📖"Runnin' Roughshod"
Pairing: Bucky x black female Reader
Rated: Explicit
Tags: civil war, westward expansion, homesteader Bucky, Black!Fem!Reader, slavery, historic AU, forbidden romance, interracial relationship, racism, period typical attitudes, brothel, prostitution
A Bucky x Black!fem!Reader historical AU fic that I decided to bullet point for funsies, and then wound up writing half of the damn thing that way 🙄
You're a slave living in 1860 Missouri, just outside of St. Louis.
You're the property of (and half-sister to) Master Lewis. Lucky for you, Master Lewis Senior is dead, and Lewis Jr.'s young bride Darcilla is kind and agreeable, with progressive notions that she brought along with her trousseau when she came from Maryland to wed Master Lewis.
Life is very good for you, compared to some others. You work in the house, as lady's maid to the new Mrs. Lewis (who insists you call her Ms. Darcy), and sometimes help in the shop in town.
The Lewis's own a handful of other slaves who help run their household and dressmaker's shop, but since the death of your mother you've had no family (well, except for Master Lewis, though nobody counts that). You do your work and keep to yourself. Sometimes you make a little money at the dress shop, which Mistress Darcy lets you keep behind her husband's back.
You save up every penny, but buying your own freedom is a far off dream. Your whole life, you've never seriously contemplated running away. It isn't worth the risk.
But when tensions in the county begin to rise and you hear rumors of secession, you grow worried. You begin to squirrel away what valuables you can, gain the trust of your mistress, and bide your time.
With the uncertainty of war brewing, Master Lewis announces his plans to move the family deeper south. You can no longer afford to wait. You have to get out now, before your one and only chance is lost forever.
Your money gets you as far as Topeka, where you're forced to stop until you can earn enough to join a wagon train out West. You find work at a saloon, serving drinks and making flirty conversation with the men who come in for a good time.
In the mornings, you begin to learn the piano from "Old Freddie," and during the occasional slow afternoon, Madame Lapierre, the French woman who governs the "upstairs" girls, will play a game of chess with you whilst she tries to make headway in convincing you to "expand your employment opportunities."
Topeka is Free-Soiler territory, but there's always the fear that Master Lewis might find you. And, on the verge of statehood, the Kansas territory has tipped into increasingly violent conflict between anti- and pro-slavery settlers. With conditions worsening and all out war looming on the horizon, you have no guarantee of safety there anymore.
Desperate to raise the funds to go West more quickly, you tell Madame that you're ready to start selling more than drinks and conversation. You become her newest "poppet" prepared to do whatever it takes to get out of town before your luck - and your freedom - run out.
You've never been with a man, but you know the rudimentary facts of life, and with a little help from the other girls and Madame, you prepare to become just another "sporting girl."
Your first afternoon on the job, a roughshod rider comes into town, seeking lodging, drink, and the sort of "company" that you're there to provide.
The white girls get first dibs on clients, but the roughshod asks for you to be sent up to his room. You wish he wouldn't have. Not because you want to put off the inevitable, but because now the other girls will be nasty to you. The man is handsome, and the girls were all eager to get their hands in his pockets.
You're shaking in your boots, but Madame gives you a shot of whiskey, a spritz of her genuine French perfume, and a tiny pewter snuff case for "wetting the way," (whatever that means). She tells you to put it in your bosom and use it "when the time is right."
Terrified but determined to see it through, you head upstairs to the roughshod's room.
It does not go as you expect. First, he demands to know if you're working there of your own free will. You admit that he is your very first client - which you regret doing, because his face goes even stonier when you do. He barks out orders at you, insisting that you leave the room at once and fetch him the house's tub.
He wants a bath - a hot one! - and with soap, and a towel!! You're very happy about that, because it costs a whole sixty-five cents more, and it will also mean extra time spent with you, which leaves you with even more money in your pocket at the end of the day. You're still nervous, but elated at the luck you're having on your very first client!
The other girls are stewing in the hall with jealously and make snide comments about your race and the man's preference for you. They refuse to help you prepare the bath, but you don't care one lick. That's just more time the roughshod will be paying to spend with you, while you haul bucket after bucket of boiled water up the stairs.
Madame catches you in the hallway and tells you not to mind the other girls. She's a bit drunk on sherry, and she jokes that at this rate, you'll probably only have to spread your legs for two or three minutes! (God, you hope so).
The man is filthy, and he's hurt - as though he's been in a fight or fallen from his horse. He asks you to help bathe him, and you get started with your heart in your throat. His manners are as rough as he is, but he isn't mean to you, and he doesn't try to grab you, which is a relief. With shaking hands, you proceed to wash him.
This is your first time touching a naked man's body, and you try not to look down into the bathwater as you wash him. You're embarrassed, but it's not just nerves; seeing and touching such a handsome man has you warming as though you've downed another three shots of whiskey.
You squirm and fight not to let the roughshod see your flusterment, as your belly tightens with the familiar, but never indulged, feelings of lust.
The roughshod stays in the bath until the water's gone gray and cold. You kneel beside the tub and wring out the cloth, but squeak when, all at once, the man heaves himself up to standing, the water streaming down his body and his ... his Johnson right at the level of your face!
He grunts and swings his leg out of the tub - exposing all of his manhood jostling around not even two feet from your face as he does so! You blush and look away, but you can feel him staring at you as he grabs up the towel and dries himself off.
Surely, you think, now he will ask you to take off your clothes and join him on the bed. You know only the basics of what goes where for the act, having witnessed clandestine coitus a time or two in your life. You wait, unable to look up at him, as you expect to hear his gruff voice order you about. And it does.
"Get up."
You stand, trembling. But what he says next isn't what you're expecting: "You know how to rub a man's muscles?"
You look up at him. He's got the towel in hand, making no effort to use it to cover himself. Then again, you think, why should he? You're just another painted poppet (or, soon to be). "R-rub what?" you stammer - quite idiotically. Of course, you know what muscles are. ... You're just not sure if he's using the word as a ... a euphemism.
He rolls his eyes and brings the towel up to dry his hair. "Knew I should'a asked for the China girl," he mutters.
You clear your throat and look steadfastly at his face. "You're hurt," you say, because you've seen every part of his body now, despite your efforts to keep your eyes trained North. And you know he's got bruises all on his legs and back and sides.
The roughshod nods and abandons the towel to the floor. "Yeah." He's not a talker, but you get the impression he's waiting to hear something from you.
You struggle to think of what that might be. "I ... have ... rubbed my mother's shoulders, when they hurt her. Um. And her feet?"
If you're not mistaken, the man's mouth twitches up the barest bit, beneath his beard. "Eh," he says, then turns around, presenting you with his - very manly - ass. "How bad can ya be?" He walks towards the bed, waving you along without looking back. "Well c'mere then."
He climbs up onto the room's bed and lies down, face in his arms. "What're you doing?" he grumps. "I said get over here."
Swallowing thickly, you hurry across the room. With his back turned, you have less trouble letting your eyes rove over his naked body. His back is broad and muscled, going from impossibly wide and tanned shoulders, tapering all the way down to his slim hips and his pale ass. His thighs are hairy and---no. You force your eyes true north again, looking at the bruises that you're increasingly starting to suspect came from a beating. "What happened to you?" you ask.
His head stays pillowed in the crooks of his arms. "Get up on the bed," he grunts. "Sit on my ass and I'll tell 'ya what to do."
Your eyes all but bug out of your head, when he tells you to straddle him. You do, your skirt rustling as you move and get up on him. You're hesitant to put your weight down, but he huffs and tells you to sit.
"Speck like you ain't gonna feel any more'n a feather. Sit."
He talks you through giving him - what he deems a "goddamn lousy" - massage. He grunts whenever you press on his bruises, pained, but once you get the hang of it, he at least goes quiet and doesn't complain anymore, so maybe you're not so horrible at it after all.
You rub his shoulders, his neck and back; your belly coiling tight once again, filling with a swooping feeling at having his warm skin and hard muscles underhand, at the feeling of his body held between your legs. You worry that he somehow knows how you're reacting, but you don't speak and neither does he.
When he eventually groans from pained-pleasure rather than pain, you can't help but smirk triumphantly. You keep expecting him to roll over and declare the massage over and demand for you to touch his Johnson, but that keeps not happening (though he does groan a little more).
You check the clock and see that it's now early evening. The light outside is almost gone. You worry that he's lost track of time and might refuse to pay for the hours he's spent with you, which will get your wages garnished.
So, tentatively, you slide your hands down to his thick waist, the swooping feeling intensifying at watching all the muscles in his back tense and shift underneath the skin.
"Why'd you stop?" he grunts.
"Are ... are you sure ..." You hesitate, not knowing how to seduce a man.
"Spit it out," he says, annoyed.
You lick your lips. "Well I just ... it's been awhile now and ... Are you sure this is all you want?"
"It feels good," he snaps, voice muffled in his arms. "That's what I'm payin' you for, ain't it?"
His uncharitable response should make you relieved, but instead it just leaves you worried and confused. Are you not seductive enough? Is he going to complain to Madame once he leaves here?
You need to speak up, take action, or else you may be in trouble. "Mister," you say, "I--"
"James," he grunts. "S'my name."
You pause, surprised that he wants you to use it, since he doesn't seem to like you very much. "James," you try again. "I want to make sure you're ... um ... getting your money's worth?"
He's silent and still, then drawls, "You don't sound too sure about that."
FOLKS THIS HAS BEEN OUT OF HAND FOR AWHILE NOW. LETS GO BACK TO AN ACTUAL FUCKING OUTLINE:
He has you lie down on the bed, and he regards you tenderly and seems like he's going to finally do it, but his face goes sour when you nervously reach your hand for his Johnson, and he tells you he doesn't need anything else.
"That's enough." He rolls away, comes back with a dollar bill, hands it over and gruffly tells you to go over to the mercantile and buy him a fresh shirt.
Relieved and yet somehow also terribly disappointed, you do so. When you return, his hair is tied back and he's got his pants on again.
You expect him to dismiss you, but he tells you he wants your company in the downstairs, too. He takes you down and the two of you eat and drink together at his behest. As it's now evening, the other poppets work on men nearby, shooting you jealous looks every so often.
James slowly opens up to you, engaging you in conversation over his dinner. You can't help but talk back, the conversation coming naturally and your shoulders relaxing. James is much more likeable after a whiskey or two, and the two of you even laugh and joke together. He decides to teach you a dice game, and the two of you have fun well into the evening, until he goes back up to bed -- alone.
Madame is drunk and very proud--because the roughshod actually pays for the entire time! In one fell swoop, you've made a handsome sum! You begin to hope that soon you'll be able to buy your way onto a wagon train and go West!
But the next day, your fortunes change.
A lawman shows up with none other than Mr. Brooks--Master Lewis' most trusted slave. Brooks tells the lawman that you are the one he's looking for. He has your papers to prove Mr. Lewis' ownership!
Being only tenuously free territory, the lawman has the say so on what happens to you. Just when it looks like he's going to hand you over to Brooks, the roughshod comes downstairs. He claims you're his property and that your name is Pearl. He has no proof, but says that's because he bought you from a 'chief down in Indian country' (the Oklahoma territory).
One of the white girls calls out that that's not true: you work there.
It seems that the lie won't work, but when the lawman asks Madame if that's true, Madame says your name is Pearl and you showed up with the roughshod the other day.
The marshal decides to trust the word of a white man over Mr. Brooks (who looks very angry indeed). He brandishes the papers and promises to come back with Master Lewis.
With no time to spare, you make haste. You have to leave town now, no matter the fact that you don't have the money to make it out West. You stuff your things in your bag and leave with the wages you've earned.
Outside, the roughshod grabs your arm and pulls you in. He demands you tell him the truth, since he stuck his neck out for you.
You confess everything--running away, your plan to set out West for San Francisco. You fear that he's had a change of heart and will take you to the lawman, but he gets stern-faced again and gruffly tells you to come with him back to his home with him.
You're confused, but he is bossy and all but forces you back to his homestead with him. There, he informs you that, after getting into a "scrape" with some locals himself, he has to leave. He offers to take you out West with him, and part ways in California.
You agree.
Sometime, months later, in California:
The country is at war, but it feels far away from where you are now, as do Master Lewis' chances of ever finding you again. James has hope that the North will win and slavery will be done away with, when the two of you arrive in San Francisco. You make him breakfast, and ask: "What now?"
He gets quiet for awhile. "Woman like you?" He says, chewing the last bite of a biscuit. "Sews, can play chess, hard worker, beautiful, and you cook like this?" He sticks his tongue in his cheek and looks away for a moment. When he looks back, there's false cheer in his eyes. "You're gonna make some man a fine wife someday."
You inhale deeply, fighting to keep the sting of that comment from getting to your eyes. "But not you?" you finally say, once you've gathered the breath - and the courage - to do so.
The false cheer bleeds to sadness, fond and regretful, and he shakes his head softly. "No Darlin'. Not me."
(spoiler alert: you wind up together with a happy ending anyway)
IM SORRY IT'S TWO AM WHY DID I DO THIS I NEED TO SLEEEEP 😩
(Will def be writing (more of) this fic in the future though!)
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