Bucky wrung his hands a few times before knocking on your door, feeling his heart beat a little faster when he could hear the sounds of your footsteps on the other side. He'd been dreaming of a day like this for so long— the day he finally acted on this secret obsession he had, the day he stopped fantasizing and started realizing— but all this time, part of him had never really thought he'd go through with it. I mean, there's a pretty big difference between jerking off to videos of dominant women and actually getting spanked, slapped, and choked by a dominatrix after paying her an insane amount of money per hour.

But frankly, Bucky needed a big difference from what he'd been doing. He'd been alone for a little too long, he needed someone else's touch before he lost his mind. And he knew that he needed something more substantial than a hook-up, someone who wouldn't expect him to be dominant at all. Even in a kink-less, vanilla hook-up, there’s still an onus of dominance, that’s what Bucky had realised. He’s still supposed to initiate, to guide, to be fully in control… and he hates how it feels to be in control. He’s not used to it, and it doesn’t feel right, and it just makes him sure he’ll do something wrong. So here he was, standing at your door, hoping you’d take away his freedom to do something wrong.

The latch turned and you opened it.

Fuck.

You looked great. Too great, almost overwhelming. Even better than the pictures on your website.

You looked so much softer than the women he saw whenever he searched up femdom porn (yes, that was pretty much the first thing he did once he figured out google— thankfully he had also figured out incognito mode), but your presence was twice as commanding. Your eyes scanned over him quickly and your face stayed annoyingly stoic.

You invited him in; And since then, you’d had him wrapped around your finger.

Even knowing to a certain extent what he was getting into, he could’ve never prepared for how quickly he’d fall for you. Not that he was exactly new to the feeling, but he thought guilt might eat him alive: because of course he felt awful for developing real feelings for you. You were just doing your job and he was falling into the same trap that probably every dumbass client fell into.

Or maybe they actually knew what they were doing and understood how to separate fantasy from reality. He couldn’t decide which one was worse.

He spent a few hours trying to decide while staring up at his ceiling— certainly a better way to spend the time than being social or taking care of unfinished business, right?

But leave it to you to change everything with just three words. Make me yours.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about those words— or about the way you said them— since the moment you spoke them. He hadn’t stopped changing his mind on if he could really believe you were his or not. He wanted to, more than anything; and in those brief moments he did, he felt a joy that he had no idea what to do with.

He frowned as he turned his back towards the mirror, looking over his shoulder to watch his finger run over the fading scars on his back. They’d be gone for good in less than a week, but he knew you had left plenty of permanent marks on him— just unfortunately not those that anyone else could see. He liked the way these scars looked under your fingertips much more than his; he liked everything about being in your arms.

Since you’d texted him to ask if you could have a serious talk with him soon, he worried he wouldn’t get to feel that again. In fact, nothing worried him more.

He was typically antsy as he waited for you to answer the door— he had been since that very first time so long ago— but this felt entirely different: not as jittery, but a thousand times more anxious.

At first he’d been wishing you’d answer it right away, but then he heard your bolt turn and panic landed on him like a dangling anvil dropping on a cartoon character. Suddenly the last thing he wanted was for you to open that door, to be standing there looking all perfect and shit, to smile at him and greet him and invite him in. He didn’t want it; he couldn’t take it.

But you did it all anyway, though it was obviously and immediately a new situation entirely, compared to every other time you’d done it.

You were dressed differently, still formal but definitely toned down. Nothing sexual, at least not objectively. And your smile, though it still made his heart skip a beat just like always, was noticeably softer and maybe a bit sadder.

He stepped in past you, and you surprised him by sitting next to him on the couch rather than across from him on your chair. “Do you want, like, water or anything?” you asked, breaking the silence for a moment.

“No, I’m fine,” he nodded.

Bucky had gotten pretty good at silence these past few years; it didn’t bother him, in fact he barely even noticed it. But this silence made him remember why everyone else hated silence so much: it was heavy and thick and made him overcome with the need to blurt something out. “Everyone calls me Bucky,” he finally admitted. You smiled.

“Do you want me to call you that?” you asked.

He considered your question, trying to imagine you saying it. “I… I used to think it would be better, but now I like the way you say ‘James’ too much.”

“If you thought it would be better, why did you ask me to call you James?” you pressed.

“Because I didn’t want you to know who I was.”

“I know who you are,” you informed him. “I always knew.”

He swallowed as the pit formed in his gut, glancing away to hide from your gaze. “You did a good job of… of pretending you didn’t. You never seemed scared of me.”

“Because I wasn’t. And I’m not.”

He couldn’t imagine how; but then again, if there was any truly fearless woman, he figured it would be you. “I thought you’d beat me up better if you knew what I’d done,” he admitted, almost smiling but not exactly feeling very happy. “Thought you might want… revenge.”

“Surprised that didn’t make you want to tell me.”

He laughed a bit at that. “Yeah, fair enough.”

You asked him a very different question next, one that made his throat suddenly dry: "Have you ever had something that was all your own?" you spoke gently.

"Not for a long time…" he trailed off, letting his eyes unfocus as he stared down at your floor before finding the courage to look up at you again. “Is that what you wanna be?” he asked, already wishing he hadn’t said anything in case it was too presumptuous, but you just smiled back at him in a shy sort of way.

“Something like that,” you mitigated.

His eyes darted around your face— from your eyes glancing away, to your lips that you gnawed on for a moment, to the little crease between your brows— and he found himself leaning forward before he even realized it. “Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t answer, you just kissed him first; he was so relieved that you did it, too, that you took control so easily and just let him melt into your kiss. As good as it felt to submit to you, he enjoyed the new freedom he had in this moment as well— the freedom to reach up and grab your waist, to brush his hand over your hair, to tilt his head and deepen the kiss further.

It was hard to define exactly where it went from innocent to sensual to sexual, but by the time you were straddling his lap and running your fingers through his hair, it was definitely sexual.

“I want you,” you breathed against his lips.

“Have me,” he offered immediately, “I’m yours. Always was.”

He breathed in sharply when you moved your hips just right to rub up against his swelling cock through his jeans, making him grip your waist a bit harder. “Good boy,” you whispered. “You’re so good, James.”

He believed you this time, finally.

For your first real date, he took you to Coney Island. Not the classiest affair, and he promised to take you somewhere really nice next, but you didn’t mind. It was jarring to see you in casual clothes for the first time, something summer-y and light which was everything opposite to how he was used to seeing you; but he liked it, and he liked knowing a secret about you as you walked through a crowd of carnival-goers that were none the wiser.

He walked you through the fair and explained how he remembered it, showed you the few things that hadn’t changed much. He bought you a hot dog and even won you a prize at one of the games; that one where you throw a baseball and it measures your pitch speed? Yeah, it’s rigged, but he pitched lefty and it seemed to even everything out. (It’s not cheating, okay? It’s beating them at their own game, literally.)

So with a massive teddy under one arm and his waist wrapped in your other, you two walked through the winding pier, under twinkling lights and over walkways towering over the ocean below. And then you fooled around a bit on the ferris wheel. It was the ideal Coney Island experience, for sure.

Bucky didn’t have a ton of friends, per se, but he was excited for you to meet them. Meeting friends was certainly a step, though; hopefully a step you were willing to take, but he didn’t want to ask you to do it without at least having a title to introduce you with.

“I want you to be my girlfriend,” he finally told you.

“I kinda thought I already was,” you laughed.

And so, with more pride than he might have ever had for anything before, Bucky finally got to take you to meet everyone (‘everyone’ being a mix of his friends and his coworkers, who may or may not be his friends because he couldn’t always tell) and say “I want you guys to meet my girlfriend.”

Of course you were amazing with all of them; you continued that tactful “I know who you are but I’m pretending I don’t to be nice” thing that you’d started with him, and everyone seemed to appreciate it. You cracked a couple jokes, everyone laughed.

You lied about how you and Bucky met, or at least answered very strategically. Everyone at least pretended to believe you.

Afterwards, they all said something about how great you were or about how lucky he was. The only thing he ever said back was “I know.”

Now that he could kiss you without breaking any rules, he never wanted to stop. He hardly ever did, actually. He kissed you basically whenever he could get the chance; you two didn’t even go out much anymore because he wasn’t very good at keeping his hands to himself, but you weren’t exactly complaining about staying in. You were too busy kissing him back, and teasing him mercilessly while you were at it, to do that.

You had already found the fastest way to get him needy and begging, not that any way took very long. If you kissed him while you straddled his lap, wrapping your arms around him and slowly grinding against him, he lost it in minutes. And you really seemed to get a kick out of watching him lose it, just as much as always.

It made him realize that the way you looked at him before, in sessions and scenes together, was a lot less of an act than he’d assumed at the time. He just thought you were a really good actress, or that he was really whipped; and maybe the first was true, and the second was absolutely true, but regardless it had become clear that you had it almost as bad as he did from the beginning. It gave him even more respect for how well you controlled yourself, he certainly hadn’t had much self-control at the time— after all the whole ordeal was about losing control, and occasionally about trying to gain it back.

He didn’t ask you to quit your job. He didn’t want or expect you to; but you did cut down your hours, which gave the two of you more time together.

To be totally honest, part of him got a bit titillated to imagine you with your other clients. He didn’t like the idea of other men touching you, but he smirked at the thought of them begging to touch you and being denied; he liked knowing that you didn’t do with them even half of the stuff you’d done with him when he was your client.

But he wasn’t your client anymore. He was your boyfriend, and he wanted the world to know it.

six months later...

He let you struggle to reach the top shelf for a moment, just because you looked cute on your tip-toes with the tip of your tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth, before he finally relented and helped you grab the bottle of rice wine vinegar.

“Thanks,” you smiled as he set it in the cart.

After that you let him grab everything, content to stand on the end of the cart and push you around as you reminded him what else you needed.

“We’re out of Captain Crunch!” you remembered as he passed the cereal aisle, pointing to try to get him to turn.

“Yes, and we need to stay that way,” Bucky explained sternly, “that shit is addictive. Only way to avoid it is to not have it in the house.”

You frowned but accepted that he was absolutely right, though you groaned when he took you to the refrigerated section to stock up on chicken breasts. “I swear, you would eat these for breakfast if you didn’t think I’d judge you for it,” you joked.

“What’s wrong with chicken breasts?”

“They’re just so… bland!”

“Not if you season them right,” he corrected.

“Which you don’t,” you rolled your eyes. “Come on, at least splurge on some chicken thighs. They’re basically the same but so much more flavorful.”

“Fine, but no more making fun of my cooking,” Bucky decided, placing the breasts back on the shelf and grabbing two packs of thighs instead. “I’m still adapting to 21st century sensibilities.”

“Right,” you nodded, though he caught your smile in the corner of his eye— you knew he couldn’t exactly claim to still be as conservative as he was raised to be in every way.

Like any well-planned grocery run, it ended at the frozen section where you got some fruit bars and frozen vegetables (you had this theory that frozen vegetables tasted better in fried rice than fresh ones, and so far you’d proven him right) and he got a pizza to have for dinner in a pinch. When shopping alone before, he always did self-checkout to avoid being seen anymore than he had to… he still did it with you, but he didn’t even think about who might be looking at him, because all he saw was you.

You drove for this trip, and he always felt oddly soothed by riding passenger with you at the wheel. He liked to close his eyes and lean back a bit, or occasionally look over at you (but if he did it too much you complained that he was being creepy and distracting you). It shouldn’t be too much of a surprise that he enjoyed the feeling of you taking control, considering everything, but it was one of those little ways that he hadn’t expected. He just felt so comfortable, so safe with you, and never he felt like he was a burden for asking you to take the lead when he didn’t trust himself with it. And that applied to everything— driving, cooking, speaking up in crowds, all those little things that sometimes made him anxious.

There were some things he didn’t have any trouble being dominant about, though. He was very protective of you, for example, and tended to be uptight about how late you went out for walks or where you should be going alone. And he didn’t struggle to ask you for what he wanted— he was getting a lot better at asking for help, specifically.

He used to ask you to say that you loved him, instead of just saying ‘I love you’ himself, because for some reason it was easier to make you do it first. It started as something he’d beg for in the throes of passion, fingers digging into your skin as his eyes watered (as they often did in intimate moments): please, say you love me— jus’ need to hear you say it, please? And you were always sweet about it in return, of course I love you, James, my good boy, I love you so so much. But then he’d ask you to say it whenever he felt like it— he’d come up behind you while you were reading or cooking or something and kiss the top of your head or the shell of your ear and try to act nonchalant as he asked you love me, right?

You’d laugh and roll your eyes before you answered, but it was, thankfully, always a ‘yes.’ Eventually you figured out how often you needed to say it to make him stop asking all the time, which was probably a little too often.

“I love you,” you blurted out randomly as you turned on your signal and leaned a bit to make sure it was safe to make a left— case in point.

“I love you too,” he answered back with a smile.

“I don’t mind saying it so often,” you added, “but you know that I love you even when I’m not saying it, right? I love you all the time.”

It was a simple question, probably mostly rhetorical, but it hit him harder than he expected. “Yeah, I know,” he managed to get out evenly enough that you didn’t notice he was tearing up a bit.

He put the groceries away while you took the trash out; you liked to keep the fridge pretty organized, and it was an adjustment at first, but by now Bucky had it down pat. Before you, he hadn’t even considered that the contents of a refrigerator could be aesthetically pleasing.

Dinner was leftovers in front of the TV— you two were almost done with Frasier, but after that you had ten seasons of Friends to get through. You had tried to encourage him to watch more challenging stuff— you know, True Detective, Hannibal, dark cerebral stuff with arguably more artistic merit than classic sitcoms— but Bucky had had enough darkness in his life that he didn’t need it in his fiction. Maybe he’d find the time to catch up on the last 80 years of dramas and murder mysteries after he caught up on the last 80 years of comedy.

After dinner you were going to do yoga and Bucky, not in the mood to embarrass himself with that, retired to the bedroom a bit early to read his book— he’d heard a lot about this Harry Potter guy and now that he was on the fourth book and could hardly put it down, he understood the hype. He related a bit to the unwilling war hero in its protagonist; most of the time the series enthralled him, but occasionally something would hit too deep and he’d have to put it away for a couple days. At the moment, though, he was in one of the easy parts where it was just about schoolwork and childhood antics.

He instinctively glanced at the door when he heard you open it— he wasn’t sure how long it had been time-wise, but he’d gotten through quite a few pages— but he only quickly looked up at you as you shut the door behind you, before returning his attention to the book he was reading. “So, Bucky…” you began.

“Yeah?” he mumbled.

“James.”

It wasn’t any one thing that got his attention— not just the tone of your voice or the way it got a bit deeper, not just the look you gave him, not just the way the air of the room seemed to shift all at once. It was everything about you that made his body react instantly. He shut the book and set it aside, sitting up straight to look at you expectantly.

Modern 2-Bedroom Co-Living Apartment in Manchester City Centre, Price: £1,060/month per room (all bills included).

Description: "Fully furnished ensuite rooms in a contemporary two-bedroom apartment. Shared kitchen and living area. Flexible short stays. No deposit required."

Your fingers hovered over your laptop's keypad, switching between sleek photos of your kitchen in good lighting and the empty spare room across the hall. Everything had been perfectly curated: the listing had gone up, pictures had been taken, and your contact information had been provided.

All that was left was to wait for someone to bite the bait and take the room.

You glanced back over your shoulder to stare at the door to the spare room, a slight grimace settling onto your lips. You hadn’t intended to have a roommate; the whole point of moving to Manchester was to get away from a poor living situation. Not bounce from one to the other.

But alas, private education was not free. Your psychology degree wouldn’t pay for itself, and neither would your apartment. You’d managed to snag a part-time job at the pub down the street to ease some of the financial burden.

However, your landlord had been so kind as to raise the rent. Which brought you here, stuck endlessly re-scrolling your apartment listing, hoping someone would click. There was a sour kind of irony in having fought so hard for your own space, only to be forced into sharing it with a stranger.

You subconsciously gnawed at your bottom lip in worry; what if you didn’t find someone in time? Or worse, what if the person you ended up co-living with turned out to be a psychotic serial killer?

You shivered as your mind dug up endless Reddit threads about roommate horror stories.

Note to self: conduct thorough background checks.

You sighed, your head lulling back against one of the couch cushions. Well, at least if your hypothetical roommate did end up axe-murdering you in your sleep, there was free healthcare to make up for it on the odd chance that you survived.

A small noise chimed from your laptop, interrupting your train of thought. You looked at the screen. A small red dot was attached to the message icon of your contact listing. You clicked on the icon.

Message: “Hi, I’m interested in the available room. Any chance you could provide more details?”

You stared at the text briefly, your fingers hovering motionless over the keys. “Seems normal enough,” You muttered. You glanced at the name of the messenger, “-Okay…Johnny McTavish, let’s see if you’re going to axe murder me in my sleep.”

Message (You): “Of course, I’d be happy to send you more of the details…”

. . . . . ◟੭

In hindsight, was taking the first offer for the spare room an intelligent decision? No, probably not. However, you had worked yourself into an anxious spiral, fearing that this was your one and only shot.

So much for conducting thorough background checks.

Whatever information you did manage to get seemed normal enough, nothing that screamed “roommate from hell.”

You thought back on everything you knew about your soon-to-be housemate. His name was Johnny, he was in his mid-twenties, and he was in Manchester to “sort a few things out, " whatever that meant.

He also had a job; what he did exactly, you didn’t know. The term “security” seemed like a pretty general job description.

But, as a fellow person with trust issues, you couldn’t fault him for being slightly vague. As long as he could pay his half of the rent and co-exist with you like a normal person, you didn’t quite care to learn the nitty-gritty details.

Despite his elusiveness, everything else seemed to check out. So, you went ahead and arranged a date for him to tour the apartment before he officially moved in.

Speaking of, you glanced back at the wall clock. Watching the small hand point to the four mark, as if on cue, you heard someone knock on the door. Your eyebrows furrowed together. Punctual.

You stood up, making your way over to the door and wrapping your hand around the knob to pull it forward.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but whatever it was, was miles away from the person standing at your doorstep. He was tall and broad, with large shoulders and pale skin. His hair was brown. It was shaved down at the sides, making the middle portion slightly longer. It was almost like he had decided to shave it into a mohawk and gave up halfway through.

His face was angular, with a strong jaw and soft stubble. His eyes were a shade of pale blue, almost grey, framed by dark eyelashes. And he was dressed in a simple cotton T-shirt and jeans.

By the time your mind caught up with your eyes, he had started to speak. His hand held a small piece of paper the size of a Post-it note with an address scribbled down. “Excuse me—Lass, don’t suppose you’re the one who posted the room ad?”

His voice was thick and deep, shrouded by a heavy Scottish accent. You had to force your jaw shut before you started gaping like a fish.

He gave you a funny look the longer you stood there, his eyes darting from side to side. “Hope I’m not early.” He said, breaking the silence.

You shook your head, regaining the ability to put thoughts into words. “No,” you said, blinking hard. “You’re-uh, on time.”

His face broke into a smile. “Oh, great, then.” He shoved the small paper into the pocket of his jeans. His other hand extended forward. After you realized he was offering a handshake, you extended your own to meet his.

“I’m Johnny,” he said as his hand squeezed yours.

“[Name],” You replied. As you pulled away, your palm tingled. His hand was warm and rough, leaving a lingering spark on your fingertips.

He brushed past you with an easy, practiced gait. Confident. Like he’d walked into a hundred strange rooms before this one. “Nice place,” he said, glancing around. “You decorated it yourself?”

“Yeah. And I clean it myself too. So, shoes off by the door.”

He paused, then gave you a mock salute before toeing off his boots.

You walked back in, shutting the door behind you gently. You folded your arms. “So, Johnny. What brings you to Manchester?”

Of course, you had already asked him that beforehand. However, you figured you had a better chance of getting a narrower answer if you asked him in person.

He smiled, looking back over at you. “Bit of leave. Needed somewhere quiet to crash while I sort a few things.”

Internally, you slumped. The same vague, useless answer he’d given you before.

“You mentioned you work in… security?”

“Something like that.” He walked further into the apartment, making his way over to the kitchen. “Won’t be around much, no late nights. No parties.”

This guy wasn’t letting up.

No matter, you had plenty of time to investigate later. For now, as long as he paid the rent and stayed out of your way, everything would go smoothly. Plus, the whole point of the tour was for both of you to suss each other out and get an idea of who you’d be spending the next few months with.

Johnny wasn’t hard to look at, so you supposed there was a pro there. Maybe a suspiciously attractive Scotsman crashing in your flat wasn’t exactly what you needed, but it wouldn’t hurt.

“Well,” you said, “feel free to look around. Only thing that’s off limits is my room, second door on the right.” You pointed to one of the doors further down the hallway from the kitchen.

Johnny nodded as you spoke, “Yes, ma’am.”

“If you’d like, I can show you where your room is.” You offered, to which he accepted, following closely behind as you pushed the spare room door open.

It wasn’t much to look at, an empty bed-frame, a closet, a window, standard stuff. You glanced back at him, “Sorry, it’s a bit barren at the moment. Hopefully, you weren’t expecting a fully furnished bedroom.”

Johnny shook his head, walking past you to stand in the middle of the empty space. His hands set firmly on his hips as he looked around, “No apologies needed, Lass. Looks exactly like the photo, s’all that matters.

“Though,” he said, looking back at you. “I wouldn’t expect my decorating capabilities to match up to yours. Just to keep expectations low.”

A slight smile grazed your lips, “Noted.”

Johnny looked back at you, brushing off his hands like he had just gotten through with a day's work. “Should do just fine,” he said, “-I can move in as early as Wednesday, no rush though. I’ll give you a bit to think about it.”

You thought about it, chewing on the inside of your lip. That was early, however, Johnny seemed like a nice guy. Who knew when another opportunity for a housemate would arise? Maybe you were rushing into things, but rent was due by the end of the month. And with that subtle push you nodded.

“Wednesday it is.” You said.

. . . . . ◟੭

The smell lifted your head from the pillow before you were fully conscious enough to know you’d woken up.

You shifted, hands fisting the thick material of your comforter. It was dim, a warm light flooding through the crack in your door. You bitterly brought your hands up to rub the sleep from your sockets. Your nose wrinkling up with the dismay of being conscious again.

Your scalp ached dully; you reached back to scratch it when you realized you hadn’t taken your hair out from its ponytail the night before.

You grimaced, shifting until you were in an upright position. Apparently, you hadn’t bothered to change into pajamas the night before either, considering you were still clad in your work clothes—black jeans and a matching T-shirt with the pub’s logo placed in the top right corner of the shirt. With the addition of a black apron that reached your hips.

You smelled like a brewery.

An unfortunate side effect of working as a bartender. You let out a deep sigh, rubbing your hand over your neck to work out the tenseness of the muscles.

After a beat, you smelled it again, not beer this time, it was breakfasty, like eggs. As soon as you registered what the smell was, you heard the subtle crackling of oil in a pan with a soft sizzling noise. You paused, had you been sleep-cooking and tucked yourself back into bed somehow? Was that even possible?

Images of a singed black countertop with a large flame hovering over a melting pan flashed before your eyes.

You shot out of bed in a panic.

Throwing open your door, you stumbled your way down the hallway, one hand leaning against the wall to hold yourself up. You were half-expecting to see your kitchen engulfed in flames, but instead, as soon as your eyes adjusted to the influx of light, you saw…skin?

Standing with their back facing you was a man, back on full display with loose grey sweatpants hanging around his hips. Pale skin accompanied defined back muscles and oddly cut brown hair atop his head.

You stood statue still, unsure of what to do. Whoever the person was turned around, most likely alerted by the unseemly amount of noise you had just made running into the kitchen half awake.

Blue eyes met yours. “Mornin’, sorry bout’ the noise, didn’t mean to wake you or anything, Lass.”

Oh.

Right, your mind finally seemed to catch up with the situation. You now have a roommate.

A very shirtless roommate at that.

You swallowed thickly. Last night was Wednesday. You were put on a last-minute shift because your co-worker called in sick. Your boss had called you begging for you to cover it, and due to your lack of backbone, you relented.

You thought back to the message you had sent Johnny:

Message (You): Hey Johnny, so sorry but I have to cover a shift tonight. Feel free to get settled in without me, I left the extra key under the welcome mat. Just let yourself in.

Message: No problem, thanks for the heads-up.

Somehow, the notion that he’d moved into your apartment had completely slipped your mind. You were so swamped last night due to the lack of help that you weren’t entirely surprised that you managed to forget another person was in your own apartment.

“Rough shift?”

You blinked, zoning back into the present moment. “I-uh, yeah, I guess you could say that.”

Now that he was facing you, you had a full view of his shirtless body. If he didn’t look big before, he sure as hell did now. His chest was wide, his abdomen carved from straight stone. It was like looking at one of those raunchy men’s-fitness magazine covers.

You forced yourself to tear your eyes away from his body and back to his face. “Sorry, I‘m just disoriented. Late night.” You said, swallowing thickly.

“No need for apologies, Lass. I get how it is.” Johnny shifted back to grab one of the spatulas sitting on the counter. Grabbing the pan on the stove and flipping the egg inside. “-You want one?” He said, gesturing to the egg.

You opened your mouth to refuse, but before you could, however, your stomach gave you away. A slight gurgling noise belched from your stomach, much to your embarrassment.

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.” You muttered.

Johnny grinned at you, grabbing a plate from the overhead cupboard to place an egg there. Obviously, he had gotten acquainted with the layout of your kitchen while you were gone.

You gingerly took the plate with another small thanks, standing at the counter adjacent to him. Watching as he cracked the shell of another egg into the sizzling pan.

“You normally cook half-naked?” You mused, trying to fill the silence.

Johnny smiled, shrugging his broad shoulders as the egg cooked. “Sometimes, I can change if you’re uncomfortable.” He said, glancing back at you.

You shook your head, albeit a little too quickly. “Not a problem, just curious.”

Before you could grab a piece of cutlery, he beat you to it. Holding out a fork in your direction, you paused, extending your hand forward to take it. As you grabbed the metal, your fingers brushed against his. His hand was just as warm as you remembered.

Your fingers twitched, jerking back like the contact had burned your skin.

Johnny raised a brow at your skittishness. “You alright there?” He spoke casually.

“Just tired.” You lied, forcing yourself to look down at the plate as you cut your egg in half.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Or the surprise. Or the sheer warmth of his palm brushing against yours. Either way, it lingered longer than it should have.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had a man in your flat, nor could you recall the last time someone had cooked you breakfast…or touched you, for that matter.

As startled as you were, it wasn’t an unwelcome interaction. Just…unexpected.

Living alone had made you hyperaware of how foreign touch seemed to be in your life. Maybe that’s why you felt like you were being electrocuted when your fingers brushed.

You took a bite of your egg; “This is good, thank you,” you spoke.

Johnny nodded, “Got to earn my keep somehow.” He said, loading the last of the eggs onto his plate.

He stood parallel to you, plate in hand, as he ate. It was silent for a moment, filled with the sounds of metal cutlery clanking against the ceramic plates.

Johnny was the first to break the silence, “I’ll be out this evening. Probably get back late, but I’ll try my best to keep quiet.”

You looked back at him, curiosity in your stare. “Does this have anything to do with your job in ‘security ?’” You mused.

He didn’t respond for a beat, “Something like that, yeah.”

You ate in silence for the remainder of the morning. You weren’t sure what he was really doing, and he clearly wasn’t about to tell you. But the eggs were good, and for now, that was enough.

. . . . . ◟੭

You had never considered living with someone to be ‘nice.’ It was convenient at the best of times, downright painful at the worst.

Sharing a space with someone meant opening yourself up to a variety of ways your privacy could be violated. You’d promised yourself that after you cut contact with your family, nobody from beyond that point would be able to violate you in the ways they did.

With time, your distrust of people slowly subsided; it ebbed and flowed most days. But when you concluded you needed to find a random roommate, your anxiety returned, almost like it’d never left.

However, the minute Johnny walked in, with his stupid Scottish accent, his odd habits, and elusive work life. Your previous fears seemed to slip away.

And now you could afford to pay your rent on top of university, which was always great.

Somehow, in the span of a few weeks, you and Johnny settled into a shared routine. Three days a week, you would get up for your morning classes to find a coffee already waiting on the kitchen counter.

Johnny was a freakishly early riser.

You would go to your class and come back with lunch, which Johnny was always present for. You’d either eat at the kitchen counter or, more recently, eat while walking around the small park near your complex.

By the time you finished, you usually had enough time to shower or work out before getting ready for your late shift at the pub.

Johnny was home for most of the day; he worked mostly nights. So, you tended to get back to the flat from working around the time he would leave. Each time he left, you had a silent understanding not to ask.

You never brought up his work, the answer was always the same. He would either shut you down immediately or find a way to deflect.

That didn’t stop you from wondering, though, because you did. You watched him like a hawk, gathering small pieces of information to hopefully create a clear image of what exactly he did when he went to work. Unfortunately, you never got far.

You caught small things, his hushed voice on the phone in the late hours of the night, a stack of papers hanging messily off of his dresser, dog tags dangling from his neck, which were almost always hidden in his shirt.

Obviously, he didn’t work your typical 9-5, you were sure of that. However, his odd hours, which left him absent well into the night and into morning, left you grasping at strings, trying to put the pieces together.

You had your theories, sure, but it was just that, a theory. You couldn’t very well spy on him during the night either.

But spending so much time during the day at the apartment apparently gave him countless opportunities to fix the place up.

Johnny proved to be an excellent handyman. Within the first few days, he fixed your leaky kitchen sink—then the creaky floorboard near your room, then the flickering kitchen light, and so on.

You also managed to convince him to teach you Scottish slang like “Eejit” (Idiot), “Blether” (Chatter-box), and your personal favorite: “Yer lookin’ a bit peely wally” (Meaning you’re looking ill).

No matter how often you heard him mutter under his breath in Scott, you couldn’t hold back your snickers. However, apparently saying “it just sounds funny” wasn’t a good enough response when he inquired about the roots of your amusement.

Alas, all things considered, things were going well. It wasn’t perfect harmony, but things were quiet, even domestic.

It was a Friday, and you were scheduled for the late shift at the pub, from 10pm to 2am closing. You mentally prepared yourself to be accosted by swarms of people who were there to get shit-faced while watching football (or soccer, whatever you call it).

Friday was your least favorite shift because it was the busiest, but your boss seemed to enjoy taking part in watching you suffer. So, begrudgingly, you got dressed and put your hair up. Swiping your house keys from off the kitchen table, you announced your departure to the empty room, a habit you’d picked up from living with someone else. Johnny knew your schedule anyway, but it was the polite thing to do.

Just as you feared, the minute you walked into the pub, you were hit with the stench of body odor and brewery. It was a madhouse, with people packed in booths and standing in clusters on the open floor between tables.

The bar was packed, too, with people lining the stools and any open space they could. The TVs turned up to the max on the sports channel.

“Oh, thank god you’re here.”

You turned as someone grabbed ahold of your hand; a middle-aged woman dressed in the same uniform stood in front of you. She had kind eyes with slight bags and medium-length thinning hair pulled back into a claw clip.

“Janet.” You breathed, “What’s going on in here? Did all of Manchester decide to show up?” You spoke, taking in the state of the bar.

She let out an exasperated breath, “Looks like it, doesn’t it? No, just another one of those sports cups.”

You nodded in bewilderment; you knew there was a reason you should’ve been keeping up with British sports games. Maybe then you would’ve had the hindsight to call in sick.

She sighed, “You better get behind that bar, love. Before Arthur quits for good this time.” Pointing at the bartender currently behind the bar, a scowl plastered to his reddish face.

You gently patted her shoulder in sympathy, “He always says that, but he never does.” You said cooley, trying to ease her worries. You pushed her away from the rearing crowds as you went over to relieve Arthur of his duties.

You somehow managed to hold down the fort (more or less) with help from Janet and some of the other staff for the next 4 hours. The crowds had slowly depleted and all that remained was the stragglers.

You looked down at the counter, more specifically at the damage. Some of the syrups would need to be refilled, the trash was practically overflowing, and you didn’t even have the heart to look at the drip tray. Whatever mystery liquid was brewing inside that silicone tray was likely radioactive by now.

An hour till closing, and the minutes couldn’t possibly pass any slower.

You turned around, grabbing the trash and tying the top in a knot. Maybe getting started with clean-up would help the shift pass by quicker.

To say you were tired was an understatement; it was a miracle you were still standing.

However, the trash refusing to come out of the bin didn’t help your case.

You gave it a few sharp tugs, your frustration growing with each failed attempt. You were about to give it another go before you heard one of the stools being pulled out behind your bar.

Taking a deep breath, you tried to compose yourself. You brushed your apron off, turning around with what you hoped was a welcoming smile.

“Don’t suppose you could fashion me a drink, aye, Bonnie?”

You did a double take; you knew that voice. “Johnny, " you breathed. Lo and behold, your Scotsman was sitting on a barstool right before you.

His lips stretched into an amused grin at your surprise. Looking you up and down at your disheveled attire, he raised an eyebrow. “Jeez, I would ask how the shift’s going, but I’m not sure I want to know, " he mused.

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “You have no idea.” You said, exasperated.

You leaned against the bar, shoulders slumped. “It was terrible; the sports cup was on tonight, so everyone and their mother came here to get pissed. I swear it was like a war zone in here; some guy almost puked on me while I was taking out the trash, and another one spilled his pint all over the counter.” You said, gesturing to the bar that you were currently leaning against.

“-Oh, and another one got all up in my face for giving him the wrong beer.” You recalled, making Johnny raise a brow.

“Did he now?” He said.

You nodded, rubbing your temples to soothe the ache that pounded at your head. “Yeah, he had to get dragged off by someone else.”

You let your forehead drop on the table with a soft thunk, not the most sanitary thing to do, but you were too tired to care.

Johnny let out a soft chuckle, patting the top of your head as to convey his sympathies. You looked up to meet his gaze, “What are you doing here? I thought you worked nights?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “Got tonight off.” He said. You nodded, figuring it was a good enough answer in your book.

“Now—uh, bout’ that beer…” He said with an impish smile.

You rolled your eyes, pushing off the counter to stand back up. “Yeah, you’ll get your drink.” You said, grabbing a glass and moving over to the beer tap. You caught one of the handles, putting the glass underneath the tap.

However, Johnny raised his hands to stop you. “Hey, I ain’t even told you which one I wanted.” He said, eyebrows pinched together in offense.

You shot him a look, “You’ll get what I give you.”

He seemed to have received the message, graciously accepting the glass with a smile and a nod. After a sip, he conceded a little, “Thanks, Lass.”

You waved him off, “Don’t mention it, doll face.” You said sarcastically, “-After all, you’re still paying for it.” You spoke as you returned to the trash, grasping the knot and pulling it hard.

By the grace of God, the trash bag was lifted from the bin, and you hoisted it up and onto the floor so you could drag it to the back door. There was already another one sitting against the door that you’d left hours prior, making the job just a bit more annoying.

You pushed the back door open, cold air hitting your face. It was dark. The back alley near the trash bins was poorly lit and smelled of cigarettes and rotting food.

You stood in the doorway for a beat. Then you shut the door.

Now, you liked to think of yourself as a strong, independent woman. But even strong women had their limits. And tonight—cold, tired, and alone behind a bar—it was starting to feel like yours was being tested.

You chewed on your bottom lip. Usually, one of the other bartenders or staff took out the trash. But they’d all left after the rush passed, leaving you to fend for yourself during the closing shift.

“Johnny.” You said, popping back from around the corner. “How about a deal?”

He looked over at you, his pale eyes scanning your face with skepticism. One of his dark brows raised, “Aye, what’s the deal?”

“You don’t have to pay for your drink, but you have to help me take out the trash.” You said, silently praying he would.

“Deal.” He said almost immediately. Standing up from his seat, he walked around to meet you.

You led him down the hallway to the back door, the trash bags sitting idle against the door. You reached down to grab one of them, “I’ll take one, and you can grab the other.”

Before you lifted it, he swatted your hand away. “Bonnie, who do ya’ take me for?” He said, amused. Reaching over and grabbing your trash bag with one hand and grabbing the second bag with his other hand.

He lifted the bags easily, the glass bottles inside clanking together. You looked at him, forcing your eyes to tear away his biceps. Clearing your throat, you pushed the door open, “Show-off.” You said under your breath.

The small rush of cold air hit you again, sending goosebumps pebbling against your skin. But now that someone was with you, your unease faded away into static.

Johnny made quick work of the bags. With you holding the bin's lid open, he easily tossed them into its dark mouth. You sighed, brushing off your hands. “Great, thanks for the help.”

You looked back up to meet his gaze, to which he was already looking your way. You held his stare for a brief moment, unmoving.

He looked good like this (somehow), standing there in the dark. His hair had grown a bit longer, making it look like a real haircut instead of a half-assed mow-hawk. His eyes were a dark shade of blue, almost grey. Small flecks of warm light from the dim streetlamp glassed over his pupils.

Johnny blinked, clearing his throat into his hand. “Aye, happy to help.” He said, walking back to the door and holding it open for you to go through.

You ducked inside, happy to be out of the cold night air. He followed suit, letting the door swing shut behind him. The air had gained a thick tension, one you didn’t understand how or why it was there.

Like a thick fog that lingered between your bodies, it filled your ears with cotton and clung heavily to your tongue like syrup.

Your brows furrowed; you didn’t understand it. He was just looking your way; why did the gesture suddenly feel so much bigger than it actually was?

Johnny seemed to have picked up on your sudden discomfort, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You weren’t exactly sure how to answer, so you shook your head. Chalking it up to your lethargic brain, “Don’t suppose you want to help me with closing now, do you?” You said to him instead.

Your voice holds a sarcastic but underlying hopefulness.

He eyed you, “Depends. What do I get for it?” He said with a wry smile as you walked back into the heart of the bar.

“My everlasting thanks,” You breathed humorously. “…And I’ll buy your next round.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” He grinned.

You nodded, eyes catching his for just a moment too long.

It was just a favor. Just a drink. Just a shift.

. . . . . ◟੭

Manchester was a grim scene, thick and heavy rainclouds loomed over rooftops. Shrouding the surrounding area in a dark mask of grey and blue. Soft raindrops hit against your window, progressively growing in size.

You looked up from the sink, hands soaked in steaming hot water mixed with dish soap. Various plates and cutlery sitting in the murky water.

Your small window wasn’t much, but even you could watch the streets pool with shallow puddles.

Johnny sat on the couch a few feet away in the living room area, sprawled in his usual corner, his long legs propped on the coffee table, one arm slung across the backrest. He was watching the telly, though his eyes didn’t really seem to be following what was on. Something old was playing—grainy black-and-white, probably for background noise more than anything else.

You looked back out at the window, taking in the sounds of the rain. You didn’t think much of it, Manchester had storms all the time. You liked the sound of rain, even. It was comforting, in a weird, nostalgic way.

Then the first rumble hit.

It was like someone had beat on a drum from far away, the sound reverberating off your ears and causing you to perk up again.

Another rumble followed a few seconds later, closer this time. The small overhead light above the sink flickered.

You looked up, squinting at the flickering light.

Withdrawing your hands from the sink, you grabbed one of the dish towels and wiped the soap bubbles from your fingers.

You turned over your shoulder and walked into the living room. Glancing at the TV, you threw the dishtowel on the edge of the couch's headrest.

“I think we’re gonna have a storm tonight.” You said, leaning over the edge of the couch slightly.

Johnny looked at you, “Yeah?” He asked.

As if to illustrate your point, another low roar of thunder came over the living room. You glanced back at Johnny, his fingers curling white-knuckled around the armrest. He grimaced, flopping his head back against the couch cushions. “Fuckin’ hate storms,” He breathed.

You raised an eyebrow at his grip strength on the poor couch, shrugging your shoulders. “Shouldn’t be too bad, just a bit of thunder and lightning. They would have sent out a weather alert if it were anything to write home about.”

Johnny gave a long sigh in return; obviously, he wasn’t thrilled about the weather. You opened your mouth to say something else when the overhead lights flickered again, causing you and Johnny to snap your heads up.

After another moment of flickering, Johnny looked back at you, “I hope you have candles.”

You hesitated momentarily, unsure if the single scented candle you kept in your room would do the job if the power went out. “I have a candle.” You replied.

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “A single candle,” he deadpanned. “What a’bout flashlights?”

“That I have,” you said, happy to give him some good news. You quickly returned to the kitchen, digging through a drawer of miscellaneous objects. You fished out a small flashlight, proudly walking back over to Johnny to show him.

“See?” You said, pressing the small button at the bottom of the flashlight. Unfortunately, the light remained out.

You clicked it again…and again…and again, but it failed to illuminate despite your efforts.

You sheepishly looked back at Johnny, who was now pinching the bridge of his nose between his pointer and thumb. “It’s fine, Johny,” you said, waving off his concern. “What are the chances the power will go out anyway?”

Well, the power went out.

Around eight or nine, everything plunged into darkness after a particularly close strike of lighting. Neither you nor Johnny were scheduled to work, so when it did go out, you were halfway through brushing your teeth.

You blinked—still dark. You felt around for the sink, spitting out the last of your toothpaste.

“Johnny?” You called out, pushing the bathroom door open. You could navigate pretty well in the dark since you knew the layout like the back of your hand. But you still felt around the walls and put your arms out blindly as to not run into anything.

The flat remained silent. Your brows furrowing together at his lack of response, “Johnny!” You called out louder, waiting for him to respond.

You listened for his voice, but it stayed quiet like the last time. You frowned, suddenly on edge from the silence.

Your fingers slid along the walls, feeling the slight grittiness of the paint. You didn’t understand why he wasn’t responding. “Johnny, where are you?” you called out, your voice tinged with frustration.

“Johnny, this isn’t funny! Talk to me.” You bit out, growing more frantic with each failed response.

You silently cursed yourself for not getting more batteries for that flashlight. Your voice was loud; there was no chance that he couldn’t hear you. Maybe he was ignoring you? But that wasn’t like him; your mind started to conjure up worst-case scenarios. What if he was hurt? Or passed out? What if he had a seizure and died?

You knew it was silly to overthink, but you couldn’t help it. Your mind proved to be your worst enemy sometimes, and this was one of those times.

Your hand slid over the familiar ridges of a door frame, Johnny’s room! You felt around for the knob, hoping that maybe you’d find him there. You pushed the door open, holding your arms out in front of you like a blind man. Your legs are shaky and slow, trying your best not to accidentally step on something or stub a toe.

“Johnny?” You breathed, voice lower.

You took another step, your arm dripping down to feel for a desk or the bed. Instead, your hand brushed over something warm and sturdy, you felt it flinch. Yelping in surprise, you drew back like an open flame had scorched your hand.

“Fuck!” Came a loud masculine voice.

Ah, so that’s where he was.

You heard something hard hit against wood, cringing when you realized it was probably Johnny. A slight hiss of pain confirmed your speculation, “What’s wrong with you?” He bit out.

You couldn’t see anything, but his voice came lower to the ground, deepening your confusion. “What? What do you mean by ‘what's wrong with me’? I was calling for you because the lights went out, and you didn’t answer me. I got worried and came in here.” You seethed, your heart palpitating from the adrenaline.

“I’m well aware the lights are out, [Name].” He responded, “You can’t just come up out of nowhere and scare me like that.” He said, his voice aggravated.

Your frown deepened. “I called your name, Johnny. Multiple times.” You huffed. “-What are you even doing on the floor?”

There came a beat of silence, “I’m…Y’know, grounding myself.” He said awkwardly.

You paused, “Grounding yourself.” You repeated.

You knew what grounding oneself meant, safely speaking. However, you were unsure if he was literally grounding himself, considering he was sitting on the floor from what you could tell.

You heard him sigh, “Yes, it’s like something you learn in therapy. Something a’bout dealing with stressful situations.”

You didn’t respond for a moment, your mind processing his words. Slowly, you crouched down to meet him on the floor. “You didn’t tell me you were stressed.” You said, hoping you were at least talking in his direction.

“I told you; I don’t like storms.” He responded.

For some reason, you had a feeling it wasn’t just the storm. You pursed your lips together tightly, trying to conjure up something to say. Yet, you were coming up empty-handed, the downpour from outside filling the room's silence.

Even with your knowledge of the human brain and the cookie-cutter steps to comfort someone, you didn’t think he deserved a rehearsed ‘I’m sorry about that; why don’t we dive deeper into the root cause of this fear?’

You sighed, “I’m sorry for scaring you. I didn’t mean to; I was just worried about why you weren’t responding.”

“It’s fine, Bonnie. I shouldn’t have yelled either.”

Another beat of silence followed, and you gently sat down, back pressed against the wooden bed frame. “I don’t want to force you into saying anything you don’t want to…” You started, your voice unsure. “But, if you want to talk about anything, I’d be more than willing to listen.”

“What’s there to talk a’bout?” He said avoidantly.

You tilted your head toward his voice; it was clear as day that he was dancing around whatever was bothering him. However, he seemed to have felt your stare through the darkness.

“I just…get like this sometimes. With loud noises, I’m usually better a’bout keepin’ it under control. S’just with the power going out and all…” He trailed off.

You didn’t need him to finish his sentence to understand. The message he was trying to get across was clear. But he kept going before you could respond.

“Maybe it’s not the noise,” he said after another beat. “It’s the waiting for it. Not knowing when it’s gonna hit.”

You sat there in stillness, the rain and wind outside filling the gaps of silence like static. “Is there anything that helps with it?” You asked slowly.

Johnny considered it for a moment. “Sitting down helps,” he exhaled. “Breathing does, too, the slow kind.” You nodded along with his words.

You inadvertently took a deep breath, breathing in for four seconds and holding it for the same amount of time, then exhaling for another four seconds. You repeated the steps, and the sound of your breath soon matched that of his.

You stayed like that, breathing, letting the seconds pass.

Eventually, the thunder softened to a low murmur, rolling lazily across the sky like a tired lion. The sharp cracks were gone now, distant enough to feel unreal. You weren’t sure how much time had gone by. Ten minutes? An hour?

In that time, Johnny had shifted and was now shoulder to shoulder with you on the floor, backs pressed against the bed frame. You hadn’t said much. You figured he didn’t need the noise.

Eventually, he spoke, voice low. “Didn’t mean to make it your problem.”

You glanced at him; even though the room was shrouded in darkness, you could make out the shape of his face. “It’s not a problem.” He gave you a half-laugh through his nose, not quite convinced.

You bumped your knee against his gently. “I just don’t want you going through it alone. That’s all.”

There was a long pause. Then you felt it—his hand, brushing against yours. Barely touching. A test.

You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

Instead, he let his fingers hook around yours. Not tightly. Not completely. Just enough.

Just enough to say thank you, without saying a word.

. . . . . ◟੭

The weeks flow on after the thunderstorm without much change. Everything seemed to go back to normal. However, there was a shift in trust. It wasn’t much; barely even noticeable. But you could sense it, sense how the edge was taken off when he spoke to you.

And you held fingers with someone else for the first time in a long time. A small amount of intimacy that held more weight than you wanted it to.

Whatever you felt, you pushed it down. Burying its ugly head like an ashamed child because, in some ways, you knew it was childish.

It was childish to expect so much change from so little and to hope for something more to come out of it.

Because after Johnny “sorted things out,” he would be on his merry way. And you’d be left alone again.

You tapped your mechanical pencil against your temple, staring down at your notebook spread across the kitchen table. Surrounding it was your laptop, open to your lecture notes from the previous day.

Highlighters and sticky notes littered the space around the table, creating a colorful display against the brown surface of the wood.

Your environment was surrounded by material, but your mind was everywhere but what you were supposed to be studying for. You groaned, stabbing the eraser of your pencil harder into your temple.

It wasn’t like you to space out so much, but it had been getting more difficult to focus lately.

You glanced down at your phone, the time flashing at you again, reading 2:34 AM.

After spending so many shifts closing at the pub, you’d acclimated to the nightlife. Maybe you could change your career to that of a vampire. You probably had about another hour till you’d be able to sleep. Which meant forcing yourself to keep studying.

If you weren’t going to sleep, you could at least be doing something productive.

The warm kitchen light spread across the table, illuminating the area in a soft glow. Your phone at half-volume shuffling your study playlist.

Click.

Your face snapped towards the sound of the lock at your front door being opened. The doorknob turned slowly as the door was pushed open.

In stepped Johnny, clad in his jeans and boots with a solid color t-shirt and a thick coat-jacket. His keys dangling from his outstretched hand, and his blue eyes staring at you in confusion.

“You’re still up? Thought you didn’t work tonight.” He said, closing the door behind him.

“I don’t,” you said. “Couldn’t sleep, figured I’d study instead.”

“Ah, gotcha.” He said, toeing off his boots and shuffling off his coat-jacket. He hung it loosely off the coat rack, reaching behind his neck to work out the taut muscles.

His brown hair was slightly messy, no longer a mow-hawk but now a slightly disheveled short style. His sides were still slightly shorter than the middle chunk of his hair, but it looked good. He looked good.

You glanced away, feeling silly for staring at him. Warmth creeping up into your cheeks like the mere image of him set you ablaze.

He came over to where you sat, hovering next to you. He took one look at your note page before walking back over to the kitchen, “I would offer to help, but I can’t understand anything on that page, Lass.” He said humorously.

You sighed, scratching the back of your head. “I guess we’ve got that in common, " you said hopelessly, staring back down at your notes, which were progressively looking more like hieroglyphics than English.

He laughed, pulling a glass from the cupboard and going to the fridge to fill a glass of water. The soft hum of the refrigerator blending in with your music.

Your song ended, transitioning into a softer, more nostalgic melody. It was one of those old-school love songs with an upbeat tone and chorus, even with its slow instrumentals. Johnny drifted back to the dining room where you sat, watching you rub your temples in exhaustion.

He glanced down at your phone on shuffle play. “This what you study to, Bonnie?” he asked, a grin on his face as the cheesy tune played.

You brushed him off, used to his teasing by now. “Helps me think, " you murmured back, too tired to engage. Looking back at your laptop, you winced at the blue light, squinting as best you could so as not to get a headache.

Johnny stayed silent for a beat, looking down at you.

Without warning, he reached out and shut your laptop. Making you blink in confusion, you glanced back at him. “Wha-“

“Dance with me.” He said, cutting you off.

You stared at his face, eyes scanning his features to detect any signs of teasing or a joke. But you couldn’t find a trace of humor in his face. You raised an eyebrow, unsure what to make of his blatant command.

“What? Why?” You said, eyebrows furrowing together.

His face broke out into a boyish grin. Reaching out, he took your hands. “Because this is a good song, Bonnie, " he said smoothly.

The mechanical pencil you had been holding clattered down on the table. You hesitated for a moment, surprised by the contact. But you let him gently pull you up and out of your chair.

He pulled you over to where there was more open space, the song playing in the background.

Johnny guided your right hand until you looped it around his neck, holding your left as his free hand snaked around your torso. He was warm, like every time you had touched him, just like a furnace.

Your palm cupped the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the soft hair near his nape. Your other hand gently held in his, the pads of his fingers rough and calloused. He had the hands of someone who had grit, but the way he held you suggested everything but. His grasp on your hand and your side was light and gentle, like he was holding glass.

You sucked in a hollow breath as you started to sway, shuffling your feet to and fro with the rhythm of the song.

He was close. Like, really close.

Your eyes darted to meet his for a fraction of a second, scared to make eye contact for too long. Looking at him this close made you nervous and uneasy.

You felt stiff, the awkwardness of your movements stemming from your nerves. You breathed a half-laugh through your nose at your clumsiness. “Sorry, I don’t make a smooth dancing partner.” You said lightly.

Johnny’s lip curved up into a small smile, one of amusement and fondness. “S’okay, just relax. I got you.” He said, the raspiness of his voice sending shivers down your spine. His voice was so close to your ear, making it hard to focus on anything but his breath.

You swallowed thickly. Just relax, easy peasy.

You inhaled slowly, taking a deep breath to calm your growing nerves. You didn’t understand how you managed to get worked up so much in the span of a few seconds. But Johnny seemed to have that effect on you.

The music continued softly, letting you focus on something else besides the rising heat in your face. After a few moments, you loosened up enough to be slightly more confident in your swaying abilities.

His hand on your side gently squeezed your torso, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles into the fabric of your shirt.

You slowly managed to look up at him, “This isn’t so bad.” You breathed, “Especially for a first time.” You added on.

One of his dark eyebrows raised, pale blue eyes looking at you quizzically. “You’ve never danced with anyone like this?” He asked, surprised.

You shook your head, shrugging your shoulders lightly. “Guess I never got around to it.”

His smile returned, the boyish smirk that you knew oh so well. “Well, that’s a bloody shame. You’re doin’ just fine.” He said, lightly teasing.

You let out a soft breath, rolling your eyes. “I just-” You stopped yourself, unsure. But after another moment, you continued, “-I guess I just never let anyone get that far. Even the small stuff, y’know? I know it’s a bad habit being so…untrusting, but it’s just been easier to breeze by without letting anyone in. But-uh, it’s nice, dancing—I mean.”

You glanced back at his eyes, holding his stare. Watching the way his eyes softened at your little spiel.

“Yeah, it is nice, isn’t it?” He replied, his voice softer.

You held his gaze, forcing yourself not to tear your eyes away. It was strange; you felt pulled to him like an electric current. Yet simultaneously, you wanted nothing more than to run away and dig yourself into a hole.

You felt your body pulse. When did your heart start to race?

It was beating so loudly you could hear it ringing in your ears, sending warmth blossoming across your cheeks.

Your faces were so close you could see the wisps of his dark eyelashes. You could make out the gentle creases that lingered near his eyes or the soft crook of his nose. Your eyes trailed lower, dipping down to the outline of his lips.

You caught the way he swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing in place. Your gaze flickered up, back to his eyes.

Somewhere along the line, you stopped swaying. However, neither of you seemed to notice.

Both of you seemed to recognize the significance of the moment, the thick tension that had developed between your bodies. It seemed to spark randomly like an open cable wire, waiting for someone to touch it.

Before you could think about anything too thoroughly, though, your lips seemed to connect along the way.

You felt your breath hitch at the contact, his lips warm and smooth. But whatever initial surprise you had faded into the yearning to be even closer.

Your hand slid into his hair, grasping at the brown locks like he’d disappear. You felt him sigh against your lips, pushing deeper.

You let him in, eagerly parting your lips for him. The slow and soft noises of lips moving against each other rang in your ears along with the music. The hand that held your torso slid along your back, pulling you closer to him.

The kiss was sweet but deep. It held so much tension and built-up emotion, you didn’t know where to start, weeks of occupying the same space and subtle contact all to lead up to this.

You felt his stubble brush against your skin, the warmth of his body making you dizzy. He nipped softly at your bottom lip, pulling the skin between his teeth. You whimpered, preening for something, anything.

His other hand let yours go, traveling up your waist to slide under your shirt—

Bzzzr…Bzzzzr

The tell-tale jingle of a call vibrated against his pocket; you broke apart. Startled by the sudden interruption. Standing inches away, breathless and wide-eyed.

You stared at him, snapped back into reality. It felt cold again, and your breath caught in your throat like someone had knocked the wind out of you.

Neither of you moved for a minute, too shocked to do anything but stand there. Then, Johnny cleared his throat, awkwardly reaching into his back pocket to pull out his phone. As he looked at the caller ID, he snapped his face back up at you, his eyes remorseful and guilty.

“Sorry, Bonnie. I’ve got to take this, work call.” He breathed; his voice strained.

He ducked out of the room, stepping out to take the call, leaving you a standing statue. The song slowly faded into the background as it came to its end.

You inhaled, looking around the room, bewildered. Your chest was tight. Your skin still tingled where he'd touched you.

What the hell had you just done?

. . . . . ◟੭

You weren’t sure what was worse, how easily Johnny had kissed you or how easily he seemed to forget it.

The night of the kiss still played fresh in your mind despite how much you willed it to go away. Whatever chances you had of protecting your friendship with him slipped through your fingers like dust the minute your lips touched.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting to happen afterwards, a discussion? A confession? Maybe just a small acknowledgment that it was real and not a vivid dream?

Instead, nothing happened.

The world kept spinning even though yours felt like it was crashing down.

Confronting it wouldn’t have been a problem, but it was the lack thereof that perturbed you. It was like the kiss didn’t matter—like you didn’t matter. And that alone ate at you more than the silence.

The days that followed felt bizarre. You were living with someone else, but at the same time, you’d never felt more alone.

You still woke up to a hot cup of coffee, but there was nobody on the other side of the kitchen counter to greet you or make fun of your bedhead. When you brought home lunch, there wasn’t anybody to tear through the flimsy plastic to-go bags like a hungry bear.

Johnny still acknowledged you when you left for a shift or got back home, but he didn’t look at you. And when he did, it was brief.

Most times, you didn’t even see him; he was gone for long stretches of time that left you questioning if he’d come back. Sometimes, a day or two passed without you seeing him, leaving you alone.

Sometimes, you found yourself waking up to the sound of his footsteps in the late hours, listening to the way his steps creaked against the wooden floorboards. You would watch the front door to his room, silently observing the shadow that passed underneath the door. As if to remind yourself that he was still there, that you didn’t lose him, even if it felt like you did.

But it was the small moments in passing that hurt you the most; you had been carrying your laundry back to your room, walking into the narrow hallway to get to your door. Only for Johnny to be on the other side, just emerging from his own room.

His shoulders tensed as soon as he saw you. His lips pulling into a civil, yet tight, smile.

He nodded at you before twisting his body to the side to brush past you. Yet even with his back pressed against the wall, his chest still brushed against your shoulder as you moved.

The contact was light, obviously accidental, but it made your gut twist sourly. Like the ghost of that night, of his hands on your body could still be felt.

You had also caught him in the kitchen at the crack of dawn, which meant he was already brewing coffee. He had just set your mug on the counter like he always did when you’d marched in.

Already dressed in his work boots and coat you eyed him up and down. “Morning,” you said hesitantly, grabbing the cup, bringing it to your lips, and taking a sip. It was perfect. Like always.

Johnny glanced at you, pouring the scalding black liquid into his thermos. “Mornin',” He replied politely.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed over your body, silently observing him go about his morning tasks. You needed to say something, to ease the awkwardness that lingered in the air like toxic gas.

You cleared your throat, “You-uh, you’ve been working a lot recently.” You commented, trying to bridge the gap between each other.

Once again, he gave you a sideways glance. “Keeping busy.”

You wanted to ask why, to scream and shout, cry out to him; why was he doing this to you? Why either of you were too scared to address what happened. But you didn’t.

You stayed quiet and watched him leave. Not wanting to be the one to bring up the elephant in the room.

Pride is a bitter thing.

And both of you had let it ruin your friendship or whatever you had going on with him.

You missed it, you missed him, so desperately it hurt.

And you hated yourself for it; you hated how easily you’d slipped down the path of caring for another. And having him retreat like he did was a brutal punch to the gut and a harsh reminder of why you struggled so deeply with letting people in.

You cursed yourself for getting involved with a man who was just supposed to be a roommate. But he wasn’t, not now at least.

You dug through your laundry hamper, fishing out your work uniform. It was around ten past noon, and you’d been placed on the midday shift. You had class the next morning and practically begged your boss not to put you on another late night.

You slipped your shirt past your shoulders, brushing out the slight creases from the fabric. While fixing your hair, you caught your reflection in the standing mirror by your closet. You had slight bags under your eyes and a slight worry line forming on your upper brow.

You frowned; you hadn’t been sleeping well. And the combined anxiety of your classes paired with the shit-show of your co-living situation had taken its toll.

Your hand unconsciously tried smoothing your face. Trying to wipe the frown lines from your skin. You sighed when it proved unsuccessful, glancing back over to your vanity your makeup bag caught your attention. You wore makeup, but it had been a while since you’d really dressed yourself up for a shift.

Checking the time, you realized you still had half an hour until you needed to be at the pub. You peeked back over at your bag, reaching over to unzip the opening.

Look good, feel good, you thought. Maybe switching up your appearance was just what you needed; it couldn’t hurt.

You finished with just enough time to spare. When you caught your reflection in the mirror this time, your lips didn’t settle into a disappointed frown. You stared at yourself for a beat, trying to muster up a realtor-worthy smile.

You looked pretty, even if you didn’t feel your best.

“Get it together.” You muttered, taking one last look at yourself before leaving your room.

You passed Johnny on your way out; he looked like he had just gotten back. Halfway through untying the laces on his boots. He glanced up as you passed, and for a moment, his lips parted like he was going to say something. But they shut just as fast as they’d opened.

You tried not to be disappointed, pursing your lips tightly as you closed the door behind you.

The pub wasn’t overwhelmed with customers, to your relief. Since it was the afternoon shift, most people were still working or doing something more productive than day drinking.

Your eyes caught wind of a familiar black head of hair tied up in a claw clip. “Janet,” you said, perking up.

She glanced over at you at her name being called, her thin lips pulling into a bright smile when she noticed you standing there. “[Name]! You didn’t tell me you were on; you usually only work nights.” She said, a tray of food in her hand.

You made your way over. “I’ve got an early class tomorrow.” You said, watching as she set the tray down.

“Ah, well, that’s nice Mike put you on the afternoon shift,” she said, referring to your employer. “-Good thing, too, you’ve been looking so tired this week.” She said, not in a mean way. More of a worried motherly way. Yet it still had the same effect as a normal insult would, making you deflate a little.

You breathed a half-laugh through your nostrils, “Thanks, Janet.” You said through your teeth.

She crossed her arms, looking you up and down. “You look good, though; did you do something different?” She asked curiously.

You shook your head, not wanting to tell her you had just covered up your tiredness with more foundation. “Just got more sleep, I suppose.” You lied.

After catching up with Janet, you slipped over to the bar counter, beginning your usual routine of making drinks and pouring craft beers for men in their late 50s sitting at the bar watching the television.

For the most part, you didn’t have much to do. So, you spent most of your time either helping Janet when she needed a second hand or slipping beers into the back kitchen for the line cooks in exchange for fries.

But during the last hour of your shift, things started to pick up a bit, by now most 9-5’s had ended. Which meant that everyone came flocking to the club for a pint, of course.

At least you were busy; there was no room to think about what awaited you when you got home.

You saw someone slip into one of the open bar seats, turning your body, and you faced them. “Hi, what can I get for you?”

The man sitting down was tall, at least, you think he was based on his sitting position rising above some of the others around him. Definitely not bad looking either, good facial structure and soft brown eyes.

His eyes scanned the counter, then back up to you. “What do you recommend?” He asked, his arms crossed and resting on the counter in front of him.

“Well, our craft beer is always a safe bet,” you said, turning over to your counter and browsing the collection of ales. “There are also some specialty beers, like our barrel-aged ale. But if that’s not to your fancy, I can always make you something else, like an old-fashioned.”

He sat there for a moment, mulling over his options. “Don’t suppose you could decide for me? You seem like a trustworthy source.” He said, the corners of his lips pulling into a soft smile.

You nodded, “Yeah, I can do that.” You turned to the beer tap, truth be told, you weren’t actually thinking about what this guy would like. Beer was just the easiest thing to make, which saved time. You could already feel other people starting to crowd around the counter.

You slid the pint over to him, “Alright, hope I made a good choice.” You said with a smile, a nice tip in the back of your mind. “Do you want to start a tab?” You asked.

He looked at you, “Yeah…think I’ll stick around.”

Once you opened a tab for the man, you returned to helping other people; however, the same guy seemed to bleed his way through every interaction. You started to make pleasant conversation as you made drinks, nothing inherently new.

Through the conversation, you learned that his name was Thomas, he was in Manchester for work, and he was originally from the States. You bonded with him over the shared experiences of moving to the U.K. and the differences and similarities between the States and Britain.

Overall, he was a nice guy. Maybe he was a little too confident in some respects, but he wasn’t a pain to be around.

“So, what time do you get off?” He asked after maybe thirty minutes of conversation. You raised an eyebrow, glancing back at him.

“Why do you need to know that?” You said back, a tad skeptical.

He smiled, looking up at you with a boyish grin. One that reminded you of Johnny. “Maybe I want to get to know you outside of a pub. Anything wrong with that?” He said, leaning forward on his arms.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, so why did it feel like there was? “No, nothing wrong with it.” You agreed, turning to the countertop to busy yourself with cleaning the surface.

“So then, do I get to know when you get off?” He said persistently, looking at you with a hopeful expression.

You glanced back at him, swallowing down the lump in your throat. He was an attractive guy, nice for the most part, and he wanted you. Something that you were lacking at the moment.

Your mind flashed back to Johnny. Your fingers twisted into the cloth of the rag you were using to clean the counter. You thought about the kiss, and then you thought about how he’d left you. A bitter taste bloomed in your mouth the longer you thought about it.

Fuck it, you thought.

You glanced back at the clock, “I get off in fifteen.” You said, turning your face back to meet him.

He smiled, a look of relief washing over his face. “Yeah?” He looked back down at his drink, finishing the last of the liquid. His cheeks were slightly rosy from the alcohol. “Guess that means you can close out my tab.”

You didn’t even make it out of the bar before he was on you. Maybe it was a little bit of both. You couldn’t really process anything.

He had gone with you to clock out; you were in the back hallway near the side door. Somehow, while walking, his hand slid over to your back to lead you out. Which spiraled into your back being pressed against the side wall, his body caging you in with his knee wedged between your legs.

Your hands were looped around his neck while his were on your body. Trailing his fingertips up and down your sides.

It started as slow kissing, but it progressively got more heated the longer you stayed. You could taste the beer on his tongue, the smell of his strong cologne, the sweat of his skin. It felt wrong.

You shut your eyes tight, trying to immerse yourself in the experience, trying to be normal about the fact that you were making out with a stranger you’d met only an hour before in the back hallway of a pub.

You sucked in a breath as his lips detached from yours, his face ducking down to your neck to suckle and kiss at the skin. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, trying to pretend that his wispy hair was slightly darker. That his brown eyes were a shade of light blue. That instead of his hands that were holding you it was Johnny’s.

You could feel yourself choking up. This was a mistake. Kissing a random guy wasn’t getting your mind off of Johnny; in fact, it was amplifying your feelings.

He seemed to have noticed your change in demeanor because he suddenly pulled away. Leaving you panting against the wall, he looked down at you. His cheeks are equally red, and his lips kiss swollen.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked.

You couldn’t look at him; you didn’t want to because you knew Johnny wouldn’t be staring back at you.

You cleared your throat, trying to muster up anything to say. “I-I don’t know.”

Your words lingered in the air, a twisted type of shame washing over you. You felt ashamed that you agreed to this and guilty for potentially leading this guy on. Even if he was a stranger, he didn’t deserve a lie.

You looked back up at him, “I’m sorry.” You breathed, guilty. “-I just can’t.”

A look of confusion crossed his features before morphing into a small amount of understanding. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t say; instead, he nodded. Clearing his throat and backing off of you.

You managed to get in a soft goodbye coupled with another apology before he left you, standing with your back against the wall. You stared off into space, your hand subconsciously brushing against the area on your neck where he’d kissed you.

You felt like you were going insane, like Johnny had infiltrated every facet of your life without even trying. Just by a kiss you’d been doomed for who knows how long.

You looked back at the door, looking at the small glass square. It was dusk, the suns golden hue fading into a soft blue that cast a slight glow on window.

Maybe if you were lucky Johnny wouldn’t be home when you got back.

You got back to the flat around 7pm, pushing the door open and letting your bag slide off your shoulder and onto the floor. Toeing off your shoes and shrugging off your coat. As you hung up the garment you saw Johnny’s jacket was still hanging on one of the hooks.

So, he was home.

You heard someone walking out from the kitchen, turning your head, you faced Johnny. His keys dangling loosely from his hand. His head turned when he heard you, noticing you at the door. “Sorry, didn’t hear you come in.” He said in acknowledgment.

He turned away like he usually did, but halfway through he turned back. His eyebrows furrowed down his face like he was doing a double take, you stiffened as those blue eyes trailed up your form.

You couldn’t read his face, suddenly uncomfortable by the lack of emotion across his features.

“That a new perfume, Bonnie?” He said, his voice tight and curt.

You paused, caught off-guard by his words. Unsure of what to say for a moment before it clicked. Ah, the cologne. It was strong, no surprise it probably lingered on your clothes and your skin.

You swallowed, “Why, you like it?” You replied, playing it off.

He hummed; jaw clenched. “Not really.”

His face was hard, a silent judgment that left you wanting to hide. You felt exposed, like he knew your shame.

When you didn’t respond, he rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Have a good shift?” He said, his voice betrayed the mundane nature of his question.

You didn’t enjoy the pointed nature of his words, “Yeah, it was good.” You snipped.

His laugh—if you could even call it that—was sharp, a slight exhale through his nostrils. His eyes darting away from you, “Right, looks like it.”

Your lips twisted into a tight frown, instinctively, your hand slid up to your neck. Your fingers brushing over the tender blooming heat of it—the mark you’d let someone else leave. Almost as if you were shielding it from his eyes.

Shame flooded your chest again, molten and ugly.

Your eyebrows creased, pinching at the bridge of your nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You snipped.

He looked back at you, as if he didn’t expect you to get cross with him. You saw the muscles in his jaw work slightly, tensing up, “Nothing.” He breathed, shrugging his broad shoulders. “None o’ my business.”

You crossed your arms, heat crawling up your face. “Could’ve fooled me.” You quipped.

His head snapped back at you, something you couldn’t pinpoint flickering behind his pale blue eyes. “You think I give a fuck who you let maul you in a back alley?” He said, his voice cold and cutting.

You flinched like he’d struck you.

Never had he ever spoken to you like that, not once. And it caused something to burn deep inside you like a lit match.

“What the fuck is your problem, Johnny?” You said, throwing your hands up. “You don’t get to do this with me, you don’t get to act all offended and like you care when you can’t care enough to even acknowledge that you kissed me.” You scolded.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

So, you barreled on, voice cracking despite yourself. "You push and you pull and you flirt and you kiss me like you fucking mean it, and then you act like I’m a goddamn stranger the second it gets real!"

You shoved your hands through your hair, breathing hard.

“[Name],” Came his voice, strained and tight. “I know you’re upset, and you have a right to be mad. But you don’t know everything, I’m-I’m not doing this because I want to, I have my reasons.”

You could’ve screamed at him, “Then tell me!” You snapped back.

You saw him hesitate, “I told you- “

“You didn’t tell me anything. You just show up and expect me to know what you want. To be totally good with all of this,” you said, gesturing to the air around you.

Everything seemed too much and not enough at the same time, like the man in front of you was a lie. You huffed, looking around the room in bewilderment, at his pair of boots that sat on the shoe rack, at his spare coat on the hanger, the small traces of his presence he left in your home.

“I-I don’t understand how I didn’t see it, how I didn’t see you for what you are. I barley even know you. You can tell me your favorite color, but you can’t tell me where you work or why you disappear on me for days at a time?” You fired, digging up anything you could throw at him.

You saw his jaw work again, his hands bawling into tight fists at his side. “Then what, you want me to reveal my whole life to you? Fight off every guy that even looks your way?” He said, voice cut with disbelief.

You shook your head, practically in tears. “No. I want you to stop acting like I’m yours when it suits you, then pretending like I don’t exist when it doesn’t!”

Johnny threw his hands up this time, “You’re not mine, [Name]! You never were.” He snapped, his breath heavy. After another beat, he spoke, his voice slightly calmer this time. “Happy?”

You stood there, staring at him. The white-hot anger fading into a soft dread that pooled in your stomach and burrowed in your throat. It was silent apart from the sounds of your own breathing.

You swallowed thickly, feeling a burn in your throat. “Yes.” You lied.

For a second, one miserable second, something in his expression crumbled. Something small and helpless and so achingly human.

But then it was gone just as fast as it appeared.

"Won’t matter anyway," he said, voice flat. "-Works nearly sorted." He brushed past you to sling the strap of his jacket over his shoulder like it was a coffin he was carrying.

"I’ll be outta your hair soon enough, Bonnie. You’ll get your peace back."

He didn't wait for a response.

Just turned and yanked the door open, the heavy slam echoing through the flat as he left you standing there, blinking hard against the burn in your eyes.

As the dust settled, the full weight of his words seemed to dawn on you. You hiccuped, biting down on your fist as fat tears slid down your cheeks.

As far as you were concerned, your Johnny was gone.

. . . . . ◟੭

You offhandedly glanced back at the clock that hovered over the pub entrance for the fifth time in a few minutes; it seemed to stare back at you with a grin. Taunting at you as if you were a bird trapped in a cage, and these days, it didn’t feel far off from reality.

You had another few minutes before your shift ended, yet your fingers itched to grab your coat and leave.

Casting your line of sight down back to the bar counter, you thrummed your nails against the wood. It was a grim scene, a dead bar that only housed a few people. The television was playing re-runs of an old game show, and the yellow lights cast the bar in an almost sickly glow.

Most of your time now consisted of this, staring at the countertop of an empty bar. After all, it was better than staying in your apartment. But now you were starting to feel like a hamster trapped in the same cage.

The days following your argument with Johnny seemed to bleed together, like you were watching the days play out instead of living them.

You spent long hours slaving away over your laptop, fingers perched over the keys while your eyes scanned columns of text. You spent even longer hours at the pub scrubbing the bar counter and pouring drinks to old timers.

Somehow, though, throwing yourself into your studies and job did little to keep your mind off Johnny. You had gotten what you wanted, or rather, what you thought you wanted—an answer.

But it wasn’t the answer you wanted.

Something small and ugly inside you wanted him to fight for your affection, to run after you even after you’d told him not to. But whatever feelings you had towards him weren’t worth dwelling on, not now.

What remained in the absence of your ‘friendship’ was a cordial silence, one that spoke a thousand words and none at the same time. A harmony that felt like an open wound that wouldn’t close.

You pushed yourself off the counter, reaching behind you to untie yourself from the small black apron that hung around your hips, slipping back into the back kitchen to grab your coat from the hanger near the door.

You shuffled into the garment, grabbing your bag and keys hanging off the nearest hook from where your coat rested. As you pushed past the door to make your way to the exit, you heard someone speak up.

“You on your way?” Came a soft feminine voice.

You looked up to see Janet, who had been put on the closing shift and, therefore, still had a way to go before she could escape, too.

You gave a half smile, stuffing your apron in your bag. “Yeah. Not really any customers to serve, so I thought I’d get out of here.”

She nodded, the soft wrinkles near her eyes creasing. She looked at you with a hint of pity, like she could see how your life was somehow crumbling. You didn’t look back at her, not wanting to watch the sadness cross over her face when she saw how the bags under your eyes had deepened.

You heard her softly hum, “Get some rest, sweetheart.”

You nodded in acknowledgment, responding with a hum of your own. You slipped past her to leave through the front door. As you pushed it open, the bell jingled above your head.

“-And stay safe, it’s late.” She called after you.

The walk back to your apartment was short. However, you still heeded Janet’s words, the cover of darkness seemed to bring out seedy creatures no matter how quickly you managed to get home.

You climbed the up stairwell, walking down the hallway lined by doors until you came to yours. You were on autopilot as you fished for your keys, your eyes dully staring into the abyss.

As you reached out to slide the key into the lock, the door creaked open under the pressure—already unlatched.

You paused.

For a split second you stood still, staring blankly at the door. Huh, that’s odd. You hesitantly peeked your head inside looking around your empty apartment.

It was dark, and silent.

The partially open door obstructed your view of the full kitchen, you swallowed. “Johnny?” You called out into the room, still halfway through the door.

There was no answer, you glanced at the coat hanger at the entrance. His coat wasn’t hanging up which meant he was out. But if he was out, then why was the door open?

You unconsciously chewed on your bottom lip, maybe you were just being paranoid. The most likely scenario was that he just forgot to lock it on his way out.

But the small chance that it was something else moved you to grab your phone, you sheathed it from your pocket. Typing out a message to him.

Message (You): Hey, do you know if you locked the door on your way out?

It was brief, in the case of it being nothing more than an accident you didn’t want to seem panicked.

You stepped inside, flicking the lights on.

You were still weary, but you’d managed to talk yourself out of suspecting the worst like you usually did.

You shrugged off your coat, shutting the door behind you. But as you turned something caught your eye.

The first thing you noticed was that the kitchen cabinets were open, the drawers too. Pulled out with its contents scattered on the countertop as if they’d been rummaged through.

You paused again, eyebrows furrowed half-way down your face. “What the fuck,” you muttered under your breath. Johnny may have been slightly disorganized at times, but you’d never seen him leave your apartment in disarray.

You looked around, pulse beginning to quicken. Maybe he had been in a rush, you thought. But even that didn’t sit right.

Without thinking, you walked down the hall. Turning all the lights on as you went, the doors were open. Thrown ajar to reveal a state of chaos.

You stared at the inside of your room, your closet wide open and clothes thrown about the room. Your dresser, drawers, bookshelf, all rummaged through. You doubled back, running into Johnnys room to find it in much the same state.

You never went into his room; it was an unspoken rule between you that unless you were given permission it was off limits.

However, right now you couldn’t stop yourself.

You felt your heartbeat before you realized it was racing; your blood seemed to run cold at the state of your home. Whatever was in your apartment was searching for something, yet all of your jewelry was still in your room. Your TV sat in it’s proper place in the living room and small amount of cash you kept in your dresser had been untouched.

Were these not items of value? What could anyone possibly be looking for in your apartment if not money or valuables?

Your hand found your phone again before you realized what you were doing. You should’ve been dialing the authorities, but your trembling fingers could only seem to find Johnnys caller ID.

You held your phone to your ear, listening to the ring of the call. With each chime you felt your hands shaking harder, as if you had a sudden cold.

Doubt gnawed at your mind, you knew there was a slim chance of him picking up the call. And even slimmer chance of him being able to fix the situation in any way.

There was another ring before you heard the familiar static rustling of the call being picked up, you felt your breath catch. “Johnny?” You choked out, your voice breathless and trembling.

“[Name],” came his voice, confusion written in his tone. “What’s wrong? You know not to call me when I’m out.”

You swallowed your fear, trying to force the words from your lips. “I know, its—somethings wrong. The door was unlocked when I got home and everything’s a mess. I think someone was here.”

You felt a pause, the static of the phone buzzing in your ear. Then came his voice, sharp and cutting, “Where are you?”

“I-I’m in the house.” You replied.

“Are you hiding somewhere? Do you think there’s anyone still in the house?” He said sharply, his voice borderline panicked.

You blinked, “No I’m-“

“Get in your room and lock the door, I’ll call for help. When you find a place to hide, stay there, I’m coming to get you. Now.”

You stayed frozen for a moment after the call ended, your phone still clutched tightly to your ear like it could somehow anchor you. The line had gone dead, but your heart pounded in your ears loud enough to drown out everything else. You took a shaky breath and backed into your bedroom, locking the door behind you with trembling fingers.

A few minutes passed. Maybe more. It was impossible to tell, time had slowed into something warped and syrupy. Every small sound in the apartment made your skin crawl. The creak of a pipe. The groan of the building. Your own breathing, too loud in the silence.

Then you heard it—footsteps.

Not heavy. Not rushed. Measured. Controlled. You froze again, heart in your throat. The front door creaked open wider, hinges groaning.

“[Name]?” came Johnny’s voice, “It’s me.”

You flung the bedroom door open before you could talk yourself out of it. “Johnny?”

He was already moving toward you, clad in his jacket and work boots. His brown hair slightly tussled and his eyes scanning your face. You caught the way his hand lifted for a moment to cup your cheek, but at the last moment, it hesitated. Trapped in the air.

There was a slight pause between you, one that said too much and not enough at the same time.

As if the look on his face was screaming, belting out the words ‘I still care.’

Instead, what came out was a breathy “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, swallowing thickly. “No. I-I didn’t touch anything-”

“Good.” He cut you off before you could finish, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the door.

You let out a strangled noise of surprise mixed with discomfort; Johnny’s grip was rough. Using the force of his strength to pull you like a rag doll. After your split-second of surprise wore off you tried resisting his grip, “Johnny-!” You huffed, trying to pull away.

You were already through the door, the cold night air nipping at your skin in the hallway. He didn’t look back at you. “We’re not staying here,” he breathed, “Come on.”

You had half a mind to slap him for his behavior, but you were so frazzled you could only let yourself be pulled along like a tugboat. “What about the police? They’ll need us to be at the apartment if we want to find out what’s going on.”

Johnny led you down the stairwell, his hand was cold and clammy. He stayed quiet as he dragged you out of the complex, making your skin tingle with nerves. You furrowed your brow, trying to dig your heels into the concrete to pull him to a stop.

“Johnny, you said you called for help.” You bit at him, your voice trembling. Forcing your body to lean backwards to stop him from moving any forward.

He looked back at you from over his shoulder, staring at your body resisting his pull. You saw something flash in his eyes, guilt? Fear? Hatred?

Johnny turned to face you, his hand leaving your wrist so both of his palms could clasp your shoulders. His fingers were trembling, “Do you trust me?”

You paused, “I-I don’t understand.”

You felt him squeeze your shoulders, his gaze pleading with you. “Do you trust me, Bonnie?”

Against your better judgement you nodded, “Yes.”

With your confirmation, he grabbed your wrist again. Pulling you forward towards the sound of a car engine. But this time, you didn’t pull away, stumbling after him, your mind catching up a beat behind your body.

Johnny pulled you into the passenger seat of a car, its headlights glaring in the night air. You sat down in the leather seat like it was made of stone, your body prickling with nervous tension. He situated himself in the driver’s seat, wasting no time pulling out and onto the road. His hands white knuckling the steering wheel.

You stared out at the road as he drove past the familiar landscape of your neighborhood. Your hands bawled into fists on your lap. You didn’t look at him; you couldn’t, not when he had hauled you into a car with no explanation of why nor where you were headed.

“Johnny,” you said, trying to keep your voice controlled. “-Where are we going?”

Out of your peripheral vision, you saw his hands shift on the wheel. The silence that followed made you want to scream. You wanted to get out of the car, to make him turn you around and drop you right back off at the apartment.

You sucked in a small breath, tears sliding down your cheeks and onto your shirt. You bit down on your cheek, “Johnny, answer me right now. Where are you taking me?” You bit out.

By now, you had turned your head to look at him, watching the way his jaw tightened at the sound of your sobs.

You stared at him, your gaze practically begging him to answer you. You were progressively getting more frustrated the longer the silence was prolonged.

“Say something!” you shouted, voice cracking. “You’ve been keeping secrets, dodging questions, making me feel like I’m crazy and now someone breaks into our apartment, and you’re dragging me god-knows-where, and I still don’t know what the hell is going on!”

His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel.

After a beat, he spoke. “We’re going to a safe house just outside Manchester, it's in Simister. We won’t be there for long; I just wanted to get you somewhere safer as a precaution.”

You blinked, “A precaution for what? We couldn’t have gotten a hotel or something?”

He blew out a small, apologetic, laugh from his nose, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes with a sorry expression. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly.’” You said, your eyebrows furrowed.

Johnny sighed, one of his hands reaching behind his neck to rub at his nape. “If whoever broke into the apartment is who I think it is, getting a hotel room wouldn’t do us any good.”

You felt your eyes narrow. Somehow, the more he told you, the less you understood.

“Were you anticipating this?” You asked in disbelief. “-and who would want to break in?”

When he didn’t respond, you found yourself speaking instead, “This has something to do with your job, doesn’t it?”

The silence was louder than any answer that he could have given.

“You have to understand,” he started, his voice heavy with guilt. “I was obligated not to tell you; it was never because I wanted to keep secrets with you or that I didn’t trust you.”

His eyes caught yours in the mirror again, eyebrows pinched together, and his glances quick. “My job, its- its not something I ever wanted you to come into contact with. The less you knew about it, the safer you were.”

You stared at him, unsure how to process what he told you. “So, what? You’re like a part of the mafia or something?” You breathed, half joking.

“British SAS.” He corrected.

You paused, staring blankly in his direction as he looked out at the road.

He spoke again before you could comment: “I operate on a team connected with US and British special forces. A year ago, one of our ops got screwed over, and I had to be put on recovery watch before I could go back. So, instead of sending me back out, they put me here for the time being.”

Johnny kept his grip on the wheel, “-For the past couple of months, I’ve been tracking an arms dealer operating out of Manchester. They’ve got ties to half a dozen paramilitary groups.” He glanced at you, something dark and regretful in his expression. “If someone hit our flat, it’s because of me. Because I live there. Because I live with you.”

Silence fell again, heavy and suffocating. You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, the tears coming back, hot and fast.

You sniffled, raising your hand to cover your mouth, trying desperately to bite back the spill of a sob. It was so much to take in, knowing that you were in danger, that the man you thought you knew wasn’t who you thought he was.

You turned your head away from him, staring out at the landscape of houses and stores as you passed.

“So, all of this,” you said, defeated. Gesturing to everything around you, “-Was just collateral? Is that what I am to you, Johnny?”

“No.” He snapped, turning his head sharply to give you a brief look.

“You-” a pause. “-You’re the only real thing I’ve had in a long time, Lass.” He breathed.

A silence hung in the air after his statement. You didn’t know what to think; you could barely process what was going on with your own life, let alone his.

You pursed your lips together in a tight line, letting your head fall against the car window. “You should’ve told me,” You whispered.

“I couldn’t.” His voice cracked slightly. “I didn’t want anyone finding you.”

You went silent after that, screwing your eyes shut to will away the tears. The drive grew quieter the closer you got to your destination. Johnny’s hands hadn’t left ten and two; his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. You didn’t speak; afraid your voice would break if you tried.

Eventually, the city lights fell away, swallowed by the dark stretch of country road. Then the car turned off the main path, tires crunching against gravel until you saw a fence, tall and topped with security wire, surrounding what looked like a repurposed farmhouse. A floodlight clicked on as the car pulled up, illuminating the porch and front door.

Johnny got out first. You didn’t move.

It wasn’t until he opened your door and leaned down, voice softer than before, that you even looked at him.

“Come on. You’re safe now.”

His words did little to ease your worry.

You stepped out slowly. The air was cold and sharp, biting through your clothes and waking up all the dread in your stomach. The gravel crunched beneath your shoes, leaving footprints in its wake.

When you reached the porch, Johnny opened the door, letting you inside first. The place was clean but bare—minimal furniture, reinforced windows, no personal touches. It looked like a temporary shelter for someone always expecting to run.

You hovered near the entrance; arms crossed tightly over your chest as he locked the door behind you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Johnny exhaled sharply, pulling off his jacket and tossing it across the back of a chair. “I know you’re angry.”

“I am.” You confirmed, your voice hollow. Vocal chords raw from crying.

You saw his jaw flex, his eyes sorrowfully looking down at you. A small worry line furrowed against his brow. “I’m sorry.” He signed, shoulders deflating.

Johnny raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose with his pointer and thumb. “I never wanted this to touch you.” His voice cracked, “Everything I did, it was to keep you away from it. I thought I could… separate both lives. Protect you. But I let you down.”

You swallowed hard. “You lied to me.”

“I did,” he said, stepping closer. You almost backed away from him, but you couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that, like a man lost. It was so human it made you sick.

You stared up at him, meeting his gaze. You parted your lips to speak, but no words came out, so he spoke instead.

“I cared about you more than I was supposed to. More than I should’ve.” His voice had dropped low now, steady despite the shake in it. “I know I was an asshole for kissing you and an even bigger one for pretending nothing happened. But I couldn’t let myself get attached. I thought if I pushed you away, you’d be safer.”

“Do I look safe to you now, Johnny?” you whispered.

He swallowed, a pained look crossing his features. “No,” he answered.

You huffed, holding yourself tighter. Your nails digging into your arm, tears burning in the back of your eyes for the third time that night. You frowned, brushing at your face angrily. “I can’t believe I let myself get here; I knew you were hiding something, and I still-“ You choked on the rest. “God, I hate you for making me care this much.”

You flinched when you felt something warm brush your cheek. You snapped your head back up to look at him. His hand was trembling, nervous, like you would scorch his skin if he touched you, yet it hovered an inch away from your face, almost cupping your cheek.

You watched his throat bob, eyes darting from your eyes down to your lips. “I never stopped caring,” He said. “Not for a second.”

The was air thick between you, and for a second neither of you moved. His eyes searched yours like he was still looking for permission. When you didn’t stop him, his hand slid to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the fresh tears.

Everything in you wanted to rip away; you were falling into the same trap he had put you in before. But you stopped yourself, your mind at war with itself.

“I’m so sorry, Bonnie.” He whispered. The sincerity of his tone beating you down, “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I need you to cooperate. Just for a little while.”

You watched him hesitate for a moment, “-I thought I was going to lose you back at the apartment, I can’t do it again.”

You felt yourself crumbling, loosing the will to fight back.

You wanted to ground yourself in him, lost in what you knew you couldn’t have. Self-preservation be damned.

So, you surged forward first.

Your lips crashed into his with weeks of confusion, anger, and heartbreak behind them. You felt his breath hitch, taken aback by your sudden boldness. Like he was stunned you’d still want him. But you did. God help you, you did.

Just as quickly as his stiffness appeared it vanished, replaced by unbridled want.

He cradled one hand on your cheek, the tips of his fingers brushing against your hair. Johnny’s face tilted slightly so he could kiss you deeper, his lips warm and inviting. Despite everything, it felt safe. He felt safe.

You let your lips part, savoring the feeling of his tongue brushing against your upper lip. Your hands slid up his chest, one looping around his neck to pull him forward. It was tactile, the pads of your fingers brushing up against his nape. How his eyelashes tickled against your skin and his nose brushed against yours.

Johnny slid his other hand over your waist, drawing you in. Your body met his; it was warm and firm.

Each time you pulled away for a breath, he drew you back in, searching for your lips like a man starved.

Your fingers curled in his hair, grown out while still being short, fisting the brown locks between your fingers and tugging him closer. He groaned into your mouth, your hips brushing against his with each pull.

You didn’t realize you were moving backwards until your back hit flush against the front door, trapped between the wooden surface and his body. You broke apart for a moment to breathe, your foreheads pressed together.

Your chin tilted upwards, trying to find his lips again.

This time, Johnny pulled back slightly, hesitating to meet your lips. Your brow furrowed, confused to why he wasn’t reciprocating your advances. He met your gaze for a moment, conflicted.

“We shouldn’t,” he breathed. “-Not like this.”

He thumbed over the apple of your cheek as you shook your head. “Johnny, it’s fine.” You said, lips pulled into an impatient frown.

He opened his mouth to respond, before he could you silenced him with another kiss. Forcing him to meet your lips. He groaned into your mouth, your leg shifting in between his thighs to nudge into his crotch.

He was hard, achingly so.

You forced yourself to pull away, “You-“ you sucked in a breath. “-You put me in this situation. The least you could do is try to make up for it.”

He swallowed, pausing for a moment. “Is that what you want me to do, Bonnie? Make it up to you?”

You licked your lips unconsciously, fighting the heat crawling up your face. “Yes.”

You stood there for a beat, watching how his eyes dripped down your face and traveled lower only to flicker back to your line of sight. His hand slowly trailed down your cheek, the pads of his fingers brushing down the side of your neck to tilt your head back against the door.

You shuddered, the molten bloom of blush spreading up your face. You stood statue still as his face dipped into the junction of your neck, lips brushing against the burning skin.

He pressed a slow kiss to your neck, letting his lips linger against your flesh. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, pressing another one lower. “-I’m sorry,” another further down. “I’m sorry,” again, and again.

It was maddening, his breath fanning against the shell of your ear and his lips dragging down your neck. The warmth of his lips and tongue over your flesh felt like trails of molten lava.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep your breathing even. Your fingers digging into the back of his shirt and his hair.

He slid down your front, lips trailing down from your neck to your collarbone. Large hands mapping out your body as he went. Johnny dipped lower, littering soft kisses down your stomach, dropping his legs to kneel before you like he was worshiping the ground you stood on.

Your body buzzed with anticipation, pliant in his grasp. You almost couldn’t bear to look down, too scared and flustered to see what you had made of him. However, you didn’t need to look down.

Because you could feel it without even looking—his gaze on you.

His stare was blistering, he was sorry, and he wanted you to know it. To feel it. To watch you come undone.

Somewhere along the way, he had snaked his hands up your thighs. Wedging your legs apart until he knelt between them.

“Look at me.”

You tensed, your breath stilled. Blinking hard you forced yourself to tilt your head downwards, meeting his eyes.

Johnny’s lips were parted, cheeks and ears tinged slightly red. His hands squeezed the back of your thighs, “Atta’ girl.” He murmured, voice smooth and thick like syrup. He slid his hands away from your legs, dragging them over the front of your pelvis. Slowly taking his time in popping the button on your jeans and guiding the zipper down.

He slid your pants down, carefully helping you out by moving your legs. After discarding the garment, he directed his attention back to you.

You couldn’t help the slip of a moan as he thumbed a finger over your underwear, rubbing soft circles over your clothed clit. One of your hands grasping at the flat door, trying to curl your fingers on its surface.

His fingers slid down, pressing flat against you as he pressed another kiss to the fabric of your underwear.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, holding back a whine.

Johnny curled his fingers slightly upwards, pushing the fabric against your entrance. Your breath caught, insides churning with the contact. “You’re wet,” He breathed against you. “-That from me, Lass?”

He glanced up at you, a small, proud, grin stretching his lips.

Without waiting for a response, he hooked a finger under the elastic. Sliding it down your legs before attaching his lips to your cunt.

You gasped, caught off guard. one of your hands gripping his hair, coiling your fingers into the soft brown locks. “Johnny-!” You choked out, shuddering.

He hummed against you, flattening the front of his tongue against your core.

Whatever you said fell on deaf ears, his hands clasped at your thighs to hold you up against the door. Preventing you from moving away. You bucked your hips into his mouth, unable to stop the small involuntary movements.

He groaned, circling his tongue over your clit while one of his hands returned to your soaked pussy. You could barley register that one his hands were moving before you felt the pad of his middle finger dip between your lips, gently prodding at your entrance.

You almost choked, throwing your head back against the door. “Fuck,” you cursed, voice slurring.

Johnny hummed against your cunt, slowly pushing a finger inside you. Curling it backwards until your back arched off the flat door.

He pulled back for a moment, panting. His lips slick and shiny with your juices, eyes slightly glazed over with a blush tinging his ears. “You’re so beautiful, Bonnie. You know that, right?” He groaned, staring up at you as his finger worked your cunt.

You could barley respond, fucked out on just his finger and tongue. “-You want another?” He asked, placing a soft kiss to your clit.

You could only manage a small nod, concentrating all of your strength into staying standing. Yet you couldn’t help the small buckle of your knees the second you felt a second finger dip inside you.

His digits worked you open, stretching your walls until he could easily pump his fingers in and out of you with ease.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, just like I knew you would.” He panted, his breath fanning your skin. He leaned back in, swirling his tongue over the bundle of nerves until you felt your toes curl.

Johnny was groaning as if he was deriving pleasure from eating you out. The front of his tongue flattening against your cunt, greedily slurping. He suckled against your clit, alternating between running his tongue up and down and side to side.

Whatever his tongue and mouth couldn’t reach, his fingers did. Long thick digits sliding in and out with ease, the pads of his fingers brushing against your soaking walls. The muscle of your core constricting around his fingers with each plunge.

You could only moan, trapped between the door and his mouth. His fingers curling inside your walls, leaving you gasping for air. Preening for the tension in your gut to spill over. A part of you wanted to be furious with him for screwing you over and then proceeding to giving you the best head of your life. Yet with the way his tongue worked on you, you couldn’t find it in you to care.

You were approaching your orgasm fast, much faster than you would’ve liked.

“Johnny—Johnny, I’m close. Slow down, please.” You simpered, begging for him to ease up so you could bask in the pleasure a little longer.

However, he had other plans. Doing quite the opposite as to double down, the pace of his fingers increasing in tandem with his mouth on your clit.

You felt the molten coil in your stomach tighten, threatening to snap at any moment. You couldn’t bare it, being stretched open by his fingers mixed with the sensation of his tongue mouthing over you clit. It was too much, too fast, too good.

Then it snapped. Thighs locking around his head as your orgasm spilled over, washing over you like waves against the sand bar. Your cunt fluttering around his fingers and your hands curling in his hair.

There was no moan, no cry, only a silent gasp for air. Your spine arched with your hips rhythmically pushing deeper into his mouth.

He didn’t let up, letting you ride it out until he felt you loosen around him. Leaving you a panting mess, legs reduced to jelly.

Your vision was blurry; you had closed your eyes so tightly you swore you were starting to see colors, patterns, and stars that crossed behind your eyelids.

As he pulled away, Johnny kissed the inside of your thigh.

You took a moment to recover, slowly managing to look back down at him. As the fog of your orgasm cleared, you were left speechless. You had just let Johnny put his mouth on you.

Worse, you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

Maybe that was what scared you, you could never push him away completely. He somehow managed to always wriggle his way back into your heart, and in this case, your pants. You weren’t over the fact that he had been lying to you, nor how he had scooped you up only to drop you off at a safe house in the middle of nowhere.

However, your initial anger was starting to melt, gradually.

Your lips parted, trying to form the words. “I’m still mad,” is what came out. Your voice unsure, as if you were trying to convince yourself of your words.

Johnny nodded, the small scruff of his stubble brushing against the skin of your thigh. “I know you are.” He replied, blue eyes staring back up at you.

“But I’m willing to keep making up for it.” Johnny said, “-s’long as it takes.”

It was almost sickening how remorseful he looked; how genuine it all was. You wanted him to do something, anything that would even hint that this was all an act to obtain your forgiveness.

But it wasn’t. It was real.

You swallowed, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh for a second time.

You couldn’t go back know, the damage had already been done. The lies, the kiss, the break in, and now this. Whatever it was, it pushed you further. A recklessness that snaked its way past your rational, if you were going off the deep end, you were going to make it count.

A hand slid down into his hair, your fingers curling into the soft brown locks. Tightening your hold, you slowly pushed his head back, forcing him to look up at you.

“Then keep going,” you said. His eyes scanned your face as you paused. “-Keep making it up to me, Johnny.”

Johnny’s palms spread out over your flesh pulled taut, grasping at you, not rough, but desperate to anchor himself. Then his lips parted, breath heavy. “You still want me to touch you?” He asked, voice low and frayed.

You nodded, holding in a breath. “Yeah, I do.” You confirmed.

With your confirmation, he dropped his head, forehead brushing against your knee. His nose and lips tingled on your skin as he dragged his head up your leg, “You’re killing me, Bonnie.” He said as he drew in a long breath.

Then he began to move again, slowly, with intent. His mouth traced a line up your thigh, higher, lingering like he didn’t want to rush it. Like he wanted to earn every second of it.

“Having you close like this, when I thought I lost the right to touch you?” He murmured into your skin.

His lips found your hips again, then your stomach, and then higher still, warm hands sliding up your sides. When he reached the side of your neck you let your hands snake around his nape, grasping at his broad shoulders.

His chest pressed into yours, your legs pushing up to wrap snugly around his hips. Johnny made quick work of your new position, large hands holding you up by your thighs.

You twisted your face to meet his, noses brushing together as your lips connected. You moaned into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue. You were pushing into him, desperate to create friction.

You offhandedly realized that he had stepped backwards off the door, holding you to him as he backtracked into the safe house. Lips still moving against yours.

After a few bumps on different pieces of furniture, he managed to find his way to another door, his back hitting against the wood as he blindly searched for the handle. It was a miracle he didn’t fall backwards as the door swung open on its hinges.

He stumbled in, barely breaking stride as his boots scuffed against the floor. The room was dark, just the faint outline of moonlight bleeding through the shuttered windows.

Johnny kicked the door shut behind him with a solid thud, the sound echoing in the quiet. Then you were falling, not hard, but a tad clumsily onto the mattress behind you. Sheets still cold, the room unfamiliar.

He hovered above you, chest rising and falling fast, like he’d just run a mile. His eyes searched yours again, pupils blown, lips parted. At the same time his hands wasted no time in pushing up your shirt, revealing the bare skin of your torso.

You aided in wiggling out of your top, your bra following shortly after.

Johnnys eyes dragged up and down your form, as if he were carving out the image of you underneath him into his mind. “Fuck me,” he breathed, in awe.

He slid his hands up your sides, cupping your breasts in his palms. The pad of his thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples.

You inhaled, back arching off of the mattress as he pawed and pulled at your chest. Your fingers twisted into the crisp white sheets as Johnny’s head dipped down, his tongue swirling over the hardened bud.

You couldn’t hold back the soft whine that escaped you as he suckled and kissed at your nipples. Taking his time in alternating between your breasts, savoring your flesh like a starved animal.

“I’ve wanted to see you like this,” he said in between kissing your breasts. “-Was a fuckin’ miracle I could keep my hands off you to begin with.”

Your front teeth dug into your bottom lip, holding back a groan at his words. You thought back to your days around the apartment, the subtle touches, the glances your way, wondering if he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. If he too spent his nights with a hand down his pants while the other covered his mouth.

Your pulse quickened.

“I didn’t realize you wanted me so bad.” You said between heavy breaths, almost joking.

Johnny glanced back up at you, blowing air out from his nose in a half-laugh. “Always, baby, always.” He exhaled, pressing one last kiss to the underside of your breast before leaning back to tug off his shirt.

You watched him like a hawk, gaze unwavering as the cotton slid off of his body to reveal the pale skin underneath.

Obviously, you had seen him shirtless countless times. Curtesy of his morning cooking attire (sweatpants and no shirt). But something about this was different, it felt more raw, private.

Your gaze fell from his abdominal muscles down to the V-line peeking out from his jeans, a light happy trail of brown hair snaking down beneath the waistband.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away even if you wanted.

A small grin stretched his lips, “Looks like I’m not the only one.”

You shot him a look, a heat creeping back into your cheeks. “Just take your pants off,” you said impatiently.

He nodded, reaching down to unbutton his trousers. “You’re the boss.”

Johnny made quick work of his pants, sliding them off along with his boxers. Whatever you had expected him to look like down under was almost insulting compared to what he shaped out to be.

He was big, thicker than the average male. Hard, and heavy.

You quickly snapped your eyes back up, flustered from the color in your face. Swallowing the dryness in your throat as discreetly as humanly possible.

He stood at the edge of the bed, an almost imposing figure. With one hand he reached down to pump his cock a few times, the weight of it in his grip made you shift. “You see what you do to me, Bonnie?” He rasped.

His jaw was taunt as he stroked himself, exhaling though clenched teeth. His dark, thick eyebrows knitting together, pinching the skin of his brow.

When you didn’t respond he leaned down, his free hand sliding over your knee to part your legs until he stood in between your bared thighs. You were braced on your elbows, fingers twisting into the sheets.

“Hm?” He said expectantly. “-You want me, Bonnie?”

You jumped as his dick hit your bare pussy, slapping his cock against your clit a few times. Your legs tensed at the contact, blood running thick and hot.

“Yes,” you breathed, sounding much more winded than you would have liked. “-Yes, I want you.”

Johnny groaned, let the tip glide over your soaked cunt with ease. Coating himself in your arousal. His dick was heavy against your entrance, now that you could feel the full weight of it pressed against you.

He gave an experimental, shallow, push. The head of his cock plunging into your cunt with a lewd squelch.

Your head fell back for half a second, gasping for a breath of air like your lungs had been filled with water. “Johnny,” you panted, voice thin and shallow. A hand placed at the side of your head tightened in the sheets, his body caging you in.

“I know.” He hushed, the free hand cradling the back of your neck to push your head forward. Your forehead met his, noses bumping together like a fitted puzzle piece. Your breath tangling somewhere in between.

You inhaled, waiting, adjusting.

After another moment, he pushed his hips forward. Your body was able to accommodate all of him by some miracle. Walls stretched open in such a way that you felt full.

You grabbed the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin. “Oh god-” you exhaled, lips brushing against his as you spoke.

Johnny groaned, voice thick with want. His face dropping into the crook of your neck and collar, heavy breaths fanning onto your skin, burning like hot magma. “So fuckin’ tight, so perfect for me.” He murmured.

It was silent for a moment, save for the heavy panting between you. A brief pause that left you aching for more, desperate for him to do something. A carnal desire for the man inside of you that seared white hot in your blood stream.

You couldn’t bare it, not when he was withholding such pleasure from you.

“Johnny, move. Please, I need you to move.” You simpered, nails dragging down his back.

He grunted, shaping out a soft nod. Leaning back slightly to grab your spread thighs, rough palms squeezing the fleshly underside of your hamstring. Carefully, he maneuvered your legs back, brining your knees up to your ears. Murmuring a gentle ‘that’s it,’ and ‘almost there,’ as you assumed your position.

Johnny held your legs in place as he set your legs over his shoulders, draped over his back like curtains. He drew his cock out of you, leaving just the tip inside. After a moment he sheathed himself back inside, slowly.

You moaned, eyelashes fluttering as your eyes rolled back. He thrust deep into you, again, slowly, but forcefully. Just enough to leave your toes curling and your heels digging into his trapezius. A steady stream of grunts and moans leaving both of you.

He gradually began to speed up the longer he fucked into you, fingers taunt as they dug into your flesh.

Your ears rang with the sound of skin slapping against skin, the air thick and heavy around you. Your hands tangling into his hair, pulling him closer. “So good,” you slurred, drunk off of his cock. “-Feels so good.”

The more you spoke the more vigorous he was, forcing his hips deeper into you, harder, faster. Eager to please.

“Keep talking,” He moaned, vocal cords raw from grunting and moaning. “-I like it when you talk. Sounds so fuckin’ sweet when you’re taking my cock.” He grit out.

If you could blush anymore, you would’ve. You weren’t very experienced at dirty talk but you supposed theres a first time for everything.

You whimpered, trying to form the words through gasps and moans. “You make me feel so good, Johnny. I want you to keep fucking me,” you exhaled, your bottom lip trembling.

He moaned, a confirmation that you were doing at least one thing right. You wanted to please him just as much as he wanted to make you feel good. Desperate for any shred of praise.

You felt the head of his dick press up deep inside you, sending your spine curling like a whip and the soles of your feel arching. “Oh-” You gasped, voice shrouded in a lustful haze. “Do that again, fuck.” You pleaded.

Johnny’s lip curved up, “Yeah?” Angling his hips to thrust back inside at the same area he did before. “-You like when I fuck into you like this?” He exhaled.

Your head fell back into the mattress, small sparks flashing behind your eyelids. Johnny letting out a tortured “Fuck,” as he spurred on. Nails, mouth, teeth, skin, hair, you couldn’t tell where it all began nor where it ended. A blur of lust and so much more, affection, was it? Love?

You couldn’t tell, but it felt like a live wire between you. An exposed cable that sent currents through your veins and left you gasping for air.

“So good to me, Bonnie.” He breathed, “-Dreamt ‘bout you for months, fucking wishing I could have you.”

The mattress caved around your body, molding to the shape of your body. Johnny’s hands leaving a bruising grip on your thighs.

You tried your best to shake your head, forcing your eyes open. “You have me,” You moaned. “-You have me.” You repeated, a broken record. Trying your best not to go too deep into the meaning for your own words, caught up in the moment.

You felt like you’d been reduced to one giant raw, exposed nerve. Molded to the shape of his cock, your limbs dangling in his hold like a sack of flour. The pressure in your stomach climbing, a lull of heat creeping down from your pussy all the way to your toes.

Johnny let one of his hands slide down to your cunt, thumbing over your neglected clit. Without warning he circled over the swollen bud, sending you convulsing.

You gave a sharp cry, the stimulation borderline painful. You never imagined that anything could hurt so good, a taboo sort of pleasure.

Sweat coated your skin, your clit throbbing and your pussy pounding like a heartbeat. It was so good, too good.

It seemed as if Johnny was in the same boat, his rhythmic thrusts had devolved into sloppy, and sporadic. You wanted him to stay inside, you wanted to feel the pulse of his dick when you came.

“Johnny, I’m going to cum.” You gasped, your body pulling taunt.

He nodded, sweat shining on the skin of his temple. “I want you to, I can hold out.” His voice was wrecked, raw, jaw clenched tight.

You seemed to slip out of yourself as you came, like you were floating. A current of euphoria that washed over you, head lulled back while your body strained. The drive of his cock into you combined with the pressure on your clit sent you spiraling.

You couldn’t help the moans leaving you, ears ringing and vision blurred.

You briefly registered him pulling out, his grunts sinking into you before you felt a sharp spurt of liquid somewhere on your stomach.

What followed after was a moment of silence, a bliss that lingered in the air and seemed to cloud the room in a warm glow. You didn’t even realize your eyes had been closed before you felt them open as a hand brushed over your forehead.

You blinked as Johnny brushed the stray baby-hairs from your face, sticking to your skin from sweat.

He gently set your legs off his shoulders, carefully placing them down on the bed. Everything about you felt heavy and sluggish, like your limbs had tuned into cinder blocks. Even so, his touch still managed to tingle your skin.

There was a calmness to it all, a domesticity that felt just as good as it was temporary. You knew of course that sleeping with him wouldn’t magically fix everything, it was still crumbling around you. But he was the safest thing around a place that felt unfamiliar.

You knew he felt it too, the tension setting back in. Responsibility, reality.

“So, what happens now?” you said, cutting through the silence.

There was a pause before he shifted, leaning back. “Well, I was going to clean you up.” He said, voice almost blasé, but you knew there was more to it. “-But I guess we can’t really go back to what things were before, not with the break in and all.”

Getting up, he reached into the bedside table, a box of tissues inside. Taking a few he wiped you down, carefully, guiltily. Tossing them out into the small bin tucked into the corner of the room, picking up his briefs on the way to clothe himself a little.

After, Johnny adjusted his position beside you, the mattress shifting under his weight as he sat down on the side of the bed. His eyes lingered on your face, torso twisted to face you. His eyes trailed down your body, slow, not lustful this time, just taking inventory, like he needed to confirm for himself that you were whole.

“Are you going to answer me for real?” you said quietly.

He stilled. His gaze flicked back to yours, and there was something unreadable in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Or fear.

You propped yourself up on one elbow, the ache in your muscles sharp but not unwelcome. “I mean… with us. After this.” Your voice faltered for a second. “I kind of got the message that we’re supposed to stay here for a day or two until you know for sure who broke in. But I just don’t know where we go after that.”

Johnny dragged a hand over his face, scrubbing at the stubble on his jaw. “I’m not sure if I have the answers you want.” His accent was thicker now, softened in exhaustion. “I’ve got no right to ask for more from you, not after the shite I pulled.”

“But you want to,” you said. It wasn’t a question.

He gave a short laugh, humorless and brittle. “Christ, Bonnie. I never stopped wantin’ to.”

You sat with his words for a moment, deciphering the meaning a hundred different ways. Caught between what you wanted and what you knew what was probably best.

“I still don’t know where I sit with this.” you whispered, “-I can’t exactly just forget what happened, I don’t think I could if I tried. And I’m still mad about the lying.” You spoke.

After a beat, you continued, “-But I also know that you were doing what you thought was best. Even if your best was shitty. I guess I’m just mad because I lost you for a good while there without even knowing why. And now I don’t even know if I’m going to lose you again once this blows over.”

Johnny looked at you, eyebrows creasing. “You’re not something I’ll be able to just move on from either, even if it all does ‘blow over.’” He said, frowning.

There was another beat of silence, this one gentler.

“But I meant what I said earlier. I’ll keep makin’ it up to you.” He reached over, his thumb brushing over the curve of your wrist as it laid on the bed. “Even if it takes the rest of my damn life.”

You turned your head toward him, eyes meeting his. “Don’t make promises like that.”

“I’m not.” His gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not a promise. It’s just the truth.”

You felt his fingers dip into the curve of your palm, running along the indented lines until his fingers tangled between yours. A soft squeeze that said, ‘I’m here.’ You squeezed back, a silent exchange that said so little yet so much.

Flickering your gaze back up to meet his eyes, you pulled on his hand, beckoning him closer. And for whatever reason, he let you. The mattress shifting under his weight once again as he crawled behind you; not hovering, not crowding, just close.

His arm slid beneath your neck, the other tucking around your waist. His touch was warm, not lustful, at least not anymore. It was something quieter. The kind of closeness that only made sense after everything had been said and done.

Johnny exhaled into your shoulder, breath fanning the damp skin there. “If it means anything,” he spoke, voice faint. “-What we had together…it was good. We’re good together.”

His voice was almost a plea, a last-ditch effort to show you he wanted it, he wanted you.

Your throat tightened.

You shifted back against him just a little more, letting your spine curve into his chest. His hand found yours again, fingers fitting into the spaces between yours with the same unconscious ease he had when brewing coffee in your kitchen. Like a habit he didn’t want to break.

“We are good, Johnny.” You agreed, turning slightly, just enough to glance back at him. You hesitated slightly before speaking again, “But I’m scared of waking up tomorrow and pretending this didn’t happen.”

His hand squeezed yours again, drawing you in.

“Then don’t,” he said. “Not this time, not again.”

You were quiet for a beat, then: “…One more chance. You get one more chance, Johnny. And when we figure things out, we do it together, no secrets.”

“No secrets.” He echoed. A promise.

You didn’t say anything after that, you didn’t need to. The room seemed to still too, a peaceful lull in its darkness.

His breathing evened out behind you, steady and slow. You could feel it where his chest pressed against your back, where his lips brushed your shoulder one last time before stilling.

Your eyes stayed open a little while longer, just to make sure he was still there.

And in the hush that followed, with his arms wrapped around you and your hands still laced together, the ache dulled, just a little.

Sleep found you like that. Quiet. Not fixed. But no longer alone.

. . . . . ◟੭

The morning settled, soft and muted against the walls, brushing over your skin in pale shades of silver and blue. Somewhere beyond the window, the world stirred.

You blinked awake slowly, the edges of your vision blurred with sleep, the air around you heavy with warmth. It took a moment to remember where you were and why you were there to begin with. Why your body felt weightless and sore all at once.

You unconsciously shifted, stopped by a weight draped over your stomach.

Johnny’s arm was still curled loosely around your waist, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm behind you. You shifted again, just enough to turn onto your back, the mattress caving slightly with the movement.

He was asleep. No tension in his brow, no dreams pulling at the corners of his mouth. The way his hand rested over your hip made you ache with a tenderness you didn’t expect.

You studied him for a long moment. The way his dark lashes cast faint shadows over his cheeks. How his hair curled ever so slightly at the nape of his neck. You could almost trick yourself into thinking this was normal. That this was something you’d done before, would do again.

It was almost odd; you didn’t feel the panic you thought you would.

You had expected regret. Or at the very least, that gnawing ache of uncertainty that always crept in when things got too real. You’d braced yourself for it. For the guilt. The fear. The voice in your head that always whispered, this is a mistake.

But it didn’t come.

All you felt was calm. Maybe not certainty—not yet—but something close. A stillness you hadn’t known you’d needed.

You exhaled slowly, letting the breath deflate your chest. Johnny stirred slightly behind you but didn’t wake. His grip around you only tightened, fingers curling softly against your side on instinct.

You let your gaze linger on him a little longer.

There was still so much between you. Things to say, things to fix. But last night hadn’t been about pretending everything was okay. It had been about choosing to stay anyway.

Your fingers drifted toward his, brushing lightly over his knuckles. A warmth dancing across his skin like the embers of dying flame.

You turned slightly, just enough to face him again, your forehead nearly brushing his. His breath was slow and even. Yours followed suit.

Your eyes drifted shut.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—

you let yourself rest.

══════════════════════

Hey wait don’t go!

First off, big thanks to all of you for waiting so long for another story. I know I totally disappeared for a minute, but unfortunately, life is just like that sometimes.

It would mean so much if you could like, repost, or comment under the story! I love hearing your thoughts and suggestions for later works!

Hopefully you enjoyed because I know I sure did, I know Soap doesn’t get as much love as the other characters but he makes for just as much of a good story.

Thanks for reading and I’ll see you in my next post!

Toodles! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

because the dog likes attention. loves it, actually. practically demands it. and, more specifically— he likes you.

so the moment simon steps up to the counter, riley is already perking up at your voice. tail wagging, eyes locked on you, waiting expectantly like he thinks you’re about to drop an entire steak into his mouth.

"oh! mr. riley! the usual today?"

simon grunts. closest thing to a yes you ever get.

"and a pup cup for little riley, i take it?"

the man sighs. “he’s gonna get fat.”

but he still swipes his card. no hesitation.

riley whines at the accusation, staring at him with something close to betrayal.

you slide simon’s order across the counter after a moment, the movements routine by now.

he reaches out. his right hand hovers over the cup. fingers stretching, hovering, like he’s trying to will it into his grasp.

nothing happens. his fingers twitch, but they won’t close.

you see it— the way his jaw tightens, the sharp curl of his lip like he’s biting down a curse. the tension in his shoulders. the exhale through his nose.

“mr. riley?” you ask carefully.

his scowl deepens. he tries again— too hard, too fast— his grip locks up, crushing the cup before he can stop himself. the lid pops off. coffee splatters over his hand, dripping onto the counter.

you yelp, stepping back on instinct. he doesn’t.

he just stares down at his hand. impassive. like he hasn't been baptized by scalding liquid.

“shit- hang on-” you scramble around the counter, heat rising up your throat, words spilling out in a rush. “jesus, are you- your hand-”

“s’fine,” he grunts.

his flesh hand flexes at his side, but the other— the one that had crushed the cup— stays frozen, unmoving.

you don’t believe him for a second. ignoring his protests, you reach for his wrist, peeling off the soaked glove before he can stop you.

you freeze.

metal. not sleek, new, high-tech metal. not the kind you see in sci-fi movies, gleaming and futuristic.

no. this is old. dull, scratched, worn— something that’s clearly been through hell and barely made it out. the joints look stiff, the plates dented in places, the wiring almost exposed near the wrist.

your mouth opens. closes. opens again. “… huh.”

his brow lifts slightly. “that all you got?”

you blink, tilting your head. “kinda thought there’d be… more wires. sparks. terminator shit.”

a beat. then, maybe, the smallest twitch at the corner of his lips.

“disappointed?”

“a little.”

you keep staring, the sight settling in your brain, cataloging every detail. not military-grade. not some brand-new prosthetic straight from a lab. something about it makes your chest tighten.

“has it… uh, been this iffy for a while?” you ask, glancing up.

simon shrugs with his good shoulder, the movement almost dismissive. “yeah. thing’s temperamental.”

“like you,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

his brow arches slightly, but he doesn’t deny it.

you glance around the café, nerves twisting in your stomach. no customers. the clock ticks lazily, the smell of coffee and vanilla in the air. you bite your lip, thinking.

“so, uh- i’m an engineering student,” you start, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your apron. “and… i mean, if you wanted- i could take a look? maybe tweak it a bit?”

his gaze snaps to you. it makes your stomach flip, and you wonder if you’ve just crossed a line you hadn’t realized was there.

“… you want to mess with my arm?”

“not mess! i mean- help. like… it’s kind of what i do. circuits, mechanics- prosthetics aren’t that different. probably.” you wince. “unless you’re, like, secretly part robot with classified tech and i’m about to get black-bagged or something-”

“you talk a lot,” he deadpans.

“nerves,” you shoot back, cheeks warming. “so… yes? no? totally fine if it’s weird.”

he exhales through his nose, staring at you like he’s trying to figure you out. the silence stretches. then—

“… got tools?”

your face lights up. “back in my car!”

“figured.” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. but if you break it worse-”

“i won’t,” you grin, already grabbing your keys. “trust me.”

“don’t say that,” he calls after you. “famous last words.”

…

simon would rather take a bullet than admit it, but you turn out to be a problem in his life.

because after that first fix— crammed into your car that rattled like it was held together with duct tape and prayer— he walks away with a hand that actually works for the first time in months.

no stiffness. no lag. no bullshit. he clenches his fist and releases, watching the fingers curl and straighten without a hint of resistance.

it feels foreign. unnatural. smooth in a way that it should be but hasn’t been for a long, long time.

so when he asks how much he owes, expecting a number, you just tilt your head and grin.

"tell me your full name. i don’t wanna keep calling you mr. riley."

simon stares at you like he’s weighing whether he can get away with walking out without answering. then, like it pains him— "simon."

you laugh. “you look like a simon.”

…

he doesn’t try to make it a habit, coming to you.

really. he doesn’t.

but prosthetic specialists are expensive, and he’s not exactly drowning in engineering contacts. the local mechanics won’t touch prosthetics (liability reasons, mate, can’t help ya), and he sure as hell isn’t stepping into a clinic unless he wants some lab rat poking and prodding at him like he’s a cutting-edge science project.

so when his arm starts acting up again, he does what he always does.

he ignores it. it’ll be fine. he can live with it.

it starts with a bit of stiffness. a missed grip here and there. nothing major.

then his fingers start locking up at random, the servos stalling, the whole limb feeling like it’s dragging behind the rest of him.

not ideal. not something he can use. three weeks in, and it’s a fucking liability.

he caves.

simon times it carefully. dead hour. mid-afternoon. when the café is empty and you’ll have a second to spare.

he walks in, orders a pup cup for riley, and waits. he doesn’t wait long.

the moment your eyes flicker to his gloved hand— how his fingers can't even curl anymore— your expression drops.

your shoulders tighten, brows knit together, mouth parting slightly like you’re about to scold him before you even know what’s wrong.

"simon," you say, voice sharp like he just admitted to a felony.

before he can so much as blink, you’re untying your apron.

"break," you toss over your shoulder.

your coworker barely looks up. just shrugs.

simon exhales through his nose. he should’ve just ripped the damn thing off himself.

your car is just as a mess as it was last time. empty water bottles on the floor. a crumpled hoodie in the backseat. textbooks piled in the passenger footwell, some open, some stuffed with loose papers. it smells faintly like vanilla air freshener and stress.

riley jumps in first, hopping into the backseat like he owns the place, and promptly curls up across the mess of loose papers and crumpled receipts.

simon says nothing. just lets himself into the passenger seat, shifts slightly to get comfortable in the too-small space, and watches as you slam the driver’s side door with a little more force than necessary.

you’re fuming.

he can feel it radiating off you like an overheating engine as you shove his sleeve up and strip the glove away.

he glances down. yeah. even he has to admit— it looks rough. the plates are slightly misaligned. the servos are dragging. the tension in the fingers is off, the whole mechanism resisting movement like it’s gummed up with sand and bad decisions.

"oh my god, how long has this been going on?"

his eyes flicking to the side. "three weeks."

you go still. "THREE WEEKS?!"

riley lifts his head from where he’s sprawled out in the backseat and whines at the sharpness of your voice. simon rubs at his temple with his good hand, sighing.

"three- jesus, simon, if your arm has a problem, you come to me right away!"

"didn’t wanna bother you."

you make a strangled sound, something between disbelief and frustration, already yanking open your toolkit with more force than necessary. "bother- oh my god, you idiot," you snap, flipping through your tools at lightning speed. "this is- unusable. how were you even functioning like this?"

"managed."

"you shouldn’t have to ‘manage.’ that’s the point of a prosthetic!"

simon huffs, shifting his arm slightly as you mutter curses under your breath and start unscrewing the external plating.

riley rests his chin on the back of simon’s seat, watching the whole thing unfold with his big brown eyes, tail thumping softly against the pile of forgotten assignments.

"can feel your judgment," simon mutters, breaking the silence.

"good. let it sink in."

riley lets out a low whine, nudging the back of simon’s neck with his nose.

simon sighs. "yeah, yeah. i know."

the dog lets out a single huff, like he agrees with you.

you pause long enough to glance at riley, expression unimpressed. "at least he gets it."

"gettin’ ganged up on," simon mutters.

riley whines. you don’t even look up.

"good.

his mouth twitches. he tells himself it’s a muscle spasm.

you don’t look at him when you actually get to work. simon notices.

he’s sitting there, arm bared, cables exposed, and you’re bent over the mess of wiring like he’s not even in the room. like he’s just another machine in need of fixing. your hands move with quick precision, fingers deft as you pluck out worn components and replace them with fresh ones. you mutter to yourself, little noises of satisfaction or frustration depending on what you find.

it’s unsettling. not you— no, you’re fine. better than fine. competent. but it’s been a long time since someone’s handled his arm without hesitation, without the kind of quiet reverence people get when they realize how much damage a man has to take before he needs one of these.

to you, it’s just broken. something that needs tuning.

he flexes his fingers the second you flip the switch.

his hand moves fast. smooth. no delay between thought and motion. he rolls his wrist. it hasn’t felt this natural in weeks.

"good?" you ask, still gathering your tools.

he moves his fingers again. watches them articulate, watches the precise shift of metal joints. "yeah," he mutters.

you nod, already packing up, already moving on.

he watches you.

then you say it, casual, like an afterthought. “don’t worry about it.”

simon doesn’t blink. he knew you were going to say that because apparently you're the next coming of the good fucking samaritan. it still pisses him off.

he glances at you. at the torn-up upholstery of your car, the loose wires under the dash, the check engine light that’s been on this entire time, the faint but definite smell of something burning.

he drums his fingers against his knee. “i’ll fix your car.”

you argue about it, of course. insist it’s fine, like you don’t hear the death rattle when you start the engine. simon doesn’t argue back. doesn’t need to. just asks— when’s the last time you had it looked at?— and watches you press your lips together.

thought so.

“two days, at least,” he tells you.

your horror is almost funny. “two days?”

“maybe three.”

you stare at him like he just told you your dog died.

he pats the dashboard. “i’ll do what i can to keep it alive.”

it takes one day. he calls while you’re still half-asleep. “your car’s a lost cause.”

you meet up later so he can walk you through the damage in person.

you listen. don’t talk much, don’t get defensive. just nod as he points things out, as he explains the alternator’s failing, the battery’s shot, the brake pads are gone— and yeah, he’s still pissed about that one. your transmission is a liability. the engine’s practically running on fumes.

you sigh, dragging a hand over your face.

“i need my car,” you grumble. “i have plates to pass. blueprints that cannot get wet, or my professor will deduct major points. and-”

“i’ll drive you.”

you stop. blink. “what?”

“i’ll drive you,” he repeats, like it’s obvious.

you look at him, wary. “don’t you have work?”

“on break.”

“friends?”

he shakes his head. “not really.”

“family?”

he actually laughs. there's no real humor in it.

something shifts in your face. simon sees it before you do, the flicker of discomfort, the way you adjust your stance like there’s something you want to say but don’t know how.

simon doesn’t let you say it.

“tell me your schedule.” he shuts the hood like the matter’s settled. “text me when you need a ride. i’ll be there.”

you cross your arms. “so i get a chauffeur for fixing one prosthetic?”

he flexes his fingers. “you underestimate how much these cost.”

you roll your eyes. “you act like i replaced the whole thing.”

“you might as well have,” he mutters. “damn thing actually works now.”

you sigh, shifting on your feet. “you really don’t have plans?”

“if you count drinking beer alone, then yeah, i have plenty.

so he starts picking you up.

at first, it’s straightforward. you text him when you need a ride, and he shows up, no questions asked. no complaints, either— just grunts a greeting, waits for you to get in, and drives. sometimes he has the radio on. other times, it’s just quiet, the steady hum of the engine and the occasional flick of a turn signal.

simon doesn’t mind detours. when you run late and beg him to swing by a drive-thru, he just sighs and pulls into the next available one. doesn’t even say anything when you apologize through a mouthful of food, just takes a sip of his own coffee and keeps driving.

but, one morning, when you rush out of your apartment, tripping over your own feet, already bracing for the inevitable “can we stop by-”

simon just reaches into the passenger seat, grabs a bag, and tosses it into your lap.

you blink down at it. warm, heavy. smells good.

“…what’s this?”

he puts the truck into drive. “breakfast.”

“thanks,” you mumble, glancing at riley whose got his head wedged between the two of you, tongue lolling out, eyes bright as he watches you unwrap your sandwich.

“does he want some?”

simon doesn’t even look. “he always wants some.”

you tear off a piece anyway, holding it out. riley inhales it like it personally offended him

simon snorts. “you’re gonna spoil him.”

“he’s cute. he deserves it.”

“he’s a liability.”

“you’re just jealous ‘cause i don’t feed you by hand.”

you look up, realizing what you just said.

simon’s looking back at you. slow blink. unreadable.

heat licks at your neck. “i- i didn’t mean-”

riley whines, nosing at your hand for more food, and you’ve never been more grateful for a dog’s terrible sense of timing.

he hums, turning back to the road. “thought so.”

…

this keeps going for months. a pattern. a rhythm. the two of you slot into each other’s lives like you’ve always been there.

you stop thanking him when he brings you food. he stops questioning it when you drag him to your workshop to tinker with his arm.

and then, one day. he picks you up, just like always.

but this time—

you slide into the passenger seat and don’t say anything.

no greeting. no complaints. no requests for coffee. just sit back, staring straight ahead, like you’re still processing something.

simon frowns. “…what?”

“…my project is on prosthetic arms.”

his head snaps toward you. he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t ask if it’s because of him. because that— that feels too dangerous.

your hands grip your sleeves. “can i design you a new prosthetic arm?”

he doesn’t answer right away. doesn’t move. his fingers flex against the wheel.

you don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at you, and it’s the first time in a long time he really feels like he’s made of metal and wire and things that aren’t his own.

you exhale. glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

he looks down. his palm, cold and impersonal. not really his, not entirely.

and— “…yeah,” he mutters, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

a beat.

“…all right.”

…

simon steps inside your apartment, and the first thing he notices is that it smells like you. not perfume, not some scent in a bottle— just you. a mix of coffee, paper, and something warm and lived-in. his boots make the floor creak slightly as he shifts, taking it all in.

riley, in comparison,immediately takes off, nose to the ground, sniffing every single thing he can get to. he pushes his head into the couch cushions, sticks his snout into your laundry pile, and stands on his hind legs to peek at the half-eaten bag of chips on the coffee table.

simon watches you rush to pull snacks away before riley gets his paws on them, muttering something about “you’d think i don’t feed you.” riley wags his tail in betrayal.

the space is cluttered but cozy. the kind of messy that isn’t disorganized, just... busy. like your life is so packed with things to do that it spills over into your home. there are loose papers on the coffee table, your drafting table is buried under textbooks and sketches, and there’s a laundry basket in the corner that’s almost full but not quite.

and the lamps. so many damn lamps. simon counts sixteen before he even makes it past the entrance.

you explain your thesis, and simon listens. really listens. you talk with your hands, explaining concepts in bursts of energy, excitement bright in your eyes. you tell him about rare alloys, cutting-edge designs, how the neural link would function with smoother input signals.

his stomach twists a little when you say it—

“i want to make you a new arm with all of that.”

simon doesn’t answer immediately. just exhales through his nose. he know he should say no. tell you it’s unnecessary. that his arm is fine. that he’s fine.

but then you pull out the blueprints, show him the design, and it’s... it’s good.

it’s really fucking good.

and he knows how much this tech costs. he remembers sitting in a sterile office, watching a man in a lab coat list out the prices of different prosthetic models. he remembers running his fingers over a brochure, seeing the way the most advanced models— the ones that felt like real limbs— were laughably out of reach.

“it’s expensive,” he says, voice flat. It’s not a question.

you hesitate. shift your weight. “…the university gave me a budget.”

he watches you. waits. “…and is it enough to cover the costs?”

you don’t answer.

he sighs and pulls out his phone.

you blink. “what are you doing?”

“making a call.”

simon doesn’t ask for favors. he doesn’t like owing people. doesn’t like being in someone’s debt. But this— this isn’t only for him.

it’s for you too.

he doesn’t hesitate when he dials price’s number. the line barely rings twice before it picks up. “this better be good, ghost.”

it's the price standard. no greeting, no pleasantries.

“it is,” he says. “need a favor.”

a pause. not because price is surprised— simon doesn’t ask for favors often, but when he does, it’s never something small. It’s never something for him.

“go on.”

simon glances at you. you’re watching him, curiosity and just a little bit of suspicion. the old leather of his gloves creaking as he crosses his arms. “need a sponsor.”

another pause. then, dry as hell— “what, you starting a football team?”

he rolls his eyes. “no.”

“boxing, then?”

“price.”

the humor fades. a quiet sigh. “who’s it for?”

he hesitates. just for a second. not because he doesn’t know what to say— because he doesn’t know why he’s saying it. “she’s building a prosthetic,” he says finally. “one I need.”

one i want, he doesn't say.

“your arm acting up?”

“yeah.”

“so get it fixed.”

“this is better.”

price doesn’t say anything for a while and simon knows the old man is thinking, turning things over, considering.

then: “she good?”

siimon glances at you again. you’re shifting through your notes now. he exhales. “yeah.”

he hums, considering. “you trust her?”

that’s what it comes down to. trust.

simon has trusted exactly three people in his life:

1. his mother. until she was gone.

2. price. who never asked for it, never demanded it, but earned it anyway.

3. johnny. who trusts him back without question.

and now, there’s you. he wouldn’t be making this call if he didn’t. “…yeah,” he says.

and that’s all price needs to hear.

you protest the second simon shoves the phone into your hands. try to give it back, eyes wide like he just handed you a live grenade.

but he just crosses his arms, leans against the drafting table, and nods at the phone. “explain.”

you hesitate for way too long before reluctantly pressing it to your ear. “alright, kid. sell me on it.”

you freeze.

“oh my god, i hate you,” you whisper at simon before launching into a shaky but passionate explanation of your thesis to whoever the hell is on the other end of this call.

price listens. makes the occasional noise of interest. asks a few questions. and then— “alright. send me the details. i’ll see what i can do.”

you blink. “wait- so-?”

“i’ll sponsor the damn thing. might even endorse it a little.”

you stare at the phone like it's just grown legs.

“just make sure it works, yeah?”

you nod like he can see you, mumbling out a “thank you so much, sir,” before fumbling to hand the phone back to simon.

simon takes it, tucks it back into his pocket, and proceeds to act like this wasn’t a big deal at all.

you gape at him. “who even was that guy?”

“someone you don’t want to owe a favor.”

your eyes narrow. “and you do?”

simon shrugs. “already owed him one.”

and that’s true. priice has done more for simon than he can count. gave him a job when he didn’t deserve one, gave him a reason to live when he thought he’d run out.

if sponsoring you means putting another tally on that tab, then so be it.

…

you learn more about simon throughout the months.

he doesn’t like cucumbers. you find that out when he picks them out of his sandwich with the kind of silent disgust that makes it clear this is a habit, a ritual, a deeply ingrained practice that will not change no matter how many times you tell him he’s being dramatic.

he doesn’t sleep much. that’s another thing. you catch it in the way he moves, the way his eyes flick around a room too quickly, too sharp for someone who’s gotten a full night’s rest. sometimes, when he’s sitting at your table and riley is curled up by his feet, he just stares off like he’s somewhere else, mind miles away. you don’t ask where.

he doesn’t like sitting with his back to the door. ever. it doesn’t matter where you are— your apartment, a coffee shop, some hole-in-the-wall diner— he always angles himself so he can see the entrance. you test it once, sitting at a booth before he gets there, taking the seat facing the door. when he arrives, he stares at you for all of two seconds before just sighing and sliding in next to you instead of across. you don’t do it again.

he fixes things when he’s anxious. your loose cabinet hinge, the flickering kitchen light, the leaky faucet. he doesn’t say anything. just gets up, pulls out a tool, and starts working like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you find out that the calluses on his fingers aren’t just from weapons—he knows how to take things apart and put them back together, knows how to get grease under his nails, how to run his hands over a surface and understand exactly how it works.

he doesn’t like closed doors. doesn’t like feeling boxed in. when he’s at your place, he always leaves the door cracked, just a little. at first, you think it’s just a habit, but one night you’re in the kitchen and you see the way his shoulders ease when he glances up and sees the open space. you don’t say anything. you just stop closing the door all the way when he’s around.

one day, you’re working on fitting the prosthetic to his stump. it’s finally starting to look like an arm.

simon sits across from you, his forearm resting on the table as you carefully adjust the fit. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t do anything except watch as you secure the straps and check the connection points.

“any discomfort?” you ask, frowning as you examine the joints.

he flexes his fingers, rolling his wrist. “no.”

you glance up. “are you sure?”

he snorts, a short breath of amusement. “you want me to make somethin’ up?”

“no, i want you to tell me if it hurts.”

his lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. just shifts slightly, testing the range of motion. “feels good,” he says finally.

you nod, make a note. “good.”

rain starts somewhere in the background. a soft patter at first, then heavier, filling the quiet of your apartment. you barely notice at first, too focused on your work, but then you glance up and realize how late it’s gotten.

simon leans back slightly, rolling his shoulders. the room is dim now, the warm glow of your lamps casting long shadows across the walls. riley is curled up on the couch, one ear flicking at the sound of the rain.

you hesitate.

simon notices. lifts a brow.

“what?”

you swallow, shifting in your seat. “would you like to stay over?”

there’s a beat of silence.

simon blinks, slow. looks at you, then out the window, where the rain is coming down in thick, steady sheets.

“…you sure?”

you nod, maybe a little too fast. “yeah. it’s late. roads are bad.” you clear your throat. “and- i mean. it’s not like you sleep much anyway, right?”

he huffs out something that could be a laugh. drags a hand down his face. when he looks back at you, his expression is unreadable, something wry and considering.

“alright,” he says finally. “but i’m takin’ the couch.”

you roll your eyes. “obviously.”

he smirks. you get up to grab blankets. riley stretches on the couch, taking up as much space as possible, and simon mutters something about “bloody dog” but doesn’t move him.

the rain keeps falling. the room is warm.

simon stays.

…

months of refining, testing, and sleepless nights have led to this— the almost-final version of the prototype. the culmination of your work, a piece of engineering so advanced it almost breathes beneath your fingertips. simon sits before you, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his flesh-and-blood hand resting on his knee while the new prosthetic gleams under the workshop lights.

it’s a work of art, even if he’d never call it that. matte black plating, smooth but lined with faint ridges where the internal components shift and adjust to mimic the movement of muscle. beneath the casing, synthetic tendons coil and flex like real ones, powered by the delicate balance of neural signals and finely tuned actuators. when he moves his fingers, the transition is seamless, each digit reacting in perfect sync with his intent, no longer the slight delay of older models.

he watches as you adjust the final connection points, the alignment of the servos. the heat of his gaze is palpable, but he stays silent, letting you work.

then— a flicker in the system.

it's subtle at first, a low hum beneath the surface of the plating. then it builds. a vibration rolls through the arm, an erratic tremor that makes the fingers twitch. simon lifts it slightly, inspecting it with mild curiosity, flexing his hand.

“huh,” he muses, tone is as dry as ever. “well. could be a vibrator.”

your brain short-circuits. “what-” your fingers slip, almost dropping the tool in your hand. heat floods your face. “that’s- no. absolutely not.”

he tilts his head, studying you like he’s just found something interesting. “was this meant-”

“no!” you blurt, too quick, too loud.

simon is skeptical. “be honest.”

your throat tightens. you look at the circuitry, the faint whir of the servos, anywhere but his face. “…i just- i thought it’d be good-”

his brow arches. “good for what?”

“you look like someone who gets a lot of girls, alright?”

there’s a beat of silence.

simon leans back slightly, tapping his fingers against the metal plating. the low buzz of the malfunctioning motor is the only sound in the room. “is that so?”

before you can even think of a way to explain yourself, he moves.

his grip is swift, fingers curling around your wrist. there’s no real force behind it, no intention to hurt. just a casual show of strength, a reminder of just how easy it is for him to manhandle you. you barely have time to react before he pulls, tipping you off balance.

you land on his lap, breath stuttering out of you in a quiet gasp.

he settles you there like you belong, his flesh-and-blood hand pressing into the small of your back. you feel the heat of him beneath you, the solid mass of his thighs, the way his breath stays even while yours quickens.

the prosthetic hums again.

before your brain can catch up, he moves his arm, pressing the vibrating palm against the seam of your jeans, right between your thighs.

your spine straightens, legs twitching against the instinct to squeeze shut, but his knee is right there, keeping you open.

simon makes a considering noise, watching your reaction. his voice drops, low and lazy.

“since you built it,” he muses, letting the vibration roll against you, “might as well test its full range of function, yeah?”

his head tilts, gaze flicking down to your parted lips. you’re already shaking, already aching, slick and soaked through before he’s even put his hands on you properly.

his weight shifts, thighs bracketing yours, hands adjusting. the grip he has on you firms, fingers pressing deep into soft flesh, making sure you don’t slip away.

not that you would. not that you could.

his breath ghosts over your cheek and your head tips back automatically, a slow surrender, baring your throat. simon makes a low sound of approval, and then his fingers tighten, curling into the denim at your hips.

"si-"

"oh, sweetheart.” he slowly tugging your pants down. "you in a rush? thought you liked when i took my time."

simon's hand drags over your thigh, metal knuckles gliding over your skin. the pressure he uses is just enough to make you feel it, to make your breath hitch, thighs twitching as something hot sparks low in your belly.

"shakin’, love. that bad, huh?"

his fingers stroke over your panties, pressing into the slick beneath.

"fuck," simon laughs, dragging his palm over your thigh, fingers spreading, squeezing. "you're dripping. what, just from me takin’ off your jeans? christ, love, that’s pathetic. you really need it that bad?"

your hips jolt, desperate, chasing friction. instinct drives you— no thought, no shame, just the raw ache of needing him.

simon tsks, shaking his head like it’s funny, like he isn’t already rolling his hips against your leg, cock hard and twitching beneath denim. his fingers press against the soaked cotton between your thighs, rubbing slow circles over your clit.

"built this thing for me," he mutters, mostly to himself, watching his own fingers move, the thick, cool metal pressed flush against heat-swollen flesh. "and look at you. already makin’ a fuckin’ mess all over it."

his mouth twitches. not quite a smirk. something meaner, hungrier.

his gaze drags up, pinning you in place. sharp. knowing. "bet you thought about it, though," he says. "at least once. didn’t you?"

heat spikes through you, curling in your gut. shame prickles at the edges, but it doesn’t matter. not when he’s right. you had thought about it. had imagined this. had pictured his prosthetic between your legs, pressing down, making you beg, the hard edges of metal digging into soft, soaked flesh, the slow hum vibrating against your clit until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but come apart on him.

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, grasping for something solid, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t acknowledge how you tremble beneath him. just watches. tracks.

you stare up at him, panting, barely able to focus, and— god, his face.

the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones, the scar that cuts jagged through the scruff along his chin. his stubble is coarse, speckled with hints of gray, a little uneven along his jaw. coarse shadows frame his mouth, dust over his upper lip, the cut of his jaw. his nose has been broken before, maybe more than once, slightly crooked where it was never set right. the thin pink ridge of an old scar cuts through his left eyebrow, splitting it clean in half, a deeper line stretching down the side of his face, the tail end disappearing into the rough stubble at his jaw.

you don’t get long to stare.

his mouth crashes against yours, rough and urgent, teeth knocking against teeth, lips parting just enough to let him shove his tongue deep, curling against yours, licking into your mouth, taking, claiming.

his teeth sink into your bottom lip, sharp, hard enough to sting. you whimper, legs shaking, and he groans like he feels it everywhere, like he wants to eat you alive.

then— a hum. low. steady. vibrating against your cunt.

your whole body jolts, spine arching, hands flying to his arms, fingers twisting into the thick, corded muscle of his biceps.

you gasp into his mouth, try to pull back, try to breathe, but he doesn’t let you.

simon’s arm locks around your waist, dragging you closer, pressing you down against the hard, pulsing vibration between your legs.

"fuckin’ christ," he groans, fingers slipping beneath soaked fabric, spreading you open. his breath stutters, mouth barely moving as he stares down at his own hand, at the thick, slick mess coating his fingers. "you’re soaked."

his cock throbs against your thigh, thick and heavy where it presses into the denim of his jeans, pulsing hot through the fabric.

his fingers stroke through slick, teasing, pressing against your clit, and the vibration amps up.

you cry out, body jolting, hips stuttering, but he catches them in both hands, grips them tight, holds you still.

"jumped like a scared little rabbit.” Simon's breath is warm against your jaw, lips dragging over your pulse.

his hand stills.

his fingers rest against your clit, pressing just enough to make you squirm, to keep you teetering, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t push you over. "should turn it up, yeah?"

your breath hitches, hips jolt, but his grip plants you right where he wants you.

"no runnin’," he breathes against your mouth. "you take what i fuckin’ give you."

pressure builds. tightens. burns through you a f through it all his eyes stay locked on yours.

the vibration shifts— harder, deeper. his fingers push inside, stretching, filling, pressing against every aching, sensitive spot.

your moan rips from your throat, raw and wrecked, nails sinking into the hard planes of his back. your legs twitch, thighs trembling where they clamp around his sides, but he doesn’t let up. doesn’t ease up.

simon grins, sharp and smug, lips curling against your temple. “atta girl,” he breathes, pushing you down, keeping you still.

his fingers press firm against the swollen bud beneath, dragging slow, torturous circles that make you jerk.

"swollen, love," his knuckles brush over your clit just enough to make your whole body twitch. "look at you-" his tongue drags over his bottom lip. "all fucked-out already, and i haven’t even started.”

a whimper spills from your throat. you twist beneath him, trying to get away— but there’s nowhere to go. simon is everywhere all at once.

simon’s head dips, breath warm as it ghosts over slick, swollen flesh. you’re open for him, spread wide, cunt glistening— slick dripping down the crease of your thigh, pooling beneath you.

he noses at you, the rough drag of his stubble scraping over sensitive skin, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh.

"tastes sweet," he mutters, lips barely brushing where you need him. "dripping all over yourself, love. makin’ a fuckin’ mess just for me."

his tongue flicks out— soft, fleeting— not enough.

you cry out, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting, trying to pull him in, trying to keep him there.

he smirks against your skin. "shh." another lick, just to watch you tremble. "poor thing. so sensitive."

you twitch, hips chasing his mouth, aching for more, needing him to stop teasing, needing him to eat you alive. but then—

he pulls away.

your eyes snap open, bleary, wild.

you barely register him moving, barely track the way he rises up, broad and so fucking smug.

you're about to ask where he's going when you you hear it.

the clink of his belt.

your breath hitches.

he drags it out, making you watch as his fingers work the buckle, making you listen to the quiet rasp of the zipper, the rustle of denim as he shoves his jeans down just enough—

his cock is flushed dark at the tip. pre-cum beads at the slit, smearing as he wraps his fingers around the base, giving it a slow, teasing stroke. the sheer girth of it stretches his grip wide, the veins running down the shaft prominent, pulsing, standing out beneath the taut skin. he’s obscenely long, thick enough that your thighs instinctively press together, anticipation twisting tight in your gut.

simon strokes himself again, dragging his fist up the thick length, thumb circling the swollen tip. his cock twitches in his grip, another bead of precum welling at the slit, spilling over, tracing a slick path down the ridges of a pulsing vein.

his fingers flex around the base, squeezing, drawing another lazy stroke up before dragging his thumb along the sensitive underside. a quiet exhale leaves him, sharp through his nose, body tensing at his own touch.

he taps the swollen head against your clit, watches the way you shudder, thighs trying to squeeze together even as they stay spread for him.

a whimper breaks from your throat.

simon smiles. "need it that bad, huh?"

you nod frantically, thighs trembling, nails biting into his skin.

he exhales through his nose, head shaking like he can’t believe you.

"fuckin’ insatiable," he mutters, pressing the head against your cunt. "guess i’ll just have to fuck it all out of you."

you sob beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, nails clawing at his shoulders.

"so tight," he grits out. "fuck- look at you, baby. takin’ me so good."

simon sinks an inch, just enough for the head to pop inside and his breath catches, body locking up, heat surging through his spine.

your cunt swallows him whole, warm and wet and too fucking tight, and instinct takes over—

his hips snap forward, bottoming out in one sharp stroke.

a broken noise rips from his throat, something between a groan and a whine, his body shuddering, his hands gripping your hips too tight as his cock jerks inside you, pulsing, spilling hot and thick before he can stop it.

his forehead drops to your shoulder, his whole body trembling, breath coming ragged, desperate.

"fuck-" his voice breaks. "oh, fuck."

your cunt throbs around him, squeezing, milking him even though he hasn’t even moved, and the overstimulation makes his body jolt, makes his jaw lock tight.

"oh my god.” your fingers claw at his back. "simon-!"

he groans into your skin, cock still twitching inside you.

"jesus christ..” he drags in a shaky breath, pulling back just enough to see your face— tear-streaked and glassy-eyed. "m'sorry- fuck, baby, i’m sorry, it’s been-" he chokes on his words, shaking his head, voice breaking. "god, it's been so long-"

he drags in another breath, body screaming, cock still throbbing with the aftershocks of his orgasm, but you’re still crying, still trembling beneath him, still so fucking needy.

and fuck, you deserve better than that.

he shakes his head, tries to will himself to stop, to apologize, to pull out— let you laugh at him if you want.

but your cunt is still squeezing him, soft and warm and perfect, and he can’t.

his hands slide down, gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider.

"fuck- i got you, baby," he pants, hips pulling back before snapping forward again. "fuckin’ hell.” his whole body shakes. "gonna make it up to you, promise. gonna give it to you like you need, yeah? gonna fuck you so good, baby, you’ll feel me for days."

you wail beneath him, thrashing, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, mouth open on a sob as he fucks into you, fast and hard, ignoring the way his cock aches, the way his whole body protests, pushing through it because you need this.

"simon- simon, please- oh my god- fuck!"

"shh, shh," he coos, a little breathless. "i know, baby, i know. takin’ it so good- fuck, squeezin’ me so tight."

you sob harder, clinging to him, and he groans, burying his face in your neck, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, sucking little bruises into your skin.

"fuck- oh fuck," his hips stutter, his own release rising again, too soon, too intense, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck if it hurts.

"c’mon, love," he pants, "give me one more, yeah? cry all you want, baby, i love when you cry."

and when you finally do, when your body locks up around him and your walls squeeze tight, he groans loud and desperate, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it.

"there it is, fuck, there it is-"

he’s so proud, pressing wet, messy kisses to your cheeks, licking away the salt of your tears, whispering, "such a good girl, takin’ me so well, so fuckin’ perfect-"

"gonna cum again," simon tells you, almost pleading, "need to, sweetheart- need to cum deep in this perfect fucking cunt again-"

you wail, nodding, sobbing his name as your own orgasm crashes over you, squeezing down around him so tight it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

simon groans, pressing his forehead to yours, gasping, desperate, hips snapping forward in rough, short little thrusts.

"good girl," he chokes out, "good fuckin’ girl-"

choso tutors you every wednesday and friday afternoon from twelve pm to two pm every other week in the university library. a timeline you both come up with to nicely accommodate both of your schedules- him with his studies and you with your parties and whatnot. not to say you don’t focus on school, you do, life’s just easier when you can ignore all the pending assignments that are due at 11:59pm and all the teachers that seemingly have it out for you.

but choso is sweet, unnecessarily so even when you try to quietly yawn at his rambling that seems to bounce off the walls of the study room you two rented. even when you start doodling in your notebook, when you’re supposed to be writing down what he’s trying to teach you. life is just more fun when you let go, something you’re sure choso doesn’t know how to do when you don’t show him how to.

choso is a straight-a student and tutor, teaching you topics better than any of your professors on the surface. but when you have him in the palm of your hand, with actions that are only a little suggestive? you’ll surely have him fucking you better than any of them too.

a few taps from the tip of a black pen on your notebook shakes you from your thoughts, choso gazing at you with concern evident in his eyes and a cute frown.

“you do know midterms are two weeks away, right?” the concerned lilt in his tone is cute but not cute enough for you to really care, knowing you would rather be doing anything else than studying calculus four.

you look up and smile apologetically, “sorry, cutie, but partial differentiation of functions is not on my mind right now.”

he blushes softly at the pet name but holds his ground, “but you didn’t come to any lecture last week. these questions are gonna be on the exam, you have to know them.”

you stand up, going behind him to undo the two buns he keeps atop his head, “‘s alright, i have you, don’t i?” the locks of hair unravel like a pretty present as you massage the mop around, evening the spread of his pretty brown hair.

“that’s why i’m trying to teach you right now but you won’t even listen,” he softly whines in slight protest, distracted by the feeling of your fingers combing through his hair.

“i have a better idea- don’t you wanna have fun?” you twist yourself onto his lap, thighs fitting atop his as you straddle him. you twist your hand into a fist to garner a hold of his hair, pulling it back to lift his head to expose his pretty wide eyes.

“b-but-” he stammers, moving his head to the side to avoid your eye contact, not sure what excuse to use. you roughly pull his hair again to force him to face you again, a mewl falling from his lips.

you cut him off with a soft voice, “you want me to stop?” you press chaste kisses to his jaw and throat, leaving an especially hard one on his adam’s apple, a soft sigh slipping out from his mouth.

he groans, unable to find an answer in his now-muddled brain. “please-”

precious, sweet choso would never ever deny you in any way, always opting to let you do whatever you wanted for your own entertainment and satisfaction, even if it includes giving you his heart and body.

“please what, baby?” you smile lightly, knowing he would always give into pleasure, give into you. 

“please make me cum,” his usual honeyed, deep voice is exchanged for a separate breathy, higher tone that’s reserved for your ears and your ears alone.

“all you had to say, bubs,” you lightly grind your core to his hardening, twitching cock, that seemingly was begging for some sort of stimulation that could help relieve the hot bubble that was forming in his lower belly.

something between a whine and a groan erupts from choso’s lips as you go in for another kiss, you swallowing up his sounds by connecting your lips.

“we’re in the library, darling. remember to be quiet, ‘kay?” you remind him with a sweet smile as if you weren’t the reason for his loud volume.

he whimpers, “s-sorry, mommy, please-” he chokes out, “c-can i put it in?”

you reach down and pull his cock out of his pants and give it a few jerks. “do you deserve it?”

choso scrunches his face in pleasure, eyes shut and lips wet with both his and your saliva. he manages to open his eyes a bit and breathe out, “yes- yes i do- please?” his brown orbs plead with you for stimulation- for pleasure- for mercy.

“put it in then, show me how desperate you are for me,” his fingers are fumbling around, pushing your skirt up and realizing you’re wearing his favorite lacy violet panties underneath, he groans quietly to himself admiring the wet spot on it for a second. set back on his prior mission, he pushes his cock into your panties, creating a large wet spot as he humps the scratchy material to find pleasure.

“my pretty prince, right? look at you, you just wanna get off, huh? i’ll let you use my pussy- so you better use it well.”

“thank- you, mommy,” he mewls softly before aligning himself with your hole. he quickly shoves it in- catching you off guard, forcing a hiss and moan from your lips that he quickly shuts up with a kiss that you dominate early on.

his hands have you in a vice-like grip that’s sure to leave bruises, holding you a few inches above his own body as his hips uncontrollably rut up into you, balls slapping on your buttcheeks.

“f-fuck- what would your parents say about this, huh? their p-precious little boy so desperate to cum inside of a woman?” you bite his earlobe, moaning directly into it, only serving to make choso’s dick impossibly harder.

“do-don’t-”

“don’t what, bubs? don’t tell your parents? but with how much you c-cum inside me, won’t we have to tell them when we have a b-baby?” you chortle in his ear, his face tinted red from embarrassment but still rutting up into you, desperately searching for release that feels so close with the way you’re clenching around him, still wanting to cum inside you as if it was his lifes goal.

“c-can’t- please- please let me cum inside.” he nearly sobs, his orgasm feeling like it’s approaching.

“don’t stop, don’t stop. you’re doing so so good for me, bubs. keep going- just a bit more, you’re almost there, baby,” you whisper into his ear, keenly aware of the effect your words have on him.

“please, please, please- let me-” 

“you wanna cum? you wanna cum in me? give your parents a grandbaby? you want that huh- you want your parents to know what a dirty whore you are for wet pussy- my wet pussy? come, come inside me.” your filthy words spill out of your mouth and into his flushed ear like whispers of an eternal bliss in hell.

a chain of “yes”s leave his lips in needy murmurs as he nears his climax. his thrusts into you become shorter and sloppier as you hug him closer, quieting your own moans by putting forth effort in marking up his neck.

a long, languid moan is ripped out from choso’s chest with his hips still rutting into you, albeit slower now, steadily fucking his cum into you, although his cock is still semi-hard. “let me- let me make you cum, please?”

you breathily laugh, “keep fucking me, baby, i’m almost there.”

choso continues his actions through strained movements, overstimulating himself, still roughly but quietly moaning through his own pain and pleasure. pulling you closer and staring at your pretty face filled with pleasure, he seems to be mesmerized by every feature on your face that contorts to prove that you were finding as much bliss in this as he is.

“fuck, i’m close, baby. gonna make me cum? make me cum,” choso quickens his pace, grunting in exertion. with a hand slapped over your mouth to hold back your shriek, you cum, spasming around his cock. fucking you through your orgasm, choso whines. he was so focused on making you cum that he didn’t realize he was nearing his second orgasm and with one last thrust into you, he spills a second load into you.

“good boy, choso. you did so well,” your validation makes him feel tingles all around his stomach, butterflies awakening in his stomach.

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