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It’s hot outside.
Like, too hot. Despite the moderate relief his favorite crop top and denim cutoffs provide him, Steve is feeling far more warm than could ever be considered comfortable...even if he knows his muscles look hella good with a touch of a sweaty glow, knows the truckers welcome the sight of Steve leaning against the diesel pumps after they’ve spent too many long hours on the road. Steve has learned that there’s a certain type of gentleman that gets horny when it’s hot out, and sweaty days are some of Steve’s very best days when it comes to earning his living.
But this level of heat really is just a measure too far, which is why Steve has decided to park himself inside the truck stop store today, catching some air conditioning while he keeps an eye out for potential interested clientele coming through for their shower rentals. Barbara waves at him from her place behind the food counter and Steve waves back, gives her a big and bright and genuine smile from the spot where he’s posted up near the coffee machine. Steve hasn’t seen her in a few days, maybe almost a week, and he makes a mental note to go ask her later about her vacation.
The owners of Jimbo’s Truck Stop know who Steve is— know what he is— but they don’t mind him being around one bit. He even thinks they might like him, if the mini fruit pies that Barbara always gives him are anything to go off. Besides, as long as Steve isn’t causing anyone trouble it’s a mutually beneficial relationship for them both if Steve hangs around, if he’s one more draw for the big rigs to stop and fill up and park themselves overnight at Jimbo’s instead of at the next place.
Steve himself has no delusions about what he is: a dumb pretty boy who has found himself turning tricks on Route 66 for the sole reason that he’s really, really bad at making life decisions, will literally do anything the second he feels the impulse to do it, but that’s… that’s okay. Steve decided when he was seventeen years old and his pops kicked him out that he’s just gonna smile and live his best life no matter where he is, no matter what he’s doing. No matter how he goes about earning his meals.
The honest thing about it is that Steve kind of likes this lifestyle he’s found for himself. It’s not perfect, sure; sometimes his customers can be a little mean but it’s not all of them, not even most. The majority of his clients are kind, lonely men that just want some company in the cabs of their trucks while they rest. They usually have some nice conversation where Steve gets to marvel at stories about all the neat places they’ve driven around, and then Steve will give them a couple of warm and wet holes to help them feel all happy and comfortable before they have to hit the road again. And Steve is an outgoing person—mama always said he took to people like a pig takes to mud— so he likes providing that companionship, that fleeting sense of friendship, but...
But then they gotta leave every time. All of them. And sure, sure, they’re all just johns, but he’s been at this gig for a while now and it’s begun to hurt in Steve’s heart, a little bit of ache ‘cause of how hard it can be to keep a new friend when you’re nothing more than just… just the prettiest friend-for-hire, down at Jimbo’s.
Sometimes, Steve finds himself thinking about the Disney movies he used to watch with his ma when he was a kid. He thinks the most about Cinderella, the pretty girl with a bad hand of cards but who always tried to stay happy, always singing and dancing even when the only friends she had were those little mice. He thinks a lot about how Cinderella kept her chin up, how she always thanked her lucky stars whenever she could find them until one day she was finally rewarded with her very own Prince Charming. Steve likes to think about how Cinderella found happiness even when it looked like her whole life was going to be nothing but sweeping up dirty floors.
Steve is thinking about Cinderella now, he realizes, but then he’s shaken out of his dreamy daze by the sound of a rough but honeyed voice somewhere behind him. He turns without thinking, finds himself needing to locate the exact source of that deep and entrancing sound.
And that’s when Steve sees him, and his heart skips all over like a rock on a pond.
There’s a man at the service counter that Steve has never seen before. He’s paying for his shower, and he’s—oh, he’s a big boy, every which way. He’s tall, that’s for damn sure, because Steve himself is six-foot but this absolute specimen of a man probably has a good five inches on him. He’s got big, broad hands that Steve knows could fit all the way around his waist, a face that’s as rugged as it is handsome with its thick, dark beard, and the man’s body, oh—
“Oh,” Steve hears, a pathetic and quiet sound escaping his own throat.
‘Beefcake’ doesn’t cut it, doesn’t come close, even with those glorious proportions of both beef and cake. This absolute beast of a man has a thick set of thighs, the strong arms of a someone who lifts cargo day-in and day-out, and a broad, muscled chest that he could probably drive his own truck over. Even with his clothes on, a plaid button-up rolled to his sleeves and well-worn blue jeans, Steve can tell the man is hairy. Oh, yeah, Steve thinks, he’s hairy all over, he’s a damn silly bear and Steve wants to roll onto his back and bare his neck to him, because he’s looking at the shirt where it’s tucked into those jeans and there it is—there it is, hanging out more than just a couple inches over his belt buckle…
A gut. A real man’s gut, and the most beautiful thing Steve has ever seen in his life.
Steve is frozen, awestruck. Enraptured. ‘Fat’ ain’t the word, he thinks, because that belly is something special... something round and firm that he can see himself holding between two hands and his thumbs wouldn’t even touch, palms dwarfed by the size of it. It looks so big and solid and masculine where it’s covered by all that plaid and Steve is drooling, eyeing the place on the shirt where it tugs over the man’s navel, the fabric struggling to stay tucked under the belt, the glorious overhang it creates. It’s beyond enticing, it’s— it’s magnificent and gorgeous and so appealing that it’s got its own gravitational field, and hot damn, is it ever pulling Steve in.
Steve Rogers is pretty, dumb, and lonely for a friend, and for the first time in his life he is in love.
He doesn’t try to approach the man with Steve’s normal script. He doesn’t give this big, handsome bear the “hey, big fella, need someone to hold the soap for you while you shower?”, doesn’t flutter his eyelashes as he works in “just $25 for a nice kiss of my mouth to your cock, $100 and I’ll let you stick it in me”. Steve honestly doesn’t even think about pricing because he’s mentally clocking out the second he sees the guy, has no intention of making any sort of business transaction here, forgets he’s a hooker at all for a good ten seconds because he’s too busy figuring out how to approach this Adonis of a man and just hope he’ll talk to him in the first place.
It doesn’t matter that Steve’s already delivered three very confident suckjobs that day, it doesn’t matter that he knows he looks good in this outfit, because the second he’s telling his feet to walk that way he comes down fuckin’ shy, already over the moon for this huge, gorgeous prince of a man who he’s never even talked to.
The man finishes his transaction at the counter and grabs his bag, headed towards the locker room. Steve is only half-conscious of his own movements as he lets fate and true love carry him towards the showers.
***
Bucky sees the kid before the kid sees him.
At first he’s just leaning up against a wall near the coffee station and waving to the lady at the pie counter before he looks away to nothing, seems to settle into some sort of day-dream, and he’s… Christ, he’s the prettiest thing Bucky has ever laid eyes on. He’s the most beautiful thing on God’s green earth.
All Bucky needs is just one look at him before he knows he’s gotta get his hands all over that tight, bubbly ass and that toned, sweet-lookin’ body, gotta run his rough and calloused fingers up under that pale blue crop top and tweak those little pierced nipples, those pretty little pink buds that he can see even through the fabric. He’s gotta taste those blushing lips.
Bucky Barnes has been driving big rigs for coming up on twenty years now. He’s seen truck stop hookers with all kinds of looks about them, has spent some one-on-one time with more than just a couple. He’s no stranger to parking his rig for the night and letting his eye wander, letting it settle on a firm-looking body with a pretty red mouth.
But…but as Bucky watches this gorgeous young man stare off into the distance he realizes with a sudden and unsettling amount of certainty that it’s not just the kid’s body he’s caught up on, or his dick-sucking lips— it’s his smile, the life in his eyes, the glowing aura of beauty around him and mother of God, it’s more than obvious that the kid is out here lookin’ for a john but that doesn’t matter, Bucky doesn’t care, at least not aside from the suddenly enraging thought of other men getting their hands on him. It’s completely inconsequential how many tricks this kid has turned, how many dicks he’s sucked, because Bucky knows just from looking at him that this boy is a veritable ball of innocence and sunshine, with an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.
It’s a damn good thing that Bucky knows just how to steel his own hard exterior when he needs to, because right now he’s standing there and paying for his shower and he feels shaken to his core. It’s been a long, long time since Bucky’s been in love but he thinks that this was what that felt like, thinks he might be falling for a pretty truck stop tramp before he even knows the kid’s name. It may be too soon, of course it is, but Bucky can already envision himself choking the life out of anyone that’s ever hurt this precious doll.
The kid is nothing less than an angel from Heaven above, and Bucky feels upside down and stupid for him already, but he doesn’t stare like he wants to. In fact, he doesn’t let his eyes rove for any longer than it takes the kid to notice him. They never make eye contact and as far as Bucky knows, the kid doesn’t even know that he’s seen him—but when Bucky turns to walk towards the locker room he can feel those pretty blue eyes boring into his back.
Well, shit. Bucky Barnes is one lucky son-of-a-bitch.
He doesn’t pretend to get why— even just thinking of how fucking out of his league the kid is sends his head spinning— but Bucky can still feel the heavy gaze on him as he throws his bag down so he just counts his blessings, makes somewhat of a show of taking his clothes off, piece by piece. By the time he grabs for his towel and is naked as the day he was born, he can hear the sweet thing squirming, tosses a look over his broad, square shoulder and—
And Bucky can tell from the look on his pretty face that it’s not until right that moment that the kid realizes that he’s followed Bucky to the showers, that he’s sitting there with big doe eyes and jaw hanging open, that he’s staring at Bucky like he’s some sort of demi-god instead of a fat hairy trucker.
He gives the kid his best cocky smirk.
“Figured I should be payin’ you for somethin’,” Bucky says, “but by the way you’re drinkin’ me in, honey, maybe you should be the one payin’ me…”
***
It takes a while for Steve to realize that the gorgeous man he’s apparently followed is talking to him. It takes a while, yeah, but once he gets there everything around Steve starts to blur and move fast.
He’s dreaming. He has to be dreaming, because in no other plane of reality would he find himself stripping off his clothes in a clumsy fashion and following a man this strange and beautiful man—this thick trucker, with features plucked straight from the darkest and sleaziest and somehow purest parts of Steve’s brain—into a truck stop shower.
When Steve’s feet touch tile he stutters to a stop, wants to drop to his fucking knees and crawl the rest of the way in a transparently subservient move, wants to bury his face into either of those tree-trunk thighs, his crotch, that belly.
The man speaks again, says, “Sweetness, the flattery is gettin’ out of hand. I didn’t pay for two showers for you to sit there and watch. C’mere…”
The hand that grabs for him engulfs his bicep as if Steve couldn’t bench over two hundred pounds easy, slides Steve right across the dingy tile with force but with softness, leaves Steve no choice but to put his hands out in front of him and grab for purchase on—
“Ohh…”
Steve’s noise is all breathy pleasure and no holding back and he should be mortified but how can he be when his hands are so full, fingers digging into a thick padding of skin, all hair and muscle and cushion and man. Steve never wants to let go, wants to hold onto this torso, this chest, this stomach until someone tears him away, wants to rub up against this man like a cat and purr.
There’s a hand sweeping down the line of his spine then, the other tilting his chin up, and when his eyes meet steely sharp ones he digs the tips of his fingers through the soft hair on the man’s belly.
“What’s your name, pretty?” the princely man asks and Steve can barely whimper out an answer, not when he shifts on his feet at the same time, his dick rutting up against nothing but stomach and thigh, makes him feel like a little cat again but now he’s a cat in heat and he can barely stand on his own
“Steve. A sweet name for a sweet boy...” and then he’s bending way down and kissing Steve on the lips, the lips, like it’s normal and natural and unforbidden for someone to kiss a hooker like him on the lips in a truckstop shower, so chastely and domestically, and it makes Steve’s toes curl against the shower floor before—
“And I know sweet boys like you love callin’ a guy like me ‘Daddy’...”
The arm around his waist has no choice but to pull tight because Steve crumbles, makes a noise like someone has wounded him right in the chest, a hysterical squeal that tumbles right from his shaky lips and onto hushing ones, ones pursed from pushing out soft soothing noises.
“God, look at you, you’re a precious little thing aren’t ya?” the man—Daddy asks and Steve slides his hands up and up and up, wraps them tight around the back of his neck, lets his fingertips dig through the roots of chestnut hair, is nodding his head without realizing that was a question that didn’t need answering, “Daddy…”
***
Bucky feels like he’s struck gold. He feels like a million dollars with this gorgeous kid—Steve— in his arms, a whimpering mess just from slipping all over Bucky’s stomach, from simply hearing Bucky refer to himself as “Daddy” one time.
Bucky feels like this is fate, somehow, like he was meant to turn and pull into this truck stop on this freight route, one he doesn’t normally take. Steve’s mouth is desperate and hot on his jawline, his chin, and he whines and tilts his chin and ain’t that sweet, Bucky thinks. The kid’s lips are like pillows, so plush, hot and eager like the rest of him and Bucky wants to eat him up right there while he’s squirming around and that’s when he feels it...
Steve’s little dick.
Bucky feels it against the curve of his gut, feels Steve’s narrow hips twitch in time with the tiniest whimpers that Bucky swallows right up, realizes that this little ball of sugary sweetness is humping himself silly right there on Bucky’s belly. Said belly goes warm, goes hot, at the feel of such a little prick on such a big boy, and he immediately knows it’s the prettiest little dick he’s ever going to see in this life and any others he lives.
When he takes the kid’s dick in hand Bucky has to groan, watching the short shaft of it practically disappear from sight, and he can’t help but coo about how sweet and little his prick is next to all that big, smooth muscle, how neatly and nicely it fits in his palm— in his Daddy’s palm, how much he loves that he can jerk Steve off with just the pressure between his thumb and his index finger.
Sweet Stevie sounds like he’s drowning, sputtering on air, like he can’t catch a breath and chokes on the ones he can manage. They’re shocked puffs of air, whimpers, bitten-off words, and it’s the prettiest goddamn mess of a thing Bucky has ever heard in his entire life. It makes him feel a little like a bad man and that his only redemption is protecting and treasuring this real-life angel that fell into his lap.
“Mhm? Yeah, I know, shh… Daddy knows. ‘S a lot, isn’t it? I bet all those other assholes touchin’ my sweet baby before never paid no attention to this tiny little prick, did they? Aw, but honey, it’s such a sweet little thing, just a little slip, just a lil’ easy to miss, that’s all. I see it, though, you got your Daddy here to love on it now.”
***
Steve is lost. Steve is lost but that’s okay because Daddy’s got him, and he’s anchored by Daddy’s words and by the sight that greets him when he looks down, the sight of water from the shower pouring in sheets over Daddy’s big, solid belly, water falling to the tile floor in rivulets that Steve wishes he could catch in his mouth and drown in. He’s gonna come too soon and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
“Look at you, sugar— a little eager thing aren’t ya? Ain’t just a coincidence that little dick is leakin’ all over Daddy’s big belly is it? Huh?”
And oh, no, to be found out like that— Steve tries to bite his kiss-bitten lower lip to keep from crying but it’s no use, first ‘cause tears want to come out just too damn much and second ‘cause Daddy is pulling it free, scolding him a little for “almost hurtin’ yourself, none ‘a that, darlin, ohh, baby, can’t get shy on me now. Daddy may be drivin’ trucks but he ain’t a stupid man. First thing you touched was my gut.”
It was— it was, because how could Steve not want to get his hands on something so beautiful, so breathtaking, and he would be worried about this incredible man judging him for his enthusiasm if he wasn’t so overcome with the need to rut against all of his magnificent roundness.
“Y’may be a sweet eager thing but you a little dirty, too. Y’gonna make that cute little prick come all over Daddy’s tummy? Huh? Yeah y’are, I want it.”
There’s nothing for it. Steve comes with an embarrassing squeal that Daddy just barely snuffs out with the palm of hand, comes all over Daddy’s gut just like he asked, collapses into Daddy’s arms with utter trust and faith like there wasn’t a doubt in the world that this man Steve only just met would be there to hold him up.
The spray of the shower hasn’t even had time to fully wash the release away from the coarse hairs covering Daddy’s big stomach before the little thing is coming ‘round, almost squirming when he realizes that Daddy’s arms and Daddy’s belly are the only two things holding him up.
“Sweet thing… you like that Daddy’s a big man, that he can carry his weight and then some? Could hold you up and fuck you right against this wall if that’s what I wanted to do to you.”
And all Steve can answer with is yesyesyes because that’s exactly what he wants, exactly what he needs, for that big, heavy cock hanging below Daddy’s belly to be fucking into him, for this big, gorgeous bear of a man to fuck him through the wet tile wall but—
“Oh, honey, you’re a pretty little fool if you think your Daddy’s really gonna fuck you here in front a’ God and everybody,” Daddy coos, tell Steve that “this ass is mine ‘till you tell me otherwise, an’ I want your little screams all to myself,” and already Steve cannot fathom how he’s ever going to let a single person other than this man touch him for the rest of his natural life.
The denial makes Steve whine and whimper but it’s okay, he’s okay— he knows he’s okay because Daddy tells him so, tells him to calm down because he’s “gonna get fucked real good” in the soft bed in the back of Daddy’s cab if he can be a patient boy and just wait while Daddy finishes his shower.
(Daddy changes his mind about the ‘just waiting’ part— tells Steve to ‘turn around and show Daddy’ how good he is at getting his ‘pink little hole all clean and wet’, tells Steve to ‘give Daddy a pretty show’).
Steve is rewarded for being a good and patient boy once they’re both dressed again and Steve has dazedly followed the man of his dreams out to his big, shiny black truck, a red and silver star right on the cab door—and it’s no one’s business but Steve’s if he preens a little bit at the fact that this truck is by far the nicest one on the lot, and it’s his Daddy’s truck, at least for tonight. Just like a prince, Daddy opens the cab door for him like a perfect gentleman, and it makes Steve blush down to the tips of his toes.
Steve can feel that his own dick is hard again in his shorts but Daddy doesn’t rush it, is handsome and sweet to him once they’re in the back of his cab, offers Steve a cold bottle of water before sitting down on the mattress and patting one thick, denim-clad thigh and, “C’mere sugar, come and sit in Daddy’s lap.”
When Steve goes he’s shaking with excitement and anticipation like he hasn’t straddled the laps of hundreds of truckstop patrons before, but those men never had the handsome looks and the perfect, round belly that—oh, oh god, now that Steve’s sitting in that lap he can’t help but be pressed right up against all that solid, manly gut and he lets out a whine that might as well be a sob at the pleasure that it gives him, at the way his little cock kicks where it’s just barely tucked under the waistband of his shorts.
“D-Daddy,” he whimpers, overwhelmed, but Daddy takes care of him and gathers him up all sweet, kisses him with just the right mix of tenderness and roughness and Steve has never felt so cherished before, never felt the way that he feels now with this thick and beautiful man he’s only just met, this man who loves all over him and coos and tells him, “S’all right, sugar, I’ll take care of you just how you need.”
And maybe Steve really is as silly and dumb as his mama says he is but he trusts those words with all he has, he does, so he lets himself melt into Daddy’s strong and capable arms as their kissing becomes more heated, as they start to grind together with his arms around Daddy’s shoulders and Daddy’s hands cupping Steve’s ass, holding him warm and close against the divine swell of Daddy’s stomach.
“What is this to you, sweetness?” Daddy asks, hand down the back of Steve’s jeans, perfect meaty fingers pressing tight up against his bare asshole. “This your sweet cunt? Huh? Or is it somethin’ else?”
“S’whatever you want it to be,” Steve replies automatically, professional and practiced and trying for confidence, but then he’s disintegrating when Daddy grabs his chin and whispers soft but firm that it’s “not about me, darlin’. Tell Daddy where he’s gonna stuff his cock soon, come on…”
And no one— no one has ever asked Steve what he wants. No one. He’s never been asked what position, whether he wants that hand tight in his hair, whether or not he wants to be called that name. No one has ever once asked Steve what he preferred and it makes him want to cry at the same time that it makes his hard little cock weep.
“S’my...s’my pussy, Daddy…”
And if Steve is more than a little scared it’s only for a few seconds because Daddy is kissing him sloppily on his lips, making such a deep noise Steve swears he can feel the vibrations of it in his own chest, “My boy a little sweet? Y’got yourself a pretty pussy here, don’t you?”
Steve is on cloud nine. He nods so fervently against Daddy’s mouth that little specks of spit fly away from the place their mouths meet, and he’s whining and almost crying again, “yeah, yeah Daddy, s’my pretty pussy, s’for you Daddy, please,” and Daddy lets out another glorious growling sound in approval as he takes two fingers and presses them against Steve’s trembling lips and Steve opens, takes those thick digits into his mouth, sucks on them and wets them sloppy without question simply because that’s what his Daddy thinks he should be doing.
“Good boy,” Daddy praises as he pulls the soaked fingers out, motions for Steve to shimmy his shorts and pretty briefs down his own thighs before pressing the the wet and calloused pads of those two fingers against Steve’s rim because “pretty pussies like this get nice and wet for their Daddies, don’t they sweetheart?”
(They do, they really do— but it’s tears of joy that make Steve’s face even wetter when Daddy asks him to loosen the straining buttons of his shirt).
Every last nerve in Steve’s body shakes when Daddy finally fucks him. After he teases with those spit-wet fingers he opens him up with slick, real stuff from the truck stop lube packets, does it so kindly and sweetly before he lays Steve down on his back and, at last, gives him Daddy’s cock.
Steve is convinced in that moment that it’s the only true bliss he’s ever known, the way it feels when this beautiful, mysterious man he’s just met pushes his big dick inside his pussy, when Daddy holds Steve’s legs over his shoulders and angles his gut so that it brushes what little of Steve’s dick there is with every thrust. Steve sees more than just stars when he comes from nothing but the girth of Daddy’s cock in his ass and the rough scrape of tummy hair against his skin; he sees planets, sees Mars and Jupiter and every ring around Saturn, sees the flood of adoration and devotion wash through Daddy’s eyes— eyes that are on him— before Steve is pulled under with the very same current.
It’s later, deep into the night when Steve is laving his tongue all over the dark, coarse hair of Daddy’s big beautiful belly, baby kitten lickin’ at his balls while he’s tryin’ patiently for Daddy to get hard again, that Daddy says—
“—this ain’t my normal route, sweetness, I don’t come this way.”
It’s world-ending, the feeling in Steve’s chest, the sensation of turning back into a pumpkin at midnight… but then before Steve can even finish the mournful, whimpering sound of his heart completely shattering in his chest Daddy is talking again, Daddy asks him to—
“—come with me, Stevie.”
And Daddy asks him to leave behind—
“—all those johns that don’t love you like Daddy does.”
And—and it’s the happiest moment of Steve’s fucking life. He doesn’t need a fairy godmother because he has a Daddy now and his Daddy says he loves him and he’s crying happy tears as he leaps up, as he kisses his new Daddy on his mouth and his face and his big, broad chest.
Daddy looks… he looks so damn in love, just like Steve does, like if he were a man who ever cried then he’d be cryin’ too, but for now he just holds onto Steve with big hands on the swell of his ass and then— oh, that feels good, and Steve can’t help it when the kissing turns into something more, something animal, and maybe Daddy’s cock is spent for the day but he still holds Steve and kisses him while he tells him to rut and hump his little wet dick into Daddy’s big belly, growls praise at him, “You’re hungry aren’t you, honey? Y’want another you can have it, you can take it. Tilt that ass up, c’mere lemme— there you go, let Daddy give you what you need, what my dirty boy wants…”
***
They’re both a little tired the next morning when Steve checks out of his trashy little roach motel, packs up what few belongings he’s got and settles into the passenger’s seat of Daddy’s cab with an ecstatic smile. Steve can feel it on his own face— how big his own grin is, the size of the moon.
It’s when they’re comfortably on the interstate and cruising along, holding hands tight like they’re living their own little fairy tale, that Daddy turns down the volume on the classic rock station and clears his throat.
“My name is Bucky,” he says.
Steve was wrong. His grin is the size of the sun.