the soiled sheets and replaced them with new. Your thighs are scrubbed of evidence; your lips, even the one Andy bit, are plump but pristine.

Swaddled in unfamiliar softness, the comforter is so thick you suspect it’s filled with real down—an impossible luxury, a cruel joke. Your body aches, but it’s the slow radiance of overuse, the clench-and-release aftermath of having come (twice, you recall with a sick flutter of pride and shame).

You wonder if Andy will expect you to dress, or to wait naked, or to greet him at all. He’d said nothing about whether you should stay in the bedroom or venture out. The boundaries, like everything else in this kingdom, are negotiable, but you are permitted only the smallest chips to gamble with in a game where you’re still unsure of the landscape.

You rise not out of the pressure of obligation, driven by the knowledge that you are here on borrowed dignity and that every minute not spent in negotiation or advancing your cause is a minute closer to losing what little leverage you have left.

Your clothes from yesterday are gone—likely incinerated, you think, along with the version of yourself that wore them. On the desk is a neatly folded set of new ones: dark blue jeans (the thick, rich denim of an earlier decade), simple but silky bra and panties that look to be your size, a soft cashmere sweater, thick socks, and a pair of hiking boots that look almost new.

You touch the sweater and actually gasp—real cashmere, buttery as skin, the kind of luxury that would have cost your entire summer wages in the world before. You ache to pull it over your head and wrap yourself in its luxury, but look around for the ensuite bathroom you assume must exist. Even if someone else cleaned you up, you crave the autonomy and ritual of thoroughly washing, a few minutes to reacquaint yourself with your own body, to determine precisely what parts of you still belong to you and what has already been annexed in the occupation of Andy.

The bathroom is, unsurprisingly, palatial—larger than the main living space of the last apartment you rented before the world ended. Everything gleams sterilized and white: floating sink, wide mirror, the tub so deep and wide it could drown a grown man. The shower is glass-walled, with a rainfall head and a row of dense, luxury towels. To your wonder, the plumbing works. The water comes on instantly, steaming in less than ten seconds, and you stand under it for much longer than is strictly necessary, letting the heat scour away the shock and the sickly residue of last night’s performance.

The bedroom has been reset in your absence: the bed made, the comforter smoothed and tucked, the cashmere sweater and jeans draped now over a tufted bench at the foot. Next to them is a tray. Not a plastic cafeteria tray, but a wooden one with brass handles, and on it a steaming mug of coffee with real milk, two poached eggs and toast stacked in tidy triangles, four fat strawberries, and a small glazed dish of apricot preserves. The berries, you suspect, are a message: see what I can do for you, see all I am capable of providing.

There’s a note on the tray in neat, slanted handwriting: “Breakfast. See me in the study after.” It’s not signed, but you don’t need the confirmation.

You eat. Of course you do. You devour everything on the plate. There is food where you came from, but it was always hard-earned, and spices—even something as simple as salt—were a luxury rarely afforded, seldom even available.

You dress, savoring the cold slide of the fresh underwear, the sudden warmth and protection of the jeans. When you roll the sweater over your head, you hum involuntarily over how soft it is, then stifle it quickly in case someone is waiting outside and would mock—or at least take not of—your weakness. But when you open the bedroom door, the hallway is empty.

You try to map the layout of the house as you explore, quiet as a ghost. Beyond the bedroom are other rooms—some sealed, some open and impersonal: a sitting room with a broad picture window facing the back compound; a library with a thick woolen rug and two wingback chairs set before a fireplace.

The study is easy enough to find. It’s on the first floor, west side, where you remember it from yesterday’s trip through the compound. The door is already ajar, and you have to pause, hand on the warm brass, to make sure your face is correct, your thoughts composed enough to withstand whatever comes next. You remind yourself of the mayor’s wife and yet another piece of her advice: Don’t let him hurt you if you can help it.

Inside, the room is exactly as you left it, eerily untouched—except for Andy, who’s already at the desk, reading by the grey winter sun leaking through the frosted glass. His hair is damp from his own shower, the smell of shaving soap bright and almost medicinal. He’s traded his shirt for a charcoal sweater, thick and fine, cozy looking. Inviting, even. The deceptive picture of domesticity on a platter.

He doesn’t look up. Instead, he finishes the sentence with a deliberate show of attention, annotating the page in the margin before meeting your eyes. His smile is thin and right on the edge of warm, perhaps even real.

“You’re early,” he says. “Come in and shut the door, please.”

The shut of the door is soft, final. You lean against it for a heartbeat, then cross the threshold, careful not to seem in a rush. The ritual of performance begins again.

Andy gestures at the green velvet couch. You sit, cautiously smoothing your hands over the thighs of your new jeans, and wonder whether you should cross your legs or plant your feet wide, which posture will best communicate the correct balance of humility and strategy. You opt for feet flat, hands visible, fingers interlaced. You look at him.

He regards you with a gauging silence, then sets the book aside, the thick history tome landing on the desk with a padded authority.

“How was your breakfast?”

It’s not sarcastic, not a trap, but still the question throws you.

“Perfect,” you say. “Thank you.” You recall, abruptly, the etiquette drilled into you by your mother: always say thank you, no matter what.

Andy smiles, but it’s a sliver. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks. “Not originally.”

You nod, unsure where this is going.

“I’m not looking for a CV, I’m looking for context.” His fingers fan out on the desk, as if orienting a map only he can see. “I ask because the ones from here this region, the ones who’ve stayed, mostly just want to keep their own little corners unburned. But you—I can tell you’re looking for more than that.”

“I may not be from here, but the roots I established when I needed to start again grew deep. When we were all forced to forge a new way in the world, I didn’t want to give up everything.”

He nods, as if this is not just acceptable but preferable. You wonder if, in his old world life, Andy collected people the way some men collect vinyl records or rare books. Savoring their details, cataloguing their weaknesses, sampling their rarity.

The silence stretches, but Andy seems to relish it. He stands, circles behind the desk, and leans against the windowsill. “Let’s get to it, then.” He folds his arms. “Last night is done. Tell me what you want.” He says it like you’re allowed to have wants, even though you doubt that can be the truth of the situation.

You keep your hands folded, your heart disciplined in its ribcage.

“I want what they say you’ll give: the protection, the supply runs, and the freedom to keep my own people autonomous,” you say, level but not cold. “And I want assurances in writing, and for them to mean something whether I’m alive or not.”

He studies you with the unblinking directness of a chess opponent two moves from checkmate. “Don’t mistake the stories you’ve heard for an accurate picture,” he says, and his voice is honey over gravel. “No one is interested in needless violence. Not anymore.”

Your eyebrows knit together, a reaction you hadn’t wished to show, but this doesn’t track with what you’d been told about Andrew Barber, the former Assistant District Attorney of Newton, Massachusetts, the cunning, cruel man who had taken over the remnants of Boston.

“I want you to take me,” you reiterate, “if that’s how this works, but I want it to matter. I want a contract. Not just for show.”

Your voice does not shake, not even when you finish, and Andy’s mouth twitches at the corner. You see him weighing whether this is bravado or a genuine understanding of stakes.

“A real contract,” he echoes. “We don’t exactly have courts anymore, you know.”

You don’t let yourself flinch. “But you have a reputation. Even now.”

Andy laughs, not bitterly, but with a kind of surprise. “I do,” he says. “I’ve gone to some trouble to cultivate it. Most people don’t realize how much work it takes, but that’s why I am in the position I’m in now. I knew the importance of cultivating a reputation long before this hellscape.”

He’s still smiling, but it’s grown sharp, animal. “The stories you’ve heard—how many of them end with women coming back to their towns alive?” He taps the desk, a soft metronome. “People love a bogeyman. Especially when it means they can blame someone else for their misery.”

You wonder if this is a dance, or if he’s actually going to make you the offer you want. You watch his face, the way the muscle flickers below his jaw as he waits you out. If the mask ever slips, you are not sure what you will see behind it.

“I would like to think I could be more useful than that,” you say, slower this time.

Andy’s eyebrows nudge up, a slow tide of interest. “You know, most people just try to survive. Very few ask to be useful.”

“Maybe it’s just a different evolutionary response.” You can’t help it—the line escapes you before you can filter it, and for a flash you fear you’ve overplayed your hand. But he only barks a soft laugh.

“Maybe it is,” he says, quietly. He unfolds his arms and tilts his head slightly. “A contract between us, then. But this will be a negotiation, not a retroactive plea bargain. You understand?”

You nod, and the motion is steady, the snowmelt of earlier humiliation has left ou at least in this moment with a cool, reflective clarity.

Andy smiles, less wolf, more lawyer now. “Consider this the discovery phase. I’ll be candid—I was expecting you to last a day, maybe two, before you tried to break or bribe your way out. Instead, you come in here and demand a contract. You’re full of surprises.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It’s a relief,” Andy says, and for a moment it’s not clear if he’s mocking you or himself. “Negotiation is so much duller when the other side caves early. Would you like a drink?” He gestures to a sideboard you hadn’t seen before, its mirrored back lined with bottles.

You shake your head, but not out of conviction. You don’t want to seem weak, and he seems to respect the no. You suspect he actually does.

He pours himself a glass of water and sits on the edge of the desk, just close enough to blur the boundary between adversary and confidant.

“Then, let’s proceed,” he says. “You’re here, technically, to buy some time for your town. To stave off a raid, or—” he gives a half-shrug “—absorb a loss yourself, so they don’t have to. But I wonder if you’re actually interested in being part of something bigger, or if you’re just very bad at being afraid.”

“Could be both.”

His eyes seem to sparkle with—is it satisfaction? Or a crueler amusement? Whatever it is, he waits for you to continue.

After a moment, you ask, “What would you want, in return?” It comes out as a challenge, or an offering—hard to tell, even from inside your own mouth.

“Honesty,” he says, and for a second the answer is so unexpected you almost laugh. “I want to know what you’re thinking. Not what you’re supposed to think, or what you imagine I want to hear. Just the real version.”

You tilt your head. “Even when the real thing is that I hate you?”

“Especially then,” he says, and you absolutely believe it.

You can’t help but glance at the chess board, still frozen mid-contest from yesterday. You recall the position, the exposed king, the calculated sacrifices. How many pieces are you willing to lose to keep your side alive?

“But you don’t hate me,” he adds.

“Maybe not,” you admit, because what’s left to do but be honest when honesty itself is a test. You don’t hate him; you hate that you don’t. You hate, most of all, that you want to understand him, to see the moves he’s making before he makes them, to be in the game and not just a piece on the board. “But I don’t trust you.”

“That’s fine,” he says, and the word lands softer than expected. “Trust is only necessary if you plan to yield responsibility.” He sips his water. After another beat, he asks, “Does it bother you that you don’t hate me?”

You consider. “It’s not ideal,” you admit.

“No one ever really hates what they choose to study up close. You’re not the first to come here expecting a monster and finding, instead, a project.”

“Do you want me to hate you?”

Andy purses his lips, as if weighing something on the tip of his tongue. “No,” he says. “But I want you to tell me when you do. And why. That seems fair, don’t you think?”

This time, you breathe out a laugh—unexpected, but real. “Sounds like you’re more interested in research than in actual tribute. Are you collecting me, or studying me?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, the first time you’ve seen them soften. “Does it have to be either-or?”

You let your hands slide free from each other, palms damp. “I guess not. But it would be nice to know which it is.”

He sets his glass aside. “I think we’ll know by tomorrow. Or the next day.” That’s all he gives you before switching tone, pivoting on a dime.

He holds out a hand, palm up, and gestures you forward, not to the couch but to the edge of the desk where he stands. The movement is so natural, so obviously the next step in the choreography of this morning, that you obey before you realize what you’re doing. You rise, plant your feet, and stand, as indicated, between his knees.

Andy watches you, head tilted, as if seeing something that’s been just out of focus until now. He slides his hands along your sides. He doesn’t move to undress you, doesn’t even reach for the zipper—just settles his grip at your hips, like he’s testing the heft of the moment.

You half expected him to push you to your knees, to reach for your zipper, to perhaps lay you down on his desk, but he just looks at you, the same way way he’d studied your face when you arrived, the same way he’d watched you reduce yourself to a trembling, messy thing on his sheets last night.

It’s another kind of intimacy, maybe more destabilizing for its restraint.

“This is better,” he says. “I want to see your eyes when you tell me what you want next.”

You realize, with a start, that you don’t know what you want next. The scripts and potentials for how this could have played out did not include this chapter, where the warlord sits you down and asks for your own demands, where the monster smiles with genuine curiosity and touches you like you’re more than a dispensable commodity.

You stare at the neat brown part in his soft hair, the way his lashes shadow his cheeks in the winter sunlight.

“Tell me something true,” he says. “About yourself, or about me.”

You tell him the first thing that comes to mind. “You kissed me more than I thought you would.” Not just the expected conquest, the brute staking of a claim, but the slow, repetitive, almost methodical way he kept returning to your mouth, as if hungry for the taste of it, as if he needed to memorize the shape of your lips for later. It didn’t track with anything you’d been told about him in stories.

Andy’s lips twitch. “Did I?” he asks, but he knows he did.

You stare at him, not blinking. “Yes.” You push it further. “I didn’t think someone like you would bother.”

He leans in. It’s a breath away from being too close. “Why not?”

You swallow, and it’s a hard, dry knot to force down. “I assumed you’d want to get it over with. Just—take, and move on.” An admission, but not quite a vulnerability. If anything, a challenge. Andy considers you for a long, almost uncomfortable beat.

“You’re not wrong about most men in power,” he says, voice shifting a little lower, the lawyer’s mask slipping a shade. “But I told you. The stories are never the full picture.” He pauses, lets the silence thicken, then adds, “You didn’t mind, though.”

His hands, still poised on your hips, squeeze a little, and you feel the answer radiate up your ribs.

You nod, but you are flushed with the next truth, the one you don’t want to say but that seems, suddenly, required. “I liked it more than I thought I would.” Your voice is so quiet you barely hear it over the pulse in your own ears.

Andy’s smile sharpens, and for a moment you see how easily he might have been a likable man in another world, one where things like jobs and furniture and vacation plans still existed. You want, very suddenly, to see what that world would have made of you both.

“Did you really come here expecting to die?” he asks.

You blink, steadying your voice. “No. I expected to live, but I assumed you’d want me to wish I hadn’t.”

He inhales. It’s not a sigh, not relief, more an acknowledgement of a move well played. “That’s how I keep everyone honest,” he says. “Expectation management.”

“In that case, congratulations.” You’re not sure if you mean it as a compliment or an accusation.

His laugh is low, almost warm. The light in his eyes fixes you, and he leans forward, burying his face in the side of your neck. For a heartbeat, you brace for the hard, primal pulse of a bite, but instead he just breathes there, steady and oddly gentle.

“Another truth,” he murmurs. You think he means to test the limits of this new game. “You’re not afraid of me, right now.”

You surprise yourself by not flinching. “No,” you say. “I’m not.” And the confession is a relief, but also a warning. Andy straightens, and his hands tighten at your waist, then, abruptly, he lifts and deposits you fully onto the desk, legs dangling over the edge, as if you weigh nothing. The oak is warm from the sun, solid under your hands.

You half expect to be thrown back into the script—the roughness, the spectacle, the humiliation—but he just stays pressed between your knees, one hand splayed at your lower back, drawing you upright and close. His voice is close enough that you feel the vibration more than you hear it.

“I could kiss you again right now.”

He doesn’t, not immediately. He lets the promise of it fill the space between you, a dare and a demonstration of control. His hand slides from your back to your jaw, tracing a slow line from the hinge of your ear down to the fragile point of your chin.

“I could make you forget where you are and why you’re here like last night,” he says, and it’s not a threat, but something more like a contract offer: surrender to gravity, or keep fighting.

You believe him. You remember how thoroughly you’d dissolved beneath his hands, how your body had scrambled to obey even when your mind wanted to rebel. You remember the ache in your thighs, the rawness of your voice in the dark, the afterimage of his mouth moving across your skin, so dissonant with what you’d expected that you still can’t fit it into a narrative you recognize. He’s watching your pupils now, studying the dilation, the way the line of your mouth goes slack with anticipation or dread or both.

He leans in, but stops a breath away, waiting to see if you’ll break first and close the distance yourself.

You don’t.

Andy waits, his face only inches from yours, the weight of his gaze so heavy it feels almost physical, like gravity itself. You feel your breath mingling with his, the air between your noses sharp with coffee, clean skin, a trace of aftershave that still hasn’t faded into the morning. Your lips tingle with the memory of last night—how he’d kissed you, how his tongue had worked its way into your mouth like an interrogation, a possession, a dark promise. Now he hovers, withholding, daring you to collapse the distance.

You don’t. You wait him out. The power shift stuns you. It isn’t a feint or a trick, you are genuinely unsure which of you wants to close the gap more. You remember Andy’s animal side but now, with your thighs spread over the desk, your cunt dampening, your knees hooked awkwardly around his hips, he looks at you with a kind of coaxing you’ve never experienced before—it’s meant to compel both of you.

He presses his forehead to yours, and then he withdraws, two full steps away from you.

You’re left blinking, dizzy, legs still parted on the desk, as if your body’s been left behind mid-sentence. The sunlight hits your face, the imprint from his hands on your hips lingering in a static feeling. You want to ask what the hell is happening, why he’s treating you like a chess position to be drawn out in painful increments, but saying so would be admission of need, and you’ve already surrendered enough.

Andy moves with his hands in his pockets and paces the study’s width, old wood floors announcing each footstep. “This isn’t a game to me,” he says, but you register the lie—games are what a man with the legend Andy Barber has live for, what he needs, how he operates, how he survives.

Then he turns and faces you full-on, his jaw set but not angry. “I wanted to see what would happen,” he tells you. “If you took the bait, or if you waited me out.” He makes a gesture of small surprise. “You did neither. That’s new.”

You want to claim it was entirely by design, a new strategy conjured in the moment, but honesty compels you otherwise. “I don’t want to lose my footing,” you say, and the words hang there, more truthful than planned.

Andy moves to the window, pushing one slat of the blind with his thumb to look outside. “You want a contract,” he says, still watching whatever’s outside. “And you want guarantees.”

“Yes,” is your simple response. You move to reclaim your seat on the couch.

He turns around. “Would you prefer ironclad terms or plausible deniability?”

You try to read whether this is a trick. “Ironclad,” you answer. It comes out harder than you intend, and his eyes narrow, amused.

“Good,” he says. “Then let’s make it ironclad.” Andy’s voice is very calm now, a surface so placid you know there’s something boiling just beneath. “The only contract that matters anymore, in a world without law or currency or courts, is marriage. Everything else is subject to the next man with more guns or a sharper knife. But a wife, a partner—that’s a contract.”

You stare. He lets the silence have its full, awful moment.

“I’m not talking about a wedding,” Andy says, a hint of laughter in his voice now, “and I don’t expect a dress. But the precedent is there, in every system in history. Wife, mother, consort, whatever word you like. That’s the power you’re negotiating for. If you want your town safe permanently, if you want to have standing in my jurisdiction, you don’t come as a tribute, or a hostage, or a mistress, or a one-night-wonder. You come as a wife. Or,” he pauses for a beat to emphasize the alternative, “you can leave in a week, and I’ll keep things safe until someone fucks up again and I have to decide whether it’s worth the headaches to step in and start over.”

You laugh, but it’s a small, incredulous bark. “Marriage,” you repeat. “That’s a bold proposition. You haven’t even known me for twenty-four hours.”

“I’ve had to make far more dangerous assessments in less than twenty-four seconds,” he says, and you know immediately he is not bragging. “If I were wrong, I wouldn’t be sitting here. Neither would you.”

You wonder what it must feel like to trust your instincts that deeply, to treat every snap decision as an existential wager and then win, over and over, until the only world that remains is the one you rule.

You look at his hands, remembering last night, the way they’d weighed and measured every inch of you. How they’d handled your body with a deliberate care but had not, at any moment, left you in doubt as to who was in control.

“Say I agree,” you counter. “What happens then?”

Andy cocks his chin, ever so slightly. “We get married a week from now, Douglas stays mayor, your town keeps my protection without interference, and they’re incorporated into our permanent route for trade and distribution.”

“What’s the catch?”

Andy shrugs one shoulder, the practiced nonchalance of a man who has learned exactly how much to conceal in every negotiation. “No catch. Or rather—the catch is you’re stuck with me, and I’m stuck with you. I’ll expect you to participate in this household, to make decisions, to support what we’re building. You’ll have to learn the system, and you’ll have to accept the way things are enforced here. That’s all. You want ironclad, you get permanence, for you and the people you left behind to come negotiate for. But you’ll never be a hostage. And you’ll never be a victim.”

You regard him from your place on the sofa, feet firmly planted on the floor. The idea of it is so preposterous you’d laugh, except after the last twenty-four hours—the last eight years, really—nothing is actually preposterous anymore, and you know how quickly this version of the world can pivot, how little it takes for a fiction to become a fact.

“Is there… an in-between?” you ask, not quite able to believe you’re negotiating marriage in a study that still smells of lemon polish and gun oil.

Andy leans back in his chair. “I’d like to say there’s an alternative, but I’m not much for lying. You’re free to leave at any time, but if you do, there’s not much reason for my people or yours to cooperate longterm when there’s unrest in this region, and we do have to think regionally now. You know the types of raiding groups that have been building over the years. They’re only growing. I’m not saying this to pressure you—it’s just the math.” He speaks with a tinge of flat honesty that chills more than any threat could. “In a week, you walk out with your autonomy—likely, with a better trade relationship, and maybe a rumor or two to bring home about the monster’s true nature. Or, you walk in as a spouse, and wield actual standing in the power structure going forward. I don’t like unnecessary ambiguity. That’s the offer.”

It’s almost a relief, in a horrifying way, that he’s so direct about it. Most men, in the end, are too cowardly to say the quiet part out loud.

You turn the idea over, looking for the trapdoor. “That’s why we’re in the study and not the bedroom. You’re giving me time to make peace with what you’re actually offering.”

“If I wanted to do be a barbarian,” Andy says, “I’d just keep you upstairs and have my way with you until you broke. That works for some people. I don’t think you’re some people.”

“Noted.” There’s a strange, sour pride that rises in your chest, and you suspect he knows this.

“You could also say no,” he says. “And I’d let you go. But I’m offering you the only contract that can’t be dissolved by a bullet. If I’m not strong enough to anchor this region, someone else will try. And whoever comes next, you might not like.” His gaze is steady.

You stare, searching his face for the flicker, the tell—some veiled gloat beneath the offer. You come up empty.

“And you get what, exactly?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you see him actually consider the answer. “A partner,” he says. “Someone who’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being an asshole. Someone who can talk me down, talk me up, run things when I’m not in the room.” He tilts his head. “You’d be surprised how rare that is. Or maybe you wouldn’t. You were part of Douglas’s council for what it was. They trusted and valued you—yes I’m aware of your reputation, even if you didn’t think you had one.”

It occurs to you that this is the only real option either of you has. Andy’s mechanism for holding power is to force people into choosing, and to mean it when the time comes to honor the outcome. But it’s also true that, in this new world, partnership is one of the few remaining contracts that mean anything at all. A public declaration of value, a redundancy against loss or betrayal.

But if he means what he says, this marriage would be more than political theater.

You don’t respond, and he presses on: “I don’t think you’re surprised, though. Not by any of this. Not really.” There’s a note of something like pride, and you realize he’s prodding you for a reaction, still tuning the mechanism of this negotiation.

You press your palms together and lean forward, elbows to knees, a posture you’d used in graduate seminars to look both engaged and difficult to impress. “It’s a hell of a proposal,” you say. “But if I’m being honest—”

Andy cuts in, not with impatience but with a kind of hungry curiosity. “Please. Always.” The words are not a command but a plea.

You swallow. “If I’m being honest, I’m not sure I want to be the wife of a warlord.”

He smiles, but there’s a bruised, almost apologetic quality to it. “Nobody is, until they are.” He stands up and walks to the decanter this time, pouring something clear and viscous into a glass, pouring something that isn’t water. It glints meanly in the winter light.

You walk to the decanter, to him. He takes a sip of the glass, then offers it to you, and you take the glass without a word. The liquor is cold and bright, citrus at first, then a burning sweetness you’ve never tasted before. Andy watches, and the moment you lower the glass, he says, “I won’t pressure you into it. You can say no.” He says this like a man who’s never been told no, not really.

You consider this, and all at once a cold clarity settles over you. He wants you to be visible. He wants the world, or what’s left of it, to see him as a man who can choose a wife and have her choose him in turn. He wants his people to see stability, someone beside him at the table, above the ramparts. He wants those on the outside to see him as a man and not a monster.

“But who would I be marrying? The smooth, expert negotiator? The man who was the former Assistant District Attorney? Or the war lord from last night who told me he wouldn’t let me forget ‘how easily I almost gave up everything to you’ and ‘how effortlessly you could have taken it?’”

He doesn’t flinch, not even an eye twitch. “There’s no difference anymore,” he says, and it might be bleak, but it rings true. “Lawyer, warlord, husband, monster—pick two. I am all of them. I will be all of them to you, depending on the day and what we need to survive.”

You let the glass hang from your fingers. “That’s a hell of a wedding toast.”

“I’ll write something more sentimental for the day.” The joke is a pressure release, and yet—he means it.

You try to summon the fear you’re supposed to feel, the disgust, the refusal. Instead, a different sort of ache blooms in your chest. Not the ache of humiliation, or even of defeat, but the ache of possibility—the knowledge that the world has offered you two hands, each holding a poison chalice, and that you are going to have to choose one and drink.

Andy lifts the glass from your fingers, drains it, then sets it down with a deliberate, tidy thunk. “Stay the week. If you decide not to marry me, I’ll give you amnesty. You can leave. Take more terms back to your village, walk it back home. But if we do marry, it brokers mutual longterm stability.”

You nod, but you don’t say yes. Not yet.

“I’ll stay the week,” you say. There is nothing else to say, not really.

Andy nods. Then he takes the empty glass from your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles as he does. The intimacy of the gesture is more disturbing than anything else so far this morning. He sets the glass on the sideboard, turns, and stands so close you have no choice but to inhale the scent of him—clean wool, faint citrus from the drink, and the same muted mint and soap smell of his skin you remember from the night before. His hand comes up, careful but not tentative, and brushes along the column of your throat. Your body responds before your mind can parse it: your breath hitches, your lips part. In less than a second the tension is so high it feels almost comical, but you know if you so much as flinch, the spell will break, and you’ll be thrown back into the cold, transactional world of arms-length arrangements.

“Would you like me to kiss you again?” Andy asks, voice low, the gravel of it gone intimate.

You imagine yourself saying no, just to learn what would happen—whether he’d flinch, or if the intrigue would simply deepen. But you don’t say it. You nod. You wonder if you look as desperate as you feel, or if you’ve managed to cobble together some composure from the thin air between you.

Andy smiles, just barely, and lowers his face to yours. His lips are soft, but not tentative—there’s nothing tentative about him—but deliberate. He kisses you with a gradual pressure, no tongue at first, just the heat and weight of his mouth. You realize he’s testing, recalibrating after last night’s blitzkrieg.

He tastes faintly of citrus and alcohol. His hand, still at your throat, tightens just enough to make you shiver. He kisses you a second time, this time deeper, lips parting, then his tongue glancing over your teeth. It’s not a question. He doesn’t ask for permission, and you appreciate it, the way he sets the terms and then lets you recalibrate within them.

He doesn’t undress you. Not even a button. Instead, his other hand finds its way to the small of your back, drawing you flush against him, and the heat of his body through your clothes is a different kind of shock: steadier, less a threat than a promise. He kisses like a man who knows he has a week to make his case. Maybe a lifetime.

You feel your hands hover, uncertain, before you decide to cup them around his shoulders, the fabric of his sweater coarse and real beneath your fingertips. He deepens the kiss even more, and the next thing you know, his palm has mapped a slow, deliberate path down your back to the hem of the cashmere, cupping your ass through the jeans with a proprietary firmness. There’s a shift in the air, a kind of opening—no longer adversarial, not quite romantic, but urgent and certain. He tilts you closer, the line of your pelvis caught perfectly against the bracket of his legs. His mouth leaves yours only to trace the edge of your jaw, the hollow just below your ear, the angle of your throat where your pulse gives you away. He doesn’t grope or paw, doesn’t try to strip you, just holds you, almost lifts you into him as though he means to press you into his own ribcage.

You are dizzy with it, the way he moves you without apparent effort, the certainty in each touch. His hand, flat and wide, slides under the hem of your sweater and up along your spine. When his fingers find the waistband of your jeans, they dip beneath, grazing the warm skin above your tailbone. You shudder, and he feels it. He presses his lips to your temple, his beard whispering against your sensitive skin, the gesture almost reverent, but you realize, suddenly, that you are pressing back, hips arching to meet his touch, chasing the warmth of his hand even as the exposed skin pimpling up with anticipatory excitement. You’re needy. It’s humiliating, or should be, but in his arms that shame combusts into something hotter. You want to keep it hidden, to hoard your need and ration it out as leverage, but Andy seems to know how far he can push you before you snap, and he always seeks to bring you right up to that edge.

He breaks the kiss, and you make a tiny involuntary gasp, almost a whimper, that you regret instantly. But he only smiles against your cheek and murmurs, “There’s the honesty of what’s between us. ” His tongue traces the shell of your ear and you melt, resisting the urge to beg for more.

He holds you there for a moment, the silence so total that you can hear the faintest tick of the large grandfather clock out in the hall. Then, with a sharp, practiced flex of his wrist, he scoops you up and sits you on the edge of the sideboard, as if you weigh nothing, as if you are a glass or a chess piece to be moved at his pleasure. Your legs dangle, calves pressed to the slick paneled front, knees bracketing his hips. He does not kiss you again, not at first. Instead, he lets his hands roam: the weight of his palm on your thigh, his thumb tracing the outseam of your jeans, kneading the muscle beneath as if testing it for ripeness, for secrets. With each slow pass his fingers migrate upward, pausing at the stubborn ridge where your leg meets your pelvis, then traveling down again, patient, inexorable.

The anticipation is a live current. He’s mapped you already, memorized your weaknesses, and now he’s intent on teasing out every signal of want, every tremor that reveals you. His hands move deliberately under the hem of the cashmere sweater, sliding up the line of your spine, then over and down, palming the curves of your waist. He laces his fingers behind your back, the gesture proprietary but gentle. “You’re trembling,” he says, not as an accusation but as an invitation to notice yourself. You are, too, but whether it’s nerves or desire, or some mingling of the two, you can no longer parse. Last night’s humiliation was a wound, but this is something more like an itch under the scar—the beginnings of a different hunger, filamental and dangerous.

His hands travel, mapping your shape as though each pass reveals new strategic ground. He works the hem of your sweater up enough to expose your waiste and you shiver anew at the draft, the rawness of it. In the cold morning light, his touch is both soothing and cruel: he kneads the tender flesh of your ass, your hips, your thighs, up and down your waist, thumbs stroking in lazy, hypnotic circles along your ribs. He’s relentless, and your body yearns for it, for him. You find yourself arching into his touch, letting your knees drift wider, heels digging into the ornate wood as though bracing for impact.

“Take this off,” you murmur, tugging the waist of your sweater upward.

“No,” he argues with a small, predatory smile, “not yet. For the moment, I like it on you because it’s the first thing I gave you.” He pushes the knit back down around your hips, tugs it neat, and smooths his palm along your side as if taming an animal. Then he pulls you forward on the sideboard so your body is forcefully flush against him.

You yelp, a startled sound that’s half gasp and half protest, but he doesn’t let you recoil; his arm snakes around your back with a ferocious certainty, pinning you tight, making you feel tiny, forcefully present, alive. You can feel the proof of his want, hard and definite through the denim of your jeans, pressed against the seam where your body aches and stings and throbs for him.

"Is this what you want?” he asks, and for the first time it’s not a challenge—you sense it is maybe a real question.

You nod, almost frantically.

He sinks his teeth into the bundle of nerves at your nape, not hard enough to pierce but enough to brand, to reroute every stray thought in your body down to the core of your need. His hips retreat from yours, and you whimper, but he smiles.

He traces the inside of your thigh again, another burning stripe through the denim, and you despair at just how wet you are, how need has amassed again so quickly, so carelessly on your part. His hand ghosts upward, up, until the heel of his palm flattens against the seam between your legs, and you gasp. He holds it there, still through the thick fabric, letting you squirm, letting you feel how he can take you apart without even needing to see your skin.

The pressure is exquisite—not enough friction to do anything but make you moan and buck into his palm, not enough relief to let you come down from the heights of need. You clutch his shoulders, digging in, desperate for more. Andy’s thumb hooks into the waistband of your jeans, tracing lazy circles on your skin, and you arch into him, seeking purchase, seeking anything. He lets you grind against his hand for a moment, watching the sharp pleasure flicker across your face. He knows you want it. He will always know.

Andy’s eyes study your face, watching for the tell. You try to keep even, to let your lips part only enough to breathe instead of gasp, to hold yourself above the desperation of the moment, but he’s patient. He waits. The pressure of his palm becomes the entire universe.

“Don’t you want to see how far you’re willing to go?” he asks, feather-light, almost a caress at your temple. “I do.”

He asks it as if you’d ever had a choice, as if your body wasn’t already conceding the answer. The heel of Andy’s palm pins you to the sideboard, denim burning at the seam, and for a moment the whole world compresses down to the throbbing place where you meet him. You’re desperate for more, but he holds you perfectly in stasis—nothing to do but squirm, grind, beg with your hips for the friction he’s rationing so deliberately.

“Show me,” Andy murmurs. He presses in, just a fraction, and the pressure against your clit spikes so hard you arch. “Show me exactly how much you want it.”

You are so slick already that even the rough grain of denim is enough to make you shudder. Your knees clamp his hips, and you rock yourself against his hand, at first slow and cautious—testing, shy. He watches your face, searching for the moment you give in, and when you do—when you start to hump his palm in short, hungry bursts, chasing the sensation up and up—he grins, wolfish, and pushes harder.

You moan, shocked by how obscene it is, how quickly you’ve abandoned even the pretense of resistance. You rut against his hand like an animal, driven by the need for friction. He applies more pressure, rolling his palm up and down along the seam, just enough to draw a sob from your chest. “Harder,” he growls, and you obey because you want to, because there’s no other choice left. You grind against his hand and he meets you, rhythm for rhythm, until the ache sharpens, the burn, the pleasure to a pitch that leaves you raw. You want to sob, to laugh, to scream. Andy’s hand locks you in, his other arm holding your back arched, fingers splayed to keep you from escaping even a fraction of the sensation. In this moment you are not the negotiator or the survivor or the wary, canny ambassador; you are just nerve endings, animal need, and the heat of his attention on your face.

You come so hard you see white, the sound you make not even a word but a high, ripped-open wail. Andy doesn’t let go—he keeps the pressure, keeps you grinding against him, milking every aftershock, watching you shake and break and finally collapse limp against his chest. He holds you there, breathing in the top of your head, letting your heart stutter and your body melt.

Your throat is raw, your limbs watery. It’s only when the trembling in your arms and legs begins to subside that you realize your hands are still locked in fists around his sweater, knuckles bone-white. You are technically a virgin, but you’re no stranger to giving yourself pleasure, have for years, messed around with partners in the before times, and so this, this is why you feel raw and exposed, because he’s somehow extracted the heights of pleasure from you while you’re fully clothed, as if you’d never had an orgasm before in your life.

The low murmur of, “good girl, good girl,” in your ear twists your insides further.

He holds you until your breathing slows, until your muscles uncoil, and then, only then, does he lift you down from the sideboard, setting your heels gently on the hardwood floor with a steadiness that feels more like a promise than a courtesy.

He pours two drinks, takes one for himself, kisses your lips briefly, then returns to sit behind his desk. For a moment the room is quiet, each of you regarding the other. You turn and reach for the glass he left you. When you bring it to your lips, you are met with the cool, crispness of water, and you drink it all, parched after the too-intimate moment.

“Do you want to go back to your room?” he asks, sounding unsure for perhaps the first time in all your conversation.

You don’t want to go back—not yet. “Maybe,” you say.

He studies you, slow and deliberate, as though you have become a test case, or a model organism under a microscope. “You could walk the grounds,” he suggests. “No guards. I trust you not to do anything stupid.”

It’s a dismissal and gift of release from this moment, but it’s also such a clear nudge you almost laugh. “You want me to snoop.”

“It would be irresponsible of me to ask you to make the decision we’ve been discussing without gathering facts,” Andy says, resuming the earlier conversation as if the last five minutes of physical activity hadn’t happened. “That way, if you choose to stay, you’ll know what you’re signing up for. If you decide to leave, you’ll have legitimate grounds for a very scathing Yelp review.”

You snort a laugh, more out of surprise than real humor, but it feels good to let the air back into your lungs. “What’s on the itinerary? Should I start with the armory, or the stables, or is there another dungeon I haven’t already seen?”

He gives a lopsided smile. “Start wherever you want. If you’re hungry again, the kitchen’s always open. The kids have lessons at ten—if you want to see the local education system in action. Workshop is at noon, gardens at one. And if you really want to see the heart of the place… go west, past the generator sheds, down to the loading docks. You’ll see what keeps us alive. See the people, not the soldiers.”

He says it like a challenge, and you know better than to think there’s anything uncalculated in the suggestion.

You nod, tucking the invitation away like a playing card. Andy rises from his chair, stretches with a wince so minor you almost miss it, and crosses to the door. He opens it, holding it for you, hand braced against the frame in a way that blocks the exit and also welcomes you in with a slanted smile. The moment before you pass, he dips his face to yours and says, almost under breath, “And if there’s anything you want to know, ask it. Even if it’s about me.”

You nod, though the question you’d most want to ask—about what he was, who he is, who he thinks he’s becoming—is the only one you aren’t ready to ask yet.

This Andy. I don't know what all of YOU will think (good or bad) about him after this, but I'm enthralled writing him and was a little flustered and turned around and 🥴🫠 after how he messed with my head in this chapter.

There will be one more piece in this saga. (cumming coming soon)

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

“Bucky, pleeaaasssee?” You whined, flopping down beside him on the couch, legs flung over his lap.

“No.”

“But I have no one else to go with!”

“Take Yelena.”

“She has plans.”

“Mel?”

“She doesn’t like haunted houses.”

“Oh, so I’m your last choice?”

Heat scorched your cheeks. Bucky, one of your closest friends in the world, was your first choice for everything. Though, you’d ever tell him that.

“No—god, why are you so annoying?”

“Me? Can barely hear the movie over your chattering,” he gruffed, pausing Jason Voorhees mid-chop. It was well past midnight in the Watchtower, and you and Bucky were staying up late to binge on pizza, Val’s candy stash, and some classic horror films. The lounge was dark, save for the glow of the TV and a burning pumpkin-scented candle you’d dug up from a storage closet.

“Why don’t you want to go with me?” You swung your legs around, sitting up. “Are you scared?” You teased, quirking a brow.

A smirk hooked the edge of his mouth, lethal as a weapon in the flickering candlelight. “Crowds, drunks, screaming kids, clowns—not my thing.”

“The Mighty Winter Soldier, scared shitless of a couple of masked high schoolers—”

“Why can’t you just take no for an answer?” He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, but you caught the ghost of a full smile tug at his cheeks.

You pretended not to notice the way his muscles strained the logo on his t-shirt, the veins running along his right forearm. Friends didn’t notice that sort of thing, and that’s all you were. Friends.

When you accepted Val’s offer of joining the CIA as a lead scientist, you never expected to spend your days keeping the Thunderbolts’ tech and suits intact. For a band of super-soldiers and super-spies, they sure knew how to get themselves into trouble. And break shit. But, they always had you to help pick up the pieces.

After an emergency where Shuri was forced to teach you how to fix Bucky's metal arm on the Quinjet, you and Bucky had grown especially close. A real friendship bloomed, something you knew was rare and precious for the hermit-like Winter Soldier. And you'd never do anything to violate that trust he placed in you, no matter how desperately you wanted something more.

His safety mattered more than your heart.

“Fine.” You mimicked his pose, slouching onto the couch with your arms crossed. “I guess I’ll just go by myself.”

His smile vanished, eyes narrowing. “You can’t go by yourself.”

“Well, apparently I have to.”

His head fell back against the couch, throat bobbing as he swallowed. The image of you latching onto his throat like a vampire flitted through your mind, but you shoved it away. “Alright, brat. When is it?” He asked, rolling his head to peer at you.

Your palms went slick at the pet name, heart tripping out of rhythm. “Next Saturday, gates open at 6.”

“…I’ll think about it.”

Which, in Bucky-language, meant ‘I’ll do it, but I’m going to complain the whole time’.

You squealed, throwing your arms around his neck. His cologne filled your nose, skin-warmed and laced with clove. “Thank you, thank you! It’s going to be so fun. We can do costumes, and—”

He went rigid beneath you, hands tightening to fists against the couch cushions as his heart rate lifted, beating conspicuously in the hollow of his throat. “No costumes,” he bit, trying to sound stern, but he could never quite manage it with you.

“Fine, no costumes,” you conceded, since the idea of it clearly appalled him. “But, thank you for not making me go by myself,” you said, pecking his scruffed cheek before retreating to your side of the couch.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, tossing the blanket back over your legs and unpausing the movie. “Now, shut it before you wake everyone up.”

You curled up under the blanket, biting back a bratty retort, and returned your attention to the movie, willing your racing heart to settle. But just when you’d finally managed it, squashing all the un-friend-like thoughts into the back of your mind where they belong, Jason popped up onto the screen with a clash of strings and startled a yelp out of you.

Bucky’s metal hand fell onto your thigh to steady you, squeezing lightly. “Easy, doll,” he soothed. “Sure you can handle a haunted house?”

You stuck your tongue out at him, not trusting yourself to speak around the lump in your throat.

He snickered, removing his hand to drape his arm over the back of the couch. “Don't worry. Those teens will have to get through me first, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, hiking up the blanket to cover your expression, certain your pupils had turned into cartoon hearts at the brief contact. Platonic, friendly contact, you reminded yourself, even as your knees pressed together, ribs knitting tight around your lungs.

Yup, totally platonic.

You knocked on his door at 5:30 p.m. on the dot, practically vibrating with excitement. The two of you agreed to meet at his place because it was closer, despite his insistence on picking you up. Ever the gentleman. But you were friends, this wasn't a date, and him picking you up at your door would only muddy the waters of your mind further.

You reached up to knock again, nerves making you impatient, when the door swung open under your fist.

Bucky stood on the other side, haloed by his hallway light, metal hand braced against the door frame. Your stomach did a kickflip.

“You're going to freeze,” he said flatly, eyes skimming your fishnets and mini-skirt, over the distressed, cropped sweater that barely covered your tits, let alone kept you warm, before flicking up to your face. He was dressed in black jeans and a charcoal colored sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“It's like 60 degrees, you dinosaur.” You rolled your eyes, slipping under his arm and into the apartment. It was cleaner than usual, pictures dusted and straightened, books in their proper places, blankets folded and draped over the back of the couch. You could even see fresh vacuum lines on the area rug, and you stopped looking before your brain could wonder if he tidied up just for you.

“The sun hasn't set yet,” he argued. “You need a jacket. Or pants.”

“Bucky, I'll be fine—Alpine!” You cooed, spotting the cat sitting primly in the doorway of Bucky's bedroom, tail swooshing across the hardwood in mild interest. You crouched down towards her, and she allowed you to scratch the top of her snow-white head. “I’ll be fine, won't I, Alpine? Yes, I will.”

He made a frustrated sound in his throat, and you heard his boots tread towards you. For a breathless moment, you thought he was going to grab you, but he just stepped around the two of you and into his bedroom without so much as a downward glance.

The rest of the team constantly complained about the Winter Soldier sneaking up on them, but you swore you could hear him moving around through the walls, always knew when he was about to step around a corner or out of an elevator, just from the way the air shifted. His energy was tangible across your skin, electric as a thunderstorm.

“If you catch a cold, don't come whining to me,” he gruffed, re-emerging with his own coat. Of course, it was the leather jacket that made your knees go a little weak every time he wore it. “Did you at least eat a real dinner before we go to this thing?”

“Does a protein bar count?”

His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “No, but popcorn is a whole grain, right?”

“Right!” You beamed.

“Good enough, I'll get you some popcorn at the festival—you sure you don't want a jacket?”

“Oh my god—yes, I’m sure.”

He held his hands up in surrender, then grabbed his glove from the table by the door. “After you, brainiac.” He winked, opening the door and gesturing outside.

You playfully checked his shoulder as you walked by, smirking up at him. “Bye, Alpine! I'll have him back by midnight!” You tossed over your shoulder.

His gloved hand found your lower back, nudging you out into the hall. “Don't claw my couch,” he added, pointing towards the cat before shutting and locking the door behind him.

The festival was straight out of a nineties film, with orange and black striped tents, glowing jack-o-lanterns hanging from half-bare trees, and fog machines spilling across the leaf-strewn ground. It was chillier than you expected, the sky clear and moon-bright, a light wind making the pumpkins bob and sway overhead. “Monster Mash” mingled with the multi-colored fog, the lights thumping in time with the music. It was crowded, certainly, but not so much that you couldn’t move freely around the walkways and tents.

Or, maybe that was due to the glowering super-soldier-turned-guard-dog on your left.

You tossed another piece of popcorn into your mouth, crunching happily as you perused the row of vendors. There were custom soy candles and tea blends and orange blossom honey, homemade jewelry and crystals and handpainted decor. Food stands were littered throughout, serving fresh apple cider donuts, their sugared scent heavy on the air, foot-long corn dogs, and slices of pizza the size of your head.

When you stepped up to a booth, managed by a young person selling crochet cryptids and monsters, Bucky stepped right up to your back to shield you from passersby, close enough that you could feel the heat of him burning through your open-knit sweater. Suddenly, you couldn’t read the little sign in front of you, the letters jumbling as all your attention zeroed in on his proximity. The scant inches between his body and yours.

“What’s that one?” Bucky asked, his voice low and way too close to your ear as he reached around to point to a plush in front of you. You suppressed the shiver that dripped down your spine.

“That’s, uh, M-Mothman,” you stuttered.

He hummed, his hand moving to grab a teeny gray Frankenstein’s monster, a keyring attached to its head. “Hey, look. They’ve got me too,” he joked, thumb wiggling the monster's stitched-on arm to wave at you, and your heart lurched so hard you got a little dizzy.

“Frankenstein’s monster is my favorite,” you mumbled, hoping he couldn’t see the way your hands trembled from this angle.

“How much?” He asked the vendor.

Your knees went gooey. “Buck—”

“Let me.”

And five minutes later, the little Frankenstein’s monster was bobbling merrily from the strap of your purse.

“Tell me about Frankenstein,” he said, slinging an arm over your shoulders when a group of boys veered too close and tucking you into his side.

Excitement lit like a firework in your chest. “Frankenstein’s monster,” you corrected, and dove into half a dozen lectures’ worth of lore while you continued meandering around the stalls.

Bucky nodded along, raising his eyebrows at all the appropriate moments, and you could have sworn his eyes were twinkling brighter than the fairy lights, softening with every run-on sentence and abandoned point. But then he reached across you while you walked, snatching a handful of popcorn before you could wrench it away.

“Hey!” You cried, feigning indignation. “That’s mine.”

“I bought it, but fine,” he argued after swallowing. “May I have some of your popcorn?”

A wicked idea flitted through your mind. “Sure,” you said, grabbing a particularly large piece. “Catch!” You tossed the popcorn up at him, and he leaned right, mouth open to catch it, and it bopped against his forehead before falling to the foggy ground. “That was terrible,” you teased.

He scoffed. “Try again. And actually aim this time.”

You tossed another kernel, deliberately sending it too far left, and burst into a fit of giggles when he nearly toppled over trying to catch it.

“Alright, brat.” He caught your wrist as you readied the next projectile, bringing your hand to his mouth.

The world stilled around you, eyes focusing like a camera lens on his lips as they parted, the pink of his tongue darting out as he ate the piece of popcorn directly off your fingertips. No actual contact was made, but you felt it all as keenly as a kiss.

“Was that so hard?” He smirked, turning forward to continue strolling like he hadn’t just knocked your world off its axis.

Panic skittered between your rib bones. This was veering way off the friendship course. You were just his friend, you were not supposed to be studying his mouth like it was a circuit board. Abort, abort, abort.

You stuffed your hand into the bag of popcorn and launched a handful at his face. “That better?” You teased.

He didn’t fight it, catching a few pieces as they showered over him, his smirk never faltering. “Not quite, but I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes and desperately tried to ignore the growing ache in your chest and between your legs as you walked into the area with all the carnival games. This area was louder than the last, filled with bells and horns, the clicking and whirring of games, the cheers and boos of the players. Kids ran around with arms full of stuffed skeletons, ghosts, and candy corns, and you tried not to look too longingly at the plushes. But, of course, when you glanced up at Bucky, his eyes were already on you.

Another flurry of butterflies tickled your lungs.

“Do you want—”

“Come and test your aim! Only five dollars for five shots! Gotta pop five balloons to win!” One of the workers shouted from a dart-throwing game, cutting him off. “C’mon, man! Think you can pop all five and win your girl a prize?”

Your girl. Your girl. Bucky’s girl. No, you internally scolded yourself. Bucky’s friend.

Thankfully, Bucky didn’t engage, attempting to steer you away when you turned to look.

“Ah, that’s what I thought!” The worker pressed on. “Bro doesn’t want to embarrass himself! Come over here, sweetheart, I’ll win a prize for ya’!”

Bucky stopped dead in his tracks.

“Bucky, don’t let him—”

“You wanted a prize, right?” He dragged you behind him up to the booth, and slapped a five-dollar bill on the table in front of the worker, who was very obviously no more than seventeen years old, his name badge reading Mike.

“Just five rounds? You sure, old-timer?” Mike goaded.

Bucky shrugged. “I’m feelin’ lucky.”

Mike set the darts on the table and stepped off to the side, leaning over the table to peer at you. “You think he can do it?” The teen asked with an oily smile.

“With his eyes closed,” you replied curtly, moving back to give Bucky some room.

Bucky glanced down at you, a warm smile melting the ice in his eyes, before he loosed his first dart. The balloons were organized by color, with a few gold and silver ones scattered throughout, presumably for the larger prizes hanging from the awning.

The first dart hit one of the gold balloons so hard, it nearly tipped the board backwards.

Mike choked on his drink. But before he could say anything, Bucky threw the next four darts, one for each golden balloon, the pops loud as firecrackers. Each one made your heart jump higher in your throat, beating like a drum beneath your skin.

“Holy shit,” the teen mumbled, eyes wide. “Are you like—”

“I believe that earns a jumbo prize,” Bucky taunted, pointing at the giant purple bat hanging in the corner.

Mike tugged on one of the darts and found that it had hit so hard, the tip had bent into the wood. He’d almost certainly need pliers to pry them out. “Sure, uh, y-yeah.”

“It's barely going to fit in my apartment,” you giggled, wrapping your arm around his and squeezing. “Thanks, B.”

He winked at you. “’Course, doll—actually,” Bucky interrupted the teen as he struggled to reach the bat. “We’ll come back for it later.”

“But what if someone—” Mike started.

He dropped another ten on the table, letting his sleeve hike up just enough to reveal his metal wrist. “You’ll keep an eye on it for me, yeah?”

Mike's jaw dropped, nodding frantically. “Yes, sir! Whatever you need—”

Bucky waved and steered you away before he could make any more of a fuss. “Fucking kids,” he grumbled when the two of you were out of earshot.

“Yeah, well, you showed him,” you chuckled, noticing that your arm was still looped in his and quickly retracting it.

“Didn’t do it for him,” he said, a smug smile crinkling the corners of his azure eyes, and you nearly dissolved into a puddle right then and there.

God, you were hopeless.

Only a few people separated you and Bucky from the entrance to the haunted house. It was vampire themed, built to look like a gothic mansion, draped in cobwebs and red velvet, bloody footprints and drag marks along the sidewalk leading up to the entrance. Organ music blasted from a nearby speaker, the resonant notes sprawling out like the crimson fog at your feet.

Bucky stuck tight to your side, head on a swivel as you inched along, metal hand gripping the railing to create a barrier between you and the people behind you. Not that they dared get closer than a few feet, but Bucky didn't seem to care.

“Hey,” you said, drawing his attention from the scare actor prowling a dozen paces away with a plastic chainsaw. “Everything okay?”

He made an affirmative noise in his throat, gaze returning to the actor.

“Welcome to Count Dracula's castle!” The greeter at the door crowed, flinging his red-lined cape wide. “Are you ready for a tour?”

You and the rest of the group going in with you whooped with excitement as he lead you inside. Bucky shifted to stand behind you, and you had to admit, it did make you feel a little less nervous than you normally would.

The house was dark and winding, with flashing red lights and swooping bats. The metallic smell of blood was pumped through the vents, faint enough to creep you out without being too visceral. Nothing had jumped out yet, but Bucky still inched closer to you, a hand falling to your hip.

The shock of it nearly made you stumble, the bare skin of his real hand scalding against your exposed midriff.

Then, with a screech of organ keys, a girl covered in blood came tearing out of one of the rooms, screaming her head off as she raced through your group.

You jumped, a giddy peel of laughter bursting out of you, and Bucky’s arm slid fully around your waist, turning to iron as he yanked you back against his chest. You could feel his heart pounding through his shirt, but he kept you moving forward when you tried to peer back at him.

Every scare actor that jumped out seemed to ratchet Bucky's stress higher and higher, but you were having a blast, adrenaline surging through you as you moved deeper into the castle.

“Having fun?” He murmured against your ear as you passed through a quieter hallway overlooking a haunted graveyard.

You nodded, grinning ear to ear, and some of the tension in his shoulders ebbed.

Then, the group was split up, leaving just you and Bucky to navigate the next section. You clung a little tighter to him, the music growing soft and eery, shadows creeping closer. A distant scream made you jump back into Bucky's arms, and he wrapped you up in both of them. One across your waist, the other around your shoulders.

“I've got you,” he shushed, nose brushing the shell of your ear, and your lower belly flooded with heat, thighs tensing.

And of course, a poor scare actor chose that moment to throw himself at you from a dark wardrobe, wielding a kitchen knife above his head.

Bucky was there and gone in a blink, moving so fast he was little more than a lethal blur. He grabbed the actor's wrist in a crushing grip, slamming it back against the wall so hard the plastic knife clattered to the ground. Bucky kicked it away on instinct, sending it skittering into the shadows.

“Bucky!” You gasped, reaching for him, but knowing better than to actually touch him.

“Jesus Christ, man!” The actor wailed, squirming under Bucky's ruthless hold. “It's not real!”

Bucky dropped him just as quickly as he'd seized him, letting the kid crumple to the ground, cradling his wrist to his chest.

“I think you broke it, asshole,” he whined, scooching away from the still looking super-soldier.

“You're lucky I didn't rip it off,” Bucky snarled.

“Alright, alright—” like grabbing the collar of a growling dog, you tucked your fingers into Bucky's palm and urged him to take another step back. “We're really sorry, just—just put some ice on it and, uh, pick a different target next time. Bucky, come on.”

After a few racing heartbeats, he finally relented and let you drag him out of the closest exit sign and into the bustling festival once again.

“Are you okay?” You asked, leading him into a quieter corner behind one of the vendors.

He clenched his jaw, eyes lowered to the ground. “I shouldn't have come.”

Your heart cracked. “Bucky, no—”

“You were having fun and I—I can't control myself—”

“Hey—” you cupped his jaw, lifting his eyes to yours, “—it was an accident. There's no one else I'd rather be here with.”

His eyes softened, his pupils expanding slightly, but he shook his head. “I'm not good at this sort of thing, and you and I both know it.”

And suddenly, you weren't talking about the festival anymore. Your hand fell limp at your side as anxiety slithered up your throat, snaring your tongue so you couldn't speak.

Friends, friends, friends. Just friends.

He tilted his head, brow furrowing. Something in your expression must have given you away. The anxiety tipped into panic, and suddenly you needed to be anywhere but here before you made a complete fool of yourself.

“Hey, why don't we, uh—let's try the corn maze!” You said, definitely a little too loudly in your haste.

“Right now? Honey—where are you going? Wait—”

You were already gone, peeling off into the crowd and across to the entrance for the corn maze, marked with giant scarecrow guardians and a wooden sign illuminated with multi-colored lightbulbs: “Linus's Corn Maze: Find the Great Pumpkin!”

He caught up to you before you could plunge into the dimly lit path, hand circling your wrist. “Why are you runnin’ from me?” His accent slipped out; it always did when he was frustrated, but you couldn't handle the fizzy way it made your blood feel. Like freshly popped champagne.

“No, no—I’m not!” You couldn't look at him, racking your mind for an excuse. You just needed a second, just a moment to get your head straight so you didn't fuck this all up. “I bet I can find the Great Pumpkin before you!”

“Wait, just hang on—”

“Last one to the center has to buy funnel cake!” You dashed to the left, disappearing around a wall of corn, pretending not to hear him shouting your name. God, you were stupid. So, so stupid. That was about the lamest excuse you could have possibly come up with, but it slipped out before you could rangle it in, desperate to regain a semblance of control.

You kept walking, keeping a brisk pace as you took random turns, going deeper and deeper into the corn maze as you tried to sort out the thoughts swirling in your head. Eventually, you stopped passing other festival-goers, the shadows growing longer, darker, as you drifted further from the festival lights. Your path is illuminated by flagging fairy lights and the moon. The music was distant now, muffled by the crinkle and hush of countless rows of cornstalk.

He was going to be so pissed when he found you. And he would find you. It was only a matter of when.

Why had he been looking at you like that? Calling you honey? Did he know how you felt and was just toying with you? Or was he just oblivious to the effect he had on you?

No, Bucky never missed anything. The slightest hitch in your breath would have him looking up from his work. He could read you like a book.

But Bucky wasn't cruel, either. He wouldn't lead you on or tease you for developing feelings. So, what was he doing? Trying to pick you up at your apartment, fussing over your needs and outfit, buying you the little trinket that you were now holding in a death grip as you walked. Was all that his idea of being friends? Because you weren't sure how much more of this you could take.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, lungs drawing tight as you walked and walked and walked. Every snapping twig and scuffle made you flinch, wondering if it was Bucky about to spring from the stalks. But there was something else coiling in your belly beside the fear, something heady and slick, a thrumming between your legs that grew stronger with every passing second. Mixing with the adrenaline to create an intoxicating cocktail that was soaking through your underwear.

Fuck, where were all the other people? Surely, it wasn't just you in this maze…

You turned another corner, stepping out into a larger clearing. Hay bales and pumpkins were littered around the space, brightened with extra string lights and paper lanterns. The Great Pumpkin sat on a platform at the center with a giant, toothy grin, mocking you. Because standing right beneath it, jacket discarded and beefy arms crossed over his chest, was the Winter Soldier.

“Hey!” You called, plastering on a smile even faker than the pumpkin. “You win! Guess I have to…”

The intense look on his face stole the breath from your lungs, words puttering out. He crooked a gloved finger, a silent order to approach, and your body obeyed before your mind could catch up.

You crossed the clearing, stopping an arm's length away. “M’sorry,” you mumbled, wrapping your arms around yourself to cover your body, the cold wind passing straight through your pathetic little sweater.

“For what?” He asked, his voice not quite as sharp as his expression.

“For running away…”

“Look at me,” he ordered, stepping closer and tilting your chin up with his right hand. His eyes were burning, firelit, but not with rage. You knew what he looked like when he was angry, and this was something…different. Something you hadn't seen before that had your legs trembling. “Why did you run?”

Your lungs withered in your chest, excuses dying on your tongue. “I—because, uh—”

“You want to know what I think?” He asked, voice rough as the gravel underfoot. “I think you've been running from me for a while.”

You knew better than to lie, so you said nothing, frozen like a rabbit.

“We’re done with that,” he purred, hand sliding along your cheek to card into your hair, tugging at the roots to crane your head back. He leaned in closer, warm breath fanning across your wind-bitten lips. “I’ve caught you now.”

Unable to bear it another second, you shifted forward, closing the last few centimeters between you, and pressed your lips to his in a tentative kiss. It was barely a peck, but it damn near knocked your soul out of your body, streaking through you like a bolt of lightning.

He groaned low in his throat, grip tightening, and kissed you back with a fervor that made your head spin. His mouth pillaged yours, rough and claiming, teeth dragging along your lower lip until you gasped, and he tangled his tongue with yours, swallowing the breathless little sounds you made. You curled into him, hands sliding over the solid expanse of his chest, relishing in the warmth of his body as it sheltered you from the biting October wind. Both of you pushing and pulling, desperate to be closer.

You couldn't believe this was happening, that he wanted you as badly as you needed him. If it wasn't for the near-painful grip he had on your ass and the burning heat of his kiss, you'd think you were dreaming. Or had died and gone to heaven.

But it was real. He was here, in your arms, kissing you like he was starving and your mouth was his favorite meal.

“Bucky,” you whimpered when he broke the kiss to mouth at your throat, the muscle of his tongue hot and heavy against your pulse.

“Taste so fucking sweet,” he gruffed, teeth scraping across your collarbones. “Knew you would, my sweet girl.”

Fuck, maybe you had died and gone to heaven.

“Your girl?” You squeaked, heart racing like a rabbit trapped beneath your ribs.

He lifted his head, those ferine eyes boring into yours. “Mine.” Eyes still locked with yours, he walked you backwards until you bumped into a stack of hay bales, the straw rough against the tender skin of your thighs, and you gasped. His mouth was on yours again, seeking, hungry, and he tossed you on top of the stack like you were weightless. Hips wedged between your knees, a leather-clad hand spread across your lower back, anchoring your body against his.

“Bucky, where—” a moan splintered your question, delicate as shattering glass, when his pelvis tilted against yours. “Where are all the people?”

“Cleared them out,” he sighed against your lips. “They were getting in the way.”

“In the way?” Your brain was rapidly emptying, gray matter turning to mush as you rocked back against him, need spiraling like an inferno through your body.

He nodded, his bare hand dipping between your bodies. “Had to find you—needed you.” His fingers hooked through the netting of your tights, grazing the soaked gusset of your panties. “May I?” he asked, grit-laden, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Please.”

His elbow wrenched back, tearing through the nylon with an audible snap. “Chasing you made me fucking crazy—you make me fucking crazy.”

You bobbled your head, his words barely registering as his fingers dragged over your panties, pressing the fabric against your puffy heat. Making you feel just how wet you were for him. Pleasure rippled through you, the relief bordering on agony, and you burrowed your face in his shoulder, as if you could escape from it. Hide from the intensity of how he made you feel.

“Ah, ah,” he tsked, gloved hand scruffing you like a kitten and tugging you back. “You’re done hiding from me, remember?” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, gliding through your slick to smear circles around your aching clit. “Your body can’t lie, hm? You liked running as much as I liked chasing, didn’t you? Quick little thing.” His voice had taken on a saccharine edge, whiskey-sweet with just as much kick. It burned through you, intoxicating.

You whimpered, tipping your hips into his searching palm, fingers curling in his sweater.

“Use your words, smart girl,” he purred with a wolfish smile.

“Y-yes, Bucky,” you stuttered. “But I never meant—I-I didn’t know you wanted me—fuck—that you wanted me too,” you confessed, your train of thought slipping like silk through your fingers.

“Oh, honey,” he said, releasing his hold on you. His belt clinked, zipper sliding down. You felt it then, just how desperately he wanted you too, hard as a fist and thrumming as he sawed through your slit. “I would chase you to the ends of the earth.”

Your thighs clenched around his hips, a broken moan escaping when the head of his cock nudged against your clit. “I can’t wait anymore—please—”

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he grated, jaw flexing as he notched the tip at your entrance. “Breathe for me, baby—oh, fuck—” he eased inside, just the tip dipping into your heat, and both of you gasped, the stretch bordering on euphoric. “That’s a good girl, taking that cock so well—goddamn, you feel unreal—”

He slid about halfway in, inch by brutal inch, your body tight as a clenched fist, but you were flying high, pleasure washing over you like the tide. He was everywhere, everything, and you clung to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He bracketed an arm around your waist, drawing you closer as he sank to the hilt, muffling his moan into your hair.

“How’s that feel?” He asked, stroking your hair while you trembled around him. So tender it made you dizzy.

“More,” you whined, mouthing at the harsh angle of his jaw. Savoring the feel of his stubble against your skin. “Fuck me, baby, please—”

He didn’t hesitate, drawing his hips back painfully slow just to slam back into you, knocking the air from your lungs. You keened, vice tightening around your guts as he set a punishing pace. All you could do was cling to him and take it, the obscene sounds of your bodies echoing into the night air around you. But, he held you like you were made of glass, despite fucking you like you were anything but. Careful to keep his metal hand laid flat against the hay behind you, though you could hear the soft whirring and clicking of the plates from the effort of holding still.

“Feel like fucking heaven—knew you would,” he panted, smearing a sloppy kiss to your shoulder where your sweater slipped down. “My good girl, huh?”

You nodded, meeting him thrust for thrust as the coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. “Yours.” You dragged him in for another blistering kiss, teeth knocking together in your fever. His hips lost their rhythm, stuttered as he groaned low in his throat.

His fingertips found your clit, rubbing tight little circles that had your toes curling in your boots, eyes crossing as you pleasure mounted higher and higher. Teetering on a razor’s edge of oblivion.

“C’mon, honey. Come for me—fuck, I’m right there with you—” his cock kicked inside of you, surging even deeper than before, and you shattered.

Bliss spilled through the cracks of you, brilliant and burning as liquid gold. Bucky tipped over the edge with you, muffling a cry into your neck as he fucked you both through it, ringing out every drop of pleasure until you both sagged against the hay, panting and delirious.

“Baby, baby—” he cooed, peppering kisses across your sweaty temple as he smoothed the hair out of your face. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, picking a piece of hay out of his hair with a grin. “Perfect, now.”

He smiled back, shoulders dropping, and he kissed you again, this one slower, sipping, savoring. “Naughty thing, letting me fuck you in the middle of a corn maze—” he teased.

You gasped, giggling and swatting at his shoulder as he hauled you up. There it was again—that fuzzy, champagne feeling. “And now I’m gonna let you buy me a funnel cake.”

“But I won!” He protested, grabbing his jacket from a nearby stack and wrapping it around your torso.

“Yeah, and already got your prize.” You smirked, pecking his cheek.

“Fair point, brat,” he hummed, catching your chin to draw you in for another kiss. “Taste sweeter than funnel cake, anyway.”

Thanks for reading! 🫶

Not because you wanted to be, but because a certain bounty hunter insisted that a little fresh air and fun would be just what you needed to help you relax. Little did he know that you would’ve been just fine snuggled next to him in bed while happily watching reruns of Parks and Recreation. 

Of course when you’d tried to explain that to him, he’d had the nerve to ignore your concerns before nudging you in the direction of your closet and politely ordering you to put on one of those new sweater dresses you’d bought last month. And that had been it. That had been the entire conversation.

Such a handsome, dismissive bastard. 

So now you were pouting – a fact that you were adult enough to admit. You were tired, you felt bloated, and your too-tight ponytail was starting to give you a headache. Drying your hands on a nearby cloth, you find yourself fantasizing about what would happen if you snuck the keys to Ari’s truck and left his overly-friendly self at the bar.

Oh, your sweet Beast would tan your ass for sure. Which was why you planned to hide in here for the foreseeable future. Or better yet – you were gonna call yourself a cab and see yourself home. That way your man could continue having a good time and you could avoid any more unnecessary human interaction. 

Decision made, you turn to exit the bathroom only to jump back in surprise when the door swings open to reveal none other than Mr. Ari Levinson. And in the women’s no less. 

Just what the heck did he think he was doing? Was he trying to get you both kicked out?

“Been in here a long time, baby.” He grunts, resting his big body against the only available exit. “Was startin’ to get worried.” HIs soulful blue eyes connect with yours, as if searching them for answers.

“I’m fine.” You tell him before turning your attention back to the mirror to dramatically fluff your curls. “So get out.” Try as you might, you can’t quite keep the bite out of your tone. 

“You done yet?” He quirks one tawny brow as you bristle. 

“Nope.” 

Ari’s chest heaves in annoyance as he reaches behind him to secure the lock. “You’re not usually the type to be rude, pretty Bird.”  Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of his corded muscles bunching and flexing beneath his navy blue flannel. “But I can tell you right now that I’ve had about enough of this little tantrum you seem so hellbent on throwin’.”

“Then maybe you should’ve left me at home.” You give up on your hair in favor of digging around in your clutch for your lip gloss. 

“And maybe you could try to have a good time instead of stewin’ in whatever this is.” He fires back before he can stop himself. Even though he was itching to do so, he was positive that picking an argument with you would do more harm than good. So he tries a different tack “Look, sweetness. Why don’t you c’mon back out there and let me buy you another drink, hm?” 

“I’ll come out when I’m good and ready.” You huff. It was painfully obvious that you were feeling extra prickly tonight. And if your bounty hunter continued to poke the bear, it wouldn’t be your fault if he lost a finger or two. “Now go the fuck away.”  

Ari growls low in his throat as he comes to stand at his full height. At an impressive six-foot-four, this man towers over your much smaller, curvier frame. However, you refuse to back down. Right now, you were done taking orders from him. And if he knew what was good for him, he’d leave you alone before you–

Unfortunately, your thoughts are interrupted by a sudden flash of movement. The next thing you know, he’s now standing behind you, his large hands gripping your waist as he hauls you back against his solid frame. 

“I see you’re just determined to be a brat, huh?” His deep voice rumbles, his lips lightly grazing along the shell of your ear. “Is that what we’re doin’ tonight?” You feel his thick fingers dig into your tender flesh when you fail to answer him in time. “Answer me.”

“I’m not being a brat.” Comes your weak protest. God, sometimes you hated the way your body always seemed to respond to his quiet authority. “It’s just–”

“Nah, baby.” Ari swiftly interrupts, his traitorous hands possessively kneading your curves. “You’ve been snippy with everyone the whole night. That’s not the little Bird I know.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the only one you’re gonna get right now.” The angry words come tumbling out before you can stop them. Tired of this game, you grab at his wrists as you attempt to extricate yourself from his hold. “Let go so I can go call a cab!” But as usual, your overbearing bounty hunter proves to be a much stronger opponent.

Which meant you weren’t going anywhere until he was ready to let you go.

“Not happenin’, sweetness.” One warm, calloused palm moves to rest on the softness of your belly. “You’re gonna adjust that attitude. And then you’re gonna go back out there and have some fun for thirty minutes. After that, I’ll take you home so you can get some rest.” 

“And if I don’t?” You take a shuddering breath when you feel that same hand trail down your body before disappearing beneath the hem of your dress to weave its inside your panties. “W–what are you–?” A pitiful sound escapes you when you feel him cup your pussy. 

“Well…” Ari muses, in between nibbling his way along the delicate column of your throat. “Then I reckon I’ll just have to fix your attitude myself.” You rise on your toes as his palm begins to grind against your sensitive clit. “Won’t I?” 

“Oooh!” You cry as he increases the pressure, making your thighs clench around him. “Beast – wait! Someone…someone…oh God!” 

There was no way you could let him do this here – in a public bathroom at your favorite bar. Not when someone could walk in at any moment. Pissed or not, the last thing either of you needed was to catch a public indecency charge. 

“Fuck everybody else.” Your man rasps as his free hand moves to cup your breast, his skilled fingers playfully toying with your nipple. “Just like I should fuck you right here in this bathroom.” A soft moan makes its way past your lips when you finally notice Ari’s thick erection pressing against your lower back. “See how much energy you got left after I’m finished poundin’ all that disrespectful sass out of that greedy little pussy.”

“You can’t though.” You whine as you feel an embarrassing gush of wetness between your thighs, which only adds to the delicious friction. “People might…they might…” Your words trail off as he abandons your soaked cunt in favor of grabbing the edge of your satin panties, ripping them from your tender mound with practiced ease. 

“They might what?” There’s a hint of mockery in his tone as he dangles the lacy scrap of fabric in front of your face. “You don’t think you can stay quiet while your man busies himself givin’ you some good, old fashioned get-right?”

“Nooo!” Your breath hitches in your chest as he takes the liberty of stuffing your panties in your mouth. 

Jesus Christ, every time you thought you couldn’t get any wetter this man just had to go and prove you wrong. 

“Guess we’ll just have to keep you quiet.” Ari chuckles softly as he grinds his thick cock against you, letting you know just how ready he is to make good on his threat. Or was it a promise? Right now, you couldn’t summon the mental clarity to ask. “Because I’m gonna go deep, baby. I’ma give it you so good, and so deep, you’re gonna feel me for days.”

Your entire body begins to tremble as he slowly raises your dress, bunching the fabric around your waist, baring your mound to his hungry gaze. “And by the time I’m finished with you, baby, everyone in here is gonna know what happens to bratty little birds who don’t know when to cut the sass.”

You’re thankful when he kindly decides to remove your panties before stuffing them in his back pocket. After all this time you think you’d be immune to the filthy gesture. But nope. Not yet.

“Ari…” His name comes out barely above a whisper. Meanwhile, your eyes remain glued to your reflection. You can scarcely breathe as you take in the sight of your swollen clit delicately peeking out from between your slippery folds. 

Like it or not, your body was begging for your man’s attention. Suddenly, you wanted him to touch you. Tame you. To teach you a lesson like some of the heroes in some of the dog-eared books you kept tucked away in the back of your bookshelf. You’re so caught up in the moment that it takes you a while to notice that your beast of a man is still talking. 

“Is that what you need, sweetheart?” Two nimble fingers reach down to lightly stroke the tiny bundle of nerves, making you mewl. “Need me to keep you stuffed full of my cock until you forget all about what’s got you stuck in such a bad mood?”

“Yes.” It’s the only sensible word in your vocabulary, right along with: “please.”

“I should.” He rumbles before briefly bringing his glistening fingers to his lips for a quick taste of you. “I should give you what you need right here. Send your bratty self right back out to that bar with my cum dripping down your thighs. Bet then you’ll remember how to be my good girl.”

“Uh huh.” Your lashes flutter closed as your legs threaten to give out.

“Too bad that’s not the way this works.” While his voice remains deceptively gentle, the sudden switch has you on high alert. “I’m afraid I ain’t big on rewarding brats for bad behavior.” With that he lets go of your dress before taking a step back. 

“Jesus Christ, Ari Levinson!” It takes everything in you not to stomp your foot in frustration. “You are such a goddamned tease.” You wanted this man right here, right now. And it was all his fucking fault.

Flashing a positively sinful grin, your bounty hunter jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Later you would learn just how hard it was to keep himself from touching. From bending you over the sink and punishing you the way your body begged him to.               

“Sorry, Duchess. But your man just wants to make sure you learn your lesson good and proper first.” 

This man and his goddamned lessons. Feeling bereft and unfulfilled, you give in to the urge to pout. Ari responds by leaning down to press a tender kiss against your lips – which only leaves you wanting more.   

“Tell you what…” Still grinning, he walks over and unlocks the door. “You prance your pretty little ass back out there and try to have fun for thirty minutes and you have my word that I will take you home and give you and that greedy pussy of yours everything you fucking need. Okay?”

“Fine.” You mumble, your body still tingling from his early ministrations. But a deal was a deal. And you’d have to be stupid to turn down an offer like that. So, blowing out a determined breath, move past him and wrench open the door before turning to smile at him. “But the clock starts now, big guy.”

With that you sashay out of the bathroom with renewed vigor. All you had to do was last for twenty-nine more minutes and then your man was going to take you home and fuck you silly. You were so close to the finish line you could almost taste it. 

Meanwhile, Ari follows out behind you. But not before taking a moment to rearrange himself in his pants. He watches your hips sway in time to the music before sending up a silent prayer asking for patience, strength, and the necessary willpower to survive – frowning he takes a look at his watch – the next twenty-eight goddamned minutes. 

END

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Days passed strangely in hell, with no sun or moon to mark the passing of time, and so you didn’t know how long you spent in Asmodeus’s pleasure house, whether it was weeks, years, or a millennia. Eventually, it all blurred together, time ceasing to matter as you played your part as entertainment.

The pleasure house was the biggest in all of hell, servicing the underworld’s entire echelon of lesser demons. Since you were still one of Asmodeus’s newest acquisitions, you were relegated to the glory holes, though he often promised that if you were a good enough hole for his patrons, you could work your way up the hierarchy of whores. 

But so much time had passed, it seemed, and all you’d done was rotate through the various positions in the glory hole rooms, where the lesser demons could use your holes for their pleasure. You’d begun to lose hope—you’d begun to accept that your afterlife would be nothing more than this. 

Truthfully, it wasn’t all bad. 

The incubi and succubi who visited the pleasure house always made sure you came—mainly because it was how they fed—and the shadow creatures could be surprisingly gentle, though they could spend an entire, exhausting eon edging you until you came so hard you passed out.

But at least that meant you got a little peace, even if demons continued to use you while you were unconscious. 

Of all the lesser demons that frequented the pleasure house, the fiends were the worst. They were the ones that made you hope to one day earn your way out of the glory holes, so you could service some of hell’s greater demons and escape the fiends.

What made them the worst was their need to inflict pain in order to get off. 

They’d leave you covered in bruises and marks from their claws—but that wasn’t as bad as the awful things they said to scare you. The fed off your fear, and they loved to spin tales of how much worse it was beyond the glory holes, how you should be happy they were the worst you had to deal with.

Eventually, you learned to like the pain the fiends inflicted, but their words sank deep into your bones until fear was as constant a companion as the patrons of the pleasure house. It made you yearn for and dread the day everything would change. 

That day turned out to be Halloween. 

All Hallows’ Eve was the only day of the year you ever marked in Asmodeus’s pleasure house, solely because it was when the glory holes were practically deserted. With the veil between hell and earth so thin, demons preferred to torment the living instead of the whores in the afterlife. 

There were still a few demons milling around Asmodeus’s glory holes, but you were enjoying a moment of respite, the screams of your fellow whores an almost lulling soundtrack as you let your mind drift numbly. You tried not to think of how your life had been cut short, and the terrible circumstances in which you’d found yourself in your afterlife.

Then, suddenly, your instincts came alive, an awareness like the tip of a sharp knife blade trailing down your spine, and you focused on your surroundings. 

There—you heard the heavy tread of a greater demon in the hallway outside the room, and to your astonishment, it stepped into the room. 

It was rare that a greater demon would visit Asmodeus’s glory holes. Unlike lesser demons, they could afford the steep prices of renting an entire whore for a night—perhaps even a whole room of whores, if they so wished.

In all your time in the pleasure house, you hadn’t ever been visited by a greater demon, and you suddenly wondered if your soul would survive it. You might already be dead, but you’d heard tales of a second death, one that was even a mystery to the residents of hell. 

If anyone could manage it, it was a greater demon.

Greater demons were much bigger then lesser demons, their size reflecting their status and power in hell’s hierarchy. The bigger the were, the more powerful.

Whereas lesser demons were more or less the same size as humans, which meant they were manageable and less likely to harm your soul, greater demons were monstrous. Some were so massive, they could tear you apart, leaving your soul destroyed.

Each step of the greater demon into the room rattled the chains holding you captive, the iron cuffs around your wrists connected to bolts on either side of your little compartment. The walls shook just as much as the platform on which you lay on your back. 

The hole in the wall was big enough for your waist to fit through, but small enough that you couldn’t see the demon on the other side. It made the moment even more terrifying, that you couldn’t see the greater demon that had entered the room.

Your body trembled while the lumbering steps moved closer, and you instinctively tried to close your thighs on the other side of the wall. The cuffs around your ankles bit coldly into your skin, keeping you chained so your legs were spread wide open, your pussy on display and completely vulnerable.

The greater demon came to a stop, and the quiet cacophony of the room filled your ears—the obscene noises of rutting demons and squealing whores sounding loud in the sudden absence of his steps. 

You heard the greater demon give an arrogant scoff before he roared, “GET OUT!”

Even though you’d known the greater demon was there, the strength and power of his roar made you jump, a sharp cry of surprise tearing from your lips before you could bite it back. You felt immediately foolish for such a fearful sound, especially since you could practically feel the greater demon’s attention snap to you.

Your teeth sank deep into your lower lip as you bit back a whimper, your ankles rattling the chains holding your thighs open when you felt the demon’s gaze roam deliberately over your plump thighs and swollen pussy. It felt like he was assessing your suitability for his needs, and you’d never hoped so desperately to be found lacking.

Finally, the greater demon’s gaze moved away from you, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

“I want my pick of the litter, Asmodeus,” the greater demon growled, clearly unhappy that the lesser demons in the room hadn’t cleared out like he’d ordered. They’d simply gone on fucking, lost in their own worlds. “Get this riffraff out of my way.”

“Of course, sire,” Asmodeus said, and you could easily picture the obsequious smile that stretched across your master’s handsome face. 

Three sharp claps sounded within the room, ringing in your head. Then the demon’s voice filled every crevice of the room and your little compartment, forcing you to pay attention to the words.

“Please exit through the door behind me,” Asmodeus commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument despite how polite his words sounded. “You may make use of any other glory hole rooms, but this one is closed.”

There was a good deal of grumbling on the other side of the wall, and the wet sound of cocks being pulled from mouths, pussies and asses. You could even make out some questioning sounds from the other whores, despite the magic that prohibited you from communicating with one another. 

It took a few moments for the room to clear out, and when it was only the greater demon and Asmodeus left, your master spoke to the other. “The room is yours, sire. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to make your visit more enjoyable.”

Asmodeus’s quick, light steps retreated and the door to the room snicked shut, the distinct sound of the lock turning making your heart pound a little harder. Then you, and the others, were left alone with the greater demon—and all his wants and whims.

It occurred to you that you didn’t know what type of demon he was, but you didn’t have to wonder for long. The greater demon dropped forward onto all fours, magic crackling in the room as he transformed, and he begun prowling along the wall. His sharp, snuffling inhales were the only sounds in the room.

He was a hellhound, you realized, and you couldn’t fight the whimper that rose up your throat, choking on it as it tumbled from your lips. 

Again, you felt the demon’s attention dart to you, the beast’s gaze feeling heavier and hungrier as he eyed your trembling thighs and weeping pussy. For a long moment, it stayed fixed on you before it skated away and he returned to the hole he’d been inspecting.

In all your time in hell, you’d never encountered a hellhound, but you’d heard of them. The fiends liked to torture you with stories of the whores who’d been ripped apart by hellhounds, their souls too small and weak to withstand being knotted by the great beasts.

Over time, you’d pieced together the history of hellhounds, how they’d begun as simple hounds tasked with chasing down souls owed to hell. However, they’d evolved over the millennia. They’d grown smart enough to take on a human form, allowing them to easier pass in the world of the living and better hunt down souls.

But hellhounds had the ability to shift into their beast form at will, retaining their sharp minds and competency with speech. They were a formidable force, and had worked their way up the hierarchy of hell, their beast forms growing more and more monstrous as they gained power. 

Hellhounds were ruthless, and they cared about little else besides getting their job done and rutting anything with a hole tight enough to be ripped apart by their massive cocks. To hear the fiends tell it, there wasn’t a single human soul that had survived being knotted by a hellhound.

And now there was one prowling closer and closer to where you were tied down and helpless to the greater demon. 

All you could do was pray that he didn’t choose you, that he didn’t intend on ruining the soul of every whore in the room, and have faith that, for once, your prayers would be answered.

Unfortunately, you didn’t have that kind of luck.

It felt like the hellhound spent a short age skulking around the room, scrutinizing what was on offer, but perhaps that was your anxiety and fear making time move more slowly. 

Finally, the beast came to you, his large snout surprisingly soft and velvety as it snuffled down the line of your thigh before lingering near your pussy. His warm breath puffed against your swollen folds, and your body gave an involuntary shiver of delight.

To your great shame, desire gathered like dew on a flower petal between your folds, and leaked down the line of your slit. Unable to do anything but tremble in your chains, you felt a drop of your arousal drip onto the snout of the hellhound. 

The heat of his tongue barely brushed against your warm, swollen folds as he licked your taste from his nose, and you gave a pitiful, almost soundless whimper. Unbidden, the desire grew within your belly, your body aching to feel the monster’s tongue on your cunt. 

A deep, rumbling purr sounded between your thighs, sending your thoughts scattering to the wind. The sound was so low and close to your soft pussy that it fluttered with excitement. You knew the hellhound could sense your body’s response, because its purr kicked up a notch, like the beast was smiling.

You could barely process the flare of pleased pride that bloomed to life between your ribs at the thought of making the hellhound smile before the flat of the creature’s tongue pressed against your pussy. He licked a long, firm line up your weeping slit, from the tight rosebud of your ass all the way to your achy clit.

“Ahh!” The cry of pleasure was ripped from your lungs before you could think to stop it, your spine arching up off the platform where you lay. 

Your hands and feet tugged uselessly at the chains holding you down, but you weren’t trying to get away. Pleasure had  momentarily chased your fear away and your body was moving instinctively to trap the beast’s head between your thighs. You wanted more of his tongue, you wanted the scorching pleasure he had to offer.

The monster let out a husky chuckle that sounded more beastly than human, and lapped at your pussy again. Delightful tingles danced beneath your skin everywhere the hellhound’s tongue touched, making you squirm and writhe beneath his ministrations, seeking more. 

“So responsive,” the hellhound purred against your wet, heated flesh. 

He licked your clit with quick, furious lashes that had you crying out again, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming pleasure of his hot tongue. Your skin dug mercilessly into the iron cuffs holding you, but you didn’t care, bucking your hips to chase the beast’s tongue.

“Do you like that, pet?” he asked, sounding unbearably patronizing even through the animalistic growl of his voice. “Do you like the way I lick your pretty, puffy pussy?”

God help you, but you did, and you knew it would be your downfall. Because, despite all the warnings of the fiends who’d told you that the hellhound would only destroy you, you were tempted to tell the truth. You wanted to tell him that you loved the feeling of his tongue on your body—that you even desperately wanted more.

You tried to bite your lip against answering the beast’s questions, believing that the truth would damn you to a fate worse than working in Asmodeus’s pleasure house. No matter how bad the glory holes were, it couldn’t possibly be worse than what the hellhound would do to you.

However, the monster took your silence as a challenge, and he chuckled like he was all too happy to meet it—to torture an answer out of you.

The hellhound pressed his tongue more firmly against your pussy, dragging the hot length through your folds, dipping briefly into your hole, before swirling around your clit and nipping at your aching bud with his sharp teeth. When you didn’t break and babble your answer, he huffed another laugh and did it again—and again and again.

All you could do was bite your bottom lip harder, your moans and whines muffled as you panted like a bitch in heat for the hellhound, but still refused to answer him. Your entire body shook violently as the beast pushed you steadily closer and closer to the edge of oblivion, but no matter how you humped against his snout, you couldn’t get there.

“Tell me, pet,” he crooned, his bestial growl reverberating through your cunt and making your mouth fall open on a pitiful moan. “Tell me how much you love my tongue, and I’ll let you come.” He gave your pussy another long, lingering lick. “Maybe I’ll even let you come home with me.”

The thought should’ve sent fear stabbing through your heart, but your body betrayed you—your pussy gave an excited pulse at the idea of going home with the hellhound. It took a great deal of effort for your mind, which was growing quieter and quieter the longer the beast’s tongue was on you, to remember why that wasn’t what you should want.

Besides, it didn’t matter what you wanted. Your soul belonged to Asmodeus, and he’d made it clear when he’d claimed you and brought you to hell that you’d never be anything but one of his whores.

The creature’s teeth grazed your swollen folds as he pushed his tongue deep into your hole, fucking you better than any of the lesser demons who’d tried to give you pleasure, and you whimpered wantonly. It felt so good, you almost forgot how dangerous the hellhound was to your soul.

“Aw, pretty pet, have you already been fucked too dumb to talk? Is that the problem?” The hellhound’s voice was filled with condescending sweetness, which only made your pussy flutter more with desire.

He lapped wildly at your cunt, burying his snout against your clit as his tongue thrust deep inside you, fucking you with the hot, squirming length. In moments, he’d pushed you to the edge. Then, suddenly, he pulled back, refusing to let you fall into oblivion’s embrace.

Feeling bereft, your pussy so wet and aching and needy, you sobbed loudly. It was on the tip of your tongue to tell him how much you liked it, the truth wanting to spill free, and the beast must’ve sensed it.

“Say it, pet,” he purred, the commanding words uttered against your cunt, like the hellhound knew that was the way to your soul. “Say you fucking love my tongue.”

Something inside you broke—whether it was your survival instinct or the numbness protecting your heart, you couldn’t say—and you gave in to the hellhound.

“I love it!” you cried, sobbing with frustration from your denied release. You squirmed on the platform, chasing the beast’s snout and wordlessly begging for more as the truth spilled from your lips. “I love your tongue, sir! Please, fuck me with it, make me come. I’ll say anything you want, do anything you want, just fuck me—please!”

“Good pet,” the hellhound purred against your pussy, burying his snout back against your heated core.

He worked you with his tongue, fucking you deep and hard while his sharp teeth ground against your clit. In mere moments, he drove you back to the edge, oblivion threatening to consume you whole. 

But again, before you could tip over the edge, he pulled away, growling, “Beg me to keep you. Beg me to take you home with me—beg me to make you mine.”

Your mind was too far gone to protest. All you could do was what the beast commanded and hope he’d finally let you come. That was all that mattered in that moment, not your soul or who you belonged to, only your pleasure.

“Please! Please, sir, I—oh fuck,” you cut off on a groan, the hellhound’s tongue diving deep into your pussy. His hot tongue fucked your tight cunt so good, you lost your train of thought, fighting to keep going. “Keep me! I’ll be your perfect pet, please, take me home and make me yours!”

Your words devolved into a sob, tears of need streaming from your eyes and down your temples while your hips writhed as much as you were able through the hole in the wall. Instinctively, your body bore down on the beast’s tongue, trying to match the rhythm of his thrusting.

But instead of giving you the release you so desperately yearned for, the hellhound pulled away again—and you screamed in frustration. The piercing, broken cry tore from your throat so suddenly, you had no hope of biting it back, but it only seemed to please the hellhound.

“Pretty pet, perfect pet,” the creature rumbled between your thighs, a depraved smile dripping from his sharp teeth. “Sound so pretty—sound like mine.”

The hellhound’s snout brushed your clit, making your body jerk and a sharp whine spill from your lips. The praise in his bestial voice sent delicious tingles of delight dancing down your spine, but it wasn’t enough. 

“But you can beg prettier than that.”

“Please,” you mewled pathetically, your voice thready with need. “Master…” The word slipped so easily from your lips, you barely noticed it, until the creature growled a deep, pleased sound.

“Mm, good pet,” he praised, and you could hear the satisfaction in his animalistic growl. “More like that.”

Your heart clenched beneath your ribs and your pussy pulsed at the encouragement from the hellhound. You did as he commanded and begged as pretty as you could.

“I want to be yours, master, please—make me yours,” you pleaded, your voice thick with tears of desperation that wanted to spill down your cheeks. “Take me home, keep me forever. I’ll be so good for you, I swear, I’ll be yours, all yours, only yours!”

The hellhound hummed a sound of acknowledgement. He nonchalantly licked your slit, seeming to enjoy the way you bucked and trembled and mewled for him. After a long, frustrating moment, he flicked his tongue over you clit, making you choke on a gasp.

“Well, since you asked so sweetly,” he murmured, making your heart leap at the thought that he might finally allow you to come.

Your hope barely had time to take root before the hellhound was pulling away. You didn’t even have time to whine in protest because, in the next breath, he sank his sharp teeth into the meat of your thigh.

A scream so piercing, so ear-splitting it made your head ring, tore from your lips as pain sliced through your body. It twisted through you so violently, twining with the lingering pleasure of the hellhound’s tongue, that you came. 

You shattered apart like a glass bottle filled to bursting, your scream blending into the next as pulses of exquisite pain-edged pleasure coursed through your body. It was so overwhelming, so devastating, you had to cling to consciousness by your fingertips. 

All the while, your pussy clenched pathetically around nothing. Unbidden, you desperately wished you’d had a thick cock and bulging knot filling you up, giving you something for your cunt to squeeze. Something in the depths of your soul told you it would feel so good to be knotted by the hellhound…

“That’s a good pet,” the hellhound murmured against your skin, pulling his teeth free and licking the wound he’d left behind. “You come so pretty—made such pretty sounds while I marked you as mine.”

It took a moment for the beast’s words to permeate your pleasure-drunk mind, and when they did, you already felt a pleasantly warm tingling spreading from the place where he’d bitten you. It should’ve worried you, but you were too lost to the lingering bliss of your release to wonder what his words or that feeling meant.

Before your pleasure had fully begun to ebb, the hellhound pulled away from between your thighs, and you felt the crackle of magic in the air again. 

In the next breath, a cock plunged into your still weakly clenching pussy, and you screamed as you came again. It was a sudden, and more sharp release, tearing a broken cry from you, your throat already feeling raw from how much you’d sobbed and screamed for the monster.

“Oh fuck yeah, that’s good,” the hellhound growled, his voice sounding much more human. It was still pleasantly deep, a rich timbre that sent delicious tingles down your spine, and you liked it just as much as his bestial tone.

Belatedly, you realized he must’ve shifted into his human form, and you were surprised at the thoughtfulness of the gesture. He was big, even for a human, and if he’d still been in his monstrous form, you felt certain he would’ve torn you apart. But he’d chosen not to.

A more cynical voice in your head reminded you that demons never did anything out of consideration for others, which meant the hellhound must have a selfish reason for fucking you in his human form—though you couldn’t think of what it could be. Maybe he was just keeping you alive to torture you later…

“Your pussy feels as good as she tastes, pet.”

The hellhound’s words brought you back to the moment, and the warmth in his voice made you feel oddly proud for earning his praise. You offered a tentative, “Th-thank you, master,” in return.

A distinctly human, albeit much larger than normal, hand slid down your unmarked thigh, in what felt like an affectionate gesture. His touch was warm and almost gentle as it stroked down your soft skin, coming to a stop on your lower belly.

He pressed down, making you feel his cock more acutely. 

The hellhound was bigger than any of the lesser demons you’d had, and even though it was a tight fit, it wasn’t uncomfortable. His cock was thick enough to steal the breath from your lungs, and long enough to hit a spot deep inside your pussy that made you clench when his tip brushed against it. 

Altogether, he felt…perfect. More perfect than you ever hoped to find in hell, and you didn’t know if you could trust it. But you wanted to.

“Do you like my cock, pet?” the hellhound asked, as if he could somehow read your mind. 

For a moment, you panicked that he really could before you remembered that wasn’t one of a hellhound’s abilities. But there was one you’d forgotten about—his sense of smell.

“I can smell you, pet,” he explained when you didn’t respond. “I can smell the way you’re dripping with new desire just for my cock. So I’ll ask you again, do you like my cock?”

“I do, master,” you whispered, hoping your honesty would earn you some favor with the monster.

But, for some reason, you couldn’t leave it at that. The hellhound’s cock felt too good, and something deep in your heart urged you to continue, to tell him the full truth of it.

“You feel…” you began, trailing off as your hips squirmed, fucking yourself experimentally on his thick length. “Perfect.” The word slipped from your lips on a contented sigh, a smile curving the corners of your mouth as you settled back onto the platform.

You hadn’t felt such peace as you did while impaled on the hellhound’s cock since you’d been taken to hell. It was such a foreign feeling, it took you a long moment to name it. And once you did, you let yourself submit to it—submit to the hellhound himself.

“Good girl, pet,” the creature cooed from the other side of the wall, his thumb finding your clit and petting it sweetly, earning him a keening moan. “You feel perfect, too,” he murmured, his voice so low you wondered if he was talking more to himself than to you. “Almost too perfect to be real.”

Before you could gather the courage to ask what he meant, the hellhound began to move. He withdrew from your tight heat slowly, making you feel every inch of his thick, veiny shaft, before thrusting back inside and dragging a sharp cry from your lips.

“That’s it, let me hear you, pet,” the monster urged.

He set a brutal pace, his hips clapping against your thighs as he fucked you through the glory hole, every thrust smacking against the bite marks on your skin and sending dizzying pain-edged pleasure dancing through your body. 

“Tell me—tell me how much you fucking love being split open and fucked by your master’s cock.”

“I love it, master!” you cried happily, your hands rattling the chains holding your wrists. You wanted to grab hold of the beast fucking you, you wanted to wrap your thighs around him and hold him tight and never let him go. “I fucking love your cock, love how you’re stretching me open—it’s so good, master, ‘m gonna come again!”

The hellhound let out a delicious, devious chuckle. His thumb tapped your clit lightly, brushing it teasingly, winding you up with the barest of touches while he pounded into your tight cunt. All you could do was squirm, panting and whining for more, as you clawed closer and closer to your release.

“Do it, pet,” the hellhound growled. “Come all over your master’s cock, show me and everyone in this cursed place who you truly belong to.”

With his other hand, he pressed his fingers into the teethmarks he’d left on your thigh, and the sharp spike of pain twisted violently with the pleasure of his cock. You were weak to his dominating pleasure and pain, and in seconds, you were done for. 

Another wretched scream dragged itself from the depths of your soul, filling your small compartment on your side of the wall with the earth-shattering sound as you came. 

Your cunt clenched down viciously on the monster’s cock, sucking him deeper, as if your body was begging for the hellhound’s knot. The greater demon moaned loudly, obscenely, his satisfaction dripping from the sound, and even more pleasure pulsed through your pussy, feeling a perverse sense of pride at making him feel so good.

“Fuck, pet, you’re so tight, feels like you’re sucking me deeper, s’like your pretty cunt wants my knot,” the hellhound growled.

He was sounding less and less human by the second, but you didn’t sense the magic that meant he was shifting. He was just getting closer to his own release, losing control as he took his pleasure in your body.

“Do you want my knot, pretty pet, want me to stuff you full to bursting withe come, then plug you up so it doesn’t spill out?”

“Yes, master!” you cried without thinking. All the warnings the fiends had given you had long since fled from your mind, leaving only a bone-deep need to be knotted by the hellhound. “Knot me—knot my tight little pussy, master, make me yours! Please!”

“Fuck, you’re too fucking perfect—fuck!” 

The hellhound snarled, sounding furious as he pulled free from you still-clenching pussy. With a monstrous roar, the creature came, his come erupting from the tip of his cock and spilling across the same thigh he’d bitten. Rope after rope of come lashed your skin, coating both your thighs until you were dripping with him.

You were so focused on listening to rumbling purrs of satisfaction and the wet sounds of his fist stroking his cock, it took you a moment to notice the tingling sensation in your thigh. Some of the throbbing pain from the beast’s bite marks began to abate, and it almost felt like the marks were healing, supernaturally stitching together.

A low, mournful moan slipped from your lips at the feeling, and a desperate part of you hoped that whatever was happening, it wouldn’t remove the marks entirely. You wanted something to remember the hellhound by after he inevitably left you behind in the pleasure house.

After all, he was a greater demon and you were nothing more than a common whore of a soul. 

Even after all his talk about how perfect you felt, and how he wanted to take you home and make you his, you didn’t really believe he intended to follow through. Demons said a lot of things they didn’t mean during sex.

Besides, it didn’t matter whether he really did want to make you his. Asmodeus owned your soul and he’d never allow the hellhound to keep you.

So, you might never get to go home with the hellhound whose name you didn’t even know, but you hoped at least he’d leave his mark behind. It would be a reminder of the best sex of your life—and your afterlife. 

With a sad sigh, you closed your eyes, praying to keep the tears gathering between your lashes at bay at least as long as it took the hellhound to leave. His heavy breathing on the other side of the wall had evened out and you tried to prepare yourself for him to abandon you to your fate at the pleasure house.

To your surprise, though, he spoke. His voice had lost the animalistic growl he’d had while buried balls-deep in your body, and he sounded much more calm and collected when he muttered, “Asmodeus, come.”

It made you snicker to hear your demon master spoken to like a dog, the tears receding from your eyes as you curiously tuned in to what was happening on the other side of the wall. 

Though you’d tried to be quiet about it, the hellhound’s hearing was sharp enough that he must’ve heard your mirthful sound, because his hand dropped to your unmarked thigh, giving you what felt like an affectionate squeeze.

Your heart thumped happily in your chest in response, and you had to remind the silly organ not to be so fond of the hellhound. Even though he hadn’t left immediately after he was done with you, it didn’t mean he was serious about taking you home with him—no matter how much you wanted it to be true.

A moment later, the owner of the pleasure house—and your soul—stepped into the room. “What can I do for you, sire?” he asked, his voice seductive in the same way as a snake oil salesman’s.

“I’ll take this one’s contract off your hands,” the hellhound said, sending a jolt of surprise straight through your heart. You held your breath, barely daring to hope. “I’m taking her home with me,” he said, patting your thigh and leaving no room for confusion about who he meant.

Tentative excitement flooded your body at the prospect of escaping the glory holes and being taken in by a beast who seemed much more caring and attentive than your current master. Inexplicably, your soul yearned to belong to the hellhound, and you were so happy that it seemed to be coming true.

Still, the rational side of your mind reminded you Asmodeus was unlikely to give you up so easily. He owned your soul for eternity, per the contract with the men who’d sacrificed you to him, and it would require a steep price to sell your soul to another demon.

“That’s not—This isn’t…” Asmodeus stammered, seemingly caught off guard by the hellhound’s offer. He went silent and you heard him taking in a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was smooth, but cold. “My whores are not for sale, sire.”

The honorific was bitten off like a curse, but the hellhound didn’t seem rankled. In fact, he chuckled, like the other demon’s protests were nothing more than child’s play.

“This one is, and I’m buying her.” The hellhound’s words were friendly enough, but there was a bite to them, like he was snapping his sharp teeth, and you could practically hear Asmodeus recoil. “Either that, or I’ll take her by force. Don’t let it come to that.”

By the end of his warning, the hellhound had abandoned all pretense of friendliness, his words dripping with violence the way you imagined blood might drip from his sharp teeth. Something about the way the hellhound spoke filled you with an immense amount of pride—he was a fearsome demon, you could tell, and his warning wasn’t to be taken lightly.

Thankfully, Asmodeus was smarter than he looked and sounded, and he quickly acquiesced to the hellhound’s demands.

With a few snaps of his fingers, Asmodeus used his magic to unlock the cuffs binding you to your platform, and to transport you into the room where he and the hellhound stood. 

Your legs gave out as soon as your feet touched the ground, so unused to standing and so wrung out by your recent releases, you had no hope of keeping your legs under you. 

The hellhound deftly caught you around the waist before you could fall, and he gathered you up in his big, strong arms. Your bare, naked body was crushed against a hard body clad in silky satin, buttery soft cotton and deliciously decadent velvet—all in a deep, fathomless black.

Your eyes caught on the strong chest before you, lingering on the way the hellhound’s cloak draped so perfectly over his broad shoulders, the satin of his shirt clinging enticingly to the muscles beneath, unbuttoned enough to reveal a peak of dark hair against golden skin.

Lifting your eyes almost reluctantly, you looked up into the face of your new master—and couldn’t believe your good luck.

The hellhound was attractive beyond belief. Sun-kissed golden brown hair was swept back from his classically handsome face, a smattering of freckles dusted across the straight line of his nose. Crystal blue eyes, which looked like they were mined from the finest sapphires on earth, stared back at you, a spark of interest in their depths.

His human form wore a dark beard, which made him look equal parts distinguished and fearsome, even as it framed a pair of lips so inviting, you couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh of yearning. As you watched, the hellhound’s mouth quirked into a small smirk, like he enjoyed the way you were staring at his lips.

“I am Steve Rogers,” the hellhound said, his eyes roaming your face hungrily, and you were pleased to see he appeared to like what he saw. “What’s your name, pet?”

In a raspy voice, your throat still raw from all the screaming you’d done in pleasure, you gave him your name; he hummed in acknowledgement, turning it over on it his tongue, like a gem to be examined carefully. 

Unable to stop yourself, you asked the question that was plaguing your heart. “Are you really taking me home, m-master?” There was an eager note to your voice and you could tell Steve heard it by the subtle way he cocked his head.

“Outside the bedroom, you may call me ‘my lord’,” he said, calloused fingers smoothing over your face, gently rubbing the salt from the corners of your eyes where your tears had dried. “And yes I’m taking you home.” He cupped your chin, tilting your face up toward his so he could search your eyes. “You’ll live with me now, because I’m going to keep you forever, isn’t that right, pet?”

There was a somberness in his expression, and you got the impression that if you’d said no, or protested in any other way, Steve would’ve left you alone. But you didn’t want that—you wanted him. 

A tentative smile curved the corner of your mouth as you stared up into the eyes of the hellhound who would rescue you from the afterlife of your nightmares. He looked every bit your savior, even with the monster hiding within.

“Right, my lord,” you murmured, turning your head and pressing a kiss into his warm palm. 

Your eyes slipped closed as you inhaled his scent—something spicy and wild, as untamable as an whipping wind on an October night—and let the tension in your shoulders ease. The hellhound smelled right somehow, like he was yours just as much as you were his.

“Good pet,” Steve cooed, bringing you back to the moment, shifting his hand to stroke your cheek affectionately. 

Then he turned to Asmodeus, who was watching the two of you with a faintly sick look on his face. 

“Do what must be done to transfer her contract to me,” the hellhound commanded, taking off his cloak and wrapping it around your shoulders, swathing you in his warmth and scent. “Name your price—whatever it is, she’s worth it.”

You tucked your face into the plush velvet of the cloak at your shoulder, and breathed in Steve’s scent, letting it fill your lungs and bring peace to your mind. The gesture earned a fond stroke from the hellhound, his mouth curving into a smile as he looked at you. 

“At least let me wash her up a bit before you take her,” Asmodeus tried, and you stiffened in Steve’s arms, not liking the idea of being separated from him, even for a few moments to take a bath. 

Though your reaction might’ve surprised you, it paled in comparison’s to the hellhound’s response to Asmodeus’s suggestion.

“Leave her!” Steve roared, tucking you tighter into his body and turning away to hide you from the other demon’s sight. 

On instinct, your fingers undid a few buttons of Steve’s shirt and you slipped your hands inside, pressing against his hot skin. Your touch seemed to soothe the demon, and he visibly calmed, rolling his shoulders and swiping a hand through his hair while the other wrapped around the back of your neck. 

“I’ve marked her as mine,” Steve said, sounding just a touch sheepish. “She can’t be cleaned up yet or the mark won’t take properly.”

The teethmarks on your thigh tingled, and you almost snorted at the hellhound’s arrogance. He marked you as his before he’d even been granted permission by the demon who owned your soul. The master of the pleasure house could make things difficult for you and Steve if he wanted to—thankfully, he didn’t seem to want to.

Asmodeus heaved a heavy sigh, sounding like he carried the weight of the underworld on his shoulders, and gave a weary shake of his head. Then he flicked his wrist, conjuring a scroll of paper from thin air. He unspooled it, summoned a quill and handed the document over to Steve.

The demons completed the contract amendment transferring ownership of your soul over to Steve Rogers, signing their names, and then it was done. 

Before the ink was even dry, the hellhound lifted you into his thick arms, his supernatural strength and size making it easy. He gave you a moment to get settled, tucking his cloak in around your body, as he nuzzled your cheek. 

“Ready to go home, pet?” Steve asked warmly, brushing a sweet kiss to the apple of your cheek, teasing your skin with the roughness of his beard. 

You heard Asmodeus gag as he retreated from the room, and you couldn’t help but say a silent prayer the door would hit him in the ass on the way out. 

Once he was gone, you gave Steve your full attention, your fingers sinking into the coarse hair of his beard and pulling him close to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, my lord,” you murmured against his mouth. “Take me home.”

If the hellhound bristled at being commanded by his pet, he showed no sign of it. Instead, Steve grinned fondly, and then he was whisking you through the pleasure house, bringing you to the portal that would take him anywhere in hell he wanted to go.

Steve clutched you tighter against his chest, then stepped through.

All the oxygen was sucked from your lungs, and if you’d still been living, you would’ve perished immediately. As it was, your head spun violently, feeling as though you’d been sucked up into the vortex of a tornado. 

It was a small eternity and less than a second before Steve’s leather boots landed firmly on the other side of the portal. 

“Alright, kitten?” he asked, his voice sounding fuzzy and far away. 

Your senses came back into focus slowly, your mind following the sparkle in Steve’s eyes and the curve of his smile back from the darkness that had threatened to drag you under. The hellhound waited until you gave him a nod and a smile in return before he began walking. 

Glancing around, you found yourself in a dark mansion, lit largely by the ethereal red-tinged glow that permeated hell. It had a vacant feeling, like it hadn’t been occupied in a while, but there were signs of life.

The dark wallpapered walls and even darker wooden floors were broken up by some pops of color—sensual art hung on the walls, violet and crimson plants on accent tables and shelves. Dark wooden furniture was upholstered with sumptuous black velvet, and gorgeous brocade curtains hung over the windows.

Altogether, it looked more cozy than dreary, and you hoped to get to explore, though it would have to another time.

Without stopping to let you look around, Steve strode through the mansion like he was on a mission. He carried you upstairs to the master bedroom, promising to give you a proper tour later. 

He tugged his cloak from your shoulders and spread you out on a massive bed, laying you down on black silk sheets and pillows that felt like the most luxurious clouds beneath your back. 

You took a quick, cursory glance around the room, finding it decorated in much the same way as the rest of the mansion, before returning your gaze to the hellhound. He stood at the foot of the bed, his blue eyes dark with hunger as they roamed purposefully over you body, taking in every inch of your naked form. 

“Gorgeous,” Steve growled, his handsome face twisting with a greedy sort of lust that had your heart pitter-pattering excitedly. 

When his gaze reached your thigh, it lingered. A dark, fathomless possessiveness flashed in his eyes as he stared at the marks he’d left on your skin.

Curious, you glanced down and saw it for the first time. 

Half of your thigh was dotted with the curved outline of teethmarks left by the impressively big bite of the hellhound’s bestial form. Something in your belly fluttered excitedly at the undeniable mark that had scabbed and scarred already, leaving what appeared to be a permanent brand on your skin the shape of Steve’s teeth.

Unbidden, and at perhaps the most inopportune moment, the warnings of the fiends resurfaced in your mind. All evidence seemed to indicate Steve wanted to keep you in sound health and mind, but you couldn’t help the little niggle of worry that the hellhound was just playing with his food before he devoured your soul.

“Are you going to kill me?” 

The question popped from your mouth before you could think to stop it, knowing how nonsensical it sounded—after all, you were already dead. Still, Steve was a greater demon, and he could certainly harm you more than a lesser demon ever could.

The hellhound’s head cocked to the side again and he looked at you curiously, his brows furrowed with confusion. “Why would you ask that, pet?”

His question was gentle enough, but you weren’t sure how to proceed—how much you should tell him about what the fiends had said. “I…”

Your gaze dropped from the demon’s handsome face to the satin shirt clinging to his chest. It was tucked smartly into tailored black pants, which revealed the bulge that had already begun to grow at the sight of you naked on his bed. 

You almost abandoned your question entirely, thinking Steve Rogers and his hellhound cock might be worth risking your entire being.

“You can tell me anything,” Steve said, his voice gently coaxing. Slowly, he climbed onto the bed, prowling up the length of your body until he face was above yours. His eyes searched yours intently. “Tell me.”

As if of their own accord, your lips parted and spilled your secrets to the hellhound. 

“Some of the fiends at the pleasure house would…tell me things,” you began, and once you’d started, the rest poured out in a rush between breaths. “They wanted to scare me, and they loved to tell me how lucky I was not to be fucked by a hellhound, because a hellhound’s knot would tear me apart, drive me insane, and destroy my soul—all of the above.”

For a moment Steve just stared at you, no doubt taking in the fear evident in your wide eyes and trembling lower lip. Then he heaved a sigh and lay down beside you, tucking you in against his chest while he wiped a hand down his face. You got the impression he was trying to tamp down on his frustration, and you waited for him to compose himself.

Once he’d regained control of himself, he looked down at you, his thumb stroking gently over your cheek. 

“It’s true that a hellhound’s knot is large—even larger when we’re in our hound form,” Steve admitted, his fingertips tracing the curves of your face and down the line of your nose, like he was learning the shape of you. “But it’s not anything you can’t take, I promise.”

You let loose a sigh of relief you didn’t know you’d been holding on to, anxiety melting from your body at Steve’s reassuring words and the gentle way he touched your face.

“Why would they say that, then?” you asked, your curiosity getting the better of you again.

Steve gave you a wry grin as his fingertips traced your bottom lip. You wanted so badly to nip playfully at him, but you were too eager for his answer to distract him.

“Fiends resent the way hellhounds evolved,” Steve explained. “We rose up the ranks of hell, and they’ve stayed at the bottom, even after a millennia.”

Before you could stop yourself, you huffed an indignant sound on Steve’s behalf. “Sounds like a them problem to me,” you muttered, rolling your eyes at the tiny egos of the fiends. 

Steve gave a deep, rumbling chuckle that had all the nerve endings in your body perking up, your nipples tightening as the gentle reverberations traveled down your spine. 

“Demons aren’t exactly known for taking accountability for their actions,” Steve teased, his voice light and sweet as he brushed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Just that teasing touch had a soft moan slipping from your lips, and Steve pulled back, his sharp gaze watching you closely. Pouting, you turned your head and tipped your face toward him, wordlessly asking for more.

When he hesitated, as if wanting to make sure you knew what you were asking for, you whispered a soft, desperate, “Please.”

That one word from your lips made something in the hellhound snap; he closed the distance between you in less than a second, slanting his mouth to yours in a kiss.

Pops of color exploded in your mind’s eye at the first touch of his soft mouth against yours, delightful tingles cascading from the crown of your head down to the tips of your toes as you reveled in the perfect feeling of his kiss.

Then his tongue, hot and gentle, flicked playfully against the seam of your lips and you moaned, granting him entry to explore. Steve took everything you gave him, slipping into your mouth and stroking your tongue to tangle with his until the two of you were lost in each other.

For a long while, the two of you simply kissed, learning each other—what made you gasp, what made him groan—until the heat building in your body grew too insistent to ignore. Your arms circled Steve’s broad shoulders, fingers diving into his soft hair, and you pulled him on top of you.

“Clothes off, now,” you mumbled against the demon’s mouth, enjoying the delicious rasp of his beard against your cheeks. He broke away to brush tickling kisses down your neck and you whined, your fingers tugging insistently on the satin of his shirt. 

“Demanding little thing, aren’t you, pet?” he purred in that deliciously patronizing voice, and you hissed like a spitting kitten. Steve chuckled indulgently, like you’d lived up to the other pet name he’d given you, but was smart enough to strip quickly out of his clothes. 

When he was naked, Steve allowed you to push him onto his back. You straddled his body, perching on his thighs to get a good look at his human form. 

He was slightly larger than a normal man, but by no means as monstrous as the fiends would’ve had you believe. Still, he looked formidable, with broad shoulders and thick muscles cording his arms. There was a lurking danger to Steve Rogers that was a constant reminder of his status as a greater demon.

But sprawled on his back, a grin teasing at the edges of his mouth, he looked completely at ease. It made it easy to feel comfortable around him, to explore him.

Steve tucked an arm behind his head, propping himself up to watch as your hands wandered his body, tracing some scars lingering on his shoulders, fingers raking through the pelt of hair on his chest. He wheezed slightly when you dug your fingers into his abdomen, feeling the soft layer of padding covering the hard muscle beneath.

Then you reached his cock, which stood proudly between his tree-trunk thighs. 

It was so large, you could hardly believe you’d already taken it—and that you’d taken it so easily. Though, as you reminded yourself, you had been in the throes of a devastating release when he’d thrust inside you for the first time. No wonder it had set you off in a second orgasm when he’d done so.

Scooting forward, you pressed Steve’s thick cock against your body, the tip of him lining up with your belly button; your eyes widened, surprised all over again.

At the base, you could feel the slight bulge of his knot, which would inflate fully just before he came. Already, it was thick enough that when you wrapped both hands around it, your fingers didn’t touch. Your pussy gave an excited flutter at the idea of feeling his knot inside you, plugging you full while he filled you with come.

Still, you couldn’t help but voice the obvious question: “You’re bigger in your hound form!?” you asked incredulously, glancing up at Steve, who wore a self-satisfied smirk on his handsome face. 

“A little less than doubly as big, yes,” he said smugly, clearly very pleased with the size of himself.

You would’ve laughed at how arrogant he sounded if it weren’t for the tremor of trepidation that snaked down your spine. You knew Steve had promised you could take him, but you suddenly weren’t so sure. He looked so big already, you couldn’t imagine the cock and knot of his hound form fitting inside your human-sized cunt.

Steve must’ve sensed your hesitation because he sat up, gathering you in his arms and tipping your face toward his to look him in the eye. He gave you a reassuring smile.

“You’ve already taken me like this, pretty pet,” he reminded you in a warm, rumbly voice that had your toes curling in delight. “I promise it won’t hurt to take me in my other form—I’d never want to hurt you.”

He captured your lips in a sweet kiss, as if sealing his promise like a deal. 

You didn’t know if you should trust Steve’s word—he was a demon, after all—but he hadn’t given you any reason not to. Besides, something deep in your soul told you that he was someone you could count on. So you decided you were willing to take a leap of faith for the hellhound.

Having made your decision to trust him, you kissed Steve harder, pouring your faith into him until he was groaning, his cock twitching and leaking precum against your belly.

Without breaking the kiss, you rose up onto your knees, your fingers wrapping around his cock, just beneath the head, and lined him up with your dripping hole. You were wet again from making out with the hellhound and exploring his naked form, and it didn’t take much work to lower yourself on the full length of him.

Steve broke away from the kiss with a half-feral groan, harmonizing with the moans spilling freely from your lips. Then you began to ride him slowly, sensuously, taking your time because you had all the time in the underworld.

The two of you made the most of it, exploring each other further. 

Steve suckled on your tits, lapping the flat of his tongue over your nipples until you were whining in his lap, your hips jerking with each rough graze against your sensitive buds. The hellhound worshipped your tits in a way you’d never experienced before, sucking on your nipples and kneading your soft flesh until you were a limp, needy mess in his arms.

For your part, your hands roamed freely over the hellhound’s body, carding through his hair, down his corded neck and over his broad shoulders. You learned how his muscles bunched beneath his skin as he bounced you slowly on his cock, and how his eyes slid closed and his expression looked almost pained when you dug your nails possessively into his skin.

After what seemed like an eon, you felt Steve’s knot begin to inflate as he hurtled closer to his release, yours not far behind. Before you could be lost to the pleasure, though, you had a sudden need that took hold and wouldn’t let you go. 

“I want to try,” you gasped, the words bursting free from you before you could stuff the desire back down into the depth of your soul where it came from.

Steve lifted his head from your tits, revealing a smattering of hickeys that he’d bitten and sucked into your skin. It looked like the scatter of stars in the clear sky of an October night, and you were momentarily distracted while the hellhound blinked the lust from his dazed eyes.

“What’s that, pet?” he asked, his voice warm and a little slurred. 

Pride pricked at your heart and you couldn’t help the way your mouth curved into a smug smirk at the sight of him, the fearsome hellhound brought so low by your human pussy. It gave you the confidence boost you needed to tell Steve what you really wanted. 

“I want to take you in your hound form,” you explained, grinding idly on his cock, your hips restless and unable to sit still, especially at the prospect of taking Steve’s bigger, thicker cock and his monstrous knot. “I want to take your knot—your full knot.”

Steve went still beneath you, and he blinked a few more times, his gaze growing sharper each time. He looked at you closely, as if searching for any hint of the hesitation you’d shown earlier. But you knew better than he did that it was gone—he’d fucked it out of you with his human cock and you wanted more. You wanted all of him.

“You’re sure, pet?” Steve asked, one of his big hands pressing to your lower back to still your rocking hips. The other cupped your face, holding you like you were something precious and breakable. “We don’t have to do that today, we can do it whenever you’re ready.”

You were already shaking your head. Your mind was made up and your heart and soul knew this was what you needed.

“If we wait, the anticipation will eat me alive,” you told Steve, holding his gaze and imploring him to see the honesty in yours. “I want to take you now, I want to be yours—fully. Forever.”

Steve watched you for a moment longer, then a wolfish grin spread across his handsome face. He kissed you deeply, and you felt every bit of his passion and deepening affection as it poured past your lips. When you were breathless and restless with excitement, he finally pulled away and lifted you off his lap.

Magic crackled in the air of the bedroom as you watched Steve shift, the transformation so smooth and quick you could barely see the way his handsome face disappeared into the shaggy visage of a big, black dog. Still, you would’ve recognized those crystal blue eyes anywhere, staring at you with hunger and fondness. 

His hound form was massive and you suddenly understood the need for the big bed, but he didn’t look particularly scary—at least not with his familiar eyes and his tongue lolling adorably out of his mouth.

With a grin, you reached out and ran a had through the soft fur on top of his head, moving to scratch behind one ear. The hellhound’s eyes closed and he gave a contented, growly purr. 

“Mm, that feels good, kitten,” Steve rumbled, his voice more bestial again, like when he’d been eating you out in the pleasure house. 

For a moment, the hellhound reveled in your touch, and sat patiently while you petted him, exploring what spots were most likely to make him purr. But then you got a glimpse of his cock jutting out from between his hind legs, looking so big and thick and monstrous that you gave a sharp gasp.

Steve’s eyes snapped open and before you could get too intimidated, he pushed his snout against your shoulder, urging you to turn around. He arranged you on the bed on all fours, your head down against the silk sheets and your ass in the air.

You fought against the fear that wanted to sneak into your belly, reminding yourself Steve wouldn’t hurt you. You didn’t know how you knew, you just did. You had faith, you believed in him. 

Steve moved over you, mounting your body from behind, one of his forelegs wrapping around the front of your hips while the other pressed to the bed, holding himself up so he didn’t crush your much smaller form. 

His soft fur brushed against your bare back, the wild, spicy scent of him settling around your shoulders like his cloak had earlier, and you instinctively relaxed. Arching your spine, you presented yourself to the hellhound, smiling when he gave a purr of encouragement.

“Ready, kitten?” Steve asked, his claws digging lightly into the soft flesh of your hip. The mark on your thigh gave a throb, pleasure spreading to your core, and you nodded.

“Yes, master,” you purred, baring the length of your neck in the ultimate sign of submission. 

Steve’s purr deepened, sounding suddenly more satisfied, as he raked his sharp teeth over the base of your throat, sending goose bumps rising across your skin. But he didn’t bite down.

Instead, Steve pushed in from behind, and you gasped at the feel of him—he was so warm, so big and so…strange. His cock was hotter in this form, the tip of him more pointed. It made it easier for him to sink inside you, your body stretching to accommodate his thick girth.

“Good pet, taking my cock so well,” he purred, teeth nipping playfully at your shoulder in a way that made you smile and moan at the same time. “You’re squeezing me so good—fuck.”

The hellhound cut off on a curse when he bottomed out in your body, his monstrous cock buried to the hilt in your tight heat. For a moment, the two of you hung suspended in pleasure, in the rightness of the way your bodies joined together perfectly, like you were made for one another.

“Didn’t I tell you that you could take me, kitten?” Steve teased, his voice warm and growly and so self-satisfied you knew he was smirking, even in his hound form.

You huffed a laugh, though it sounded more breathless and desperate than you’d intended. It made Steve’s cock shift slightly inside you, the hot length of him rubbing against your sensitive inner walls and you forgot why you were laughing. All that mattered was the hellhound’s cock and the pleasure it promised.

“Oh fuck, Steve, you feel sooo good,” you moaned, trying to fuck yourself on his hard length. “I loooove your cock, master, love it so much, want to live like this, want to live on your knot,” you babbled, drool dribbling from your mouth to the silk sheets under your cheek.

“Careful, pet,” Steve purred, sounding much too pleased with himself—at least until his hips pulled back and he slammed forward, plunging deeper into your tight, hot cunt. “You’re sounding like a cockdrunk little slut already, and I haven’t even started fucking you properly yet.”

“Fuck me braindead, master,” you begged, the words spilling from your lips, all sense having fled from the first thrust of the hellhound’s cock. “Use my cunt for your pleasure, make me your perfect fucktoy, please!”

Steve gave a ferocious growl, snapping his hips and fucking you harder, more purposefully, but you knew he was holding back. Again, you didn’t know how you knew it, you just did, and it made you sob with frustration, even as pleasure mounted in your core.

“More,” you begged Steve, nuzzling against the paw planted beside your head. “Harder—please, Steve, I can take it!”

“That’s my fucking girl,” Steve purred against your cheek, his tongue licking the salty tears spilling from your eyes. “You’re such a perfect little fuckpet, aren’t you? And all mine. My perfect little fuckpet.”

“Yes, yes, yes, all yours, yours, yours,” you chanted, babbling nonsense as Steve pounded into you, imprinting the shape of his monstrous cock on the very fabric of your soul. 

It wasn’t long before you couldn’t form words any longer, your lips moving mindlessly as moans poured from your mouth, your body and mind submitting to the pleasure of being fucked by your hellhound. You’d never experienced such exquisite, perfect pleasure, and all you could do was give yourself to it.

“Come on my cock, sweet pet,” Steve growled in your ear, his snout nuzzling your cheek, tongue slipping into your mouth to taste your moans straight from your lips. “Let me feel you come before I knot this pretty pussy and stuff you full of my seed.”

The foreleg that had been wrapped around your hips shifted, his paw shoving between your thighs until his claw found your clit. He stroked your puffy pearl mercilessly, pounding you brutally with his cock, murmuring more words of sweet praise in your ear. 

The hellhound’s perfect cock and all that he did to you set you off like a rocket, shooting you into the ether and making you scream as you exploded into tiny, dazzling sparks of pleasure. For a moment, you lingered in heavenly bliss, unsure if it was real, before you came rushing back down to hell.

Your limbs were shaking uncontrollably, pleasure rolling through every muscle of your body, making your fingers and toes tingle with it. Wave after wave of white-hot ecstasy poured through you, the most wrecked, broken sobs of pleasure spilling from your lips.

It was only a second later, though it had seemed an eternity, when Steve roared his own release, spurred on by the way your cunt clenched violently down on his cock. He rutted deep into your body, his knot inflating quickly and stretching you to the point that you felt like you were being split open and stitched back together all at once.

With a scream that joined the roar of your hellhound, you came again, your bodies convulsing together, Steve’s forelegs holding you tightly pinned beneath his massive form while his cock twitched inside your pussy. He unloaded thick ropes of come inside you, so much that you felt beyond full with it.

For long moments, you floated in the aftershocks of bliss, feeling deliciously stuffed full, Steve’s knot keeping you plugged so none of his come dripped out of you. His cock kept twitching, emptying his balls deep in your cunt and flooding your womb.

When you were both finally sated, Steve rolled you onto your sides, where you could lay more comfortably together until his knot deflated. He pulled you close to his chest, your body tucked deep into his warm fur, the scent of him—even more wild in his hound form—making you hum happily and snuggle into him.

Glancing down your body, you saw your belly was slightly distended and round from all the come Steve had pumped inside you, and you stroked the little bump affectionately. 

Steve’s shaggy head lifted from where it lay and he watched your fingers, one of his forepaws joining you in petting the bump he’d made in your body. The rough scrape of his paw against your skin made you shiver, a soft mewl slipping from your lips.

“Careful, kitten,” he warned, his voice even lower and more rumblier with satisfaction. “You keep being so perfect, and I’ll have to put a litter of pups in you.”

Your heart thumped excitedly in your chest, and your pussy gave a weak, equally happy clench. Steve chuckled at your body’s response, the sound sending delicious little tingles of delight dancing down your spine.

“Oh, you like that idea, huh?” he asked, his voice warm with affectionate teasing. “Want me to knock you up with my hellhound pups?” You could hear a thread of uncertainty in his tone, and it made you eager to give him an honest answer.

“I do, my lord,” you murmured, barely having to think about it. Like everything else that came to your hellhound, you just knew. Turning your head, you pressed a kiss to Steve’s snout.

He panted happily, his tongue lolling out of his mouth at he gave you a particularly wolfish grin. Then he licked the side of your face, making you giggle and squirm, wringing a moan from your lips as you felt his knot tug inside your pussy.

Steve urged you to settle down again, and the two of you fell into a comfortable silence. It wasn’t long before the deep, steady breaths of the hellhound, his warm fur, and the perfect full feeling of his knot inside you lulled you to the edge of sleep. 

So this story ends on Halloween, with you falling asleep in the arms of your hellhound. It ends with the beginning of the rest of your afterlife.

Your life may have been cut short, and you may have started your afterlife as nothing more than a demon’s whore. But at Steve Rogers’ side, you build an afterlife where you’re endlessly happy, surrounded by the love and light you never knew in life.

To your great surprise, it turned out that being claimed by a hellhound on Halloween was the best thing that could’ve happened to you. It brought you to your happy ending.

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

A late Saturday night. The wind whistled just outside with an eerie tonality. It was quiet, relaxing, despite the spine-chilling sounds that the television produced. A bright, flashing light illuminated the space, the TV giving your skin a soft glow in the dim living room.

No one vacated the Avengers' compound besides you, Bucky, and Steve. Being newer to the team meant training relentlessly—a couple of uninterrupted weeks of working your ass off to prove yourself. And, of course, the two Avengers were assigned to instruct you, along with a few others, but they were long gone on the weekends.

The weekends meant everything to you; it was a cause for rest that your body craved. It was also an excuse to get close to the two whom you'd considered your friends. Though you knew them long before your introduction into the team, it was still nice to get alone time with them once in a while. They were happy to indulge you during your break because of how hard you worked early in the week.

You were sprawled on the couch across the two like a lap dog. Your head was a gentle weight on Bucky's thigh as your legs draped over Steve's knees—your favorite position.

It was your idea to watch a movie together. You suggested Scream, one, because Halloween was right around the corner, and two, because you hadn't watched it in some time.

Bucky and Steve knew better than to argue with you about your pick, so they shut their mouths. They grabbed a bucket of buttery popcorn and plopped down on the sofa like a pair of loyal companions. Snuggling up to you with a navy blanket, they cloaked you with their warmth.

Calloused fingers danced in your hair as you watched the movie. Bucky was keen on playing with your hair; it gave him solace. He was nervous about touching you before, when he was still shedding the Winter Soldier from his fragmented form. But now, he couldn't keep his hands off you, even if he tried.

Some days, it was his arm just lightly grazing yours or his head resting on your shoulder. But others—the harder days—his touch was firmer.

Like when he would come up from behind you and wrap his strong arms around your middle or his metal hand gripping your upper thigh—that would inevitably lead to a heat pooling in your lower stomach. You didn't dare comment on that, though.

You also found comfort in his touch, as well as Steve's. His warm hands had found your feet under the blanket, gently massaging them. His thumbs dug into the heel of your foot, clearing the tension from your muscles.

It was the part of the film where Billy and Stu revealed themselves as the killer, one of your favorite scenes. The intense buildup all leading to this satisfying betrayal.

Billy was licking off the fake blood from his fingers, causing your thighs to squeeze together. It was such a simple action, but the way he was looking at Sidney as he did it was a surprising turn on.

You bit your lip to hide the smile spreading across your face. This was supposed to perturb you with how sick the two men were, but it had the complete opposite effect.

"Whatcha doin', darlin'?" Bucky's voice came, raspy and laced with a teasing lilt. Almost as if he had uncovered a secret, and he wasn't hesitant to spill it to anyone who might listen.

Your head jerked upward, locking eyes with him. He had a Cheshire smile plastered on his face. That damn smirk, you thought.

"What's that lip doin' between your teeth?" he added, flesh hand drifting down to free it with his pointer finger. His touch lingered, dragging it slowly over your bite-swollen bottom lip before pulling away.

Steve turned, glancing down at you with a just as wide grin. "Huh, I think she's turned on, Buck?" He pinched your thigh, eliciting a squeak from your lips.

You swallowed hard, heart racing. They caught you red-handed, and there was no way out of this one. "I-I-" you stuttered, not quite knowing what to say.

"Oh, definitely. She can't even defend herself," Bucky agreed.

Your embarrassment faded, turning to a sharp anger clawing at your rib cage. You balled your hand into a fist, lightly punching Bucky in the gut.

He feigned a pained grunt. "Hey, he's the one who said it," He exclaimed, pointing at the blonde beside him.

You wiggled your foot from Steve's grasp, hitting him weakly in the stomach. "You're both assholes," you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest like a spoiled child.

Steve snorted, squeezing your knee. "Sorry, pretty girl. Didn't mean to make you mad. It's just-" he cut himself off, tilting his head thoughtfully.

You leaned forward slightly. "It's what?"

He shrugged, "I didn't realize you were into that. The, y'know," he gestured to the television, "dark thing."

You rolled your eyes, embarrassment creeping back in. "Can we just watch the damn movie?" you grumbled, gaze focusing back on the screen.

You saw Steve shake his head out of the corner of your eye. "It's not a jab, just an observation."

You ignored him, nuzzling your head back into Bucky's thigh and watching the way Billy and Stu crowded themselves around Sidney. That feeling in your stomach resurfaced as you imagined yourself in the woman's place.

Steve sighed, but dropped the subject altogether. Bucky's hand was back in your hair, but this time it felt less like it was for himself and more to soothe you. The rest of the night was uneventful as you finished out the movie in the super soldier's laps.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The next morning came and went in a flash; the dark of the night seeping into your walls once more. You hadn't seen either of your other temporary housemates. It was strange. You contemplated whether you had scared them off with the revelation of your darker side.

It wasn't like you were on your knees begging for it; it was just some fantasy that lay dormant in your skull. It was never about the men on screen, but the idea—a man chasing you in light of his hunger for you. However, the film expanded on that idea, turning one man into two. And having two bodies under you as they touched your figure made your head spin with too many ideas. So, really, it was their fault.

But now you were waiting in the kitchen, a fork pushing around food gone cold. The prongs poked at the mashed potatoes on your porcelain plate.

You were independent. You didn't need someone around all the time, but at the same time, you hated the feeling of being alone. It crept into your very bones and settled into you like a form of deterioration. So, the empty compound felt like an echoing chasm, so still, you could hear a pin drop.

As if on cue, you heard a noise from downstairs—a loud crash, like two symbols coming together. You stood from your seat, the legs of the chair screeching against the floor tiles, and wobbling before correcting itself. "Hello?" You shouted. "Steve? Bucky? Is that you?"

No answer, just a tapping followed by a long scrape. You shivered; you really shouldn't have suggested that movie if you're this on edge. You stalked forward, your bare feet padding through the kitchen like you're playing a game of "the floor is lava".

You peeked around the corner, checking the downward flight of stairs. You took each step one at a time. The metal whined with every motion of your tiptoes, like it was greeting whomever was the other occupant in the facility. Almost as if the stairs themselves were saying, she's trying to be quiet, but she's doing a shitty job.

Once you reached the bottom, your head swiveled this way and that, but there was no one in sight. You shrugged to yourself, turning. Maybe you were crazy after all, hearing things that weren't actually there. You made your way back upstairs, head lowered, so you wouldn't miss a step and fall on your ass.

Then, you glanced up only for a split second. Your heart dropped into your stomach. A dark, cloaked form was hovering over the stairs. And the fucking cherry on top of the sundae, they were wearing the same mask you saw last night on the flickering screen—the Ghostface mask.

Your eyes widened in horror, your hand gripping the railing so tightly that you thought the metal might snap. Before you could even fully process, your feet were moving again. You skipped several steps, descending them like a cheetah. You honestly couldn't believe your speed. You instantly heard the sound of heavy boots hitting each step with a force. As if you thought you couldn't get any quicker, you picked up your pace.

You whipped around the corner, heading straight for the door, when you stopped dead in your tracks—a second form, veiled in midnight, and the same white, contrasting mask. You glanced down, rapidly spotting the silver gleam in this one's hand. A knife, black handled and pointed steel, shining from the outside bulb. Was this a sick joke, or were you getting murdered tonight? It was as if all your training flew out the window, and you stood there in shock.

A scream escaped you, sharp and loud. It split through the calm of the night like a bullet. Booming footsteps came from behind you. You glanced over your shoulder, spotting the first Ghostface now standing with a wide stance and tilted head. You were surrounded. Your chest heaved, but not just from the exertion of your short race, but from this utterly fucked situation you found yourself in.

You darted to the side, changing your strategy and running towards the only other exit. You heard rather than saw the two of them follow after you. You kept your eyes forward, not wanting to lose all the distance you gained.

You could hear their breathing from behind you, but it wasn't as heavy as yours. It was steady and measured, as if the chase didn't faze them. You made it to the door, jiggling the handle. Your first couple of attempts were unsuccessful as the door wouldn't open. Your shaking hands were your own personal hell as your sweat-slick palms slipped from the knob repeatedly. You eventually found purchase, swinging it open. You couldn't help but spare a single glance back. The two dark figures were slow in their approach, as if they were taunting you, making it seem like they were going easy on you.

Your stomach churned, but it almost felt like a blaze in the pit of your stomach. Were you really aroused at a time like this? Holy shit, you're pathetic.

You pushed the sensation down, venturing past the precipice of the doorway and into the chill of the air. The wind whoshed past your ears as your legs pushed off the ground, bare feet getting muddied along the way.

You felt like you had been running for ages, with the way your lungs burned. You couldn't keep doing this; you needed to come up with a new plan. The gears in your mind turned, finally settling on hiding as your best course of action. You just had to find a safe place to lie low for now until you could retrieve your phone from your back pocket and call for help.

You didn't bother peeking over your shoulder to see if they followed you; you ran into the dense forest for a quick hiding place. Low-hanging branches and greenery brushed your uncovered legs as you ran. A few dug into your clear skin like jagged claws. You, no doubt, had scrapes and scars wrapped around your calves like a miniature dog had mauled you.

You eventually spotted a bush and rushed towards it. You crouched low, crawling on your knees and elbows into the underbrush. It enveloped you like a hug, twigs getting twisted in your hair as the bigger branches poked your flesh.

You took a few steadying breaths before pulling out your phone. The brightness of the screen highlighted your face, eyes squinting as they adjusted to the white light. You debated calling the police, but only for a second, as the pair of super soldiers popped into the forefront of your mind like a flashing sign.

You scrolled through your contacts, pressing the first person on your list and hitting that green phone as if it were your lifeline. The call rang quietly on your end. Then, louder in the woods. What?

You heard a rustling before it blared louder. "Oh, Stevie," a too-familiar voice came, but it sounded darker in this context. "Look who's calling me."

A deep chuckle came from your left. "Cute, she needs help," the blonde answered. His voice rose, trying to get your attention. "I'm a little offended you didn't call me, sweet girl."

Your breathing slowed, not just because of the well-needed break from extending your legs, but from the realization. "Steve? Bucky? What the fuck. You scared the shit out of me," you admitted. You slithered out of your temporary hiding spot, brushing the dirt from your flesh and pulling some loose twigs from your hair.

You scoffed, "You're both assholes, you know that?" You glanced around the wooded area, trying to seek them out now that the ruse was up.

Bucky snorted, leaves crinkling under a set of boots that sounded closer and closer with every step. "You said as much last night," he mumbled. "Or did you forget about yesterday? Turned on by the mere thought of someone chasing you. Dirty, dirty girl."

You swallowed, the embarrassment heating your cheeks. "What?" you asked, but it came out smaller than you intended. "I thought we dropped that?"

You heard two roaring laughs fill the space. It echoed around you, their voices doubling and tripling like waves rippling on the sand. "You think we'd drop that delicious information?" Steve clicked his tongue, "You are sadly mistaken."

Your eyebrows knitted together in frustration. You wrapped your arms around your middle to bring back some warmth into your shivering body. Your skin dotted with goosebumps from the icy air like a brand. "Well, I'm cold, so I'm heading back inside. You two can freeze your asses off for all I care," you murmured angrily, cautiously trudging through the forest once more.

In a blink, one of the cloaked figures was in front of you. You ceased your movements as the other stepped out from behind him, like a reflection. You couldn't tell which one was which; it was irrelevant at this point.

"Run," Bucky's voice dipped into something terrifying. It set you on edge, but strangely made that fire in your core ignite.

"I'm not playing your fucked up game anymore," you glared into the pitted eye sockets of their masks like four tiny black holes sucking you in.

"I don't think Buck stuttered," Steve growled, low and insistent. "Run. And when we catch you…" He trailed off, looking to his match.

"We fuck you," Bucky finished, and you could hear the grin even under his covering.

Your breath caught in your throat, a quick sound escaping as a tightness filled your chest. The fire in your gut felt like a raging inferno, consuming your insides like a forest fire. You had never seen this side of them before; your usually calm friends were penetrating your very being with their voices alone, like a large drill boring into you.

You don't know why, but you immediately obeyed, knowing their tones left no room for argument. Your feet carried you swiftly back into the woods, feet slipping from the muddy ground. They chased right after you, the sound of boots bouncing clear across the wooded section.

Your heart thumped against your chest, but not from fear, but…excitement. You were living a fantasy that was only ever constructed in your mind, like a spinning film reel. You sprinted with a newfound purpose, the adrenaline propelling you. They gained on you rapidly. Of course, they were super soldiers and clearly weren't using all of their abilities to catch you.

You ducked under a particularly large branch, jerking your head left and right for a place to conceal yourself, but to no avail. Their boots trudged behind you like a thumping bass to a creepy song.

"Tired yet, sweet girl?" Steve called, voice barely worn. "Better save some energy for us. We're gonna be a handful."

Your stomach flipped as you surged forward. You almost stopped, the desire making your blood run hot in your veins. Instead, you took a sharp turn toward a towering, wide tree and came to a halt in front of it. You knew it was a bad idea, but you decided to go along with it anyway.

You planted your bare foot onto the rough bark while you swung your arm up to grasp a thicker branch. You hauled yourself up with all the strength you could muster without the leverage of shoes. Your other arm came up to wrap around it, pulling yourself further up.

Leaves crunching announced the pair's arrival, boots slowing to a stop. "Oh, darlin'. You gotta be smarter than that," Bucky mused.

His words went in one ear and out the other as you continued your pursuit. One foot slipped from its position, causing you to slide down slightly, pieces of bark chipping off like old paint. "Careful, wouldn't want to hurt yourself. We'll be doing plenty of that ourselves. Leave you absolutely wrecked, sweetheart," Steve warned you cheekily.

You dug the ball of your foot into a branch, lifting yourself like you couldn't even hear either of them. You didn't even glance down to acknowledge their presence, just ascended higher.

"Enough of this," Bucky muttered, footsteps marching onward. You felt cool metal fingers wrap around your ankle and gave a hard yank. You gasped, palms getting cut up from your descent. You scrambled, trying to regain your balance, but his touch remained firm.

"Bucky," you screeched, "Quit. You're hurting me." Your pleas fell on deaf ears as he continued to tug, fingers digging into your ankle as if to show you he could do much worse. He jerked on your leg, causing your opposite foot to slip from its spot and plummet.

You fell into his arms, bridal style, with short, intakes of breath. You pushed and shoved at his shoulders, but he didn't budge. Instead, he threw you to the ground with a forceful thud, sticks splintering beneath you. "'M done waitin'," Bucky snapped, hovering over you. Steve came into view next to him, and you knew the game was officially over.

Still, you fought. You rolled over onto your stomach, elbows pressing into the dirt as you crept away. This time, a warm hand found your calf, pulling you back and turning you over. "You don't listen, do you?" Steve inquired, but it didn't seem like he was waiting for an answer. "Game over. You lost. Now, we claim our prize."

He kneeled, his strong hand pinning your arms above your head while the other removed the mask. He leaned forward, and now you saw the hunger sparkling in his wild eyes. You squirmed, but it was useless. You didn't want to leave anyway; the way he was gazing down at you was too tempting to resist him anymore.

"Squirm all you like. 'S not gonna change what's gonna happen to you." His fingers traced along your jaw until he cupped it firmly. "Open wide."

You hesitated, which wasn't the correct response because he squeezed, forcing it slightly agape. You parted your lips, opening your mouth for him. "Good girl," he cooed before promptly spitting into your mouth. You were briefly stunned, but he pulled you right back to reality as he spoke, "Swallow f' me."

You did as he asked, letting his saliva slide down your throat, and he hummed in approval. "Givin' you a sample before all you can taste is me, huh? You won't be able to wash me from your mouth once 'm done with you."

You felt a set of hands—metal and flesh—gliding up your legs to part them, settling between your thighs. Fingers danced on your flesh, inching closer to your throbbing pussy. Two digits skimmed across the seam of your shorts, making your hips jerk upward at the sensation it sent to your clit through the thin fabric.

"So wet," Bucky commented darkly. "Someone is either really turned on by gettin' chased or by the thought of us destroyin' you."

Letting impatience cloud his judgement, he hooked his fingers into your shorts and tugged them down the length of your legs. He tossed them somewhere in the grass without remorse. He lowered himself, removing the mask, along with the cloak, to gawk at the panties you were sporting—pink and lacy. They could almost be perceived as innocent if not for the wet spot dampening the material. "Picked such a pretty pair f' me, huh, darlin'?" He stated cockily, his eyes darkening.

Bucky breathed deeply, inhaling your scent as his nose appeared to be inches away from your cunt. His tongue darted out, licking his lips with a hum. Steve gripped your chin, forcing your gaze back to the blonde. "You gonna let him taste you, pretty baby?"

You nodded, though you knew you didn't truly have a choice; he was just giving you an illusion of having one. "Such an obedient little slut. My little slut," Steve murmured against your lips before capturing them in a heated kiss. Your eyes fluttered closed, softly moaning at the brush of his lips.

His mouth was persistent, demanding access to yours. He nipped at your bottom lip, dragging a gasp from your throat. He took the opportunity to shove his tongue through the gap between your lips. Tongue prodding into all the crevices of the cave of your mouth.

You heard a shing, then something with a cold bite gliding across your inner thigh. Your initial thought was Bucky's metal finger, trailing down your flesh, but it had a serrated edge. Your eyes shot open, but Steve was holding you in place.

Steve's hand drifted to the back of your neck, craning it back to deepen the kiss. You melted back into the kiss, letting your worries dissolve. However, that didn't last long.

Piercing pain to your soft, supple skin. Roger's lips muffled your screams, and you squirmed once more. "Shh," Bucky soothed, dragging the blade down as his other hand gently massaged your thigh in a strangely comforting manner. "Just wanna make sure you know who you belong to."

The knife clattered to the ground, your blood seeping over the slit he created with the blade. His mouth was on you in an instant, lathering you in his saliva as he cleaned your wound. His mouth left you, but not before placing a tender kiss on the injured area.

Icy fingers pulled your blush panties to the side, hot breath fanning across your slick folds. Bucky flattened his tongue, licking a broad stripe through your wetness. You whined into Steve's mouth, but he swallowed your sounds with another sweep of his tongue.

Bucky lifted your leg, hooking it over his shoulder. He pressed your other thigh to the ground, keeping you spread for him. "Tastes so sweet. Could get addicted to this sweet pussy," he rasped, diving in for another taste. The tip of his tongue swirled around your sensitive bud before sucking it into his mouth. You arched your back, hips wiggling from the pleasure he was giving you.

Steve pulled away, his teeth biting your bottom lip and tugging gently before freeing it. Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as you glanced down at the man feasting upon you like a wild animal—a lion devouring a pure, feeble fawn. His feral eyes locked on you, looking up through his lashes as his tongue dipped, teasing your tight hole.

You let out a strained whimper, the pleasure coiling in your gut like a spring ready to release with a pop. Steve sat back on his haunches, releasing you from his grasp in the process. He shed the black cloak, leaving it to float to the ground like a deflated ghost. His nimble fingers fiddled with his belt, metal clanking as he extracted the leather from its buckle. You jerked your head, watching the action intently.

His hardened cock sprang forth as he yanked the denim and boxers down his hips. Your jaw dropped; what the fuck were you supposed to do with that monster? Your pussy clenched at the sight, squeezing Bucky's tongue that was jabbing into you.

"Gimme your hand, sweet thing. Be a good girl and stroke it, alright?" Steve coaxed, taking your outstretched hand. He brought it to his dick, wrapping your delicate digits around his girth. He moved your hand for you at first, giving himself the perfect grip with your fingers. Precum leaked from the aching tip, glistening slightly even in the dark of the night.

Steve's knuckles grazed over the apple of your cheek, grinning down at you. "There you go. Doin' so good," he praised, dropping his hand to his side to sit back and enjoy the show. You pumped him at a leisurely pace at first, admiring the way he felt in your palm.

Bucky groaned against your cunt, vibrations rippling through your body. You moaned, his tongue working you closer to the edge with every sensual suck, swirl, and lick. You stroked Steve quicker in response, forcing a low grunt from his lips.

Bucky's tongue lashed between your folds like a weapon, flicking it over your clit before diving back down to lap at your juices. You writhed beneath him, his unabating tongue sending sparks across your flesh.

"Buck," you whined desperately. Still, your fist continued to move along Steve's shaft in harsh strokes.

"I know, darlin'. Let me get you there," he mumbled around his working tongue. He pushed the tip back into your weeping pussy, practically fucking you with it.

Steve inclined forward, reaching down. His fingers advanced to your swollen clit, rubbing slow, precise circles into it. You keened, hips canting upward as the pleasure became overwhelming.

Without much more effort, the damn broke, pleasure washing over you in waves as you came on Bucky's unyielding tongue. Hips bucked, and your free hand dug into the grass below, ripping out the green threads.

Still, neither of them ceased their pleasing actions. You were wailing, hand falling away from Steve's cock, flicking back towards his lower stomach with a gentle slap. You tried and failed to push at Bucky's shoulder and Steve's forearm, but they didn't give in.

"Please," you begged, "too much."

"Oh, Pretty girl. 'M afraid you don't know what that's like yet," Steve growled with a saccharine smirk. His hand shifted off your overstimulated clit to grab your throat. Not to restrain, but to hold you there against the forest floor.

"Now, open. I'll show you what too much is," he demanded. You obeyed, your mouth wide as erotic noises were ripped from your throat.

Steve patted your cheek in acclamation before he gripped the base of his dick and brought the tip to your parted lips. He eased into your mouth and down your throat. His tip bumped the back of your throat, making you wrap your lips around him as you choked on the length of him.

Spit sputtered around your lips, and still he kept going until your nose pressed against his skin. You gagged around him, tears pricking your eyes like a reminder of what they were doing to you.

"Such a perfect throat," he groaned, squeezing your neck for a moment before going back to the same pressure as before. "Ooh, I can feel myself in there."

His hips pulled back and then thrust forward again. "Gonna fuck this pretty throat until you've memorized the feel of it, baby," Steve added while his hips jerked onward.

You were still high on your orgasm, another one building as Bucky mouthed at your cunt. Now, your head was reeling from both sensations the super soldiers were giving you.

Your nails dug into the flesh of Steve's thigh while he fucked your mouth senseless. Your other hand searched for something to grab to ground yourself. Bucky's metal hand found yours, and he squeezed it before gingerly resting your interlocked hands on your torso.

"I've got you, darlin'," Bucky's rough voice came, planting a kiss on your bundle of nerves, and then going back to work.

It wasn't long before you were moaning around Steve's cock, another orgasm threatening to wrack through you. A muffled animalistic noise escaped you as you fell over the edge for a second time. Two back-to-back climaxes brought your body to a shuddering mess.

Steve withdrew his dick so that you could breathe through your release. After drawing your orgasm a little longer, Barnes' mouth finally relented.

Your eyelids closed automatically, utterly exhausted just from two intense releases. Steve leaned down, pressing a few kisses to your cheeks, forehead, and the tip of your nose. Bucky trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses to your limp form until they both were hovering above you.

"You doin' alright, sweetheart?" Steve asked, tone laced with concern. You nodded weakly, not quite ready to open your eyes.

"Poor thing," Bucky remarked, knuckles brushing over your heated cheeks. Without further deliberation, he picked you up from the ground, standing up with your head resting against his shoulder.

"Wrap your legs around me, baby." He nudged your thigh lightly, coaxing. You did as you were told, loosely enveloping his waist while you folded your arms over his neck. "There ya go. Gonna get you inside."

He pressed a kiss to your hairline, arm firmly covering your back as his other palm cupped your ass. He carried you into the compound, Steve hot on his heels.

In a blink, you were in Bucky's bedroom, hiking your legs up, so he didn't crush them as he lay down. You gazed up at him, a small smile spreading across your lips.

"There she is," he whispered, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "Ready for more, or do you need a longer break? We'll wait as long as you need."

He glanced at the end of the bed where Steve had undressed himself. The bed dipped under his weight as he waited for your answer, analyzing you for any sign of wanting to back out.

"I'm ready," you confirmed, pushing up on Bucky's chest, adjusting to straddle his hips.

Your dripping cunt lingered over the strain in his jeans. You dragged your slick folds over the seam along the denim, and you shivered while he grunted, fingers grabbing at your hips. You fidgeted with the button, pushing it through the slit of his pants.

Steve scooted in behind you, palms greedily gripping your waist as his mouth attacked your neck. You shifted, tugging at Bucky's denim-clad thighs, but they wouldn't budge. Steve chuckled against your skin, "Let me help with that."

He took over, grasping at the material and pulling it down his legs until his friend's cock was freed. An angry, red-tipped dick taunted you—the length, the girth. If you thought you wouldn't be able to handle Steve's before, you certainly weren't able to take this one.

"Fuck," you mumbled lowly.

"Look how hard you got him, just from getting you off," Steve observed, seizing Bucky's cock with a rough pump of his fist. Bucky moaned, head falling back against the sheets. Steve's other palm came back to your torso, holding you steady as he lined up Barnes' tip with your entrance.

The pair forced you unhurriedly down his length. You whined as he stretched you out with every delicious inch. Bucky spoke through his clenched teeth, "So fuckin' tight, shit-"

You sank further onto his dick, reaching behind you to cup the side of Steve's face as your other hand stayed as a support on Bucky's toned chest. You tilted your head, and the blonde's mouth was on yours in an instant, devouring any of your sounds. The kiss was all tongues lashing and teeth nipping.

The super soldier below you bottomed out, leaving you whimpering against Steve's lips. You broke the kiss to focus on Bucky again. Your hips rose, then you slammed down on him. He let out a sharp curse, gaze focused on you as you began to ride him. You bounced up and down on his cock as Steve's hands wandered up your figure, taking the shirt with him.

"That's a good girl. Ride him nice and slow, just like that," Steve encouraged, slipping you out of your top.

You were entirely bare for both of them, tits on full display. Bucky's eyes went hooded, looking lost—lost in you and in his desire. "Fuckin' gorgeous." He promptly released your hip to cup your breast, squeezing delicately as his thumb and forefinger pinched your nipple.

"Prettiest girl I've ever seen," Steve muttered into the crook of your neck, massaging your other breast with extra care.

"Come 'ere," Bucky lured you in with his voice alone. You lowered yourself while he craned his neck to suck one of your peaked nipples into his mouth. You gasped, his tongue swirling and teeth lightly biting.

Steve's dick pressed against the swell of your ass. He squeezed and gripped your cheeks, most likely leaving an indent. When you glanced over your shoulder, he was lining himself up with your ass, tip nudging your second hole.

Your breath hitched, "Steve, I can't-"

The blonde swiftly cut you off, "S'alright, sweet thing. I'll be gentle, promise." He planted a kiss on the line of your spine to comfort you. His hips twitched forward, pushing into you with a deep groan. Your nails dug into Bucky's chest, creating little crescent moon shapes as you cried out.

Barnes' arm wrapped around you, hauling you into his chest. You laid down flat, cheek squished against his peck as Steve's cock penetrated you. Bucky rubbed soothing circles into your back as you adjusted to both of them. "Shh, I said I got you, baby," he reassured once more.

"So full," you whined.

"Oh, but you're takin' us so well," Steve commented with a snap of his hips. You screeched, your body trembling from the new sensation.

Bucky's heels dug into the mattress, rocking his hips up into you. You bit your lip so hard that blood dribbled down your chin. Your face contorted in pleasure as Steve thrusted from behind, an iron grip on your hips as he lost control.

They worked in tandem; one driving deep into your pussy as the other pulled out slightly, then vice versa. If you were overwhelmed by their actions before, you didn't know what you were now. Utterly cock drunk, full, and slipping into a cloud of ecstasy.

The next second, they picked up their pace, thrusting into you without any real rhythm. You were a moaning, whimpering mess as you felt the actual weight of the double penetration.

"Please," you pleaded again, but you weren't exactly sure what for. You didn't want them to stop, but the way they were filling you, it felt like the thin wall between them might break you.

Steve's hands were dragging down your sides, coaxing and gentle. "You're doin' so good, just stay like that."

"Feels so fucking good," you wailed, burying your face in Bucky's chest.

"There you go, give in to it, darlin'. Bein' such a good girl, letting us destroy you like this," Bucky praised, hips stuttering slightly. "You're ruined for everyone else, aren't you?"

You nodded against his firm muscles, trying not to fall over the edge too soon. You were getting used to the feeling, loving how they felt sliding against one another, with only a thin barrier between them. There was absolutely no other way you wanted to be fucked.

"Breathe, sweetheart. Almost there," Steve said, squeezing the globes of your ass and spreading you further.

You tried to calm yourself; inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. It was too damn difficult with the way their cocks prodded into your tightening holes.

Bucky shifted you slightly, and with the new position, he bumped your sweet spot repeatedly. You crooned, cunt clenching around him like a vice.

"Ooh, I felt that. You close, pretty girl?" Steve asked, but he really didn't need the answer, given how your body quivered.

Steve's hand wedged between you and Bucky's body, searching for your sensitive bud, hoping to make you fall apart onto both of their cocks. His fingers rubbed at your clit with a violent force. Your form jerked, back arching into Steve.

"Fuck, darlin'. That's it. Come all over our cocks. Make it messy. Wanna see you come apart on my cock," Bucky rambled, hands framing your face as he brushed the hairs from your eyes. He stared at you with every inch of his attention, intent on watching your climax unfold.

It didn't take long before your pussy fluttered around Bucky, asshole clenching right along with it. You came with a broken sob, tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks.

Your vision went white; you swore you saw stars in the height of your orgasm. Your eyes fluttered closed, your head feeling heavier in Bucky's palms. "Fuck," he grunted, voice strained from the tight hold you had on him. "So beautiful when you come."

Your body nearly convulsed as they continued to fuck you through it. Their cocks almost twitched in unison as they moaned loudly; nothing but sounds of pleasure and skin slapping together filled the room.

Bucky lifted his hips, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. Then it was Steve's turn to jam his dick as far as it could go, it pulsing inside you as hot ropes of cum filled you from both angles.

You fell onto Bucky's chest, your whole body sighing from exhaustion. You felt impossibly full, your combined releases dripping down your inner thigh and creating one giant mess.

You felt sticky and worn, your head spinning from the experience. But at the same time, you felt utterly content.

Steve pulled out of you with a hiss, steadying himself against the edge of the mattress. The other super soldier didn't make any move to rid himself of you. Instead, his arms draped across you like a blanket.

"Did so good f' us, darlin'," Bucky mumbled, tucking your head under his chin.

The bed creeked as Steve's form left the two of you before returning with a wet rag. You shivered as he wiped down the places that were slick with mess.

You hummed, nuzzling your cheek into Bucky like a cat, cuddling into her owner. "Thanks, Stevie," you acknowledged weakly.

He chuckled in return, "My pleasure, sweetheart." After he threw the cloth in its designated hamper, he crawled back into the bed beside the two of you.

"Gonna move you, okay?" Bucky mentioned before lifting you effortlessly off his length with a sharp intake of breath. He drew you into his side, placing you between the blonde and himself. Your face squashed into Bucky's peck like your own personal pillow as Steve curled behind you, resting his arm over your waist.

"Super soldier sandwich," you murmured softly, already drifting off to sleep.

They laughed at your tired-out state. "That's right, baby," Steve whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. The space was filled with a quiet as the three of you settled against each other.

After a few silent minutes, Bucky spoke up, "That's not the last time that's happening, just so y'know, darlin'."

You groaned lowly, squeezing your eyes shut. Bucky let out a satisfied sigh, planting a lingering kiss on your forehead before letting you rest.

You couldn't even think right now, let alone think about another round in any capacity. But it felt nice to revel in the company of the men on either side of you. You snorted to yourself; fuck, Scream just became your new favorite movie.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Main Masterlist

“Jack, I’m here!” You call out as you shut his front door behind you and make your way to the kitchen, dropping an armful of takeout containers on the counter, “I picked up Chinese from that little place you like; figured you could use some real food since you never cook for yourself.”

When you don’t hear his voice or his footsteps, your brows wrinkle. You head toward the living room, hearing the TV up way louder than usual, blasting a raunchy sitcom you know is his late-night guilty pleasure. You round the corner and see something that makes your jaw fall to the floor.

Now this is good. This is really fucking good.

Jack Abbot absolutely does not have vices. Before you dated, you thought he was sober or something. Even since, you’d been under the impression he was mostly straight-edge without making a big deal of it. You’d seen him have a couple beers with Robby on occasion during a game, but there’s no alcohol in his house. He doesn’t smoke cigarettes, he doesn’t over-indulge in sweets, he doesn’t use sex to distract himself. He never talks about youthful days spent partying and he turns down every invitation to bars and clubs, no matter who’s asking.

But here he is with a fat joint between his first two fingers, reclined on his couch, no shirt and gray sweats, completely vegetating on his day off of work. He takes a long drag and you decide it’s the right moment to interrupt him. Barely able to contain your grin, you cross your arms over your chest, step into the light, and ask like you imagine his Irish Catholic mother would, “Jack Anthony Abbot, are you getting high?”

Coughing out surprised smoke, he sits straight upright and wheezes, “You, ah, you used your key.”

Raising an eyebrow, you reply, “That’s why you gave it to me, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I just-” He takes another break to finish coughing, the shock of being caught by you making him breathe wrong. After a swig of water, he says, “Figured you’d text me if you were coming over.”

“I did,” you tell him, holding up your phone to show not just one but three texts gradually announcing your arrival. “So wasted you didn’t even feel your phone vibrate?”

He waves the smoke from the air and rolls his eyes. “Please, I’m not even high yet.”

When he moves to stub out the joint, you catch his wrist and level him with a heady gaze. You take it from his hand and lift it to your own lips instead. His eyes train on your mouth as you pull in a deep lungful and hold it. Heat billows in your lungs and scorches your throat as you drop yourself into his lap. In a move that sends throbbing lust straight to his cock, you grip his jaw, open up his mouth, and blow the smoke back into him.

Jack’s eyelids flutter shut as you close the remaining gap between your bodies and kiss him, wanting, open-mouthed, tongue demanding against his. He breathes smoke out through his nose and the warmth embodies you both. When he sees how your nipples poke through your scrub top, he grunts, “Fuck.”

Leaning back, you hand the joint to him and tease, “You were gonna get high by yourself while I moped around after work, all lonely and horny and missing you?”

He shrugs; the slightly embarrassed pink in his cheeks is too adorable. “It’s the start of my seven off. Figured our week-long sleepover could wait until tomorrow.”

Like you don’t do this once a month, you kiss him and grin. “Week-long sleepover, huh?”

He smirks into the kiss. “If you’re not busy.”

“For my stoner boyfriend? Never.”

“I’m not some stoner,” he protests, handing the joint back to you to make a point. “It’s medicinal.”

“Okay, doctor, sorry for teasing.” You giggle and shake your head, the weed starting to fizzle a bit in your brain. “You want this or should I put it out? I can’t have any more or I’ll become a whiny, snacky zombie.”

A whiff of mischief curls at Jack’s lips. “My little lightweight, huh?”

You roll your eyes and reply, “You’ve seen me drink, babe; I can’t hold my liquor, either.”

Jack smirks and lifts the joint teasingly to your lips. “C’mon, sweetheart, do one more puff for me.”

“Jackie,” you warn, not sounding particularly serious about putting him off. Suddenly, you know where this is going. You and Jack have played around with CNC scenes before. After agreeing sober, he’s gotten you way, way too drunk and had his way with you, leaving you loose and delicious. So you bat your eyelashes at him and lean forward, lips hovering by the end of the burning spliff. “You’re gonna have to take care of me if I get too fucked up. You’ll keep me safe? Protect me?”

“Always, baby.” He grins as you pull in another hot lungful, holding it for a long time before letting it out through your nose. “There you go. No more thinking.”

Familiar heat builds between your legs as you start feeling fuzzy and sensitive. You repeat, nodding, needing, “No more thinking.”

“You do too much thinking, anyway. Always so stressed and anxious about work and school. You don’t need all that with me.” Jack shakes his head and takes one more puff for himself. Then he tugs you roughly into another shotgun, his tongue taking over as you start to get light-headed from his desire and from the smoke. “All mine for the night, right, sweetheart?”

You confirm into the kiss, “All yours.”

“Not good enough.” He holds your jaw in his big sturdy hand and murmurs, “Say it, princess. Say it and I’ve got you.”

Eyes starting to feel a little heavy, you give him a warm, lazy kiss and amend, “All yours, daddy.”

“That’s my good girl,” Jack coos. His cock twitches in his sweats as he watches your eyes going glassy and loose. He hasn’t had enough to get more than a little high based on his weight and tolerance, but you’re already starting to float and the easy wobble in your body makes him want to wreck you. “Now I expect you to finish off that joint, okay, baby? It wouldn’t be very nice to waste daddy’s money, would it?”

You give a ditzy little giggle. “Uh-uh.”

“That’s right, honey.” Jack sets the joint on your lower lip and guides your mouth closed. His voice is hypnotic and commanding. “Deep breath. Hold it. 1, 2, 3. Let it out nice and slow.” As you hiccup and cough, he gives you a condescending, comforting smile. “Good job. So good at following instructions. So obedient.”

Humming happily, you reply, “Thank you, daddy.”

Jack taps the ash from the joint into a bowl on the side table, setting it down for a second. His rough hands go to the base of your top and he says, “Let’s get you a little more comfortable before you finish that. Arms up, baby.”

You reluctantly lift your arms, pouting, “They’re so heavy.”

Guiding the shirt up and over, Jack assures, “Don’t worry; I’ve got you.”

As you flop your arms back down, Jack takes in your thin white bra with a little satin bow at the center. It’s not your sexiest bra by a long shot, but your nipples push hard against the barely-there fabric so nicely. If he’d been with you at work today, it would’ve been over for you both. Christ, he wants to devour you. To consume you. To destroy you. One hand at your jaw, pulling you in close to kiss you again, he reaches around your back and unclasps your bra with the other. You shiver at the subtle display of dominance, smiling before tugging his lower lip out between your teeth and nibbling.

Jack makes a clicking sound with his tongue like he’s admonishing a dog and pulls back. “No biting, princess.”

You pout. “Sorry, daddy.”

He nods slowly, forgivingly, and guides your bra straps down your lead arms, lifting up each of your hands to finish the job with your body feeling so heavy you can’t help him anymore. His eyes train on your nipples in the air conditioning, begging for his attention. As he wraps his lips around one, sighing contentedly at your too-loud gasp, Jack sets his hands firmly on your hips and shifts your weight so that his bulge is right beneath your hot cunt. He rocks you back and forth and suddenly you feel the friction against your clit and suck in a sharp breath, your head falling forward into his shoulder with a whine.

Jack chuckles and breathes against your ear, “Good?” While you nod and whimper, he tsks, “Already getting so dumb and slutty for me when you aren’t even finished smoking.”

Your brain is turning mushy now, body floating and warmth taking over everything else. Shaking your head against his bare freckled skin, you murmur, “Can’t- No more- Too much. Gonna be- Gonna be too high.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he reminds you gently, tugging your head back by your hair so you’ll look at him. Your eyes are half-lidded now and your mouth is softly parted open. All the while, Jack keeps rocking your hips against his, confusing you with the harsh bite of your pants’ seam against your sensitive little clit. “I’ll even hold it for you. All you have to do is be good and breathe – or are you too dumb for that, even? You’re not too dumb to breathe, are you, kitten? Open up.”

You just look back at him with an expression halfway between a smile and blank nothingness. Then you open your mouth, lips slightly parted, and Jack smiles at you in a way that makes your tummy feel funny and lovely.

“Atta girl.” Jack presses the end of the now-small joint to your lower lip and holds your jaw closed. You have no choice but to pull in another burning breath. “That’s it, angel, suck it down. Hold it until I tell you.”

Then he pinches your nose with his fingers and covers your mouth. Your eyes widen as panic flutters up into your lungs. The smoke is becoming part of you, a hot thing with tendril fingers holding your body hostage. Jack makes you keep the smoke in only until you start to cough from the lack of air and not a second sooner.

Holding up his water bottle to your lips and watching you suck without question, he praises, “Good girl. So good. Now say thank you.”

Eyes trained on his mouth as you chase more attention to your clit, a droplet of water falling off your lip and onto your tits, you tease out, “Thaaaaank yooouuu.”

“There’s my sweet little girl. Perfect whore for me.” Jack pulls your head down into a hot kiss that he trails away from your mouth and over your jaw. When his teeth graze over your neck, his scruff scratchy and his kisses rough, you start to whine and whimper from pleasure, trying to speed up your hips for more contact but unable to with how unsteady your balance is. But Jack holds you up. He always holds you up. “That’s right, honey. You just let me take care of everything.”

Jack rolls his thumbs over your breasts, slow and steady, working those sweet whimpers from your wobbly lips. It doesn’t take long before the not-quite-enough attention becomes unbearable. You manage to lift your heavy hands just enough to grab at the waistband of Jack’s sweats, pawing like a pathetic kitten. “Want you.”

But Jack shakes his head. “But you’re not done, baby. Don’t you wanna be good for me?”

Your nodding’s starting to make you dizzy so you just make some sort of affirmative sound as you laugh, trying to stifle it with your hand but failing to lift your fingers.

Jack holds the stub of a join up for the last time, hovering it an inch or two from your mouth. “One more hit and I’ll take you to the bedroom and make you feel all better, okay? You’re doing so good.” You open up your mouth obediently but struggle to close it, so he does it for you, holding your jaw so you can take one more breath, this one shallower and slower because you’re so foggy. He strokes your cheek as he pulls the butt from your mouth and finally stubs out what’s left of it. Then he kisses you warmly, lips so perfectly soft, and coos, “That’s it. Last one.”

A strange kind of euphoria settles through you at the knowledge you’ve done a good job for Jack; that’s all you really want to do. Staring with half-lidded eyes at his cute mouth, you slur out a not-quite question: “Bedroom? Can’t move.”

Jack loops his arms beneath your ass and gradually stands up. The world spins in your eyes as you realize he’s carrying you, so strong and sturdy, across his house. You hear the faint click of the bedroom door opening. Like he’s cradling a baby, he sets you down in his large, plush bed, carefully guiding a pillow beneath your head and pressing a kiss to each of your cheeks, which makes you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. Finally, before paying attention to you again, he turns on only the dim side table light instead of the overhead.

And then his focus is on nothing but getting what he wants.

Standing at the edge of the bed, Jack reaches up and tugs your scrub bottoms off in one smooth gesture, relishing in your cute panties as he pushes your legs apart. The damn patch at the center between your thighs tells him everything he needs to know. When his thumb brushes your clit through the soaked fabric, you gasp and arch your back and he laughs at how easy you are in this state. He teases you just a little more before deciding to be merciful, hooking his fingers beneath the waistband and dragging your panties down over your legs.

Naked and thoughtless on his sheets, Jack swears you’ve never looked so beautiful. It’s the way there’s no insecurity, he thinks. You don’t even consider posing parts of your body so they look ‘right’ or hiding your face from him. All that’s in your expression is bliss and desire and you spread your legs before he even has to order you to.

Jack kicks out of his sweats and climbs over you, knees pinning one of your thighs down and forearms on either side of your head. You try to tilt your face toward him for a kiss, but, when it makes you dizzy, you erupt into cute hiccupping giggles instead. All you can think about is how Jack is so handsome and you can’t believe he likes you still and you wanna rock your hips just a little so you can grind against his thigh, chasing pleasure and attention from him.

“Aw, you’re so high I could do whatever I want to you right now, couldn’t I?” Jack holds your jaw in one of his big hands, turning it from side to side, making your vision blurry. His smile is downright devious as he praises, “You’re so damn cute when you’re like this.”

You blink at him a few times, forcing your eyes to focus on his mean, handsome smirk. With a loopy smile, you confirm, “Whatever you want, Jackie.”

“Mmm. That’s what I like to hear.” Jack drops his dominant hand between your tights and drags some of your wetness over your clit, starting with slow, delicate circles that make your eyelashes flutter and your lips twitch into a small smile. “That feeling good, baby?”

You’re practically purring under his touch, hips writhing up and down to encourage him to move his fingers faster. “Perfect.”

Jack shifts his weight back so he can switch to working your clit with his thumb, the other hand teasing your folds now. As you whimper from the constant pressure around your clit. He slowly pushes his middle finger inside of you just to see how you’ll take it – and you take it with that placid, serene smile, humming for more until he gives it to you. From there, he takes his time. Curls his fingers back toward himself and watches your body’s every reaction.

When you’re high or drunk, you don’t let anything stop you from getting the pleasure you want. You tangle one hand up in your hair and the other plays with your tits, pinching and rolling and massaging which Jack can’t even decide what to watch. Eyes trained on your lips parting in ecstasy, Jack breathes harshly, “You’re so gorgeous.”

Since you’re so completely relaxed, you feel every building step of your long orgasm, not rushing it or dragging it out. There’s the sparking heat in the base of your abdomen, the gradual but intense and bright tightening of your walls, the seconds-long plateau of your cunt clenching on Jack’s singularly-focused fingers. When you cum, it’s shaky and desperate and loud, your moans totally unabashed in a way that makes Jack feel downright stupid even though he’s a quarter as high as you are. For a minute straight, all you do is let out roiling breaths as your muscles spasm and your pussy flutters.

Jack withdraws his fingers slowly and bends down to kiss your sensitive inner thighs, reveling in the way goosebumps rise beneath his tongue. “Still with me there, sweet girl?”

Head lolling to one side, you give him a satisfied, “Mmm.”

Jack looks at your pleasure-swollen cunt and grunts, “God, you’re so fucking wet for me.” He tugs you to the edge of the bed and scooches your hips up to put a pillow under your ass. You don’t make any effort to help as he manhandles you around, legs up against his chest while he teases the tip of his cock over your overstimulated clit over and over. “Your pussy knows exactly what she wants, huh?”

You shake your head and whine, lip pouted, everything feeling so good but so confused and overwhelmed, too. All you need is Jack’s reassurance and guidance. You whimper, “Can’t think.”

“Aw, baby, I know what’s best for you, remember?” He rubs your leg affectionately. “I get to decide for both of us because you’re such a dumb little slut you came here and took more drugs than you could handle.”

You whine and thrash your legs, unable to come up with anything else to say.

Despite his demeaning tone that makes your limbs feel even looser and your pussy throb even more, Jack pulls his cock back and uses his fingers and spit another minute, scissoring them and relaxing you fully before lining himself up again. He adds a dollop of lube from your bedside table just to make sure it’s comfortable since he knows you might not be able to tell him.

As his fat cock prods your entrance once more, he teases, “Tell me, sweetheart, why would you do all that if you didn’t want daddy to take advantage of you?”

You cover your face and giggle again, the sound so adorable it makes him want to eat you alive. He can tell the weed is peaking as you wrap your legs around his back and push your hips forward slightly, a silent but perfectly clear please. Jack steadies your hip with one hand while he thrusts inside of you, your head tilted back, mouth frozen open, body languid and pliable beneath him.

“You’re so perfect like this,” Jack muses as he watches your pussy swallow him up, your wetness coating his skin as he pushes in and out, slow, making sure to work you up before he fucks you into oblivion. “You’re right where you belong. Taking my cock like you were made to. So good for me.”

“Yeah?” Your eyes are so honest and pleading as you reach for Jack’s hand, clearly struggling to lift yours. “I’m good?”

“You’re perfect, baby,” he assures, leaning down so that he can hold your hand through it. The pleasure’s getting to be too much for your foggy, fucked-out brain, and all you want is Jack. He grips your hand in his and picks up the pace of his thrusts, pressing his mouth to your ear, breathing hot on your neck. “You’re such a good girl. I love you so much. I’m so lucky I get to have you like this. So lucky you trust me enough to take care of you. All I want is to make you mine, for good, as often as you’ll let me.”

Tears well at your eyes while you listen to his litany of praises and affirmations. Without the barrier of sobriety, the good feelings blast right through any self doubt and they fill you up like effervescent soda bubbles. Listening to Jack’s harsh breaths stuttering and feeling his cock pounding urgently against your walls, you cry into him, “Cum inside me, daddy, please.”

“You know I shouldn’t do that, honey,” Jack bemoans, speeding up even more at the thought. He smirks against your sweet neck and grunts, “Wouldn’t want you getting pregnant, right?”

You grin and rut your hips up into his and giggle, “You had a vasectomy, dummy.”

Jack shakes his head and chuckles, slowing slightly so he can kiss you while he smiles, “So fucking wasted you can’t even roleplay your favorite kink, huh?”

“Just fill me up,” you reply dreamily. You tilt your head to kiss him and murmur into the kiss, “I just wanna be yours.”

He nods into your neck, digging his teeth into your flesh for a moment as his balls tighten up. He’s already on the brink of his orgasm as he rumbles out, “You’re always mine.” And then his cum’s coating you and filling you and baptizing you and you’re kissing him and he’s tangled up in how much he loves you, growling, “Fucking perfect,” until he can’t think from the shuddering pleasure.

You lavish wet kisses over his neck, praising him and thanking him, until his cock is soft and he falls beside you, breaths heavy. 

After only a few moments of him tenderly kissing your hair and cuddling your supple body the way you usually like after sex, you groan out, “Soooo hungryyyy.”

Jack laughs hard and presses a kiss to your cheek before he sits up. He goes around to your side of the bed and presents you with your favorite pink water bottle. “You stay here for one minute and drink. I’ll bring you something for those munchies.”

Once you’ve both finished wolfing down your dinner, still naked in bed, something Jack would never allow totally clear-headed, Jack puts something easy on the TV across from his bed and holds you to his chest, just encouraging you to breathe and stay present with him. You kiss each other every once in a while and smile and laugh, shaking your heads, awash in how ridiculous it is to be in love.

Jack waits until you’ve come down just a little more – still giggly but not quite so empty-headed – before he guides you to the bathroom. When you complain about standing, Jack just rolls his eyes and hoists your bare ass up onto the counter so he can brush and floss your teeth, still praising you for being so good and so sweet. After, he digs through your bag until he finds your pill case and empties today’s compartment into his hand. “Gotta take these before bed, sweetheart. Tilt your head back a little bit.”

You do as he says unthinkingly, swallowing the water and pills he feeds you right away. “Always take such good care ‘a me, daddy. Love you s’much.”

“Love you too, princess.” He kisses your forehead, tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, and asks, “Ready for bed now?”

You shake your head no vigorously. “Can you fuck me again? Pleeeease.”

He helps you hop off the counter and, in the next second, he’s got you bent over it again, one hand fisted in your hair as the other pumps his cock. “Well, if the lady insists.”

--

@arthurmorganswifexx  @littleesilvia @fveapplestall @acn87 @takethistoheartxxx @cesnaflyer @a-sleepy-golden-storm @dreamamubarak @ccarisi @olivethesillycat @violet-ink @madprincessinabox @chippedowlmug @caterpillarskimono @cherryplasmids @disassociation-daydreams @favoriteimagines2000 @in-the-pitt @artsymaddie @stellaforstar666 @h-the-comet @els-marvelvsp @gremlinkat1992 @carmybearz @rainyraze @mydarlinggardenia @millajay @4rtem4r @daylightandthedreamer @Ichiban94 @captainoates @annariddle @thebirdandthebee @lover-girlxx @czarina55 @everythingbutnormal @wittyogredemon @hiireadstuff @the-real-kellymonster @aryacoulson @alice-fell-to-far @maxmegara @cari87 @m14mags @secretgardens-inmymind @thepittff @charlietriestoshift @thelightnessofthebeing @honestlystop

“Look how fucking eager she looks, the kiddie pencil case and all those notes. As if her dumb omega brain even understands any of this shit.” One of the alphas named Bucky laughs at his own quip, the rest of them follow suit and you try to hide the bristle of hurt you feel. It’s okay. They do this every single day. It’s nothing new. You can handle it. You’re here to learn. Just ignore them.

“She’s probably fucking the professor, that’s why she’s here so early every day. You know these omega sluts – all the same.” Without looking up, you know it’s Steve who’s spoken, his Brooklyn drawl deep, quiet, confident, but mocking. You can’t help but feel your heart sink deep down into the pits of your stomach – why did he have to be so mean?

The tall, blond alpha hangs back from his friends, who all congregate at their usual seats right at the back of the hall. Steve pauses where you’re sitting, however, and your nostrils are greeted with his now familiar, musky scent. You share this class with him every day, along with the other alphas, but Steve’s scent is the strongest and most noticeable to you. He smells woody like a hot summer day, fresh like soap, mixed with that distinctly musky smell that you can’t seem to associate now with anything other than him.

“Omega,” Steve articulates slowly, as if savouring the word on his tongue before spitting it out like venom. He doesn’t speak directly to you very often, but when he does, he always refers to you as omega. Never your name. Always just omega. As if effectively reducing you to just that. Your hands shake underneath the desk where you’ve got them tightly clasped over your lap, and you feel Steve prod your shoulder. “Look at me.”

You have to look up at him. You have to listen. It’s ingrained in you to listen. And of course, he knows this. From where you’re sitting, Steve looks so big looming over you, blonde hair dark and wet as if he’s just showered, grey t-shirt clinging tight against his muscular frame, the indents of his abs very visible through the material. God. You can’t help but stare. He’s got domineering alpha energy exuding from him, practically radiating out of his pores.

“Where’s my report, omega?” He asks you, looking down at you with those scrutinising blue eyes. The same blue eyes that have sparkled with cruel amusement as he’s made fun of you with his friends, or tripped you over, or threatened you. Really, it all depends on his mood. Today, he seems to be more on the docile side – maybe because it’s so early in the morning.

“Oh. I’ve got it. W-Wait.” You scramble to open your bookbag, rummaging through it before pulling out a neat binder and handing it over to him. “H-Here you go.”

He snatches it from you, flipping through it with his eyes narrowed before looking back down at you. “This better not have anything missing.”

“It doesn’t.” You promise him. You did, after all, spend all night in the library finishing his report for him. It’s due today and luckily you were ahead with your own work, having finished your own report last weekend. Steve, on the other hand, busy with football games, partying and other debauchery, had cornered you last lesson and essentially ordered you to do his report for him. And you can never understand why you said yes, except that you always have trouble saying no to anyone. Especially big, beefy alphas like Steve who know they have some sort of hold over you.

And a part of you knows you just want his approval. It’s absolutely pathetic and shameful, but it’s intrinsically woven into your DNA to crave the approval of the likes of him. And apart from that, it would be nice to have him stop treating you like the dirt at the bottom of his shoe. Or even just sparing you a sliver of a smile, a nod, a thank you, even.

The ‘thank you’ never makes it past his lips, though. Instead, he just walks away to join his friends – making sure to brush against you as he leaves. You shudder, gripping the desk in front of you for support. It’s crazy how nervous Steve makes you. Well, everyone makes you nervous. But especially Steve. You risk a glance back at him, peaking over your shoulder in time to see him bring the binder you just gave him up to his nose, closing his eyes for a second before throwing it on his desk

Your heart skips a beat, but you quickly look away before any of them catch you looking back at them. There’d be hell to pay and a myriad of jokes and insults thrown your way – not that they don’t do that anyways.

Being the only omega in a majority-alpha World Politics class is difficult, to say the least. It’s not a great feeling being singled out and scrutinised every single day – especially sitting alone in the front row like you do, with no friends in the class to distract you from the mocking jeers. You can practically feel Steve’s and his friends’ eyes on the back of your head, always laughing, always making fun of you about something or the other:

“She’s here on a scholarship. A fuckin’ charity case – I wonder what kind of shithole they picked her up from.”

“Who does she think she is, taking this class? As if an omega has any business in politics.”

“She’s probably dumb as bricks; she only gets good grades because she’s probably fucking every professor in this place.”

And you always try and rise above it. Remind yourself to just think of their bullying as white noise. You also find it funny how all of them – with Steve being the ringleader – keep insisting you’re too dumb to take this class, yet he still makes you do his assignments for him. It’s all a powerplay to him, you think sadly. To all of them. And you’re the dumbass who can never say no.

“No fucking way. All ten pages?” You hear Bucky gape at Steve as the blond takes his seat with his friends in the back of the lecture hall. “Bro. You’ve got her on a fuckin’ leash.”

“You gonna give her something in return for doing your work, Stevie?” Sam teases, and you feel your cheeks turning hot, thanking your lucky stars they can’t see your face.

You can hear Steve smirk as he settles down on his seat, “Please. She wishes. I wouldn’t go near that trashy omega slut even if she was the last piece of ass left on campus.”

You duck your head lower, hunching over your notebook to hide the tears welling up in your eyes. Salty droplets fall down onto the paper, smudging the pink ink and making it run down the page as if it were bleeding. You feel like you’re bleeding – you just can’t seem to understand why Steve is so awful, and why the hurt caused by his insults seems to be so amplified.

Why can’t he just like me? You allow yourself to think, letting the self-pity consume you for 1, 2, 3 seconds before shaking it off. Like? Steve made it abundantly clear he wouldn’t even look at the likes you. And it’s a notion that’s made crystal clear after the class ends, and you’re leaving the building.

Steve’s already there, with his girlfriend pressed up against a wall. It’s a crowded corridor and you’re in a hurry to leave after enduring a whole class of aggressive alphas making fun of you, but you can’t help but stare. His muscular frame, the way he’s kissing her, his hand underneath the skirt of her cheerleading uniform. You’re sure she’s a perfectly nice girl, but this unknown force inside you just wants to rip her hair out.

You’re about to scurry away when Steve’s eyes suddenly open, making direct contact with yours. How did he know you were looking? You bite your lip, seeing him smirk straight at you with his mouth still working against hers. He maintains the eye contact, continuing to kiss his girlfriend but his eyes are boring straight into yours. A soft squeak escapes your throat before you rip your gaze away, making a straight beeline towards the exit.

***

“I don’t understand. Isn’t there anyone else in the class who you could sit with?” Peter asks you, his head resting on your lap as you brush his brown waves off his forehead, “Maybe they wouldn’t pick on you so much if they saw you weren’t alone all the time.”

You swallow. Wow, the way he put it… Alone all the time. It really did make you sound like the biggest loser. “Everyone’s already in their own little friend groups, Peter. I can’t just go and sit with someone. Most of the people in that class are alphas anyways – they don’t approve of me being there.”

Peter sits up, sighing as he wraps an arm around your trembling shoulders. “For a university that only accepts the best and smartest this country has to offer, a lot of the people there sound like they have the most backward views.”

“Don’t forget the richest.” You add, “The best, smartest and richest this country has to offer. That’s why most of the students who go there are elitist alphas.” You shake your head sadly, “And that’s another reason why they hate me. I don’t come from wealth like them. I’m not like even the other omegas who’ve grown up with money. They look down on people like me. They’ve told me so much.”

You’re grateful for the soft kiss Peter presses onto your lips. This thing between you and him – it’s new. You’ve both been best friends since freshman year of high school, and it wasn’t until you went off to university and Peter began an internship at the local tech company that he realised that he wanted something more with you.

As a beta, Peter is safe, familiar, bursting with kindness and sympathy – literally just everything you’d been missing in your university experience so far. And it’s nice to sometimes leave campus, stay the night at Peter’s house and just relax with him, watch movies and talk things out. Forget all about Steve Rogers and his hurtful insults.

“I don’t know, sometimes I just… I just feel like it isn’t worth it.” You say, cuddling up closer to him. “I mean, I love my degree and I love learning, but… Is it really worth getting ridiculed day after day? Just for existing?” You feel your lower lip wobble, but you’re determined not to cry – not in front of Peter.

Your boyfriend holds you close to him and you inhale deeply. He smells like Axe cologne – seems like he’s doused himself in it. You can’t help but compare it to Steve’s musky, summery scent – the scent so strong and overwhelming that you sometimes feel like you can smell it in your dreams. You clear your throat, pushing any thoughts of Steve out of your head.

“Listen. You’re the bravest girl I know.” Peter says earnestly, snapping you out of your Steve-filled reverie. “I know you think you’re all shy and quiet, but really – you’re brave. You’ve got the guts to step into that class full of alphas day after day, not letting their bullshit affect you, not giving them a single hint of satisfaction. If that’s not brave, I don’t know what is.”

You can’t help but smile at his sweet words, wondering to yourself why all men couldn’t be like Peter Parker. Never mind that Peter has no idea about all the homework and reports Steve has made you do for him, nor the countless number of times he’s made you cry in class. And he certainly has no clue about your unexplainable, intrinsic need for Steve’s approval. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“Next time they’re rude to you, just tell me. I could have a word with them.”

You grimace through your smile. Steve alone could eat the likes of Peter for breakfast. But Steve and his entire pack of alphas? Rest in peace, Peter.

***

“Hey, hey, hey!” You feel a harsh prod on your back. The lecture is in full swing, the professor’s monotonous voice droning on and on and on. You, however, can barely concentrate. Instead of joining the rest of their pack in their usual seats at the back of the room; Steve, Sam and Bucky have decided to sit in the row directly behind you – probably a sick new form of getting under your skin. To say you’re on edge is an understatement, to say the least.

“Hey!” Sam repeats for the fourth time, giving you an even harsher tap on the shoulder. He’s not even bothering to whisper, with more and more students turning around to see what all the noise is about. Warily, you look over your shoulder – locking eyes with the three smug looking alphas. All three of them recline relaxedly on their seats – their books not even on the table, let alone any notes.

“How come you’re always wearing this ugly, oversized shit?” Sam asks, a shit-eating grin on his face. Bucky looks equally as amused, staring at you unabashedly. And Steve… well, you don’t have the guts to look Steve in the eye so you have no idea what his expression’s like. Self-consciously, you adjust your dark green hoodie – one of about five you own.

“I don’t know. Look, please stop. I’m missing the lecture.” You beg.

“I’m missing the lecture!” Bucky mocks you in a high-pitched voice as you’re in the process of turning back around. Before you realise what’s happening, you feel his hand snake up under your hoodie, “What’re you hiding underneath all these clothes, huh? I bet you’ve got a killer body, omega. Why can’t we have a look?” You can feel his rough touch on your waist, hand roaming higher as the panic begins to rise within you.

“Don’t touch her!” Steve growls so loud that students from five rows away turn to stare. The hostility in his tone is so clear and jarring that Bucky drops his hand, and both him and Sam give Steve a peculiar look. Even you look surprised by the sudden outburst, forgetting to straighten down the material of your hoodie as you look back at the blonde.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, “Don’t touch her,” he repeats smoothly, words weighted as if he’s quickly thought through them; “You don’t know where she’s been, who she’s fucked. She’s probably caught something, Buck. You never know with the likes of her.”

Of course. Bucky and Sam relax, and soon the trio is joking around once more. You turn back to your notes, trying to calm down your heart which currently feels like it’s about to beat out of your chest. You try and recall Peter’s words. You’re brave. You’re brave. You’re brave and you can do this.

The rest of the lecture goes by in a blur. You frown down at your notes – they’re not half as good or detailed as you’d like them to be. But they’re the best you could do considering Steve and co couldn’t stop talking and laughing behind you, not to mention making smart ass comments every once in a while.

“I think I might fuck her anyways.” Bucky tells Sam as they both leave their seats and make their way to the exit. Your heart lurches, unable to believe how they’re talking about you like you’re not right there. “I don’t know, man. I think she’s fucking hot. Maybe an STD would be worth it.”

They leave, but Steve hangs back. From your peripheral, you can see him standing next to your seat, his fists tight by his side – a bit too tight considering how white his knuckles look. You risk looking up at him, and dark, dangerous blue eyes stare back down at you. You swallow harshly, already knowing what this is about.

“Omega, you’re gonna have my essay done by next week, won’t you?” It’s not even posed as a question, but more like a nonchalant statement.

You bite your lip. At the end of the lecture, the professor had assigned another assignment. An essay no less than 4000 words long. Steve’s essay plus your own would mean you’d have only a little more than a week to write 8000 words. Not to mention, you’d promised Peter you’d spend more time with him too.

“I-I’m sorry, Steve. I can’t.” You stutter, busying yourself with gathering your stationary and stuffing it in your bag. That doesn’t last long, however, when he grabs your wrist suddenly, his grip so tight and touch so hot, you feel the heat literally radiating off of him and onto your own skin.

“What was that?” There’s menace and clear hint of a threat in his tone. And it’s insane how quickly you awash with guilt. You can practically feel the disappointment radiating off of him – this tiny voice in your head going: you disappointed him. You let him down. Playing over and over again, with another voice cajoling you softly: do it for him anyways. Submit to him. You know you want to do it for him.

“I can’t!” You repeat, forcing yourself to think of Peter. Swallowing, you sling your book-bag over your shoulder and stand up; your eyes being met by his chest, you’re completely dwarfed by his intimidating height. Maybe that’s a good thing, you think – this way you don’t have to look into his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Steve, but I can’t. I have to do my own essay, and I have work on the weekends. And I promised my boyfriend I’d hang out with him this week.”

A pause. And then:

“Say that again.” The edge in his tone is extremely tangible, and risking a peak up at him you see his jaw clenched almost as hard as his fists.

“I, uh, I have work on the weekends?”

“No. The other thing. The lie you just told.” Steve steps closer to you, and you feel so intimidated that you shrink back immediately. He’s looking down at you almost fiercely, “The lie about having a boyfriend.” He spits the word out of his mouth like he’s disgusted by the taste of it.

You almost raise an eyebrow, but think better of it. “Oh. I’m not lying, Steve. I do have a boyfriend.”

“You know you shouldn’t lie to me, right omega?” Now he’s doing it again, getting all close to you, speaking to you with that soft, domineering, alpha tone. You can literally smell his heady scent from every direction – there’s no avoiding it. It’s suddenly so strong, a summer’s day in full blossom: freshly mown grass and sunshine, the smoky smell of fireworks, that strong musk… It’s all tapping into your natural submissiveness, and you have to actually hold your breath for a few seconds before you answer.

“Y-Yes, alph– Steve. Yes, Steve. I’m not lying to you.”

He gives you the most peculiar and unreadable look, his gaze almost fiery as he looks down at you. His hand lifts up, and you can’t help but flinch. But he just runs it through his hair. You let out a breath you’ve been holding in, glancing around the lecture hall to see you’re the only two people left in there – save for the professor who’s packing his briefcase at the front of the room.

Almost as suddenly as he cornered you, Steve turns on his heel and stalks off, his sneakers thudding against the floor echoing across the empty lecture hall. You see him stop in front of the professor’s desk, the two of them beginning a conversation. Weird. You take that as your cue to leave. This entire class has been weird, from Steve’s outburst earlier to now this.

On your way to the exit, you hear the professor call out your name, heart sinking when he beckons you over to his desk where Steve also stands.

“Steve tells me he’s struggling with the work on this unit.” The professor begins. What? Steve? Struggling? Steve never did his work, but that didn’t mean he struggled with it. He just couldn’t be bothered to do it. You’ve seen him in class discussions – always heated and opinionated. You don’t necessarily agree with all his hot takes, but he certainly knows his stuff.

“– because of football practice and whatnot, he tells me he can’t seem to grasp the concepts for this essay.” The professor continues, and one glance at Steve shows him with an earnest look on his face, nodding along with him. “And I recommended he take help from you. You’re one of my star pupils – even if you don’t participate in class discussions, your written work is immaculate.”

You smile at the praise. But what’s he getting at?

“Maybe you could tutor Steve through our buddy-tutor system? Steve thought of the idea, actually, and I think it’s a good one. It’ll help Steve here with his essay, and it could also help you to… expand your horizons and talk to others in this class, maybe even contribute a little?”

You feel your cheeks glowing hotter – even the professor knows you’re a loner. You can see Steve grinning from ear to ear. Why exactly was he doing this? What does he have planned?

“I – uh – I don’t know, professor.” You mumble. “I’m really busy this week…”

“Ah. That’s too bad. But I do hope you reconsider, because I think this could be good for both of you. Plus, the tutoring would look good on your CV. I could put in a great recommendation too.” The professor says.

“And we all know how hard it is for omegas to get good jobs in this current market.” Steve chimes in, looking smug as ever with his muscular arms folded over his chest, surveying you closely. “If I were you, I’d take the deal.” He smirks, but he’s behind the professor so only you see it.

And then suddenly, you get another strong whiff of his scent. Like a gentle but firm summer breeze, it overtakes you, overwhelms your senses. It’s so irresistible, you want to scream. It makes you want to forget all about any essays, any work, even Peter. It seems to clear everything from your mind, everything except this intrinsic, instinctive need to submit. To him.

“Okay.” You barely manage to get the word out, “I’ll do it.”

***

Unknown number: I’ll come over tonight after practice.

You squint at your screen, taking a good few seconds to realise who it is that’s texting you. It’s 11 in the morning, the very next day after you’d agreed to help Steve out with his essay. It still amazes you how his boyish charm had the professor so fooled. Steve did not need any help. He was probably going to just dump his essay on you and make youdo it – while he went out to party or whatever else it is that he did.

You quickly type out a text back.

How did you get my number?

You wait. No answer. Sighing, you text him again. Somehow, it’s much easier talking to him over a phone screen. There’s no distracting scent or formidable aura or intimidating stature to deal with.

I can’t do today. I promised my boyfriend I’d hang out with him. How about tomorrow after the lecture?

Your phone pings with Steve’s response almost immediately.

Steve: No. Today. Cancel your plans.

You swallow. Even in text form, his commands have a hold on you. You feel the strong need to text Peter immediately, tell him you’re sorry, tell him you’ll go on that picnic with him tomorrow instead of today. But after a deep breath and a shake of your head, it’s Steve who you text:

I’m really sorry, Steve. It’s too late for me to cancel my plans with him. Please understand.

You add the “Please understand” part last second, biting your lip because every cell in your body seems to be revolting against you, making you feel guilty for saying no to him. A second later, you feel your phone vibrate, and with horror you see Steve’s name flash up on your screen. Why is he calling you?

“H-Hello?”

“You’re brave over text, omega. Trying to change our plans when you already agreed to do this tutoring thing.” Steve sounds cocky as ever, and considering the jeering and yelling going on in the background, he’s either at football practice or a frat house.

“W-We never agreed on a set date, Steve! And how… how’d you get my number?”

“ROGERS, YOUR GIRLFRIEND’S HERE!” You hear someone yell in the background on Steve’s end. There’s a pause before the blond speaks, his voice now lower and more serious:

“Listen here, omega. I’m gonna be at your dorm this evening after practice. If I find out that you’re not there and you’ve wasted my time – I’ll make sure to make the rest of this year a living hell for you, you got it?”

You swallow harshly, heart beating fast at the threat in his tone.

“I said, you got it? Answer me, omega.”

“I-I got it, Steve.” You squeak, and you can practically hear his pleased smirk on the other end of the line, and it makes your heart do this little somersault thing. It’s your body’s way of letting you know that you’ve done the right thing by agreeing to him. By submitting to his will.

You sigh when he hangs up, staring at your phone screen for a few seconds as you think of what excuse you’ll give Peter when you cancel your plans with him today.

***

Looking out the window, you see the sun has long ago set. It’s dewy outside, a slight mist accenting the darkness of the night. You switch on the lamp that’s on your desk, surveying over everything you’ve set up. You’ve got all your notes, blank papers, stationary, your laptop – with tabs of important information and timelines already open. Everything’s ready for the impromptu tutoring session. The only missing thing being Steve himself.

A worrying thought flits through your mind – what if this is some kind of cruel joke? What if Steve never shows up? A sick prank just to mess with you? Just to waste your time? Oh, you can just imagine Steve telling all his friends how he’d made you cancel all your plans for him. A horrific realisation then hits you: he never even asked where you live! He wasn’t coming!

You bite your lip, glancing at your phone. Maybe you could call Peter and go hang out with him after all? He was so sweet; he’d taken your cancellation very well. Although your excuse had been that you were tired, not that Steve Rogers was coming over to your dorm room for help with his essay. If he was coming.

You’re just about to text Peter when a sharp, loud and incessant knock almost makes you drop your phone. Someone’s banging on your door impatiently like they’re about to break it off its hinges. You hurry across the room to open it.

And there he is, casually standing there and scrolling through his phone; an almost bored look on his face. Steve walks in nonchalantly, as if he owns the place. He looks freshly showered, the ends and tips of his hair still wet, pale skin slightly flushed. A thin white shirt covers his taut, muscular body, paired with grey sweats and sneakers. You’ve never really seen him look so casual, and the look suits him well.

“Hey.” You breathe softly, so softly you’re not sure he’s even heard you. He’s stopped dead in his tracks, his chest rising as he inhales deeply, eyes closing and long lashes fanning over his cheekbones. It’s only the sound of you shutting the door that snaps Steve out of whatever reverie he seems to be in, and the tall blond looks around slowly.

“Well, omega, this place is even more pitiful than I expected it to be.” And it’s true, he looks even bigger than usual, standing in the middle of your truly tiny room.

You shrug, “Well. Yeah. I guess it is. But it’s just me living here, so it’s alright.” You don’t want to admit that compared to your postcard sized room back home, your dorm room is a spacious luxury. Instead, you gesture towards your desk as he begins to walk around. “I’ve got everything laid out and ready. I was thinking we could start with planning your essay, going over all the basic points and –”

“This is cute.” Steve interrupts, and you whip around to see him standing next to your bed, your pink teddy bear – one of the embarrassingly many stuffed animals on your bed – in his hand. There’s an odd glint in his eye, one that’s different from the cruel sparkle you’re used to. “I wonder what you use all these stuffed animals for, huh?” He gives you a knowing smirk, and you can feel your ears burning.

“Please put that back down,” You mean to be more assertive, but it comes out as a squeaky request which Steve promptly ignores. He throws the pink teddy haphazardly on your bed, completely ruining the meticulous way you’ve set everything up, and picks up another, larger stuffed rabbit instead.

“And what about this one? I bet this one’s seen some fun times.” Steve’s got this devilish look on his face, and you feel yourself going redder and redder. He glances at you wickedly as he brings the stuffie up to his nose, “You use this one during your heat, omega?”

You jump to rip the stuffed rabbit out of his grasp just as he’s about to inhale, but he easily holds it out of your reach, laughing at your pathetic attempts to grab at it. From far away, it truly looks like a juvenile bullying scene straight out of a movie. You can’t believe this is your reality. Looking up at Steve again, you see the look of pure glee on his face – how he’s totally thriving off your embarrassment.

“I can smell you on it.” He says, the smirk still on his face but there’s something different in his eyes. It takes all your might to tear away from his gaze, and you swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. What if he tears it? Destroys it in some way? With Steve, you never know.

“Please,” You whisper, your voice coming out small, “Please, Steve. Put it back. It’s got sentimental value, m-my boyfriend won it for me at the local fair last year, and –”

Steve drops the stuffed rabbit as if it’s made out of hot coals. You clear your throat, quickly rearranging your stuffies to how they looked before he came and disrupted them.

“So, as I was saying. We should start on essay structure. Have you thought of a topic you want to write your essay on?”

“Shut up about the fucking essay structure for a second, would you? I’ve had a long day at practice.” His voice comes out like a bite, and you feel your heart sink. He’s moved on from your bed to your open closet – and you can’t believe his audacity, casually sifting through your clothes as if everything within is his property. He lets out a low whistle, “You really don’t own anything apart from these ugly, oversized hoodies you’re always wearing, do you?”

You regard him carefully – why is he trying to make conversation with you? He probably just wants to put off doing the essay, your mind reasons. Then you remember he asked you a question and you clear your throat.

“I like my hoodies, they’re comfortable.” You really don’t know what else to say.

Steve snorts, “Omegas like you should wear dresses and skirts only, if you ask me. Real girly shit, and for easier access too.” He has one of your hoodies in his hand, and he gives it a lingering sniff before throwing it back in your closet. You wrinkle your nose.

“I don’t really agree with that, Steve.” You say softly, but decide to leave it at that.

“You do agree, deep down.” He meanders his way over to your dresser, aimlessly going through all your strewn out personal belongings. And you don’t know why you just… let him do it. His eyes are sharp and shrewd while he examines your lip balm, your keychains, your perfumes. “All omegas know their rightful place deep down. Especially you,” He glances back at you, eyes so startlingly navy. “You’re more naturally submissive than any other omega I’ve ever met.”

As with many of the things he’s said in the past few minutes, you have no idea how to respond. So, you just keep your mouth shut and stand there in the middle of your room while he goes through your things. The textbooks and notes lie dejectedly on your desk, yet to be picked up and used. You distinctly wonder if you’re going to get any essay work done today at all.

Deep in thought, you don’t notice at first when Steve picks up the bottle of suppressants. You’re only alerted when you hear a low growl that seems like it’s emanated straight from his chest as he rattles the small pills around in the bottle.

“So this is what you use to hide that scent of yours during class.” Steve accuses, as if condemning you for even daring to mask your scent. But being the only omega in a class full of alphas, the suppressants are a strong necessity.

“But they don’t work in here, do they, omega?” His tone is dark, matching the look in his eyes, and he throws the bottle of pills behind him somewhere. “I can smell your sweet scent everywhere in here.” He takes a step towards you and you swallow hard, head all jumbled and more than a little bit scared of him. Why was he acting so odd? Surely, he wouldn’t try anything? No. Definitely not. Steve hates you, he’s practically repulsed by you.

“Steve, please. Please, can we just study? Please?” Your voice comes out shaky, your palms are clammy, you can feel your heart racing. What exactly is he doing to you? You’ve almost forgotten why he’s even here, because suddenly all you can think about is summer nights and the crackling smell of firewood – his scent. It’s so overwhelming that you can almost taste it. But the piles of textbooks and your open laptop remind you why he’s really here.

Surprisingly, Steve shrugs. “Okay, sure. Let’s do it.” The carnal look on his face is replaced by his usual laidback smirk – his expression switching as easily as taking off a mask.

He goes to sit on your bed, but you quickly step in front of him. Having a man who isn’t your boyfriend on your bed, in your nest of blankets, pillows and stuffed animals – it seems dangerously intimate. It might just make you feel things you’d rather not feel while you’re trying to tutor him on World Politics. Plus, it doesn’t seem right, having him on your bed when poor Peter has no clue you’re even with someone else right now.

“I-I was thinking we could work on my desk.”

“Oh yeah? Your desk which only has one chair?” Steve raises an eyebrow at you and once more, you feel your cheeks heating up.

“Oh, uh, sorry I didn’t realise, um…” You quickly survey your room, “I mean, we could sit on the floor. We’d probably have the most room there anyways, plus there’s a carpet and –” Your voice trails off when you see Steve settle down on your desk chair anyways, swivelling around to give you a smile. A smile. He’s never really smiled at you before. You feel your heart swell.

“On second thought, I think your desk is the best idea.” Steve says, leaning back and beckoning you over – and you do walk over, awkwardly standing in front of him.

“B-But, where will I sit?”

“B-But, where will I sit?” Steve mocks you in a high-pitched faux baby voice before reaching out to grab your hand. Before you realise what’s happening, you’ve unceremoniously been yanked right off your feet and straight on top of him, perched on his knee, eyes wide and almost bugging out of your head, with his hand squeezing your waist. “You can sit right here, omega.”

A billion different thoughts rush through your head. Why is he doing this? Steve, who in the past has expressed the most outward disgust at the mere thought of touching you. And now he’s in your room, on your chair with you in his lap? And this shit-eating grin on his face? Is this all a cruel joke? Any second, will he push you down on the floor and laugh in your face?

“Th-This is inappropriate.” You try and shift off him, but the hand he’s got around your waist is like a vice, and instead he pulls you closer to him, till you’re sitting on his thigh with your back flush against his abs.

“Hey, you’re the one who only has one desk chair. I’m just trying to make the best out of the situation.” Steve says in the most easy-going way possible. As if he doesn’t have you trapped on his lap with your heart about to beat out of your ribcage. And it amazes you, how he can switch from domineering to easy-going, from serious to snickering in just mere seconds.

“But this isn’t right. Look, Steve, you know I have a boyfriend–” (If anything, his grip tightens even more when you say that) “– and I’m not comfortable with this at all. M-Maybe I’ll just stand, if that’s okay?” You make another move to get up, but Steve may as well have you chained to him, with how strong his grip is.

“Stay put, omega.” The soft, commandeering order is almost beguiling against your ear, and you cease any struggle immediately. When Steve speaks next, he sounds as casual once more: “There we go. See, now we’re both comfortable. Let’s start.”

Well, you feel like you’re about to spontaneously combust on the spot, but sure; let’s start. You try your hardest to concentrate, pulling out your notes and explaining how you’ve already narrowed down a list of potential essay topics for him to write about – all he has to do is pick one.

But the whole time you’re talking, you’re also hyper-aware of Steve’s arm which remains tightly locked around your waist – as if he thinks you’ll jump up and run away or something (you wouldn’t dare, you’re too scared of him to do that).

“So, why don’t you go ahead and pick an essay topic, Steve?” You ask him softly after you’re done explaining each one in detail.

“It’s really hot in here. Don’t you feel hot?” Is the response you get.

You sigh, “No, Steve, I don’t feel hot. Please can you pick an essay topic?”

“Well, I feel hot. And I can’t concentrate when I feel hot.”

Turning slightly to look at him, you’re met with his blue eyes up close – you’ve never been this close to him before (obviously not since you’ve never been in his lap) and his eyes are absolutely breath-taking – like sky blue speckled with green, sparkling yet shadowed with a peculiar darkness. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips – which look so plump and pink that you have to look away immediately.

“It’s this thing you’re wearing.” Steve says, roughly fingering the material of your hoodie. “It’s so thick and off-putting. You’re gonna need to take it off if we’re gonna continue.”

Your jaw drops open, “What? That literally makes no sense, Steve! How can my hoodie make you feel hot?”

Steve squeezes your hip with the hand that’s holding you in place, “So you do have a sassy side huh? Just remember, I prefer it when you’re docile and submissive.”

It’s a gut reaction for you to bow your head, “I’m sorry. B-But I’m not taking my hoodie off.”

“Take it off. Now.”

You focus on your hands on your lap, trying hard to tune out every muscle in your body which is aching to obey him. “I could… I can open the window for you?”

“I said now, omega. Don’t make me repeat myself again.” Steve’s order is so menacing, you feel a shiver run down your spine. It contrasts with the sudden heaviness of the air in the room. It’s his scent, whiffs and whiffs of it, just radiating off his being. You feel like you’re drowning in it, like it’s the hottest summer day and he’s the sun and, and, and…

You shrug your hoodie off, your body wiggling to get it over your head until he helps you, tugging the material off you in a single pull and throwing it somewhere behind him. And now you’re left with just your tank top, on his lap and at his mercy.

“There we go, don’t you feel so much better now? I know I do.” And now Steve sounds cheery again, and you’re almost floored – it’s giving you whiplash, how fast he’s switching between domineering alpha and cheerful jock.

“I actually feel kind of cold now.” You say softly, hoping that maybe a tiny part of him will be sympathetic and allow you to put your hoodie back on. The truth is – you like your oversized clothes; you feel safe in them. Now, you feel all exposed – especially with him so, so close to you.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll keep you warm.” Your eyes widen at the baby and you get another strong whiff of a hot summer’s day. The power and potency of his scent effectively makes you disregard any insinuation in his words, and it also seems to erase away the guilty thoughts about Peter that persist in your head.

Trying to get your thoughts in order, you focus back on the only thing that seems to be making sense right now, and that’s your notes. Since Steve seems to be refusing to pick a topic, you go ahead and pick one for him and continue on to the introduction. “So, this is really basic and obviously you already know this, but the introduction would be like a preview of everything you’re going to argue, as well as introducing key concepts and definitions.”

“Mmhm.”

His response is better than nothing, so you continue: “I’ve got a list of key concepts and theories you can use. In fact, I’ve got a whole lot of notes on the introduction, so I can just give those to you and it’ll be like a cheat sheet, and –”

You feel Steve’s nose graze against the nape of your neck, and it makes you stop short. You almost sigh at the contact. Almost. It’s a peculiar feeling; he’ stroking his nose against your bare skin, inhaling deeply as he does so. At first, you think nothing of it – it’s just a simple graze. But he doesn’t stop – and now he’s full-on rubbing it against you. His grip on you tightens, he pulls you taut against him, and he presses his nose into your sensitive skin, inhaling you almost as if he wants to eat you.

“Your suppressants are wearing off, omega.” He growls, burying his whole face into your neck and taking several deep whiffs as you sit frozen on his lap. Suddenly, you can feel something hard beneath you, something rock hard.

“I-I… I’m sorry.” You squeak out, not knowing what exactly you’re apologising for – he’s literally going to town on your neck; digging his face into it, you can even feel the brush of his lips. But it’s when his teeth graze against your mating gland that you jerk away, cursing your cheap brand of suppressants. “I’m sorry, Steve. I take them every morning but they w-wear off in the evening. Let me… Let me just go take some more.”

“NO!” He practically roars, and you’ve never seen him like this. There’s a fire behind his eyes, and they’re so dark. So blown out and dark. And his body’s so solid behind you, so big – and so hardunderneath you. And all you’ve ever known is Peter’s softness. Shit. Peter.

Steve seems so distracted by your scent that you’re able to loosen his grip and jump off his lap, backing away slowly while he regards you with narrow eyes and a dark gaze. He’s got one hand running through his blonde hair, making it look all dishevelled and messy, the other one dangerously close to his clothed crotch. You avert your gaze.

“M-Maybe I should stay over here, and you should stay over there.” You suggest meekly, going to sit on the edge of your bed. A part of your mind is still hopelessly hanging on to the idea that the tutoring session is going to continue after… after whatever the hell that was. “You can look over my notes and you can… you can keep them. You can take them back home with you.”

“Baby, I think we both know that I’m not ready to go home.” Steve licks his lips.

He stands up to his full height, so tall and big and looming over you, like you’re a puppy, kicked and cornered, and he’s the predator stalking his prey. It only takes him about two strides to get to you, and that’s when you realise what a big mistake it was to sit on your bed.

In a flash, Steve is on top of you, caging you between his muscular body and the mattress underneath. You push futilely against his chest, turning your head to the side so you don’t have to look directly into his intense stare. That proves to be another mistake, because he just nuzzles your neck again, taking another strong inhale of your scent like he can’t get enough of it.

“S-Steve, what are you doing?” You’re not sure you want to know the answer.

“You smell… You smell fucking incredible.” Is all he says, and now you can feel his hardness pressing against your lower belly. Oh God. Oh no, oh no, oh no…

“Steve, please, I-I have a boyfriend, please!”

But he’s already tugging at your leggings, and there’s this carnal desperation to his movements, this unmatched strength that makes your resistance so incredibly futile that it’s almost laughable.

“You really thought you could invite me into your room where you’re smelling all sweet, with your nest and these fucking stuffed animals smelling like your omega pussy, and I wouldn’t react?” He growls, practically rutting his bulge against your quivering body. And it’s so unfair, because you didn’t invite him, he invited himself. You didn’t want this.

Right?

“Just let me put the tip in.” Steve breathes against your neck, your leggings now discarded somewhere on the bed and your panties being tugged off next. You feel hot tears welling up in your eyes, tears of desperation, tears of how the fuck did it get to this? But Steve’s adamant, his hot lips dragging up from your neck to your ear, “It’s your fault… So you gotta help me out. Just the tip, baby. Just to calm me down. Then we can continue with the essay.”

Your eyes pop open at the mere mention of his dick going inside of you. What? What did he just suggest? You shake your head vehemently, even though you can feel your pussy clench at his words. “N-No, Steve, please no!” His words from earlier flash through your mind: “Y-You said you wouldn’t go near me if I was the last person on campus!”

He’s full on thrusting his hips into yours now, effectively dry humping into you; the glint in his eyes similar to that of a man possessed. “C’mon, baby. You know I only said that to keep the rest of them away from you.” Your eyes pop open at this revelation, or maybe it’s because Steve’s sponging kisses on the hot skin of your neck as he whispers darkly, “They all wanna fuck you, baby. And we can’t have that, can we?”

Why would Steve care? You think to yourself momentarily, before you try once more to push him off. “I have a boyfriend, Steve! And you! You have a girlfriend too!”

Steve moves his head back before pressing his forehead against yours, eyes boring into yours, “So? It’s not cheating if it’s just the tip.”

Maybe if you weren’t so drunk on his scent, maybe if he wasn’t currently rutting his hard dick against your panty-covered pussy, maybe then you would’ve been able to recognise the stupidity of his statement. But right now, he’s practically rendered you delirious – you’re a mix of fear and sensations, so you just sniffle through your tears: “R-Really, Steve?”

“Yes. It’s not sex if it’s just the tip, therefore it’s not cheating. So you can relax about your beta cuck boyfriend.” He’s talking to you like you’re a baby, all condescending but it only seems to rile you up further. You’re pretty sure your panties are soaked through and have been for a while now – ever since he pulled you onto his lap – but you don’t want to admit it. Just like you want to push out every thought of Peter from your mind.

“B-But what about your girlfriend?” You ask him, thinking back to just yesterday after class when Steve had his girlfriend pinned against the wall, kissing the life out of her while you watched.

Steve rolls his eyes, “What about her? Just think of it as you helping me out. Just like you helped me out with the essay. Just an omega doing her rightful duty and helping out her alpha.”

Her alpha. The words seem to imprint into your very being, echoing around in your head and making your heart soar. You’re just helping him out – you should help him out, shouldn’t you? You wantto help him out. And that’s your job, isn’t it? As an omega? To help people out?

“O-Okay, Steve.” The person who consents sounds like you, but is it really you? Is that really your voice, so lust-filled and submissive, giving the very man who’s made your life a living hell permission to enter your pussy? But it’s just the tip, it doesn’t count! You persuade yourself over and over again. “But just the tip! A-And then you’ll stop, right?”

The heaving and ragged sigh of relief that emanates through his body is unmissed by you, followed by a devilish smirk that almost covers up the look of absolute carnal need on his face. Almost. He smiles approvingly down at you. “Good girl. Of course I’ll stop. Now I want you on your hands and knees, presenting for your alpha. Now.”

His order has you scrambling to obey, and in your head, you keep reciting: it’s not cheating, it’s not cheating, it’s not cheating.But there’s a tiny voice at the back of your brain that questions whether you’d have cared even if it was?

He gives your ass a hefty slap once you get into position, and the smack resonates straight between your legs, making your pussy practically throb for him. You bite your lip, trying to ignore it: “Steve, please! Just the tip, okay? I’m trusting you.”

“Just the tip.” Steve promises, getting on his knees behind you, pulling you by the hips till your ass is flush against his clothed cock – which is so hard you feel like your heart’s gonna beat out of your chest. You feel his hand caressing your bottom, fingering the soft material of your underwear. “You’ve got such pretty panties, omega. All flowery and cute. I told you girly shit would suit you.”

But then he rips them off, and you’ve got your face buried into the mattress (because maybe that way you can escape the sinful pleasure you’re feeling, you can pretend this isn’t happening). But you can hear him inhale deeply, and you know he’s sniffing your panties, sniffing the scent of your juices that have dampened them.

“You’re so wet for me, omega.” Steve murmurs, rubbing his large hands over the sensitive skin of your ass, before a single finger trails down to your folds, swirling the wetness around lewdly, making your cheeks burn yet you clench at the same time. “This little omega pussy is just crying for daddy, isn’t it?”

“Steve,” You whine, trying to ignore the jolt of pleasure you feel from his sinful words. This whole situation is sinful, no matter what you try to persuade yourself. How will you justify this to Peter? How can you justify this to anyone? “Steve, you said this is just to ca-calm you down! Y-You said–”

“Shut the fuck up, I know what I said!” He snaps, but his finger doesn’t let up, swirling and rubbing at your wetness – doing the most yet not doing enough because he’s ignoring your throbbing bundle of nerves completely. Wait. It’s not like you want him to touch you there, is it? But your wetness is seeping down your thighs, and it’s so abundantly clear:

You’ve never been more turned on in your life.

You hear a rustle behind you, and the dull thud of his clothes hitting the floor. And then suddenly his finger’s gone from between your legs, quickly replaced with the hard, angry tip of his dick. Your body goes completely still, rigid as Steve guides his dick up and down, stroking your folds almost gently.

“Oh, fuck…” You whimper, and he smirks.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, baby?” One look over your shoulder and you see Steve’s gaze zeroed in on your pussy, his dick in his hand as he glides it over your wetness, dipping between your folds and earning a soft gasp from you, his brows furrowed and a look of almost manic concentration on his face, “Tell daddy it feels good.”

“It feels good!” You answer him automatically, and you’re ashamed to admit it to yourself but those words are an understatement. It feels fucking incredible – and he’s not even inside you! Any thought of Peter is effectively wiped out of your mind with each swipe of Steve’s hard cock, the bulbous tip creating delicious sensations that crawl up your body.

“Such a fucking pretty pussy,” Steve growls, pushing the thick tip of his dick into you and earning another breathy cry from you. But then he stills and moves no further, his tip lodged inside you, his fingers digging into your hips so hard, you know they’ll bruise. “Now tell me, baby. Does this pretty little omega pussy want more?”

A long pause, and the word “No” is on the tip of your tongue – you swear it is. But you’re also subconsciously rutting your hips backwards against his dick, and from the way he’s meeting your thrusts as he shallow-fucks you, he’s completely aware of this too.

“Y-Yes…” You cry out, words brimming with shame, “Yes, daddy, I want more... Please!”

You half expect him to pull out completely, laugh in your face and reveal it’s all a sick joke. Instead, it takes Steve less than a second to completely sheath you with his gigantic dick, your pussy squelching noisily as it stretches to take his girth. He’s so big, bigger than anyone else you’ve ever been with – so overwhelmingly big that it burns. But the hurt is so good, because you feel so full once he’s inside you completely, full like how you’ve never ever felt before.

Steve lets out a guttural groan as he bottoms out inside you, his balls slapping against your pussy as he grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you back till you’re on your knees and flush against him. “My pussy.” He says it with a chilling finality, licking the shell of your ear lewdly.

You know it’s wrong, but Steve’s dick feels like heaven even though you know you might as well be in hell. And he’s fucking you hard from the get go, his bruising touch all over you; hands snaking around you from behind to tear off your tank top, tear off your bra like he’s a crazed animal and you’re his prey who’s completely stopped running from him.

“Cute little fucking omega, always acting so sweet and innocent. Bet you didn’t think you’d be on your hands and knees for me, did you?” Steve rips into you with his words just like his cock is currently ripping into your body, tearing you in two. “Fuck, this is the sweetest little pussy I’ve ever had, who knew this was hiding underneath all those fucking hoodies.”

“Oh, Oh, fuck, daddy!” It’s all you can say as he manhandles you over his cock, taking complete control of your body which is quickly going limp in his hands. He’s got a death-grip on your hips, mauling you onto his hard cock as it spears into you again and again, hitting your special spot just right, making you cry out his name as every other conscious thought melts away from your mind.

“Gonna make you dress all nice and pretty, gonna make you my little omega slut,” Steve promises you through gritted teeth, one of his hands slipping up to wrap around your throat. “It’s all me from now on, baby. All me. Not that fucking boyfriend of yours. Just me.” He accentuates his words with a particularly hard thrust, and you feel so dumb, mind void of anything apart from the pleasure he’s providing you, that his words barely register in your head.

“You’re mine.” He growls, hot breath fanning against the back of your neck. And again, you can feel his teeth graze against your mating gland, “You’ve been mine the second you stepped into that class you have no fucking business being in.” He’s tugging hard at your hair, pulling you so flush against him as you writhe and moan in mindless pleasure. “Say you’re mine, baby. Say this little pussy belongs to your alpha.”

Steve has effectively fucked you dumb and delirious, you’re a quivering mass of sensations as you hump back against him, crying his name, calling him daddy, ready to contort your body in every which way for him. But maybe it’s that one semblance of shame inside you, that one part of you that aches for what you’re doing to Peter. It stops you from saying what he wants you to say, and you just shake your head desperately.

“Oh, now you wanna be shy again, huh? After you made me come to your dorm room and practically begged me to fuck you.” Steve’s brazenly bending the truth but you don’t even care, mind too full with the incredible feel of him fucking into you. He gives your ass a harsh smack, the sound echoing around your tiny room. “Fine, you don’t think I can make you say you’re mine? You underestimate me, baby.”

Steve pulls out of you, leaving you gaping as he stands up. You protest weakly when he picks you up, it’s lightweight for him considering just how much smaller you are than him, and you writhe in his arms as he carries you over to your desk. You’re confused, mewling at the loss of contact, “Daddy, please put it back inside. Please…” You whine weakly but unashamedly. And then he sits down on your desk chair and plunges you back down on his dick, his hand snaking forward to grab something off your desk.

Your phone.

Too easily, he waves it in front of your face and unlocks it.

“Let’s give your little boyfriend a Face-Time call, shall we, omega?”

“Steve! No! Don’t, please don’t!” The panic sets in almost immediately, mixing in with the burning sensations in your belly from being impaled by his dick. You scramble to snatch your phone from him, but he’s too quick for you, easily holding it out of your reach. Cruelly, he begins bouncing you up and down on his dick, one hand gripping your hip tightly to control the pace, his other hand holding your phone as he casually scrolls through your contacts.

“What’s his name, baby? Tell me so we can show him that his little girlfriend seduces alphas in her dorm room while he’s not around.”

“N-No, Steve, please! Please don’t do this!” The tears are rolling freely down your cheeks now, your hair’s a mess, and yet he’s still bouncing you up and down, making you ride his dick as you beg for him not to do what he’s threatening to do.

“Tell me his name right fucking now, omega. Or else I’ll fucking record you and send it to all your contacts.” Steve switches to menacing once again, hissing into your ear as he threatens you.

“Peter, his name’s Peter! Steve, I’m begging you, don’t do this!” You cry, heart sinking, and yet you feel the coils in your lower body tightening, the feel of his big dick sliding in and out of you so good that you can’t ignore it.

But Steve is cruel, and it only takes him a few seconds to find Peter’s name on your phone, and you scrunch your eyes shut in pure horror – you really can’t believe this is happening. But you also can’t believe you’ve let Steve of all people fuck you – and you’re enjoying it.

It only rings about twice before Peter answers the video-call.

“Hey, babe, what’s up– WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“C’mon, baby, don’t be shy now. Say hi to Peter.” Steve mocks wickedly, propping the phone up on your desk so it captures everything clear as day: you naked on Steve’s lap, his cock lodged deep inside you as he bounces you up and down, his hand around your throat and the other one squeezing your breast lewdly.

You only cry harder, the tip of Steve’s dick you so deep from this angle, brushing against your g-spot and making you moan between your weeping, “I’m s-so sorry, Peter, I’m so sorry! Oh fuck!” You can’t help but cry out between your shameful apology, as Steve twists your nipple and drives his cock into you even harder.

“She wanted to call you to tell you how sorry she was for cancelling on you today,” Steve explains, sounding so smug and casual and unaffected, as if he doesn’t have you delirious and crying your eyes out on top of him. “She can’t help that she’s an omega slut, you see. She just wanted my alpha dick so bad, that’s why she had to cancel your plans.”

You’re squeezing your eyes shut again, hoping you can zone all of this out. You can’t bear to look at Peter, can’t bare to see his reaction, can’t bare to listen to him as he sputters and calls out your name, as if willing you to put an end to this, to explain yourself, anything. All you can do is blabber ‘I’m sorry, Peter, I’m sorry’ over and over again as you’re manhandled and fucked on Steve’s dick.

“Baby, tell Peter who you belong to, and maybe I’ll make this easier for you.” Steve says before clamping down on your neck, biting and sucking so close to your mating gland that you shudder. “Tell Peter who your little pussy belongs to, tell him how good your daddy’s fucking you. Tell him how fucking badly you want my knot. Tell him, or fucking else.”

“Steve!” You cry, pleasure mounting up inside of you despite everything. “I belong to Steve! My alpha!” You’re delirious, repeating his name over and over again, crying in half bliss and half shame, “Daddy, please! I belong to you. I’m yours! Please! Please give me your knot! Give it to me, please! Need it, I need it so fucking bad, daddy please!”

“Such a good fucking girl for your alpha.” Steve says darkly, and it’s his praise that tips you over the edge. Your orgasm hits you so fast and hard, like a gigantic wave of pleasure that has you completely floored. Everything’s forgotten except Steve and his dick, and he continues to talk you through it, “That’s right baby, squeeze daddy’s dick just like that. I’m gonna pump you full of my fucking babies, you hear me? You hear that?” He raises his voice as if he’s talking to Peter too, telling him everything he plans to do to you.

Steve’s thrusts get more frenzied, and now you’re limp against him, body twitching from the pure bliss of your orgasm. He’s effectively using you like a fuck-doll now, rutting up into you with such a carnal energy, you feel like you’re going to break into two pieces.

“Gonna make you take my fucking knot, fill this tiny omega pussy to the brim with my cum. Get you pregnant, make you walk around this fucking university round with my babies. What’re you gonna do then, huh? Maybe finally learn your fucking place as an omega. Drop the fuck out and just be my personal little cumdump omega. Have my fucking babies and know your fucking place!”

Steve lets out a guttural growl, clutching you tightly against him. If he was insane before, it’s nothing compared to how crazed he’s acting now. Like an alpha owning you in every sense of the word, you cum again, whimpering at his dark promises. And his knot expands, locking him inside of you snugly as his dick twitches, and then ropes of his hot seed release inside of you, burning you, claiming you. Spurt after spurt, so much cum that you feel like your poor abused pussy is drowning in it.

“Fuck, such a good little omega.” Steve groans through gritted teeth as he continues to spill inside of you.

And you rut back into him, Peter forgotten, embarrassment forgotten. Only pure bliss, this full feeling, and Steve himself on your brain as you both moan out in utter ecstasy, Steve clutching you close as he empties inside of you.

It takes you a few minutes to catch your breath and open your eyes. You’re still on Steve’s dick, he’s still holding you close, breathing hard with his arms around you. Your phone lies on your desk, screen black – Peter understandably having hung up. You can’t even think of Peter right now, with how full you feel. With what you’ve just allowed to happen.

“Don’t think.” Steve commands you, as if he can read your mind which feels like it’s about to break in two with all the thoughts rushing inside of you. And so, you stop thinking, allowing your alpha (wait, what?) to carry you back to your bed, holding your cowering, quivering body with one muscular arm while he uses his other hand to swipe away your stuffed animals.

“I’ll get you new ones.” Steve says, and you’re too dumbed down by the sheer fucking you’ve just gone through to even detect what kind of tone he says it in. “You don’t need anything he got for you. Not anymore.”

He puts you to bed – the same man who’s made you cry and ruthlessly bullied you in front of everyone – he puts you to bed and even gets in next to you, pulling you close, his semi hard dick pressing against your back and making you whimper.

“S-Steve…” You say softly, not knowing what to say but wanting to say something. You suddenly feel so tired. So tired and so confused.

“Quiet, omega.” He instructs you, and immediately you close your parted lips. And you let him wrap his arms around you and pull you even closer. You don’t understand what’s going on but it feels nice to be held by him.

“I wasn’t lying when I said you’re mine, omega.” Steve says, “From now on, I’ll make sure everyone knows it. Make you act like a proper omega, dress you up real pretty, fuck you good and make you take my knot every single fucking day. So, you can forget about Peter. Or anyone else for that matter. From now on, it’s all me. Got it?”

“Yes, alpha.”

“Good girl.”

*Part 2*

(A/N: Alright, so whoever made it till the end, thank you so much for reading! This took me ages to write! Please, please leave any feedback, and do reblog and tag anyone whom you think might be interested! I honestly would love any and all feedback, as I do want to write a part 2 and continue to explore this pairing plus address certain questions raised in this one shot! But please, do let me know what you think! As a writer, I would genuinely love your insight! Also, this was my first time writing a/b/o so I get that it's perhaps not accurate or perfect. Apart from that, I hope you enjoyed!)

If you knew nothing else in this world, it would be that Bucky and Steve will always be there for you.

Not even a phone call at half past one in the morning would scare them off.

"Hey," Bucky picks up on the first ring, as if he were looking at the phone waiting for your call. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good." You mumble as you trace the rim of the wine glass in front of you.

"What happened?"

A huff of a laugh pushes from your nose, there's no hiding anything from Bucky, he's a dead set bloodhound when it comes to what's bothering you.

"Curtis and I broke up."

"Really? Shit girlie I'm sorry. When?"

You glance past the bottle in front of you and to the clock on the stove. "Like, an hour ago."

"What the fuck? You mean today?"

"Yup." You pop the 'p' as you finish off your glass, feeling the cold liquid settle into a warmth in your chest.

"Is he still there?"

"Never was."

The line went quiet and you could feel the anger radiating over the phone.

A quiet mutter was all you could catch before he came back to the call. "We're on the way."

Part of you wanted to protest, to tell them it's not worth their time and to just stay home, but the quiet and greedy side wanted nothing more than for Bucky and Steve to be your knights in shining armor to come save you from the depths of this breakup.

"Door's unlocked."

He grunts in response and the call is ended, leaving you to linger in the silence awaiting their arrival. You pour another glass, taking a heavy sip to ease the growing tension in your shoulders, Bucky and Steve have always been good friends to you but you could never deny the small voice in the back of your head that yearned for more.

It's no secret that they have crossed the bridge from friendship into something more themselves. It's not something that's often spoke about but you've seen it once or twice on the late nights out, the way Bucky's hand always rests in the small of Steve's back, the way Steve will lean over to grab something and whisper something against the shell of Bucky's ear.

At the time you felt ashamed to be looking, forcing your eyes to the ground as they exchanged silent words with eye contact that would make you buckle if it were directed to you. Yet as more time that passed you began to understand their relationship a bit more, to put it in simple terms you would describe them as friends with benefits but the friendship is the benefit.

You don't know if they've actually had sex with each other and you would never have it in you to ask such a thing, but you've seen the small moments they share when no one is looking, just thinking about it sends a heat to your face that not even the wine could replicate.

In divine timing as you will the thoughts of them out of your head there's a small knock on your door, you finish off your glass in one deep swig and make your way to the door but not before casting a small glance into the mirror above the fireplace to check your appearance. Any trace of tears are gone but there's still a slight red ring around your eyes and the corners of your nose, lips puffed and stained from the wine.

Not your best look but who's keeping track.

With the swing of the door you're greeted with two figures, similar in stance yet completely different in aura. Bucky's face is set in stone, the hard lines of his furrowed brow standing out against the soft edges of his steel blue eyes, his typical demeanor of appearing upset when concern is resting just below the surface.

Steve holds a similar soft look in his face, one of pure care and worry for a true friend with a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Hey." His voice is deep and smooth instantly putting you at ease, between him and Bucky they fill up the frame, their shoulders brushing each others as they both looked down at you.

"Hi." You breathe out, offering them both a small smile before stepping aside and holding the door open to let them in. A mix of their colognes wash over you as they walked by, Bucky's was a hearty mix of lavender, earthy oak moss and patchouli while Steve's cut through with the brightness of lemon and orange with a deep seeded cedar wood.

Both smells blended together so well, flooding your senses as you shut the door behind them, making you almost offer to take their jackets just to get another hit of their intoxicating scent. Alas they were both comfortable enough with you to set their jackets aside on their own, moving through the space of your apartment as if it were their own.

Steve made himself comfortable on the couch and you did the same while Bucky rummaged in your kitchen for something, sitting next to Steve gave you a moment to appreciate how his facial hair was coming in. The thick hair of his beard covered his jaw and chin alike, you still remember the day he said he was done shaving and was going to grow it out, earning a laugh from all around him who didn't believe him at first.

He looked devastatingly attractive. The beard suited him in ways you never thought possible, paired with the added length of his swept back hair it was almost impossible to look away as his green blue eyes bore into yours.

"How you doing?" He was quiet with his question, not in the sense that he held a secret but more of he was still wading through the waters of your feelings on the subject.

You shrug you shoulders faintly, giving him a half smile as your fingers pick at your nails instinctively. "Could be worse I guess."

"How so?"

"I could've actually cared about him."

He laughs gently with a small shake of his head, not missing the deflection of his question but letting it pass for now, eyes back onto yours making your heart race against your chest. "There is that I suppose."

"Did you get all of his stuff out?" Bucky's voice calls out from behind you, making you turn your head to see him walking out with a plate full of fruits, cheeses and chocolates you didn't even know you had.

"Uhm, no not yet." You watch him set the plate down in front of you and settle on the other side of you, his arm draped on the back of the couch lightly caging you in. "He didn't really have much of anything here anyways."

Bucky nods curtly, grabbing a strawberry off the plate and plucking the leaves off before handing it to you. "We'll help you get it out and make sure you let us know when he comes to get it so we can be here."

"You guys don't have to do all of that." Your eyes fall to the berry in your hand, your thumb brushing over the small seeds.

"We know," Steve's voice pulls your head to the other side, your eyes following his hand as he grabs yours and lifts the strawberry closer to your mouth, a silent reminder. "We want to."

With a faint nod your force your eyes forward as you take a small bite from the strawberry, the sweet acidity bursting across your tongue. Between the smell of Steve and Bucky in such proximity wafting over you and something about the taste of the berry mixing with the after hints of the wine made you dizzy.

Steve noticed it first, his hand finding your thigh and giving it a grounding squeeze. "You alright sweetheart?"

"Do you need some water?" Bucky was quick to add, the arm on the couch dropping down to your shoulders and brushing a small circle into the crook of your neck.

You shake your head, blinking yourself back to reality as you absentmindedly sink into both of their touches. "No, I'm okay just.. tired I guess."

"Here we'll help you clean up and then you can get to bed." Steve offered as he moved to get up from the cough, his hand leaving your thigh and letting the cold air of absence take its place.

"Wait," You reached out for his wrist, holding it in yours for just a beat too long before letting it go. "You.. you don't have to go if you don't want to."

Bucky's thumb pressed lightly into your shoulder, just enough pressure to catch your attention and make you turn back to him. "What do you want girlie?"

A small silence settles over the three of you as you contemplated what you truly wanted.

"Stay," You mumble just above a whisper, your eyes dragging from Bucky's to Steve's. "Please."

Steve nods without hesitation, settling back down onto the couch a bit closer than last time as his hand finds your leg again, this time running it up and down a with an achingly gentle touch. "Of course."

"Don't have to ask us twice," Bucky chimes in softly, leaning his body closer until your side was up against his chest.

You lean back into both of them, letting their warmth encapsulate you and tether you to the ground. Steve finds the TV remote and puts on some quiet music channel, the slow and soft beat of blues filling the background of the room.

Time becomes unperceivable when you're with them, all you know is the feeling of them next to you and the sound of their voices in your ears for what felt like hours.

"You want another glass Stevie?" You offer as you top yours off, the warmth in your chest now spread across your whole body, lining your lips with a smile as you look at the two boys seated on your couch. Bucky is all but sprawled out in the corner, legs spread with a whiskey glass in his hand as his eyes flicker between you and Steve, his leg is crossed over the other with one hand on the back of the couch.

Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the irresponsible urge for a self esteem boosting rebound but the look of the two of them on your couch was too tempting and if you didn't know any better, inviting.

"No I'm okay sweetheart." Steve's voice floats across the air and brushes the back of your neck, making the small hairs stand up, you nod and try to keep a straight face as you sit back on the couch.

Bucky, who is oddly quiet in his corner, hasn't taken his eyes off of you since the three of you finished off his snack plate, lips stained with the red fruit juice of strawberries and a hint of chocolate. Steve seems to pick up on this as he rests his chin on your shoulder to look over at him.

"You're quiet Buck, got something on your mind?"

He doesn't respond, not right away, he just gives Steve a look that apparently says it all as Steve lets out a small hum and smiles against your cheek.

Your eyes narrow a the interaction, trying to piece together what silent words were just exchanged between the two of them. "What?"

"Steve has a secret to tell you." Bucky says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You turn just enough to see Steve out the corner of your eyes before he pulls away, making you fully turn to face him.

Reaching for you glass he takes a small sip before setting it down on the table, his eyes locked onto yours as he licks a small drip of wine from his bottom lip. You follow the movement and it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

"What's the secret?" You whisper in a breathy air, using every inch of your might to keep your eyes from drifting back to those pink lips tucked behind that fatally gorgeous beard.

He curls his index finger towards you and you have to immediately look away lest your mind starts conjuring up images of that motion being used on you for other purposes. Leaned forward he meets you halfway and you can feel the scruff of his beard brush the lobe of your ear as he whispers.

"Bucky wants me to kiss you."

The words still you to your bones, bringing your heart into your throat with its rapid unsteady beating. As your mind processes everything at lightning speed you see two choices presented to you in the blur of thoughts; A.) you shrink back and continue on with the friendship as it is, just that, friendship or B.) you play into it and just maybe you can get what you've been thinking about all night.

You much prefer the latter.

"Why doesn't he say so himself?" You murmur softly, eyes already dropping back down to his lips.

He gives a vague shrug, his hands finding yours and pressing small circles into the pressure point of your wrist, no doubt feeling the rabbited pace of your heartbeat. "Sometimes Bucky does a whole lot of talking, other times he just likes to sit back and listen."

"That a fact?" Your eyes part from Steve's to look over at Bucky, the beginnings of a smirk tug at the corner of his lips as he finishes off the last of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving you for a moment as he keeps his quiet facade going.

Steve lets out a breathy laugh before quieting down, his hand brushing the length of your jaw making you turn back towards him. His palm is rough and smooth all at once, the calloused pads of his fingers tracing the jut of your bottom lip.

"So, what d'you think sweetheart? Should we give Bucky what he wants?"

"What do you want?"

"I can't think of anything I'd want more than to kiss you," His voice is a hoarse whisper and somehow you've gotten close enough to where you can feel his breath against your cheek. "What about you?"

Words are lost on you as you look at Steve, the ocean tide of his blue green eyes pulling you in, a loose nod of your head is the only answer you can manage before his lips are on yours.

Forget fireworks or sparks flying, Steve's kiss was heavenly, tentative like a whisper and as warm as the summer sun. His hands immediately swept you up, pulling you into his lap and holding you close like he was passing a secret from his body to yours.

Eternal like moments passed before the kiss changed, your thighs squeezing his as your hips shifted on top of him making him groan into your lips. He moved his hands down to the dip of your waist and dug his fingers in, moving you again until you picked up the message and began to roll your hips on your own.

You don't know how much time had passed, Steve kissed you like he wanted to wear your mark for all eternity and it left you utterly breathless. When you did finally part for air, you looked back to see Bucky had moved from his original spot and is now next to you and Steve, a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand.

Steve looked unfairly handsome freshly kissed, his lips parted with soft breaths pushing through them as he squeezed your hips in his hands. Your heavy lidded eyes dragged back over to Bucky, a small tilt to his head when he caught your eyes lingering on his lips.

"Go on baby," Steve encouraged in a raspy hum, his hands still holding the curves of your hips, fingers just teasing under the hem line of your shirt. "Give him a taste."

You're leaning over before you realize and Bucky's already met you halfway, his lips taste like the burn and heat of whiskey as he swipes his tongue over your seam, wasting no time in exploring the inner depths of your mouth against his.

Bucky's kiss burned like a perfectly stoked fire, warm and consistent with each angle making the world around you fade into black. It wasn't until you felt Steve guiding your hips back and forth again did you feel yourself come back to the material world.

The mixed sensations of being pulled in by Bucky's lips, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip with a deep fervor as Steve's hand ever so gently ran up under your shirt and wandered across the exposed skin made your head spin.

"Wait," You breathe out as you force yourself to pull away from Bucky's lips, your mouth aching for more at the way his eyes fluttered open. "What.. what are we doing?"

You look between Steve and Bucky and watch as they share another one of their silent conversations, a huff of lust filled frustration pushing out of your nose.

"Stop doing that, just say it out loud."

There's one last look between them before they turn to you, eyes low and smirks growing.

"I think what Buck was trying to say—"

"—Was that we can do whatever you want."

The way the finish each others sentences with such ease nearly gives you whiplash, your eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

"What do you mean?"

"He means," Bucky starts as he leans back in, pressing a line a kisses down your jaw and to the column of your throat. "If you want to take this farther we're all for it."

"But if you want to stop," Steve adds in, his hands smoothing over the skin of your lower back, thumbs dipping past the waistband of your pajama shorts. "Just say the word and hands are off, no hard feelings."

Your eyes flutter at the contrasting feelings. Bucky leaving wet open mouthed kisses across your neck and collarbone, stopping to bite and suck at the sweet spot below your ear, while Steve's hands held you like you were a diamond in his palms, beautiful and strong yet fragile to the touch as he roamed over your skin leaving a wake of heat in his touch.

"Up to you baby. We just want to take care of you, however you'll let us."

Words are few and far in between for you, your mind and body overrun with the dual sensations. Bucky's hand had started to squeeze and rub circles into your thigh while Steve brought your hand up to his lips, kissing the pad of each fingertip before licking a slow stripe up your middle two making you shudder under him.

"Yes, please yes."

That was all the sign they needed. Bucky pulled back and quickly cleaned up everything around you as Steve stood you up with him and led you to your bedroom, his wide palm steady in yours as you clung to him.

He sat you down onto your bed and began to move about the room as if it were his own, taking his shoes off and setting them in the closet, setting his watch on the dresser and even going as far as to add a fresh stick into your essential oil diffuser.

As he joined you on the bed it was only moments before Bucky was in the room, a small smirk on his lips as he went about his own ministrations, similar to Steve yet done in a different air. Steve moved around the room like it was his too, Bucky moved like it was his alone, his carpet to walk along and his mirror to look in.

The bed dipped even lower as Bucky settled behind you, his hand playing with the hem of your shirt as he leaned forward. "Tell me something pretty girl, did you at least get laid before that asshole broke up with you?"

Your breath hitched as you felt his hand slip under your shirt and up towards your bra, unclasping it to the last clip, before moving his hand around your stomach. Steve must've picked up on your stunned state as he reached out a cupped your jaw in his hand, gently stroking your cheek before leaning in for a kiss.

"Answer him baby."

"No." You whispered against Steve's lips, your hands digging into the fabric of shirt in need of more.

"Poor girl," Bucky mutters from behind you, hands brushing your hair over your shoulder as his lips find the nape of your neck and gently nipping at the skin. "Tell me the sex was at least good."

You shake your head and lean back into his touch, your body overwhelmed yet under stimulated and in desperate need.

Bucky pulled away and you had to stifle a whine as you looked back at him. "You're telling me that this entire time you were in that relationship, not only were you putting up with his bullshit, but the sex wasn't even worth it?"

"Bucky.." Your voice was nothing more than a soft whisper yet it held the magnitude of a thousand suns, the depths of desire lacing through your words.

He didn't grant you any relief, just a low scoff rumbling in the back of his throat as he looked over at Steve.

"I-I'm sorry, I should've known better, I know I should've left him a long time ago I just don't know why I couldn't—" You blurted out, unreasonable worry clawing at the back of your throat.

"Shh it's okay baby," Steve's voice tethers you back down, his hands cupping the sides of your face to lock your eyes onto his. "We're not mad it's okay."

You nod faintly and let out a small breath and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "I think Bucky is just a little jealous is all."

Confusion set over your face with furrowed brows and a slight pout. "Jealous of what? Curtis?"

"S'not fair. He got to have you in any way he wanted and he couldn't even have the decency to treat you right." Bucky's answer from behind you sends chills down your spine, your eyes still on Steve's as you felt a bold streak rise in you.

"You think you could do better?"

Silence grew and for a moment you thought you may have crossed a line, until you felt the palm of Bucky curve around your hip.

"I know I can."

A small smirk curled up on Steve's face as he looked down at you, a playful shake of his head egging you on as you pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth.

"Prove it soldier."

Nearly half a second went by before you were being turned around, Bucky stood at the edge of the bed and pulled you towards him as Steve settled to the side of you.

"You know you've got bratty mouth for someone who drove all the way here in the middle of the night just to make you feel better."

Blame it on the wine, or the heavy makeout sesh, or maybe the way Bucky was looking down at you like he couldn't care less about the next words that were about to come out of your mouth, all of it made you feel crazy and sane all at once and you wanted nothing more than to chase that feeling.

"I never asked you to come over, you just offered yourself up."

You watched Bucky's throat bob with a hitched breath, your words no doubt hitting the right nerve making you smirk until Steve's voice pulled you down from your high horse.

"Play nice sweet girl."

Bucky shook his head with an ever growing smirk, his hand reaching out to twirl a small strand of your hair as he looks down at you. "Yeah I bet you could, but you don't want to play nice, do you?"

You mirrored his head shake, yours slower and faint as yours eyes dropped down to his chest, then to his stomach, and finally to the belt around his jeans.

"I can play nice… for Steve."

Steve smiled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, swallowing to the grunt he let out when you licked and nipped at his lower lip.

Bucky let out a dark chuckle behind you, his hands running down the expanse of your spine and lifting your shirt up to kiss down your shoulder. "Is that right? You think you can be good for Steve while I punish you for mouthing off?"

"I'll always be good for Steve."

"We'll see about that."

Bucky must've motioned to Steve behind you as they both started to move, stripping their shirts and unclasping their belts to pull off their pants.

You moved to take your own clothes off when two sturdy hands stopped you.

"Let me," Steve mutters and though his voice was soft there was no denying the command behind it. "Just want you to sit back and look pretty for me, think you can do that baby?"

A brief nod of your head curls a smile up on his face as his hands took over your goal, pulling your shirt up and over your head and finishing off the last clasp of your bra that Bucky had left for him.

Your shorts are gone without a second thought and the air in the room has changed around it. It clings to your skin like the thick humidity of summer as you feel the eyes of both Steve and Bucky bore into your skin.

"What now?" You ask out of curiosity but there's a small waver of insecurity in your voice pushing through.

"Hands and knees for us baby." Steve guides you as turn onto your palms, your knees pressing into the mattress, Bucky's hands find the divet of your hips and holds you steady.

"You know the traffic lights pretty girl?" Bucky asks from behind you, his hands begin kneading the flesh of your hips and down to your thighs, giving every square inch it's deserved attention as he moves up to your ass.

Steve's eyes on you as Bucky feels you up sends a shiver of heat down your spine, the dual attention overriding your senses turning your thoughts into nothing more than TV static. "Mhm."

"Use your words." Bucky's hands dig into your ass and the slight pinch of his nails makes your breath hitch, you go to turn your head to look back at him when Steve's hand steadies your jaw forward.

"Eyes on me baby."

"Yes," You mumble as you lock eyes with Steve, mouth parting as he traces your lips. "Red, yellow and green."

Bucky grunts in what you guess is approval as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your underwear. "What's your color pretty thing?"

"Green. So fucking green."

A dark breathy laugh leaves his lips as he pulls the fabric down, letting it pool around your knees as he steps back to admire with a deep breathe out.

"God Steve, you're gonna lose it when you see this perfect pussy."

Steve just smiles as he looks down at you, he'd been tracing your lips just barely pushing his thumb past the seam and onto the wet heat of your tongue before pulling it out to spread your saliva like lip gloss.

"I wonder how pretty this pussy will drip for me after I spank this ass for being so bratty."

Chills covered your entire body as your eyes fluttered, thighs aching and arms shaking without even a touch from either one of them. Steve, ever the gentleman, noticed your struggle and moved to the side and patted the length of his thigh. You didn't have to be told twice, your arms bending and tucked under you as you laid your head across his lap, your neck craning as you looked up as him brushing the hair from your face.

"I think eight will be a good reminder, don't you Steve?"

Steve kept stroking your hair back, his thumb just barely grazing your cheek "What do you think baby, you think you can be good for eight?"

You nodded your head against the skin of his thigh as a small yelp pushes past your lips, Bucky's hand leaving a startling stinging burn with a harsh smack on the swell of your ass.

"I thought I told you to use your words." Bucky's voice was flat and stern behind you, his fingers ghosting over the growing burn on your skin.

Your eyes fought to stay open as you looked up at Steve, his hand had moved from your hair down to your back, lightly stroking up and down your spine."Y-yes, I can be good for eight."

"Good."

Bucky wastes no time in doling it out, two more sharp smacks across your ass make you whimper into Steve's leg, the pain bleeding into pleasure and stirring up a searing heat in between your thighs.

"Think she's starting to like it, huh Buck?"

"Mm you should see the way her pussy clenches," He punctuates his sentence with another heavy slap, switching to the other side adding more burn. "So empty and desperate."

Steve's hand moves from your back to your stomach, splaying his wide hand across the soft skin just barely brushing below your belly button. "That right baby? You feeling needy for some more?"

Another echoing smack. "Greedy girl."

"Please," You mumbled into Steve's thighs, drool slipping out the corners of your mouth with a cry as Bucky lands an especially hard spank to your skin. "Please Stevie I need more."

"How could I ever say no to that beautiful face?"

Another gasp leaves your lips as Steve's hand dip past your stomach, middle and ring fingers brushing your clit before tracing the slit of your cunt. "So wet already, bunny."

You whimper and push into his fingers, aching for any further touch. Bucky sees and holds you in place with one hand, landing a ear piercing slap with the other.

"You want more then you beg for it like the little slut you are."

"P-please!" You sputter out, hands going numb under you from the angle but you couldn't care less, Steve's fingers were still gently caressing the slick of your folds and it had your thighs trembling. "Please Steve, please I need more I'll be good I promise."

Steve lets out a soft hum, his other hand carding your hair out of your face. "Mm you beg so pretty babygirl, how could I say no to that?"

The slip of his fingers inside of you is a feeling you don't think you'll ever forget, his wide middle and ring digits filling that desperate ache inside of you so perfectly you could cum on the spot just thinking of it. Bucky kneads the curve of your ass in time with Steve's movements, and the dual feelings of pleasure make you shudder and melt.

"Oh she definitely likes that Stevie," Bucky mocks, his condescending tone mixed with the heady touch of his hands digging into your sensitive ass makes you hiss and moan with each wave and pleasure and pain. "If you like this just wait until you get Steve's cock inside of you, he'll turn you into his little cockwhore in no time."

Their words buzz across your ears but nothing sticks, Steve's fingers reducing you down to a mumbling mess, the sweet curve of his middle finger as it brushes the outer edges of you g-spot as he hum sweet nothings to you carts any cohesive thought away to another land.

"Feel good babygirl?" He coos as he pushes his fingers in deeper, each drag of his finger pads across your walls makes you twitch as you frantically nod your head.

Another sharp slap to your ass brightens your senses, a whine spilling from your lips as you clench around Steve's fingers.

"Fuck," Steve breathes out, his fingers somehow finding a way further inside you. "Do that again Buck."

And he does. One harsh smack makes your thighs quiver and you tighten around Steve's fingers once again, making Steve groan in time with your whimper.

"Christ baby, gonna kill me and I haven't even had a taste yet."

On that note Bucky shifts behind you, his heavy shadow no longer looming over you as he moves around onto the bed. Steve helps you sit up, holding you by your waist as he pulls you toward the center of the bed, fluffing your pillows under you before meeting your lips in a fierce kiss.

"You felt so good squeezing my fingers bunny," He mutters against your lips, nipping your bottom lip and licking it smooth before moving down your jaw and throat, his lips leaving a light mark at every chance he got. "Can't wait to feel you cum on my face."

He kept on with his mission south, dragging his tongue over any bit of untouched skin he could find as he settled between you thighs, the scruff of his bread scratching you making you shiver.

"Stevie," You whine, your hand finding it's place running through his bourbon brown hair. "Please I want more."

A wide grin curls up on his face as he leans in to press a kiss to your inner thigh, the trail growing closer and closer until a stroke of his breath brushed across the heat of your cunt, goosebumps running over your thighs.

"Pussy so pretty babygirl," He mumbles with a kiss to your clit, making you jump and your thighs squeezing around his head, his left hand wrapping around one thigh to hold it apart as he licked you open. "Lemme in, just let me."

Two broad fingers pushed into you and knocked the air out fo your chest, your body going lax with pleasure as he slowly worked you open, lips enclosing around your clit as with soft licks and suction just as the gentleman he is.

"Fuck Stevie," His name was nothing but a soft whimper on your lips, hips rolling into his touch for more when you felt the bed dip with weight next to you.

"Eyes up here," Bucky's voice cut through your whines as he lifted your jaw up, fingers digging into your cheeks as you looked him over, the toned planes of his chest unable to keep your eyes from drifting down to his clothed free cock. "Don't think you get off the hook that easy."

He shifts around and before you can process his knees are on either side of your chest, pushing your breasts together as his cock stood at full mast in front of you, your mouth watering at the sight of him above you.

"What? You need an invitation?"

You wanted to scoff, to snap back with the same caliber of attitude he was giving you, but between Steve slowly curling his fingers inside you at the perfect angle you were at a loss with how perfectly presented he was to you right now. You start to shake your head before you remember your reprimands from earlier.

"No."

"Good girl, now open wide for me, let Bucky see that pretty mouth that loves to talk back."

Steve hasn't let up for a second, his mouth only giving you a relief to kiss across your thighs and sink his teeth into them before going back in with his teasing kitten licks. You oblige Bucky's command and open your mouth as a small moan slips out watching Bucky stroke himself once, twice before tapping his flushed tip against the width of your tongue.

He doesn't give you a second to beg for more before he's sliding his thick length into your mouth, one hand gripping the headboard above you as the other rests just next your head.

"Goddamn baby, that's it, let me put this mouth to good use."

Another small moan slips past, the heavy warmth of him dragging along the inside of you cheeks as you hollow them out combined with Steve lowering his fingers to slide his tongue alongside into your wet cunt makes your body scorch with pleasure.

Bucky's hand moves to the back of your head, lifting it up just enough so he can rut his hips forward to the back of your throat, wet sounds from your lips and thighs fill the room with muffled moans and sighs of pleasure from the two men.

"Fuck baby, I knew this mouth was good for something other than back talk. Mmph you look so good like this, bet you love having your mouth stuffed full while Stevie makes that pussy feel so good." His hand behind your head digs into your hair, pulling at the roots as you look up at him through water lined eyes.

You can't answer, and even if you could you'd have no rebuttal, you do love it and you never want it to stop. Steve wraps both arms around your thighs, holding you open as he presses one palm down onto your stomach, the pressure mixed with the twisting curl of his fingers snaps something in you.

A muffled cry slips from your mouth and vibrates along Bucky's cock, making him groan and push in farther. Your hips have their own agenda as you buck and grind into Steve through your orgasm, the added layer of his beard scratching at your thighs making you twice as sensitive.

"That's it, grind that pussy against Steve's face, be a good little slut for him."

Bucky's breath hitches in his throat and you can see the way his biceps tighten up so you double down, swirling your tongue every time he pulls back to the tip and hollowing your cheeks out when he pushes back in.

"I feel you trying to make me cum," He groans as he slows his hips to long and deep thrusts, each push in hitting the back of your throat before he pulls out completely. "Only good girls get cum down their throat, and you've been nothing but bad."

A pouty whine slips past your lips as he gets off your chest, your hands trying to follow him away before they're caught in Steve's grip and held down to your sides as he slowly crawled up your body.

"What's wrong bunny? Why're you poutin'?"

"Bucky's mean to me."

Steve smiles as he nudges your thighs further apart with his knees. "Is that right? You want me to give him a stern talking to?"

You nod dramatically and scoot down to flush your thighs to his, your eyes trailing down on him for the first time tonight to see his equally impressive length. For a split second everything hits you all at once and worry crashes over you.

"That's not gonna fit Steve."

Steve just smiles as he gently repositions you, hooking one leg around his waist and bringing the other up to rest against his chest. "Shh, don't you worry about a thing sweet girl."

Bucky chimes in next to you, grabbing your jaw and tilting it towards him. "You're gonna take it all and you're gonna thank him for every inch."

You nod and for the first time tonight you don't get reprimanded for it, rather he leans down and presses his lips to yours, his tongue pushing past to tangle with yours as his hands squeezed at the flesh of your breasts and pinched the peak of your nipples.

"Color?" Steve asks with a gentle squeeze to your thigh, his cock twitching and lightly tapping your cunt.

"Don't stop." You moan with a roll of your hips.

Getting lost in the touch of Bucky you hardly register the feeling of Steve's cock brushing over your clit until it slips further between your folds, just teasing your entrance. Bucky shifts down to lay next to you, moving his lips down to pull a nipple into his mouth a with a sly wink up towards you.

"Buck-ah!" Your words die off with croak of a moan as Steve sinks into you, your thighs instinctively trying to close at the breach of pressure before he grabs the back of your knee and holds you open.

"Ah ah," Bucky chided as he pulled off your breast with a pop to nip and pull at the peak. "Say thank you."

"T-thank you." You hardly manage before another broken moan cuts you off, your head lulling back into the pillows as Steve pushes in further, each inch feeling impossible to bear.

Bucky moves back to kiss your neck as his hand slips down to your clit, just barely ghosting circles over it. "For what?"

"For your— fuck, for every inch of your cock."

"Mm you're welcome bunny," Steve adds with a feather light kiss to your forehead, his breath fanning across your face as he slides in to the hilt with a single thrust, making you both moan in time. "Shit, I should be thanking you pretty girl, you feel so fuckin' good."

Steve's voice, along with everything else in the world, fall away. Nothing registers past the feeling of his cock stretching you through and through, each small shift of his hips pulling pitiful whimpers from your lips as he ruts into you at devastatingly slow pace.

"Aw cmon Stevie," Bucky pouts playfully as he dips his fingers down to where you and Steve meld, the tips of his fingers brushing Steve's cock as his palm presses against your clit making you twitch at the contact. "I know you can fuck harder than that."

Steve doesn't reply, not verbally at least, a small grunt is all that slips out before he's leaning over you, bending your leg to your chest as he grips the headboard in his free hand he pulls out until just the curve of his head is resting inside you before thrusting back in.

A breathless gasp pushes from your lungs as your hands scramble for something solid, landing in the flesh of Steve's bicep as he fucks you blissfully senseless, every snap of his hips winding a tight coil within you.

"S-shit Steve, feels so good— god please don't stop baby."

As if he'd ever. Not with the way your cunt had squeezed around him, selfish and desperately begging for more right alongside you. Lulling your head to the side your eyes catch the small movement from your vanity, it was Bucky, leaning back in the chair with his fist closed around his cock with moving with short and slow strokes.

"You see Bucky sweetheart? See how hard we made him?"

You nod lazily, mind near empty as your eyes fixated on him, your hand extending across the mattress out to him. "Bucky.."

Bucky just smiles at your whine, but you don't miss the way his legs twitch, his chest rising and falling in quick fashion as he times his strokes to Steve's thrusts. Your eyes lock onto each others and it sends a fire over your whole body, any shy or shameful part of you withering away under Bucky's eyes and Steve's touch.

"Gonna be good for him just like you're good for me? Show him how pretty our girl looks when she cums?"

Another pathetic nod as you watch Bucky, your eyes darting from his lips to his cock. "Wanna cum so bad."

"Fuck," Bucky barely mutters, his hips just barely ticking upwards. "Make her cum Steve, lemme see."

With a grunt of agreement Steve leans back, grabbing a pillow from the side and holding your legs together to his chest as he lifted you up and slid it under you. It was a brief pause but it was enough to make you whimper craving more, your hips pushing up against Steve's thighs as he settled in the new position, making you wait even longer as he let his eyes linger over you.

"Please," You whine in a whisper, hands moving up to your chest kneading and pulling the pebbled bud of your nipples. Bucky hisses through his teeth, no doubt in restraint as he slows his strokes.

"Please what, bunny?"

Mouth open to respond he thrusts all the way back in, any words now turned to muddled gibberish as he leans back, allowing your hips to tilt up and perfectly nail each drag of his cock to that sweet spot deep inside of you that makes your toes curl.

"Oh f-fuck," Bucky's voice from the side of you, his lip caught between his teeth as he basically fucks his hand. "Cmon Steve, make her cum so hard she won't know what's you or her, pet that pretty little clit until she's creaming around you."

Bucky's words hit you and Steve at the same caliber as he reaches down to slip his thumb past your lips, gathering up the pooling saliva and centering it right against the aching bundle of nerves between your thighs, making you squirm under him.

"There you go, just like that." You don't know if the praise was for you or Steve but it made your skin tingle all the same. Steve takes kindly to it, his free hand digging into the soft skin of your thighs as he drives into you, the slick slip of his cock in and out of you filling the air.

Your bodies tune into each others, your thighs twitch and walls tighten as Steve's thrusts turn uneven and sloppy as you both chase a so desperately needed high.

"Come on babygirl, cum for me I know you want to, jus' give it to me."

The press of his thumb in one tight circle on your clit snaps that coil, your back arching with a piteous moan of his name, your cunt clenching like a vice around him as he pulls you through it with each thrust. He splits your legs on each shoulder as he hunches over you, your eyes rolled to the back of your head with a flutter as he ruts into you through his own orgasm, spilling every hot and slick drop deep inside of you as he fills you up with a delicious gravelly groan of your name.

You both go lax in the afterglow, your legs falling to the sides as Steve holds himself up above you, your body is buzzing with aftershocks, every inch of you sore but you conjure up enough strength to loop your arm around his neck and pull him flush to you completely.

He lets out a deep hum, hands slipping under you as he momentarily puts his full weight on you. The pressure mixed with the warmth of his cum slowly slipping out of you crashes another wave of fatigue over you, your eyes lulling shut.

Movement stirs your eyes open, Steve holds you firm as he rolls the two over you over, making you makeshift straddle him as he lays back on the headboard. You give him a soft puzzled look before you feel the bed dip behind you, a familiar set of hands running up your sides.

"You know you and Stevie look pretty good together," Bucky murmurs with a gentle tug to the lobe of your ear. "Making all those sweet noises for him."

You lean your weight back against him, head falling back on his shoulder as his licks and kisses his mark onto the column of your throat.

"Gonna make the same little whimpers and moans for me, huh?"

His hands switch between running up your chest between your breasts and down the crease of your inner thigh, just letting his touch wander aimlessly. You soon grow fidgety, hips shifting trying to touch him to brush his cock closer to where you want him most.

"So needy already? What, Steve didn't fuck you good enough?"

"Just want you, Buck please." You mumble with a pout, turning your head to meet him in a kiss. He obliges, humming into you as one of his hands leaves your body, the distinct warmth fading away. You want to pout, jut that lip out in hopes he'll bite it back in and go back to touching you, yet when you pull away and open your eyes your met with a mouth watering sight.

Bucky's hand, the one you almost whined over, was wrapped around Steve's cock. Slow, steady little strokes that twist at the top before going back down leave both you and Steve breathless.

"What'sa matter? Thought you told Steve you were gonna be good for me. Good girls don't whine."

You stifle the irony of another whine, your eyes glazed over as you sunk back to keep watching. Steve's brows with lightly furrowed and his lips hardly parted, just enough to let those breathy little sounds out, each soft whine sending a searing heat between your thighs.

"Bucky," His name is tumbling from your lips before you can help it, hands itching at your sides.

"Hm?"

"Can I touch myself?" He lets out a pleased hum, pressing himself up against you and you exhale in hopes of his allowment.

"No."

There's no holding back the pout this time, you're on the verge of complaining when the air around you shifts, Bucky's hand digging into your hip as he pulls you flush to him. "Sit up Steve."

He does and once he's where Bucky wants him he turns your head for another kiss, this one is bold and bare, all tongue with a graze of teeth before he pulls you away from him.

"Bucky please I need—"

"Need what?" He cuts you off with a knowing smirk. "Need me to touch you? Kiss you? Fuck you like the greedy girl you are?" His hand traces up your spine before gently pushing you down, you flow with gravity and land on your palms right between Steve's thighs.

"Show me you can take it then." The angle change sends chills across your back as you look up at Steve, his face is still flushed with knitted brows and a maddening hard on, you get the sense that he feels just on display as you do.

The slight wave of insecurity is broken by the feeling of Bucky's thumb brushing through the slit of your cunt, just barely pushing in as the rest of his fingers dig into the soft skin of your ass.

"Color."

Your answer comes in actions rather than words as you lean down to capture Steve's length in your mouth, humming at the heavy feel of him and the deep groan that rumbles in his chest. Bucky just scoffs to himself and you're more than sure that he and Steve are sharing another infamous silent conversation right now.

Any chance to reprimand them for it is out the window when Bucky sheathes himself inside you, every inch deliciously filling you to the brim in one deep swift motion that makes you gasp around Steve's cock.

"Shit," Bucky moans and it's pure music to your ears. "God you're right Steve, our girl feels so damn good."

Bucky fucks nothing like Steve. Steve held a pattern, a rhythmic sense to each push and pull of his hips, Bucky is relentlessly fierce, with the determined goal to unravel you from within. You've already made a mess of Steve's cock, face wet with drool and tears as Bucky splits you open, every thrust pushing you to take Steve in further.

"C-careful Buck," Steve stammered out, each hollow of your cheeks making his breath hitch. "Don't wanna break her."

Bucky hums out a laugh, his hands set on your hips pulling you back into him. "Think she wants to be broken Stevie, bet I don't even have to do anything."

To prove his point he stops mid thrust, a garbled whine sounding around Steve's cock. "You want it so badly, take it greedy girl."

You surface for air, spit strings connecting you and Steve as you look back at Bucky who's making no effort to keep moving. A small groan escapes as you start to roll your hips back, starting a slow and shaky pace that pulls moans from all three of you.

"That's it, go on and fuck yourself on this cock." He adds a spank to your ass for emphasis that only makes his knees weak as you clench around him. "Shit, feels so good keep going baby."

After a few moments of coordinating motions you finally find it, that dream pace, your hand steadily jerking Steve's cock as you push and grind into Bucky's, thighs trembling with each smack as the heat of pain blooms across your ass.

"Such a pretty little cockwhore we have Stevie, fucking herself so good." Bucky's voice has dissolved into something utterly irresistible, a low and scratchy tone that scatters chills over your body.

Steve lets out another gracious moan, his rich baritone voice humming through you as he grabs your jaw and lifts you up for a kiss, licking and loving the taste of himself from your mouth. "Even prettier from this side."

"P-please," You whimper into him with a broken moan, your hips burning with ache as you try keep up. "I can't— fuck, I can't anymore, please Buck, Stevie."

"You want Bucky to take over bunny, is that it?"

You nod fervently, your head heavy in his hand as he give you another quick kiss before guiding back down to his lap, letting your head rest in the crux of his thigh. Bucky shifts behind you, spreading your thighs even more as he ruts deep into you with an animalistic fervor.

"This what you wanted? Got tired of doing it yourself and wanted Bucky to use you like the good little fucktoy you are?"

Staggered breaths fell from your lips, eyes nearly in the back of your head, your body a live wire crackling in a storm, waiting for that one lightning bolt to strike.

"God this pussy's so good baby, never gonna let anyone take it from us again, gonna be our good girl from now on."

"Hear that baby?" Steve cooed as he stroked away the hair that stuck to the drool in the corner of your mouth, eyes soft as if he were looking at a masterpiece being made rather than inelegant unraveling of your very being. "Bucky and I are gonna take good care of you."

"B-bucky.. so close." You barely whimper before another smack is landed on your ass, your body tensing and relishing in the pain all at once.

"Take Stevie down your throat and I'll let you cum."

You don't hesitate, lifting your head up and wrapping your lips back around Steve, glancing up at him to watch his head fall back. With a deep breath through your nose you relax your throat, taking as much of him as you can while your fist makes up for the rest, head bobbing in time to Bucky's thrusts.

"Fuck, I feel you baby, squeezing me so tight. Gonna milk every last drop outta me, huh? Take it all like you took Stevie's, with a fucking smile on your face."

A sputter of a moan echoes out as your thighs tremble, bright heat soaring across every nerve in your body as your orgasm rips through you, tears pricking your waterline as Bucky follows you over, two more searing smacks on your ass punctuate his high. Steve's hand sweeps your hair to the back of your neck, fisting a handful as he graciously holds your head up as he ruts his hips into your mouth, lashes stuck together as you looked up at him with pleading eyes.

The salty drip of precum hits your tongue first as not soon after you feel each rope spurt hitting the back of you're throat as you swallowed around him, not letting a single drip out as he pulls you off and lets your head fall back down on his thigh.

Bright white circles spot across your vision as your eyes flicker open. Your brows furrow as you look around, you're laying on Steve's chest with a solid warmth behind you.

"There you are, hey pretty girl." Steve's voice fully brings you back as you sit up slightly, an arm around your waist holding you in place as you look back to see Bucky spooned up against you, eyes low lidded with a small smirk as you settled back into place.

"How you feeling?"

"Good."

"Just good?" Bucky teased from behind you, earning a flick from Steve and a small laugh from all.

"Definitely more than good."

"Good." Steve echoes out with a kiss to your forehead, pulling both you and Bucky closer in. A few moments of quiet pass by and as much as sleep is calling your name there's another, stronger presence nagging at the back of your mind.

"Guys?"

They both hum in response and you almost laugh, baffled by how similar they go back to being after such polar opposites.

"What.. happens now?"

Steve's arm tightens around you as he scoots impossibly closer. "Whatever you want. You want us gone in the morning just say the word."

"And if I don't?"

"Then we'll be right here when you wake up." Bucky answers as he switches off the table lamp, the soft glow in the room giving way to cool darkness that soothes your bones from within as both men hold you tight.

"And in the morning you'll be kissing me so sweet while begging to be Steve's little bunny again while he ruins you from the inside out."

♡ warnings/notes:

not many warnings for this one, but this is highlyyyyy self indulgent so prepare for lots of hurt/comfort and a heap of pet names! :D *(not proofread)*

Somehow, you end up at Bucky’s. 

Your ex is still at his place, where you just left. Your own apartment is small and dark and if you’re alone right now, you’re inevitably going to spiral. Your friends never liked him in the first place, sure, but you’re not in the mood to celebrate just yet. 

 You doubt most people are, less than an hour after a breakup. 

Your first thought other than them is your dad’s place. It’s a ways outside the city and you and him aren’t really that close. At best, he’ll probably give you a one-armed hug and awkwardly try to make a joke to lighten the tension that’ll accidentally hurt your feelings, but you’re desperate. Maybe he’ll let you crash in the guest bedroom and slip out tomorrow while he’s at work and you’re hopefully a little steadier on your feet. 

Except that it’s raining so much it sounds like static on the hood of your car, and when you get your dad’s voicemail, he’s out of the country for work until next week. 

You don’t pull off the road, because the moment you stop moving you’re going to break down completely. You’re already out of the city, so you head toward the only other place you can go without turning around, some wounded part of you taking the wheel, getting you to some place that feels safe. 

Your father isn’t much of a sentimental man. Ever since he retired from the service he’s poured himself into his business, using the long hours and the travel as an excuse to ignore dealing with the trauma you know he doesn’t talk about. 

That’s where he met Bucky—a handful of years younger and probably a little wiser too, they’d served together for nearly ten years until your father burned in and out and Bucky lost his arm in the service. In the years since, you’ve crossed paths with Bucky often, trying to draw your father out of his shell. 

Where your father’s other friends have been varying shades of disrespectful to you over the years, Bucky’s always been kind. Reliable, responsible, even protective at times. Between your bleak childhood and your lackluster relationships, you’ve never really had that from anyone else before. 

That’s what you use to rationalize your decision to go there now, when it’s raining and dark and nearing one o’clock in the morning. You feel angry and hurt, yeah, but mostly just—unsteady. Your independence makes it difficult to admit as much to anyone out loud, but Bucky won’t be rude or patronizing. He’ll give you somewhere to wait it out until you’re somewhat okay again. Or as close as you can be, you guess. 

Bucky’s particular about his security measures, so you know he sees the headlights coming up the drive even through the rain. You pull up and park, grabbing your phone and leaving everything else behind. Bucky’s house is off the main road and surrounded by trees, not like your apartment building where people break into car windows every other night. It’ll be safe here, just like you will. 

You squint at the yellow light in the window as you blaze a path toward the front steps, your jacket tugged up over your head. You’ve hardly knocked before Bucky opens it with a signature frown, but it softens when your own lips tremble. 

Without asking questions, he tugs you off the porch and inside the house, and the rush of warmth you feel only makes your eyes water more. He checks you over for injuries—a reflex he’s never trained himself out of—before helping you out of your jacket and to the dining table. 

“Sorry. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, and I was already headed this way. My dad’s out of town. And all my friends would just say I told you so, which is really just—“ you hiccup on a sob, despite your best efforts, “—not what I need to hear right now.” 

“Hey. You’re always welcome to come here. You know that. Y’don’t gotta come up with a reason.” Bucky tugs a chair of his own in front of yours and reaches out with his flesh hand to rub up and down your arm, working heat back into the spot. With the other one, carefully, he catches a drop of moisture from your chin before it can fall. “C’mere. Who’re these tears for, huh?”

You walk him through the lead up to getting here, leaving out some of the grittier details that’re still too fresh to share without making you more upset. His thumb rubbing circles into your arm keeps you grounded enough to get through it, your nervous system tilting a little more toward tentative calm than impending breakdown. 

This is why you came here, you think; because being around Bucky is like exhaling when you’ve been holding your breath your entire life. 

You burn yourself out from every angle—with work, with your friends, in your relationships, offering to take on as much as you can so that you’re useful. Needed. But then what does that leave leftover for you? 

You’re tired of trying to earn things. Desire, respect, love. But you don’t know how to stop. 

“I’ll kill him,” Bucky says seriously when you’re finished talking, fingers twitching on your arm while you shiver from the cold. 

“You don’t have to do that.” Your smile is wobbly; you can never really tell if he’s joking or not. “Believe me, I’ve already said my piece. I don’t think he wants to talk to me ever again.” 

“His loss,” Bucky grumbles. 

You nod, but the momentary confidence doesn’t last despite the hardened edge of Bucky’s furrowed brow. His eyes dart to it when your lower lip shakes again, helpless to stop it, and you shrug. 

“I’m just—” your breath hitches. 

“Just what, sweetheart?” 

“I’m just so tired.” 

You sob again, and Bucky yanks your chair forward, rain water be damned, and folds you into a hug. His hand on the back of your head feels like relief, his arm big enough around your shoulders to make you feel not quite so out of place anymore. 

“Tired of what, honey?” 

“Of trying so hard. I’m the one that reaches out, schedules dates, makes reservations. I’m the one that remembers anniversaries and birthdays. The one that has to remind people to love me,” you muffle into his shirt, clenching it in your fist. “So then, when they leave, it’s like—I’m cleaned out. I wasted all my energy and time and feelings on somebody else and they’re fine, relieved, even but I’m—empty.”

You have to stop to catch your breath for a minute, but Bucky waits you out. He’s always been attentive like that, the one to circle back and ask what you were thinking when everyone else cut you off. He makes silence feel like an invitation instead of an accusation. 

“And after a while, it’s so easy to think—is it me? I’m trying to be good, to do all the right things to make them want to stay but maybe—maybe I’m—stifling them, or—” 

“Hey,” Bucky does stop you then, pulling back to look you in the eye. “You are good. Anybody who can’t see that doesn’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Okay?” 

It’s not a monologue, but you don’t need one of those anyway. It’s easy to believe the things Bucky says, so straightforward and firm, light about certain things but sharp when it comes to people he cares about. 

It still kind of shocks you that you fall into that category. 

With a tilt of his head, Bucky squeezes with the hands he’s got on your shoulders and nods toward the stairs. 

“Go take a shower. Use the one in my room—it’s got all the fancy soaps and nice towels and shit—and when you come back down, I’ll have something for you to eat.”

“Bucky,” you shake your head. “You don’t have to…”

“I know I don’t,” he says. “Go.”

Too tired to deny yourself the comfort, you offer him a small smile as he heads for the kitchen and you move toward the hallway. 

You’re not good at taking orders. 

Somehow, with Bucky, it doesn’t seem like much of a sacrifice. 

Bucky’s shower is fucking amazing. 

You don’t ever want to leave it. The water pressure is fantastic, the temperature consistently warm around you, the fog on the glass panels around you making you feel soft and sheltered. And he was right—there’s a shelf to the side full of the ‘fancy shit’, so you take your pick of a nice soap and a body wash that smells like him, taking your time the way you can’t in your own apartment. 

Halfway through, there’s a knock on the ensuite door. 

“Yeah?” you call over the shower. 

“You want me to throw your clothes in the dryer for you? I can leave you a change for when you get out.” 

You sigh. “Yeah, Bucky. That’d be great. Thank you.”  

You can’t see much through the frosted glass, but the vague shape of Bucky on the other side of the shower as he swipes your wet clothes and leaves you a fresh change of his own make you flush regardless. You glance down at your body as the water runs over it and down the drain, touching your fingertips to several spots that catch your eye. You know your ex had a tendency to say things he didn’t mean when he got his feelings hurt, but a few of them had hit a little too close to home tonight. 

You wonder if Bucky would have the same things to say about you under the right circumstances, or if maybe men’s tastes change with age. You’ve had a bad pick, but they can’t all be liars, surely. 

The worst part of this is that you’re not even that upset about this ex specifically. If you’re honest with yourself, you could never envision anything long term with him anyway. But you keep doing this—keep meeting men you think you can make a home out of and getting upset when they don’t change. You’d meant what you accidentally let slip to Bucky; that after so much, you begin to realize that you’re the common denominator here. 

Unwilling to spiral right at the end of what had turned out to be a nice reprieve of a shower, you turn off the water and grab the soft towel, stepping onto the mat beside the tub and dry off. 

You steal a little of Bucky’s lotion and mouthwash, wiping underneath your tired eyes with a wet edge of the towel. The clothes Bucky left for you are obviously his, and you flush when you notice his boxers in place of your regular underwear. He must’ve taken it to be washed with the rest of your clothes. 

In a soft red long-sleeved shirt and his boxers, you leave the flannel sleep pants he’d left on the counter. You’re already warm from the shower, and his underwear reaches about to where a pair of shorts would rest on your thigh, even with the band rolled several times at your hips to keep them up. 

You get déjà vu walking down the stairs, even though you’ve never done it quite like this before. The rumble of the laundry is subtle in the background as your bare feet cross over dark hardwood floors and angled rugs, the smell of warm, freshly made food rushing to greet you as you get closer to the lamp-lit living room and the kitchen. 

And there’s Bucky when you get there, flipping off the stove and grabbing plates like it’s not bothering him to have to do this for you. To have you here in general. You feel restless with the need to help, but you know he won’t let you. 

The table’s already set when you get to it, a glass of water waiting. You take a seat and sip slowly on it, hoping it’ll ease the knot already forming again in your throat. All of this is as much a comfort as it is a reminder of all that you’ve always wanted but don’t yet have yourself. Your father didn’t bother making much of a home, so it’s always been something you’ve wanted to make on your own when you were older. 

What Bucky has here, it’s effortless. 

And it’s not yours, no matter how much you wish it was. 

“Thank you,” you tell Bucky when he sets a warm plate in front of you, keeping your head down against his watchful gaze. 

And it is watchful—you can feel his eyes on you while you eat, his presence comforting even if his conversation has always skewed a little more toward silence if it’s not you filling it up. You tell yourself you’re imagining the way he lingers longer than usual, that it can’t be any of the same things you’re thinking about: you making yourself at home, eating his food, wearing his clothes, smelling like him. You’re trying all of this on, not keeping it. You need to get ahold of yourself. 

But when the food’s gone and Bucky moves your plates aside, you don’t have anything left to keep yourself distracted, and your eyes water again. 

“Feel like an idiot,” you laugh, digging your palms into them roughly. “He’s not worth crying over.” 

Bucky reaches over to drag your hands away. “I’d agree with that. But it’s okay to cry. Most people just shove it down and ignore it. You’ve always been a little softer than that,” he says, thumb traveling back and forth against your pulse. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, either.” 

“Feels like there is,” you argue halfheartedly. “I just wish people wouldn’t say they want the same things I do and then change their minds.” 

Bucky’s head tilts then, thoughtful. 

“What do you want?”

“I want—this,” you gesture around Bucky’s house. “Hot meals instead of takeout. A house instead of my shitty apartment. Somebody to come home to that actually wants to see me. That doesn’t want all-in and then gets sick of me before the year’s even over.” 

With a heavy breath and a furrow in his brow that tells you he’s working to come up with the right thing to say, Bucky squeezes your wrists on top of the table in reassurance. 

“You deserve everything you want,” he says. 

“Do I?” 

You struggle to swallow, but Bucky remains firm. 

“Yes. You do.”

Both of you linger for another few moments before you stand to clear the table. Bucky deals with the place settings and the glasses while you carry the plates and silverware to the sink. 

Muscle memory you shouldn’t have takes over as you turn the tap to warm and run a hand under it to check, then reach for the stopper to put in the drain so it’ll fill. You drizzle dish soap in next and turn the water off when there’s a shallow few inches, dipping your hands and one of the plates into the bubbles. 

It’s where you are when Bucky joins you a minute later, glasses in hand. He steps up beside you, dumping the remaining water down the other side of the sink before he sets the glasses down and presses a hand to your hip over his shirt. 

“Go sit down. You’re not cleanin’ up.” 

“It’s the least I can do, Bucky.” 

“The least you can do is let me take care of you.” 

Something about the assurance in his voice, about the words—your desires laid out so clearly in a way that not only implies that they’re okay to want, but also that they can be seen at all without you having to ask, to beg, to say anything at all—makes you whimper. 

Bucky’s like a furnace beside you, the noise you made unavoidable with his keen senses. You freeze with your hands in the water, gripping the soapy plate like a lifeline as Bucky slots into place directly behind you. 

“I want that,” you admit in a whisper, your eyes clenched shut. 

Bucky bends to nose at your covered shoulder, inhaling. “I know, sweetheart. Y’always have.” 

His body eclipses yours completely as he slips his own hands in alongside yours, past the cuff of the rolled sleeves and underneath the water. He pulls the plate from your grip and your hands from the water altogether, reaching for the rag. Methodically, carefully, he dries your fingers and palms until only a little dampness resides in the webbing between digits and the tiny lines that make up your knuckles. 

When he sets the rag aside, his own fingers replace it. They slide through the gaps in yours, his right linked with your left and vice versa, as he tugs you back against his chest and holds you there with the criss-cross of his arms over your stomach. Even the prosthetic, you notice, feels warm tonight. 

It’s special, one of the first and only of its kind; a tailor-made prototype he’d been awarded for his sacrifice in favor of saving the lives of others. He’s always careful with it, careful with you when he touches you with it. You’ve never minded it. It’s just another thing that makes him sturdy, strong. Capable. 

“This is nice,” you tell him quietly, afraid to fracture the moment if you’re too loud. 

He exhales against your shoulder again, shakier this time as his mouth grazes the fabric. “You feel real nice in my arms. Fit like a glove.” 

Your breathing quickens. “Bucky…” 

“Say the word and I’ll stop,” he says, mistaking your want for warning. “Want you to be comfortable, sweetheart. Want you to feel safe.” 

“Don’t let go,” you border on pleading, turning to meet his eye up over your shoulder. 

He’s already looking at you when you do. His flesh hand, more damp with water than your dry ones, slowly disentangles itself from you. You feel his fingertips graze up the outside of your wrist, the barest of touches as he lifts it up past your chest that’s bare underneath his shirt. Finally he reaches your face, grazing your hair with his knuckles. 

When you lean your head back against his shoulder, he grips your jaw with his fingers. At first it’s innocent enough, his thumb stroking over your cheek, your chin. But when he reaches your mouth, you can feel the shift as his gaze grows heavy. 

A graze of his thumb against the corner of your lips makes them part, your breath warm through the gap. You nearly stop altogether when he presses against the padding over your lower one, swollen from your teeth and slick with the water at dinner. You struggle to think of anything at all at the moment, but you know that you haven’t been touched like this before. Like maybe you’re just as capable of breaking as everyone else is, even if you don’t show it. 

Bucky knows. Regardless of your differences or how fleeting your interactions are, he sees you, and the thrill of being understood is something you’ve long since believed you’d never feel again. 

The seam of your mouth opens further at the gentle prodding of his thumb, unable to look away from him as he traces around the slack curve with the digit. The dip of your cupid’s bow, the full center of your lower lip before it thins at the corners again. 

The way his thumb fits neatly into the suction of your lips when he slips it past them like it was made to be there. 

You close your mouth around it, tentative as you press against his fingerprint with your tongue, and Bucky hisses in a breath from behind. 

“Tell me what you want,” he rasps, slipping his thumb out again to spread your spit across your lips, eyes glistening at the sight. “It’s yours.” 

Without turning around, you reach your free hand back to grip the side of his face and pull him toward your mouth. He has to dip low to meet you but he does it without complaint, his exhale against your mouth nearly as relieved as yours against his. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your jaw aching from being turned over your shoulder as Bucky’s hand settles loosely over the front of your neck to hold you steady, his tongue content to roam freely as it explores your mouth. He kisses you slowly, deeply, thoroughly enough that you feel it in all your limbs. The way you picture it in the movies, like something finally slotting into place. 

“I want you, Bucky,” you breathe when he parts for air, making certain there’s no confusion. 

With a shuddering breath, Bucky drops a hand from your throat to squeeze your hip. “Love havin’ you here. Y’know that? In my house. Wearin’ my clothes. S’like a dream.” 

“I like knowing I can come here,” you tell him honestly. 

“Always. You come and tell me when you need me and I’m there. Got it?” 

As you nod, Bucky moves the hair from your neck. He leans in close again, undoubtedly catching the scent of his body wash on your skin, and you shiver almost violently when his mouth seals against your pulse. He sucks on the spot, patient, deliberate, then grazes the sensitive area with his teeth before moving on to your shoulder. 

His shirt’s big on you, so it doesn’t take much to nudge the collar enough that it falls off one shoulder. You gasp at the cool air against what the shirt had kept so warm, but Bucky hesitates before he lowers his mouth again. 

“Hey,” he presses into your cheek. “You sure about this?” 

“I usually just cry in my apartment after a breakup,” you manage with a shaky chuckle. “I think I’m allowed to have an ill-advised rebound at least once.” 

At once, Bucky’s grip slackens around you, halfway between holding on and letting go. 

His tone is carefully neutral when he asks, “S’that what this is to you?” 

You glance down at the soapy water and shake your head, your false smile evaporating with your nerves. 

“No.” 

“Gotta be clearer than that,” Bucky tells you. “You’re too important to fuck this up over a misunderstanding.” 

Asking you to think clearly right now is criminal, but that tender, emotional part of you understands where he’s coming from you. It’s the same one inside of your own head that’s screaming at you in big, bold, unignorable letters: this is not casual. 

By design, it can’t be. You’ve wanted this for too long for it to be anything other than life changing. 

Leaving no room for misunderstanding, you use the grip you have on his prosthetic hand to drag it down off your abdomen, past your hips, in between your legs. Bucky inhales sharply when you urge his fingers to press right up against your cunt through the thin fabric of his boxers, and you whimper an exhale in response at the pressure. 

His digits twitch over your entrance, and then slide up to press directly against your clit. “Need me here?” 

“This isn’t a rebound,” you tell him urgently. “If—if that’s okay with you.” 

“If it’s okay with me?” He huffs a mean little laugh, using the prosthetic fingers to peel one leg of the boxers to the side while his flesh hand lowers between your thighs to meet it. “If it was up to me, you’d never leave.” 

The first touch of warm fingers against you pulls a moan from your chest as you lean back against the hot, solid weight of his body. Truthfully, you’d been a little wet earlier just from the thought of him handling your underwear and you wearing his clothes. But that’s nothing compared to the way your body’s responded since Bucky was actually in proximity, close enough to experience with your senses and not just with your mind. 

Dipping two fingers across your entrance, Bucky gathers enough slick on his fingers to drag it up, rubbing in slow circles over your clit. You cling to the arm he’s got secure around your hips as you try to keep from tilting into the pressure, turning your face into his neck to escape the intensity of his touch. 

He takes his time, rubbing you in hazy circles, dipping down to tease against the spread of your cunt, splitting two fingers on either side of your clit to squeeze until you shudder in his arms. 

“Want me inside?” 

You nod. “Please.” 

Bending, he finally presses his mouth against your exposed shoulder. “I’ve got you. Makin’ it nice and easy for me—got my boxers all wet, didn’t you? So I can just slide right in?” 

In theory, yes. This is more excited than you’ve been with most of your other partners, the fabric damp against you and smearing against the top of your thighs. But you’ve also always been tight, and the way your muscles clench at the sound of Bucky’s voice isn’t doing much to help you. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let me in,” Bucky encourages, thick middle finger tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. He dips it inside of you in teasing intervals until you relax enough for him to sink in to the first knuckle, both of you sighing with it. “There we go. S’better, isn’t it?” 

You tremble out an answer, momentarily lost in the wave of his finger as it slides in and out of you, fluid and hot and unbelievable. He sucks another mark into your skin as he works it all the way inside and rocks you on it until it’s comfortable, and then begins to ease in another. 

“Know you’ve been achin’ for me. I can fix it, honey. Gonna make it all better. Okay? Y’let me do that for you?” 

He drags his lips back across your shoulder and up the side of your neck, your head rolled to the side to bare it to him. His kiss is sweet, chaste, nothing like the stretch of his second digit tucked inside of your cunt. 

“Just wanna take care’a you, sweet girl,” he continues with a rasp, curling the digits and holding you like that. “All I’ve ever wanted.” 

“Bucky,” you plead. 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he urges. “S’that the spot? Feel good? Know y’are—grippin’ me so tight. Trying to keep me, huh?” 

The drag of them in and out of you makes you weak in the knees, Bucky’s weight grounding you steady as he holds you between himself and the sink. The water’s gone cold, the dishes abandoned, and you let yourself believe, just for a moment, that this is something you could keep. 

“Don’t have to worry about that, honey. Couldn’t stay away from you if I tried,” Bucky goes on. “And God, I’ve tried. Promise I have, sweetheart. Tried to be good.” 

“So have I,” you confess, your brain lagging behind your mouth. You feel Bucky’s head turn against your cheek, intrigued. 

“Yeah? You been thinkin’ about me too, sweet girl?” 

Well. If you’re admitting things. 

“S’the only way I could ever…with—” 

“Don’t,” Bucky stops you firmly, prosthetic closing in a grip on your jaw. “Don't you dare say another name while I’m inside you.” 

“Bucky,” you whimper. 

His touch turns sweeter at the noise, stroking over your cheek. “Shh, s’okay. I’ll give you whatever you want, honey, promise. But I don’t want there to be any mistake of who’s makin’ you feel so good. You understand?” 

“I—I understand, Bucky,” you acquiesce easily. 

“Good.” He turns you further so he can smear his mouth against yours again. “That’s a good girl, sweetheart. Thank you.” 

Between your legs, your cunt has had ample time to learn the shape of Bucky’s fingers. His focus narrows, pinpoints, the bumps of his knuckles a wonderful ache every time they curve past your entrance and settle inside of you again. 

You cling to his forearms as both of his hands delve in between your thighs the same way they had the water earlier, confident and determined. His flesh fingers curl up inside of you and hone in on your sweet spot as cool metal ones settle firmly over the bump of your clit, and you’re trapped in sensation as he rocks you on them, drawing you deeper and deeper into the warmth in your core. 

“Give me one,” he growls against your ear, taking the lobe between his teeth as he works you quicker. “Been waitin’ for it for so long, sweetheart. Got no idea. Give it to me, know you can.” 

Your head falls back against his shoulder, your eyes following a similar trajectory as you push into the heat of his hands. He’s all around you, inescapable, taking control in the way you crave but never give anyone enough power to actually execute. 

You’d give just about anything to Bucky, and it’s terrifying. It’s exciting. 

Your first orgasm hits you fast and hard and leaves you reeling after the steep edge, your body clenching and shivering as it tries to decide if it wants more or needs a break. You cling to Bucky where you can as you ride out the waves, your hips rolling up against his hands, his deft fingers working you all the way through it before he finally pulls them away. 

When your feet are finally flat to the hardwood again, you sway in his grip. 

“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “Easy. Little shaky, huh? Hold onto me. I’ve got you.” 

He turns you and slips an arm underneath your back and your knees; a move that you would’ve protested if you could find any words at the moment. But all you do right now is focus on catching your breath, a fist clutching his shirt as he carries you out of the kitchen and pauses at the base of the stairs—Bucky’s bedroom to one side of the hallway, the guest room on the other. 

You’re relieved when he asks, “Can I take you to my bed?” 

Within a minute of your breathless yes he’s got you deposited onto his sheets, your body bouncing a little with his eagerness. You land in the center of his bed, your elbows propping you up, your chest rising and falling quickly as you watch him watching you. 

His shirt has ridden up your hip with all the movement, and his boxers are crooked on your hips, slanted out of place from his hands inside of them. Bucky steps up to circle one of your ankles with his fingers, and you feel the nerves edging back in the longer he talks with his eyes instead of his mouth. 

“Are you gonna fuck me?” you ask in a rush, hoping to avert his attention but flushing at your own forwardness. Bucky’s eyes flick up to yours, his mouth twitching something a little fond and a little filthy, and he shakes his head. 

“Gonna do something a whole lot better than just fuckin’ you, sweet girl. Keep this on,” he says, tugging at the shirt before he pushes it further up your torso to rest atop your ribs. “Lay back. Lemme look at you.” 

Easing slowly backward again, you try to let yourself relax into the plush softness of Bucky’s sheets. Your ex was a difficult man to please. He wanted you on top a lot of the time so he could lie back, but then there was always something else to nitpick. He didn’t like the lingerie you’d chosen, but he’d say you weren’t trying if you wore your regular underwear, as if you’d woken up in the morning thinking what would he like? He’d finish fast and then claim he was too tired to get you off, but the very existence of your vibrator in the nightstand was like a personal offence. He was insecure, just like a lot of the others had been. And you, a people pleaser to a fault, had gone out of your way to be what they wanted despite your own needs, even when some part of you knew it would always be a losing game. 

It’s probably one of the things that first attracted you to Bucky. He just owns everything he does. Calm and self-assured but never cocky about it, willing to speak up and readapt if he makes mistakes. 

You have to know yourself before you can trust yourself, and Bucky’s a man that knows, intimately, what he wants. 

On your back with him, you feel on display in a much different way. Instead of holding your breath, waiting for him to point out something wrong or that needs changing, it’s almost thrilling, watching his gaze run over you and wondering what’s going to come out of his mouth next. 

He plants a knee on the mattress beside your leg, his eyes following his body up and up until he reaches your face. He’s not shy about gripping the back of your neck to pull you up to his mouth, and the firm hold on such a vulnerable spot makes you gasp against his lips. 

He kisses you until you’re pliant enough to fall back against the sheets completely, and then his mouth begins to trail south. 

The tip of your chin and the underside of your jaw, the divot at the base of your throat and your collarbones. He drags his lips over the fabric of his shirt pooled over your breasts, his kisses turning momentarily wet and slow when he manages to find the peak of your nipple beneath the material. You whine, fingers slipping into his hair, but he keeps moving down between your ribs with a flicker of a grin on its way to something a little darker. 

“You don’t deserve to be fucked,” he rasps, smoothing a kiss underneath your navel as his fingers hook into the boxers. “Gonna love on this sweet body ‘til you forget any of those other names. ‘Til there’s only mine.” 

With his biceps curled around your thighs, Bucky promptly yanks you to the edge of the mattress. Your heartbeat flips and flutters as he kneels on the floor peeling the boxers off completely and leaving you bare in front of him. 

Tugging your legs to rest over his shoulders, Bucky turns his face into the skin above the inside of your knee and inhales. His exhale is a groan as he bites a kiss into the sensitive area, then makes his way up toward the slick, warm apex of your thighs. 

You cry out at the first press of his mouth against your cunt, bare and uninhibited. You’re a mess from his fingers earlier and Bucky’s tongue is on a mission to taste more than it is to clean you up, dragging rough circles around your clit and dipping down to bury itself inside of you before he sweeps up to do it all again. 

You’ve never heard him make noises like this before, low and muffled into the folds of your cunt while he takes his fill. It’d be a lot either way, but you’re still a little twitchy from your first orgasm, and Bucky eats you out with a precision that’s impossible to escape from. Your back arches on the sheets, your own throat raw with your sounds, your hands grappling at the sheets by your hips. 

When you manage to tilt your chin to your chest to look between your legs, Bucky’s already watching you. 

His stubble is coarse against your skin, face flushed and smeared with your wetness, eyes dark and half-lidded with the sweep of his dark lashes. You’re so busy watching him that you hardly register his hands slipping under your thighs and up, skimming your hips on his way toward your chest. 

His fingers take his shirt even higher, his gaze momentarily dipping as he reaches your breasts. Your spine arches further, the weight of your breasts hot and heavy in his hands. You’re caught between the flick of his thumbs across your nipples and the equally as enticing shape his tongue takes as it ravages your cunt, dizzy with the force of your head falling backward as you moan. 

You feel so worked up you could almost cry with it, desperate in a way that you seldom allow yourself to be. It treads that tantalizing line between control and surrender—even when you were people pleasing, that was a way to keep hold of the situation in your own way. With Bucky, all of your weak spots like magnets to his hands and mouth and attention, there’s nowhere left to hide. 

You aren’t sure you want to anymore. Not with him. 

Bucky exhales, hot and slick against the crease of your thigh as he separates from you long enough to speak. “Taste so good, sweetheart. Give me one more and I’ll fill you up, give this needy cunt what you’ve been missing.” 

It’s all the reprieve you get before he’s dipping back into you with his mouth, the noises obscene as he sucks and swivels and teases you with the barest hint of his teeth. Your chest seizes as your release builds again, threatening to overwhelm you with how steep you were thrown into it. 

You reach out for Bucky on instinct, and his hands slip off your breasts to tangle with your fingers. He holds them on top of your stomach, using the grip to steady your hips from bucking out of his reach. You can’t stop moving, your muscles tensing in rhythmic waves, your body mimicking its climax in anticipation before you’ve even reached it; like it has no doubt that Bucky will get you there. 

And he does, moments later, practically growling against your cunt while you hump against his face. He’s fixed points where you’re all fluid movement, electricity sparking at the places you connect. 

Your second orgasm leaves you even more off balance, sensitive, aching for more even as you tremble with the aftershocks. You can feel yourself spasming around nothing, the tease of Bucky’s chin cruel where it touches the entrance of your cunt but doesn’t give you anything inside. 

With a contrastingly sweet kiss to your clit, Bucky pushes off of his knees. He stands above you at the foot of the bed, watching you catch your breath as he strips himself of his shirt, pants, and boxers. You bite your lip at the first sight of him completely bare before you, even more than the time at the lake in his sinfully small bathing suit. That image had been in your fantasies for—well, it hadn’t ever really left. 

Needy for touch after having been left aching for it, you sit up, Bucky’s shirt falling back down around your hips as you reach for him. He lets you for a minute, your arms circling his hips to pull him close as he leans down to lick the taste of yourself onto your tongue. It’s heady, hot, your face burning when he pulls back to watch you savor it while he thumbs at your lower lip. 

One hand holds the back of your neck while the other reaches in between your thighs again, his fingers dipping into the seam of your cunt with little resistance. 

“We need a condom, sweetheart?” 

You debate it for a moment, Bucky’s touch patient while you think, and surprised when you shake your head. 

“I’m on the pill. And no one else has ever—without, before,” you admit, losing your nerve toward the end of it. 

He groans as he leans down to kiss you again. “Gonna be the death of me,” Bucky mutters, looking all too happy about it while he does. 

With his hands under your arms, Bucky moves you up the bed again until your head is on his pillows. There’s a part of you that’s liking the possession of all of this more than you have any right to; Bucky’s bed, his sheets, his shirt, his scent all over you, his body draped over you like a filthy, loving embrace. 

And you want more. 

“Need you,” you gasp as he settles himself in between your thighs, his broad hips widening the split, making room. 

Held up by his elbows, Bucky leans down to nudge his nose with yours and kiss you slow and sweet. “Know you do, baby. I need you too.” 

The slide of his mouth against yours soothes some of that frantic ache inside of you, gives you something to focus on instead of the emptiness. You feel so safe here, so small—but never in the way that the others made you feel. Bucky kisses you, holds you like you mean something to him. God, you want to. 

You inhale sharply when you feel him rub the tip of his cock against you, smearing it through your wetness. It circles your sensitive clit and then dips down to nudge at your entrance, Bucky’s hand on top of your head, his eyes locked on yours as he begins to push slowly. 

The stretch as the head of his cock slips inside makes both of you shudder. Bucky’s breathing through his teeth but he keeps his tone gentle when he says, “Deep breath. You’ve got it. Gonna let my cock inside like you did my fingers?”

“S’big,” you offer despite your nod, hypnotized by the precipice between empty and filled as Bucky pushes in a little further. 

“I know, honey. But you were made to take it, weren’t you?” he asks, lips pressed to your cheek, the corner of your eye. His voice roughens into something less composed. “Nobody else was good enough. Couldn’t fill you up like this. Give you what you needed.” 

You nod again, helpless as your cunt bears down around him and draws him inside you further. You whimper and Bucky curses into your hair, trembling with carefully grasped control. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and tucks his face against yours as he works himself in inch by slow inch, your body opening up for him with his gentle coaxing. 

“So fuckin’ tight. So soft around me. Like—fuck,” Bucky swears, finally slipping inside you to the hilt as you clench around him. “S’like comin’ home.” 

Your voice trembles around his name, tears swimming in your eyes. “Bucky.” 

“That’s it. Just my name. All mine,” Bucky agrees, pressing salty kisses against your eyelids. “Sounds so pretty when you say it, sweetheart. Want you to say it when you come.” 

He pulls out of you a little before sinking back in, and a breathy moan punches its way out of your chest. You cling to his arms, his shoulders, his back, unable to contain everything he’s making you feel. 

You’ve never been allowed to show much emotion. It was immature, or annoying, or an inconvenience. But Bucky isn’t scared of your feelings, and he knows better than to stop when you cry. It’s catharsis, a release better than the orgasms, in some ways. Something truly only Bucky could give you. 

It’s more intense face to face, when Bucky can watch you and hold you and kiss you as much as he wants. He fucks you—makes love to you, even—with an unspoken understanding that you hadn’t even achieved with your ex after months of dating. 

It could all be so simple, if only it wasn’t. 

Bucky lifts one of your thighs around him so he can sink in even deeper, the pace of his thrusts more focused on feeling instead of speed. He’s bare inside of you, every curve and ridge of his cock intimately acquainted with your cunt, taking his shape. He breathes hot against your mouth, sharing air, watching your wet eyes and letting both of you feel every second of it. 

“Love that you came to me. Knew I’d take care of you,” he kisses the curve of your top lip gently, then the lower one as his fingers twitch in your hair. “Been waitin’. Hoping.” 

“Me too,” you breathe. “M’sorry I waited so long.” 

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothin’ to be sorry for. Would’ve waited as long s’it took.” 

The hitch in your breath gets stolen by Bucky’s tongue as it dips into your mouth again, deep and eager to map out every last inch of you. His hips move a little faster, hand smoothing over the outside of your thigh as he rocks into you with just a bit more force, and the extra momentum makes the head of his cock nudge up against your spot. 

Leaning up on his elbow, Bucky reaches down between your bodies, shoving his shirt up over your breasts again for his mouth, tucking his hand between your legs to feel where you’re connected. 

“Want you to give me one more, baby. Wanna feel you fall apart around me, huh?” He swirls his tongue around your nipple, sucking it into his mouth. “Gonna get this sweet cunt used to me. Make it all mine.” 

His fingers settle on your clit with single-minded determination, but he lacks all of the ignorant, over eager chaos of other hands that have done the same. He’s careful to watch your face for when he finds just the right pressure, the right spot, your body responding to him as your nails dig into his bicep, your ankle at his lower back, your cunt tight like a vice around him. 

His cock curves up into you right where you need it, thick and full and soothing the ache just as much as its sure to leave another behind, and his fingers bumping against your already sensitive clit and the top of your opening have you gasping on the sheets as you chase yet another climax. 

You let Bucky be your anchor again as the sensation takes you over, your blood humming with the satisfaction of physical connection and long awaited intimacy. He keeps you spread out for him every time you try to shy away, murmurs encouragement and praise into your jaw and lets you cry for him as much as you need. 

You go tumbling over the edge for a third time, and every bit of it is slow. The build, the plateau, the shivering rush of lingering aftershocks that leaves you clinging to Bucky not just as an anchor, but as a lifeline. 

“Good girl,” Bucky growls, kissing your slack mouth without breaking the pace of his hips. “My girl. So good, honey. Y’okay?” 

It takes you a minute but you nod, shakily reaching for his hand on the pillow to press your palms together. “Don’t stop,” you whisper. 

Huffing a disbelieving laugh, Bucky squeezes your hand. “Not gonna stop. Drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy.” He turns his mouth into your cheek. “Where d’you want it, sweetheart?” 

“Inside,” you tell him. 

He falters. “You sure?” 

“Please, Bucky.” 

With your own body satisfied and thoroughly spent after three orgasms, you’re able to focus on him a little more. You relax as much as you can as his grip goes tight as his noises devolve into nothing but filth and need, hips rutting into you quickly now, a hazy smile on your lips as you wrap an arm around his shoulder. Not people pleasing and holding out until it’s over, but wishing it would last just so you could keep him close to you a little while longer. 

This could never have been just a rebound for you, but you still aren’t sure what the future holds. You’ll make the most of what you can get. 

So you hold him the way he held you, finding your voice so you can press declarations of your own want into his ear, cradling his roughness with your softness; giving him a place to meet in the middle, just like he’s always been for you. 

“C’mon, Bucky,” you murmur, aiming for confident but landing somewhere more like achingly earnest when you add, “wanna feel you come inside me. Make me yours.” 

Like you have just as much power over him, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, Bucky does. 

You linger in the afterglow for a long time. 

Bucky’s room is nice and cool against your warm skin, the lamplight soft enough to keep you in that hazy headspace for as long as you please. You’re not sure how much time passes, only that you spend it pressed against Bucky, your legs tangled underneath the sheets, one of his hands curved around your hip, the other splayed over your chest to memorize the rhythm of your breathing. 

You never find the courage to ask him if this is as much of a novelty for him as it is for you, but you assume it is. Neither of you can seem to stop marveling at the way your bodies fit together, the way it’s easy, the way a piece of him is still leaking out onto your thighs and his fingers as he gathers it up and tucks it back inside of you, desperate to hold on just as much as you are. 

The promise of another shower has been made, but you’re having trouble finding the motivation the more you trade lazy kisses back and forth with Bucky. You could fall asleep right here in his arms if he let you, and you’re pretty certain he would, until your phone pings from downstairs, your ringtone cutting through the pleasant silence. 

“I’ll get it,” Bucky presses into your mouth, peeling himself away. “We should shower before bed anyway.” 

You let him go, albeit a bit reluctantly, and ease yourself into a sit against the headboard while he ventures downstairs, completely nude, to fetch your phone. You can’t help your giddy smile, hiding it behind your hand as you hear him climb the stairs again. 

He passes through the doorway, flipping your phone over to hand to you, but his eyes catch on the screen and his expression shifts before he can hide it from you. 

“Um.” 

You sit up a little more. “What is it?” 

“It’s your dad.” 

Real life drops back on top of you harder than the rain from outside, a wave of nausea making you slip back against the headboard again. You slide a hand over your face. 

“Fuck. I called him earlier, on the way—he’s probably just now seeing it with the time difference.” You struggle to swallow against the knot in your throat. “Fuck. Bucky. What was I thinking? I—” 

“Hey, c’mere,” Bucky tosses your phone on the bed, rounding it to sit next to you. He presses a hand to your cheek to get you to look at him and searches your eyes, same as he’s always done to check if you’re okay. “You regret any of what we did?” 

“No,” you exhale. “No. I mean, I—I’ve wanted for…a long time.” 

“Me too.” He gives you a fraction of a smile, his thumb moving back and forth over your jaw. “It’s been a long night for you. You should text him back so he knows you’re okay, rinse off and try to get some rest, and we’ll talk it all out in the morning. We’ll make a plan. Okay?” 

Turning into his palm, you make yourself take a slow breath in, then out. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Bucky.” 

“‘Course.” He pulls away and stands, then hesitates. “I can take the guest bed if you want some space.” 

Your stomach knots. “Will you stay? I don’t want to be alone.” 

Bucky looks at you for a long moment, and you let him. He’s always been able to see through you, and there’s nothing you feel like hiding at the moment. Eventually he returns, pressing his lips to the top of your head and offering you a hand. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

You send off a quick text and borrow a toothbrush while he runs the bath, the ensuite filling up with more of that comforting scent you’ve been clinging to all evening. You’re glad for the slight change of plans; you’re not really sure you could stand long enough for a shower anyway. 

His tub is large and spacious, leaving plenty of room to encompass both of you without spilling anything over the sides. The warmth of the water feels divine, rippling as you lean back against his chest completely bare for the first time, any lingering remains of tension disappearing among the soapy bubbles. 

You feel Bucky’s mouth moving against your temple when he speaks, his hands tracing constellations over your skin underneath the water. 

“Sleep,” he says. “I’ll get you back to bed.” 

You drift off to the promise, soft and sated in momentary calm. 

Somehow, it’s the easiest thing.

.

.

.

so this is where your problem lies. it’s too quiet now. with your boyfriend away, the silence became a blanket of his absence, and in that hollow space, lies every filthy thought you ever had about his two bestfriends—your roommates, who were two absolute saints that you shared your walls and wifi with. every thought came screaming at the surface.

you were simply minding your own business on your leather couches. warmth had grown beneath where you were sitting with an open but unread book on your lap. that’s when bucky dared to walk out of the shower, a towel hung low on his hips. water dripped from his dark hair down to his chest and lower, lower, lower, down to his—

“you alright over there?” a smirk continously played on his lips as you stared. “you’re staring.”

you looked up, wide eyed, and you felt his eyes on you like a predator. “fine,” you squealed out in protest, looking back down at your book. at least you tried to.

steve, the godsent steve rogers, emerges from the bedroom as he pulled a tight grey t-shirt on at the perfect time. because the universe just loves you like that. you knew him as the perfect sculpture of american virtue. his eyes, those blue fucking eyes, locked onto yours. “i don’t think she looks fine, buck. i’d say tense.” then he strolls his ass down to the fridge like nothing. bucky had disappeared into the room and you were left imagining how he looked under that towel.

a minute later, they were flanking down the couch, like two mountains of pure muscle and testosterone. unfortunately, bucky was fully clothed now.

“i’m okay.” you replied minutes later. you felt like a leaf in a tornado of emotions.

“doesn’t sound okay,” bucky said as he sunk down further into the couch next to you. “wound up with no boyfriend to help you. he’s gone, what, four more days?”

you nodded. it was a dumb, helpless motion you couldn’t help when you were trapped in their presence. your throat felt as if it was sealed shut.

just when you least expected it, steve, the menace he is, crouches down infront of you and places his hands on your knees. you were a supplicant before an altar he was about to desecrate. he spread your thighs inch by inch and you couldn’t help but let it happen, after all, your boyfriend was out of town. and you’d be lying if you didn’t think his two friends were so fine. “that’s a long time to be alone. especially for someone as needy as you.”

“i’ve seen the way you look at us,” bucky said so suddenly, it nearly startled you. his hand came up to brush your hair back from your face. “all those little glances at the dinner table even when your boyfriend’s around, hmm? think we didn’t notice, sweetheart?”

“been looking, darling,” steve confirmed, dropping to a whisper that you felt straight down your cunt. “and… been seeing you, too. so here’s what’s gonna happen. you’re gonna be a good girl for us, aren’t you?”

you had responded a yes almost immediately.

“come here,” bucky said, pulling you to your feet as if you had weighed nothing. he turned you to face the back of the couch, pressing you over it until your face was against the fabric. his hands slid down your shorts and panties in one movement. this had honestly gone faster than you imagined in your mind—

you heard him unbuckle his own belt as you processed the situation. steve had walked from behind you to the front of the couch in no time. somehow steve’s pants were now unbuckled, enough that his cock was out and poking your lips. god was he big. “open your mouth, sweetheart.”

you did, and he immediately guided himself to your lips. the tip pressed against your tongue as you stuck it out, tasting the salty liquid coating his tip. he was thick and salty. you wrapped your lips around him, vibrating slighty as you felt bucky knead your ass from behind.

“fuck, she’s so eager,” steve groaned. his hands tangled in your hair as he thrusted slightly, “like she’s been wanting this.”

then bucky was there too. you felt the thick tip of his cock press against your entrance. all you could think of was how big he was and how little foreplay he’d given you. it was literally nothing. but you were so, so, so fucking wet from sucking steve’s cock so this was no problem for either of them. your pussy had turned into a river of betrayal, ready to flood in trade for nothing.

“you ready for me, darling?” and honestly this was more of a formality because you knew he didn’t give a shit either way. his chest was against your back as he whispered in your ear. you felt his arm wrap around your neck slowly you almost thought you’d imagined it. “ready to be our little secret, hmm?”

bucky’s cock sank into you and steve matched that rhythm in your mouth. they filled you so completely you’d seen a supernova behind your eyelids. bucky’s arm tightened around your throat as did steve’s hand in your hair. it was completely overwhelming and you’d be lying if you said you hated it. you cried out but the sound had been muffled by steve’s huge cock buried in your mouth.

“oh fuck, she’s so tight,” bucky grunted as his hips met yours with a smack. “soaking wet. i bet you’ve been dreaming of this, huh? how much better i’d split you open than that boyfriend of yours.”

“you can bet she has,” steve answers since you can’t. not with his cock shoved down your throat. he was so tight with restraint as he slowly started fucking your mouth with a patience that bucky didn’t have. “isn’t that right, baby? just been aching for us to fuck you right, huh?”

you could only manage some incoherent sound as saliva started to drip down your chin. your world consisted of two things: bucky pounding into you from behind, and steve filling your throat like a sacrament choking you.

you hadn’t even realized bucky’s arm was no longer wrapped around your throat. his metal hand moved and you heard that click. you managed to crack an eye open and turn your head slightly. there was a glowing screen in his hand with the camera pointed right at you. right where your bodies joined. where you were taking him. then it panned to your face, still choking on steve.

“jesus, steve, look at her,” bucky panted as his one hand held the phone, the other pulling your hip back onto his cock. “look at our pretty little whore. think our boy should see this? how ‘bout a live feed for him? so he gets to watch his sweet, innocent little girlfriend get fucked when he’s away.”

some shameful fucking wave runs through you. were you supposed to enjoy the thought of your boyfriend opening his phone and finding a video of you getting fucked by not just one, but two of his friends? you clenched around bucky anyway, tightening your mouth around steve. they both groaned in unison and it sounded like heaven if this is what it was.

“you like that, don’t you?” he snarled, angling the phone towards you. “the thought of him seeing this? seeing my cock buried in his girl’s cunt? seeing steve’s fucking dick stuck down your throat? can feel you getting wet, you filthy little thing.”

“smile for him, darling. come on,” steve grunted out as he quicked his pace. his balls slapped against your chin, somehow this turned you on even more. “show him how much you love being our little secret.”

“tell the camera. be a good girl,” bucky honestly just demanded this out of you, punctuating this with a harder thrust. he hits that spot that makes you vision blur and your lips tighten around steve. “tell me whose fucking cunt this is right now. tell the fucking camera.”

steve had pulled your mouth off of his cock with a pop, pulling your head back with a yank of your hair. a string of spot connected your lips to his tip like a silver thread of disgrace. “yours!” you cried out, “it’s both yours. it’s always been yours.”

steve’s other hand gripped your jaw, making you look up at him. god, you were a mess. “and whose mouth?” his voice was a clap of authority as he guided himself back between your lips before you could even answer.

“mine,” he answered for you. “this perfect fucking mouth is mine. that’s it, sweetheart. take it. take all of it. let him see you swallow my cock down that pretty throat.”

the soundtrack to your corruption filled the room as they used you to fill the quiet sound of their apartment. you were nothing but a vessel of their pleasure, and the perfect canvas for their sin. every thrust from bucky was a puncuation in the dirty story he was filming, gagging each time steve fucked your mouth.

“gonna come, doll,” bucky’s thrusts grew sloppy and erratic. you honestly did not care for the camera now. but you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t one of the reasons why you came so quickly. you clenched around bucky’s cock and by the way he groaned as you came, you’d believe yours was the tightest pussy he ever fucked.

feeling you wrap so tightly around him and milk his cock was all it took to push bucky over the edge. he shoved his cock deeply as his cum spilled into yourself. “that’s it. fuck, yeah, that’s it, you perfect fucking slut. take every drop of my cum.”

the feeling of bucky’s cum filling you inside, the taste of steve on your tongue and the knowledge of the camera still filming you from behind—it was all too much. you moaned helplessly around steve’s cock, and he took that as his cue.

“now swallow it all for me,” steve commanded as he poured his cum down your throat. you gulped it down, milking every bit of it from him, and drinking the evidence of your betrayal.

bucky pulled out first, followed by the sound of the phone being set down the coffee table. then steve pulled out too and you slumped over the couch, like their perfect ruined masterpiece.

bucky’s hand now rubbed soothing circles on your back. “hell of a way to spend your thursday night, huh, darling? we’ve got quite the home movie now.”

steve leaned down, kissing your temple as his hand stayed on the back of your head. that in itself was its own kind of cruelty. “you did so good for us. better than good.”

after sometime of just… that, you had finally found your voice. “my—my boyfriend… he comes back sunday.”

bucky chuckled as he scooped his phone back up, stroking the screen. “plenty of time for another round, then. or five. we’ll make a whole series. something to remember us by.”

steve just smiled, tucking himself back into his jeans. his eyes fixed on the phone in bucky’s hand. “we’ll make sure you don’t miss him at all.”

tbc taglist. @umbreoni @sheriff-bodecker @buckyfmd @herejustforbuckybarnes @slutforsr @devililithh @colettebarnes @barnesandashes @metal-armed-muse @fucky-barnes82 @bckyslover @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @kqtholins

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