Articulations of Aspen

Ransom grinned, dipping his face as he touched a finger beneath your chin and lifted your own. When your gazes reunited, he quirked a brow in silent question.

"Soft," you explained, glancing at his hair, your fingers twitching in your lap like you were itching to run them through those glossy locks once more.

It was slow, the way the wicked grin unfurled across his lips, amusement sparkling in Ransom's gaze as he drawled, “How about you stroke something hard now?” 

As he expected, his innuendo was completely lost on you, despite weeks and weeks of hot and heavy makeout sessions that had become Ransom's new preferred method of entertainment.

"What?" you asked innocently.

Chuckling, he shook his head, letting the subject drop as he watched you. "I don't mind, you know." At your questioning look, he elaborated, "I don't mind you touching my hair. It felt nice."

"Oh," you smiled excitedly, hedging closer. And then your hand shot out again, your touch so careful–almost reverent–as you raked your fingers through his hair. "So pretty." Your eyes shifted from Ransom's hair to his handsome face. "You're so pretty."

"Right back at you, kitten," Ransom purred, his eyes fluttering as he sank back in his seat, enjoying the way you were playing with his hair.

A moment later, when you moved closer and hesitantly straddled his lap, he enjoyed that, too.

Your fingers fell from Ransom's hair and down his neck, trailing along his skin, your eyes still big and awe-filled, like you couldn't quite believe that you got to be this close and touch him like this.

He just watched your gentle explorations, his hands gravitating to your hips and gripping. His fingers played along the hem of your sweater until they could slip underneath and finally touch your warm, bare skin.

"Kiss?" you asked on a breathy whisper, your face already closing in as your eyes flickered to his. 

"C'mere," Ransom murmured, cradling the back of your head and reeling you in. 

He sighed against your lips, feeling more at peace than he ever had before with your flavor on his tongue and your body pressed flush to his. 

Distantly, Ransom was aware of the way your fingers returned to his hair, gripping more than petting now as you squirmed in his lap and tried your best to keep up with every eager press of his lips against your own.

If someone would have told him that just weeks ago had been the very first time you had ever kissed someone, he wouldn't have believed it, because now? 

Now you were a pro. 

Somehow, you had picked up on every trick he knew, and then some. Ransom had a feeling it was your shameless enthusiasm and curiosity to learn what felt good–what made him feel good–more than anything.

And he reveled in it.

In fact, Ransom had never enjoyed kissing more in his life, and he knew it was because it was with you.

Like now, when his tongue pressed past the seam of your lips and you moaned in surprise, he groaned, his free hand sliding up your back and yanking you right up against his chest as he kissed you with the kind of desperate fervor he had never felt before.

Ransom had just started to rut up against you–his body craving more from you–swallowing your sweet, eager sounds as you instinctively rocked against his lap in return when a quiet throat clearing had you both freezing.

Sighing, Ransom pulled away, smiling at your glazed look and gently touching your cheek before looking over your shoulder to where Savannah was watching the two of you with a disapproving look, despite the fact that this was hardly the first time that she had caught you and Ransom making out.

There was a long moment of awkward silence before Ransom snapped, "Well? Did you need something, or were you just enjoying the show?"

"No, be nice," you whisper!wailed at him, tucking your face against his neck to hide from Savannah's gaze.

The older woman couldn't resist a smile at that, growing fonder of you by the day, as she sighed before saying, "Mr. Jennings is pulling around the car for the young miss' appointment. Will you be accompanying us into town?"

"Yeah," Ransom replied, stroking your back as he frowned at the thought of you going into town for the first time without him. "We'll finish getting ready and be out front soon."

"Yes, sir," Savannah nodded, giving you both a lingering look before turning on her heel and retreating to the kitchen.

Ransom waited until he was sure that she was long gone before he spoke, murmuring against your ear, "You okay, kitten?"

You nodded against him before popping your head up, looking a little less dazed than before. "Kissing isn't bad?"

Ransom's smile was soft. "No, kissing isn't bad."

"Feels bad sometimes," you told him, playing with the collar of his sweater as your eyes fell away. "I don't like her seeing."

"That's because some kisses, and other stuff, are private, but it's not bad."

"Okay," you glanced up at him, your lips curling. "Some kisses?"

Ransom's lips twitched. "Yeah, some kisses are just sweet and innocent, like you. Like this." He kissed the tip of your nose, grinning as you giggled. "And this." He stole a quick peck from your lips. "And some kisses, some kisses are just for us," he purred.

He shifted beneath you, smoothing his hands up your sides until you were shivering and squirming for him just as his lips touched yours. Ransom gave you a more thorough kiss, the kind that had you whining against his lips and clutching his shoulders, pouting as he pulled away. 

"See the difference?" he asked, his eyes twinkling.

You nodded, your lips parted and kiss-swollen as you blinked at his mouth before meeting his gaze. "I really like kissing."

"I really like kissing you," Ransom countered, booping your nose and making you laugh. He sighed, sitting up as he said, "Come on, we gotta go into town for your doctor’s appointment and then we can go out to lunch, how's that sound?"

"Good!" you chirped, excitedly scrambling off of his lap. "I'll go get my shoes and coat!" 

And then you were off, scurrying upstairs and leaving Ransom smiling after you like a dope as the taste of your sweet lips still lingered on his tongue.

You exited the doctor's office pouting and cradling your arm, which was more numb than sore at this point, but still felt strange. Your countenance brightened immediately as Ransom rose from a nearby bench where he'd been waiting for you. 

"Everything go okay?" he asked, shifting his weight as he glanced between you and Savannah.

You nodded, smiling a little as Savannah gave you a fond squeeze. 

"All is well, sir. The doctor had no concerns to speak of." 

She gave you a warm smile, which you returned, grateful that she had come inside with you, as strangers still made you nervous, even though you knew doctors were supposed to help take care of you. 

Some of the tension immediately eased from Ransom's form, and you went to him out of instinct, to comfort his obvious concern and also because you were still feeling uncomfortable from your shot and vulnerable from your exam and conversation with the doctor.

Ransom's arms immediately embraced you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head as you burrowed against his chest. "You okay, kitten?"

You nodded, frowning up at him as you continued to cradle your arm. "Feels weird."

His brows furrowed. "What feels weird?" His narrowed gaze shot to Savannah. "I thought you said everything was fine."

The older woman clasped her hands in front of her, looking uncomfortable. "It is, sir. She just…got a birth control implant. Her arm will be numb for a couple of hours and then may be sore for a day or two, but all is well."

Ransom's eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline as he stuttered, "Oh. Uh. Okay. Girl stuff. Got it."

"Relationship stuff, I would say," Savannah said, giving him a challenging look.  

“So this whole thing was your idea?” Ransom glowered at her. "I think you need to remember your place."

Savannah's mouth dropped open in offense, her hands falling to her hips. "It's clear the girl has very few people who take her best interests to heart. I only wanted to encourage her to think ahead and be safe, all things considered.” She gave Ransom a pointed look. “I was looking out for her, the same way I would one of my own."

"Does she even understand what you talked her into?"

"I didn't talk her into anything," Savannah insisted. “I just wanted to make sure that she understood what she was getting herself into and the possible consequences of your combined actions.”

Before Ransom could respond, you spoke up, loudly. "I understand," you said, frowning between Ransom and Savannah. 

His features immediately softened when you began to smooth the furrow on his brow with your pointer finger. 

"I understand," you whispered to him. "I'm not stupid."

"Hey," Ransom gently grasped your shoulders and ducked close, so your eyes were level with his and you could read the earnestness in his gaze when he vehemently told you, "I do not think you're stupid. You're so smart, and I witness it every day. I just want to make sure you're not being talked into anything you don't want to do."

"I wanted it, to be safe, just in case," you murmured, gently touching your arm. "I don't…I don't want to be bad like my mother. I don't want that."

At the shine of tears building in your eyes, Ransom nodded, giving you a smile as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Okay, whatever you want. You made the right decision for you. You did so well."

When you sank against his chest for a hug, Ransom gave you a squeeze, his gaze flickering to Savannah, who was watching you both with an expression torn between softness and concern. Clearing his throat, he quickly returned his attention to you.  

"How about a little shopping before lunch?"

You smiled at his offer, plastering yourself to his side as he led you down the main street in the center of town.

There weren't too many people out, but there were enough for you to bounce between wariness and curiosity as you watched a mother with a stroller go by, and an older couple slowly walk together arm in arm.

Ransom pointed out the different stores, explaining what they were, but it wasn't until you came upon a jewelry store, and the beautifully arranged display window sparkling in the sunlight, that you showed any real interest in your surroundings. 

"So pretty!" you gasped, breaking away from Ransom's side to move closer to the storefront.

Your eyes were big as you pressed your hands to the window, gazing down at all the elegant pieces twinkling up at you. There were so many of them! Various gems and stones, metals too, and you didn't know what most of the materials were, just that they were lovely and you had never seen anything so pretty in your life.

Well, except for Ransom.

"Do you want to go inside?" he asked.

You glanced up at him, then to the window display and beyond, spying quite a few people in the small shop as an old man stood behind a counter and spoke with a couple.

Swallowing nervously at the thought of being surrounded by so many strangers, you eyed the jewelry in the window one final time before shaking your head and reaching for Ransom's hand. 

"No thank you," you smiled up at him. 

"Are you sure?" 

You nodded, grinning as your stomach growled. "Can we have lunch now?" 

"Yeah, of course," he smiled, glancing behind you both to where Savannah patiently waited. "Any suggestions?"

Her eyes flickered between the two of you, lingering on you before she spoke, "There's a nice, small restaurant at the end of the block that shouldn't be too crowded this time of day."

Ransom nodded, gesturing for her to lead the way as he corralled you against him with his other arm. 

Soon you were tucked into a booth at the back of the restaurant, which thankfully wasn't very crowded at all. Savannah sat across from you, shooting you a smile whenever your gaze met hers, and beside you sat Ransom. 

He held a menu between you both, reading and explaining the dishes to you as you bounced in your seat, eager to eat.

Once you all settled on your meals, he gestured for your waitress so you could order, and you were delighted to dig into the complimentary bread basket she left behind once she departed.

"Still warm!" you told Ransom, holding out a piece of bread for him.

He smiled, taking it and popping it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, then opened his mouth to reply but paused as his cell phone began to buzz. Sighing, he pulled it from his back pocket, rolling his eyes as he glanced down at the screen. 

"I need to take this," he muttered, giving your back a rub before he slid from the booth and hurried outside.

You stared after him, watching him pace along the sidewalk–looking agitated–as he spoke on the phone, and then your gaze returned to the bread basket. You slowly reached for another piece, glancing at Savannah shyly.

"It's good, isn't it?" she smiled, pushing the bread basket your way. 

"So good!" you chirped, nabbing another piece.

She watched you for a moment, her gaze flickering to Ransom–still outside on his phone–before returning to you. Leaning in closer across the table, she kept her voice low as she spoke. 

"Miss, I know it's not my place, but you don't seem to have many folks looking out for you, and I just…I want to encourage you to be careful with Mr. Drysdale."

You straightened in your seat, finishing chewing your food before asking. "Ransom?"

Savannah nodded. "I know he's very kind to you, and you've known him since you were children, but he's changed a lot since then. He's known for…getting into trouble, and I would hate to see you get hurt."

You frowned, dropping your hands into your lap as you began to anxiously fiddle with the hem of your sweater.

You knew that Ransom had been sent here because his parents thought he was bad, but you didn't actually know why they thought that. 

However, you did know that Ransom was so good to you, and he took care of you. 

He cared about you, you know he did, just like you cared about him.

"He wouldn't hurt me," you replied at last, your gaze wary as you eyed Savannah. "He's my…friend."

You frowned at that word, that descriptor for Ransom that suddenly fell flat.

That didn't feel right anymore.

Ransom felt like so much more than your friend.

He felt like–

"Alright, miss," Savannah relented, holding up her hands in a gesture of surrender. Her smile was small, but genuine as she watched you. "Forgive me, I was only trying to help. Just know that if you need anything, I'm here and I'm happy to help."

You nodded slowly, still feeling wary and confused but mustering a smile nonetheless. "Okay, thank you."

Picking at the bread on your little serving plate, you pressed another piece into your mouth, perking up in your seat as you spotted Ransom making his way back to your table.

When he slid back into his seat beside you, shooting you a small grin and smoothing his hand up your back, you forgot Savannah's warning altogether as you snuggled close to his side and offered him another piece of your bread. 

It had been weeks since your outing with Ransom and Savannah. 

Weeks since the older woman's gentle warning and your realization that things had shifted between you and Ransom. 

In the rare, stray moments when you were left to your own devices–usually late at night as you lay in bed, waiting for sleep–you struggled with trying to put a name to what Ransom was to you.

You coveted his friendship so much, you had since you were a little girl.

And even more so these last few months as he welcomed you into his own home and took care of you like no one else ever had in your life.

But you knew that what you had with Ransom was more than a friendship. 

All the kisses and the touching and the desire - you wanted him so much more than was appropriate for a friend.

Ransom wasn't just your friend anymore, he was your everything.

And he was making you feel so good right now as you squirmed beneath him on the sofa, gasping and clutching at his muscular back as he kissed a trail down your throat, his big body gently rutting against yours.

The manor was dim and quiet this late at night, you and Ransom the only two occupants, free to enjoy some private time together that you craved more and more with each passing day.

It was addictive, the way Ransom made you feel, the way he could so masterfully work you over, eliciting so many different–and exciting–sensations from your body with just the press of his lips or the squeeze of his big, strong hands.

You never knew until now that it was possible to feel this good.

To want so much.

But you did. 

You wanted more from Ransom, you wanted everything, and you wanted to give yourself to him completely.

"You okay, kitten? You're quieter than usual." Ransom's voice was low and smoky, the way it always got when the two of you indulged in this type of activity for a good, long while.

You shivered, your insides clenching hard as you hugged him close and nodded. 

"Do you wanna stop?" Ransom asked, smoothing a hand over the crown of your head as his face hovered over yours.

You watched him for a long moment, once again finding yourself distracted by how gorgeous he was. You couldn't help it as your hand lifted and your fingers gently traced all along his features: the perfectly straight arch of his nose, his sharp jawline, those pillowy pink lips.

"I want more," you whispered at last, giving voice to the carnal craving–the deep, wanting ache–that was consuming you.

You weren't even completely sure what more was at this point, you just knew that despite how good Ransom was making you feel, it wasn't enough. 

Your body was throbbing and desperate for whatever came next.

"Fuck," he breathed, dropping his forehead to yours and swallowing hard. "You have no idea how long it's been for me."

You stroked his hair as he just laid against you for a moment, unable to help it as your body squirmed and gently writhed beneath him, pressing against the sharp jut of his erection that was nestled against your belly.

You loved knowing that–his excitement and desire–was because of you, that you were making him feel so good that he was overcome and needed a moment to collect himself.

Groaning at the friction your squirming created, Ransom pressed up over you, gazing down at you for a beat. His eyes were so dark they were nearly black, his lips cherry pink and kiss-swollen, and his soft hair flopping over his forehead.

"You're beautiful," you whispered your thought aloud, touching the pads of your fingers to his bottom lip.

"And you're so fucking sweet," he hummed, dipping close and kissing you with the kind of feral passion that had you panting and staring up at him with wide eyes once he pulled away. "M'gonna take such good care of you, kitten. Gonna make it so good for you, gonna make you feel so fucking good."

"Yes, please."

Ransom all but vaulted to his feet, grabbing your hands and tugging you up against him so enthusiastically–and with such a boyish grin curling his lips–that you couldn't help but giggle. 

Moments later you were upstairs in his bedroom, not resisting one bit as Ransom slowly undressed you, until he had you down to your t-shirt and panties and was gently guiding you to lay back on his bed.

He was still dressed in his jeans and sweater as he stretched out over you, pressing his forearm to the mattress above your head as he ducked impossibly close and kissed you slowly.

When you whimpered, desperate for breath, he relented, his lips retreating from yours and instead blazing a hot, open-mouthed trail down your throat. Ransom shifted over you, guiding your body beneath his, until you were on your belly and gazing over your shoulder at him with big eyes. 

Smiling, he stole a kiss from your parted lips, his hand giving your ass a firm grope before he was rising to his feet.

You watched as Ransom yanked off his sweater and flung it aside, your eyes going rounder at the reveal of his naked torso. 

His shoulders were broad and rounded, his chest wide and pale and peppered with dark, wiry hair, and the muscles of his stomach were taut and flexing as his big hands dropped and started working open his belt.

The metal clink of his belt was like ice water being dumped over your head, washing away your desire in an instant and replacing it with a wave of dread so strong that you couldn't help but turn away and bury your face in the covers, terrified. 

Because you knew what that sound meant.

You were a bad girl, after all. 

It was like you were suddenly back in the small, dirty shed all over again. Poppy looming over you–angry and hateful–his belt twining around his hands and he prepared to deliver a world of pain–

But the gentlest press of lips against the exposed small of your back had you gasping sharply in surprise, your mind returning to the present and some of the dread-infused tension easing from your frame as Ransom slowly rucked up your shirt, kissing each new inch of revealed skin as he went. 

Ransom stopped suddenly, and you felt him shift over you, his hand a warm press to your back as he realized, "You're shaking."

You were, and you couldn't find the words to respond and explain why as you trembled beneath him, sniffling into the blankets as a few stray tears streaked down your cheeks.

"Are you okay?" Ransom's voice was laced with concern, his hand smoothing up your back and taking your shirt with it as he told you, "We can stop if you…jesus!"

His exclamation had you peeking over your shoulder at him, finding him staring down at your back in horror. You shivered as his fingers gently traced over the mess of scars that littered your skin.

Ransom swallowed, his sorrowful gaze finding yours as he asked, "Your family did this to you?"

"Poppy did," you whispered. "When I was bad."

"You're never bad," Ransom said vehemently, his face twisting with anger that you knew wasn't for you. "Let alone bad enough to deserve this. You're so good," he murmured, dipping low and pressing a kiss to your marred back, then another. "You're so beautiful. So sweet. You're mine."

"Yes, yours," you echoed, your chest fluttering with happiness at his declaration. 

You sank into the mattress beneath you and fisted the covers as that wanting buzz began to overtake you once more, all the fear and memories from earlier fading far, far away with each new press of Ransom's lips to your skin. 

"Always yours," you whispered on a dreamy sigh.

When Ransom's lips reached your shoulders, he nuzzled close, pressing a kiss to your cheek. "Tell me if you want to stop, or if you don't like something, okay? I just want you to feel good."

"Okay," you whispered, peeking at him from your periphery and smiling as he pressed another kiss to your cheek.

Soon, Ransom had you both naked as he guided you onto your back, his hands and lips mapping every inch of your skin that they could reach and lingering each and every time he found a spot that evoked a noise from you, or an eager rock of your hips or a beautiful arch of your back.

When his mouth reached your breasts and lingered, taking its time to lave along your nipples and suck them into little peaks, you whined in carnal delight, your core clenching hard as you felt more seep flow from your cunt.

Humming in victory at your reaction, Ransom doubled down on mouthing and kissing along your breasts, kneading them in his hands as you writhed beneath him, whimpering at the onslaught of pleasure wreaking blissful havoc on your body.

"Please!" you begged, not really sure what you were asking for, just knowing that your body felt like it was right on the edge of something you couldn't quite reach on your own. 

"I've got you, sweetheart," Ransom murmured, leaning up just long enough to grant you a sultry, lingering kiss before his mouth was back to working along your body, trailing down, down, down.

You shuddered at the sight of him settling between your legs, his lips lingering just below your belly button as he gazed up at you with eyes so dark and desirous that you felt another flood of juices seep from your center.

When Ransom nuzzled at the very top of your mound, you whined, instinctually spreading your legs wider in invitation as you tried to scoot closer to him. "Ransom, please. Please."

You reached for him, your fingers just able to sift through his hair and trail down his cheek. His eyes were so soft as he leaned into your touch before turning his face and kissing the pads of your fingers. 

Then his laser focus returned to the soft, wet place between your thighs.

“Time to feel good, my sweet, little kitten. Wanna kiss you here," he rumbled, thumbing up your slit, his touch lingering and circling along the little nub crowning your pussy and making your body jolt like you'd been electrocuted. "Is that okay with you?"

"Yes!" you replied, breathless and nearly mindless with need, squirming some more as you whined. "Yes, please. Anything. Anything you want."

The slow smile that unfurled across Ransom's lips was wolfish and pleased, with a hint of that boyish excitement from earlier that had your tummy swooping in a way unrelated to your desperate desire.

And all you could do was stare down your naked, trembling body to where Ransom was settled between your legs, his big hands smoothing up your inner thighs and spreading you open even wider for him. 

You watched as his dark gaze dropped, his tongue sneaking out to wet his bottom lip as he groaned, and then he was ducking close and dragging his tongue up the cut of you.

Your back bowed as you gave a wordless cry of shocked delight, your eyes so big and startled at how good it felt–how pleasantly naughty too–as Ransom tongued along your folds once more.

You couldn't keep still at the onslaught of his mouth, especially once he tugged up the hood of your clit and started lapping at your sensitive little nub, each stroke of his tongue drawing a quiet keen from between your lips.

Laughing as you thrashed and bucked against him, Ransom dropped a heavy arm over your hips to keep you in place, his fingers tugging your folds apart so he could watch the latest wave of your arousal pool at your pretty, clenching hole.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he cooed at you, dragging his thumb up your slit and circling your clit until you were moaning and sagging back against the bed, dazed.

"So good," you panted, gasping as Ransom rewarded you with another firm, slow drag of his tongue up your cunt. "Oh. Good, so good. More! More, please."

You could feel him laugh against your center as you just started chanting "please," and he gave you exactly what you wanted, his mouth eagerly–and expertly–working along your cunt until your toes were curling and you were giving sweet little cries as you rutted against his face. 

"Come on, kitten, let go for me, sweetheart," Ransom rasped, sucking at your clit as he eased a finger into your fluttering cunt. "Let it feel good, you deserve it."

You moaned, your head so blissfully foggy as Ransom's finger began to move inside of you, dragging back and forth against your velvety walls and making your insides tighten more and more with each sinful caress.

When his mouth returned to your clit just as he slid a second finger inside of you, you sobbed, feeling all of the exquisite, dueling sensations building up inside of you finally reach their peak. 

You gave a sharp, wordless cry of ecstasy as pleasure burst inside of you before flooding through every inch of your body.

It was like your body went wild, your muscles locking then releasing over and over again, wracking you with each and every wave of your release as you distantly registered Ransom's gravelly voice talking you through it. 

"There you go, such a good girl, look at you, kitten," he murmured, smoothing a hand up your quivering belly before catching your fingers with his and giving you something to hold onto as you rode the waves of your release. "You're so pretty when you cum, sweetheart."

When your body finally came down from its high, sagging back against the covers, you whimpered, breathless and overwhelmed as you dazedly blinked up at the ceiling. 

Ransom's handsome, flushed face moved into your line of sight as he stretched out over you, smiling with a smug gleam in his eye at your glassy, debauched state.

"You doing okay there?" he asked, laughing as you immediately reached for him and yanked him down against you for a hug.

When he realized that you were sniffling, he pulled away enough to see your face, frowning as he swiped away a few stray tears from your warm cheek. 

"Hey, I didn't hurt you, did I?"

You shook your head, burying your face against his chest, your words muffled as you replied, "So good, just a lot."

Shifting until he was stretched out beside you and tugging you close, Ransom pressed kisses all along the crown of your head. 

"You did so well for me, kitten." Another kiss. "Letting me take care of you like that." He nuzzled along your temple. "Love seeing you feel so good. Love making you feel that good."

Shivering, you snuggled closer to Ransom, pressing a kiss to his collar bone to show him without words that you were okay and appreciated him. Your lips quirked as you heard him chuckle before he was raining down another wave of kisses all along your head.

After a while, you realized that despite the innocent way in which Ransom's hand was smoothing up and down your back, his hips were gently rocking against you, pressing his hard length into your belly.

You shifted, your curiosity getting the better of you as you tentatively reached for him. You paused just before you touched him, tipping your face up to find Ransom watching you with a look so feral and wanting that you clenched around nothing, distantly wishing for Ransom's fingers to fill you up again.

"I can touch?"

"Fuck yeah you can," Ransom immediately replied. 

You laughed, feeling shy as you trailed your fingers along the smooth, hot length of him. When Ransom jerked and moaned in response, your wide eyes shot up to him, noting the way his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched, like he was holding himself back in some way. 

"Feels good?" you checked, your fingers itching to touch him some more.

He nodded, swallowing hard, his hand no longer rubbing along your back but gripping your ass. "Yeah, kitten, feels really good."

"Good," you hummed, returning your attention to his cock.

You dragged the pads of your fingers up and down, up and down, then down further still as you explored the foreign texture of his sack.

"Fuck, you're gonna drive me crazy," Ransom gritted. He reached for your hand, guiding it back to his cock. "Like this, grip it and squeeze a little. Yeah, fuck, just like that, stroke it nice and slow."

You squirmed as Ransom groaned, his head dropping back against the bed as you pressed your thighs together and continued to touch him the way he showed you. 

You were mesmerized by his cock, the weight and girth of it in your hand, the way touching him in such a simple way could reduce him to a moaning, groaning mess. And when the head of his length started to dribble white cream, you perked up, swiping it away with your thumb before sucking it into your mouth with a hum.

"Ohhhhkay, that's it," Ransom moved so fast, you squeaked, rolling you beneath him as he settled between your legs. "Please tell me that you're ready for more?"

You blinked at him, your taste buds still tanging with the salt of his pre-cum. "More?"

"I wanna be inside you. Wanna fill you up with my cock," he groaned, rutting against your stomach.

When your eyes went comically wide, your mouth dropping open, Ransom huffed a laugh, his shoulders shaking with mirth as he dropped his forehead to yours.

"Jesus, you're so fucking sweet, c'mere," he murmured. 

When he cradled your cheek with his hand and descended on you with a round of hungry, thorough kisses, you hummed your appreciation, your fingers sinking into Ransom's hair as your lips met his press for press.

"Can I have you now, kitten?" Ransom murmured against your lips, his eyes heavy-lidded as he ground against you with a quiet groan. "Want you so bad."

"Yes," you didn't hesitate to reply, letting your legs fall open even further around him in invitation. "Wanna make you feel good, too."

You pet along his hair, dazzled by how beautiful Ransom looked like this, desperate and needy–for you–his handsome face flushed and his eyes blown fat and black with lust.

You felt Ransom's hand drop between your bodies, another quiet moan hitching in his throat as he prepped himself with a few strokes before he was guiding his cock to your entrance.

He paused then, blinking some of the lust addled haze from his eyes as he watched your face. "Relax for me," he instructed just as the head of his cock caught along your fluttering hole.

Your breath hitched at the unfamiliar feeling, but you tried your best to listen to Ransom, letting your body sink even further into the mattress beneath you as your fingers dug into his back. 

He plunged into you slowly–carefully–his lips parting and eyes fluttering as you gasped at the strange feeling of his body joining with yours.

The stretch of his cock filling you up was unlike anything you had ever felt before. There was a slight twinge of discomfort but it became a distant memory the longer you watched Ransom, saw the way pleasure and relief danced along his features as he moaned and gently rocked against you.

Your breath hitched as he reached his limit, feeling so full and floaty as you realized you'd gone most of your life not even realizing how empty you were until now.

That there had always been this space inside of you, waiting to be filled by another.

And the fact that it was Ransom…

It was Ransom inside of you, his body now one with yours, making you feel whole for the first time in your life.

You whined in overwhelm–and greedy desire for more, for him–your hands sliding along Ransom's back and yanking him flush against you, your desperation to feel more of him consuming you. 

"You okay?" he asked, his brow furrowing with concern and his jaw gritting as you clenched around him hard. "Fuck."

"More, please," you pleaded softly. "Make me feel good. Make us feel good, please, Ransom?"

"I've got you, kitten," he murmured, dropping his lips to yours for a kiss.

When his body started to rock against yours, his hips pushing and pulling, you swore your body lit up like a sunrise.

You felt that feeling from before start to build up deep inside of you, growing stronger and stronger with every deep plunge of Ransom's cock inside of you. Eager to feel that bone rattling release from before–the pinnacle of your pleasure–you curled your legs over his hips, moving your body against his.

"Oh god, that's it," Ransom moaned, his hand finding yours on the bed and lacing your fingers together as he dropped his forehead to yours. "Squeeze around me, kitten, squeeze my cock, let me feel you."

Whining, you tried to do what he wanted, victory washing over you as Ransom groaned, his hips snapping harder as he sought his pleasure in the deepest depths of your body.

"Fuck, so good, you feel so good," he babbled, grunting as he gave a particularly deep thrust and lingered inside of you, panting against your parted lips.

You watched him, mesmerized, the sight of Ransom unraveling before your eyes driving you closer and closer to the edge.

And when he slid his free hand between your bodies and started rubbing at your clit as his pace increased, you finally tipped over the edge of that exquisite, blissful precipice that you so longed to revisit.

You gave a quiet keen as your body seized, your orgasm rocking through you so hard that it made Ransom groan as you clamped down on his cock and writhed beneath him.

"Oh god, fuck, I'm so close, s'close," he muttered, panting as he pounded into you. He nipped at your bottom lip, groaning as you whimpered and gave him another squeeze before going pliant and boneless beneath him. "M'Cumming."

Mewling as Ransom gave another hard, deep plunge, your insides quivered before he suddenly pulled out of you, nestled his cock between your sopping folds, and rutted against you until he finished.

You watched, wide eyed and mouth parted in a little 'o', as he came with a series of quiet grunts and moans, his cum spurting all along your cunt and belly in warm, creamy ribbons until he was finally spent.

"Fuck," Ransom breathed, sinking back on his haunches between your sprawled legs and gazing down at your messy pussy like it was his most cherished treasure.

You squirmed as he reached out and rubbed your combined messes all over your folds, jolting as the pressure on your clit had you squeaking in surprise.

Grinning, Ransom slowly crawled over you, his eyes so warm and his hair falling over his forehead as he touched your cheek like you were as delicate as finely spun glass and kissed you until you were both panting for breath.

"God, that was amazing," he hummed, stealing one more kiss before flopping down on the bed beside you. "You good, kitten?"

"Very good," you nodded, watching as he tucked a hand behind his head, his eyes fluttering shut as he sighed in content. "Thank you."

"Ditto," he grinned, his eyes still closed and his free hand blindly reaching for you, until you pressed your palm to his and twined your fingers together as you shimmied closer to him.

He was so beautiful like this, and he looked so happy, so at peace–for once–and you did that.

Smiling to yourself, you perched your chin on the side of his chest, enjoying the quiet together as your eager gaze flickered all along Ransom's naked body. You tentatively reached out and touched the wiry hair on his chest, surprised by the coarseness of it.

When you shifted closer to touch him some more, you suddenly became hyper aware of the mess all along your thighs and core. You glanced down, realizing Ransom's seed was starting to dry and pull against your skin uncomfortably.

You frowned, realizing how dirty you were.

You didn't like to be dirty.

"Hey, you okay?"

Your head popped up, your startled eyes finding Ransom's.

There was still a smile tugging at his lips, but his eyes were shining in concern now, too.

"Need to get clean, please," you told him, gently pushing yourself up to a sit and frowning down at yourself. "Please." 

At the ring of desperation–a different kind than before–in your voice, Ransom immediately sat up beside you. His big hand touched your back as he smiled at you. "Yeah, of course, come on."

He corralled you to your feet and laughed when you went to leave his room to retreat to your own. 

"Not tonight, kitten. Tonight you're staying with me."

Your face lit up, a big, beautiful smile breaking free as you replied, "I am?!"

"You are," Ransom confirmed, leading you into his bathroom and the big glass shower beyond.

He was quick to get you both cleaned up, being extra gentle with you, especially once you started to sag against him in exhaustion. 

Soon he was donning a pair of boxer briefs and tugging one of his clean t-shirts over your head before leading you back to his bed.

"I can sleep in your bed tonight? With you?" you gave him a sleepy smile, so sweetly excited that Ransom couldn't help but laugh. 

"Yep." He kissed the tip of your nose before pulling back the covers and gesturing you inside. 

Once he joined you, you immediately snuggled close, clinging to him as your eyes grew heavier and heavier with each passing second. 

"I made you feel good, too?" you murmured, glancing up at him with a hopeful look. 

"Yeah, kitten, you were incredible." Ransom smoothed a hand over your head. "You made me feel so good, sweetheart."

You quietly trilled your delight, nuzzling against his bare chest, so close to sleep but still unable to stop yourself from gazing up at Ransom with a soft smile. You reached up, gently touching his lips and smiling as he caught your fingers in his and kissed the tip of each one.

There was a different kind of feeling building up in you now, something vibrant and happy and glowing. 

As you stared up at Ransom, on the receiving end of that soft, warm look in his eye, after the night you had just shared together, you finally realized what he was to you.

And it was so far beyond a simple friend.

But you were too tired to find the words to express it, so you just snuggled closer and reached for his hand, fitting your fingers between his before your joined hands settled against his bare stomach. 

"Good night, Ransom," you whispered, your words slurring with exhaustion and making him smile.

"Really good night," Ransom replied, earning one final giggle from you before you were drifting off, his next words lingering in your mind as you surrendered to sleep, "Sweet dreams, kitten."

And they were.

OKAY. THESE TWO. I JUST ::FLAPPY HANDS:: THE LOVE I HAVE FOR THEM IS ENDLESS. PLEASE TAKE A MOMENT TO DROP A COMMENT. ❤️

NEXT PART

—

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

Ransom would hate the word “moist” lollll. I know we’ve already DM’d about it, but it’s funny enough to me that I simply must share with our fellow hoes…how absolutely like this Ran would be:

I’m once again cackling imagining trolling Ransom when things get a little hot and heavy and whispering in his ear, “God, you make me so… moist.”

And he’s like, “GODDAMNIT, there goes my boner.” 😡

Bwahahaha.

Day after day, you showed Ransom how happiness could stem from the simplest of things, things that didn't cost a penny, like being outside in nice weather, or enjoying a good book, or indulging in some delicious home-cooked meals, or just sitting with someone who brought you comfort.

With each passing moment that Ransom spent with you, the itch to return to his old life–what had been his self-destructive norm up until recently–began to fade.

All he wanted was to be here, with you.

Those thoughts, which were taking up residence in his mind more and more often these days, were spinning through his mind now as you sat snuggled close to his side on the sofa in the study and read aloud from your latest book. 

When you paused, struggling over an unfamiliar word, Ransom snapped back to the present, reading the word for you and explaining its meaning.

"Thank you," you whispered, shyly peeking up at him from beneath your lashes.

Ransom had realized over the weeks that as much as you loved to learn and as amazingly far along as you were for being locked away in the shed your whole life without a formal education, you were very self-conscious of not being "smart."

Or so you thought.

He thought that you were brilliant and loved how inquisitive you were, often sitting close by as you did your online lessons that he had registered you for after doing some research on helping someone get up to speed in a way that wouldn't overwhelm them.

So in moments like this, when you needed an assist, you tended to curl in on yourself and get very quiet.

"Keep going, kitten," he encouraged, smiling at the way you hummed happily at the nickname he had taken to calling you after randomly comparing you to a sweet, feral kitten who turned up in his yard one day. "You're doing so well."

The acknowledgement/nickname combo seemed to fluster you, and Ransom stifled a laugh as you sank down further beside him, squirming and hiding behind the book as you speed read the rest of the chapter.

Once you finished, you perked up in your seat, handing the book over to him with an eager smile. "Now you!"

He accepted the book from you, but didn't start reading, instead watching as you snuggled closer and rested your cheek on the side of his chest, gazing up at him in that way you always did. 

It was a mixture of adoration and awe, like he was this amazing gift that you still couldn't believe you had received.

Ransom got distracted by that look every single time he spied it on your face, because he couldn't remember anyone ever looking at him like that, with such open warmth and affection.

Ransom was becoming addicted to that look.

It was like he wasn't in control of his own body as his gaze flickered from your sweetly furrowed brow to your lips.

He licked his own on instinct as his head dropped closer, ever so slowly eliminating the space between you. 

When his hand smoothed up along the curve of your shoulder to cradle the back of your head, tipping your face up for better access as he inched closer still–the closest he had ever been–your breath hitched in your chest as your eyes went comically wide. 

Just as your breath mingled with Ransom's, a new voice made you both jump. 

"Hey! Cooking lesson starts in ten, missy!" Ruby grinned at you from the doorway, her smile faltering as she realized your proximity to Ransom and the way he startled and straightened as you continued to stare at him in confusion.

Ransom cleared his throat, fidgeting under both your gaze and Ruby's. "Uh, yeah, we're just finishing up."

"Looks like you were just getting started," Ruby sassed, hip popping and hand falling to the curve as she narrowed her gaze at Ransom.

Even you recognized the sudden tension in the room, mustering a smile as you glanced between the two of them and slid to your feet. "I'm ready now."

You padded over to Ruby, your smile growing into an excited grin at the prospect of another cooking lesson, one of the activities you had really taken to over the past couple of months. 

"What are we making?"

Ruby finally pulled her gaze from Ransom, her eyes growing much warmer as she curled an arm around your shoulder. "You're gonna help me cook tonight's dinner, a roasted chicken and lots of yummy veggies and some homemade biscuits, and I'll show you how to reheat it all for tonight."

"Okay!" you chirped, allowing the other woman to lead you from the study, but not before peeking back one final time and catching Ransom openly staring at you before you disappeared from sight.

You were so excited to have dinner with Ransom.

This meal was the first one that you had helped with every single part of it - prepping everything at Ruby's direction and roasting the chicken and vegetables, and even baking the warm fluffy biscuits from scratch.

They were so good–you had eaten three of them when they were still warm from the oven before Ruby had laughed and squirreled the rest away for dinner–and you couldn't wait for Ransom to try them.

He had been so nice to you and had taken such good care of you and this was a small way that you could show how grateful you were for everything he had done for you.

And he had done so much for you already.

Once you were more settled in his home, he had had a doctor come over to give you a check up. She had been so nice and seemed surprised when she gave you "a clean bill of health, save the way you were lacking in some essential nutrients."

Ransom had explained that was a good thing, it meant you were healthy and strong but just needed to keep eating lots of fruits and vegetables and take the vitamins he had ordered you.

And then! He had bought you your very own things. Clothes and shoes and things for your room and products to use to get clean and smell nice.

Your favorite item though, by far, was your heated blanket.

You had been amazed at the way it can get warm, and it was the softest thing you had ever touched.

You used it every single day, and although you loved each and every thing that Ransom had gifted you, you still tended to favor his hoodies and sweaters most days, which seemed to amuse him.

They were just so big and comfy and smelled like him.

Wearing them made you feel safe.

So, after everything Ransom had done for you, you tried so hard to be able to do things for him, too. 

Like cooking dinner!

You had shooed him out of the kitchen earlier when he offered to help, ensuring him you could do it all on your own, because Ruby had been very good at reviewing the reheating instructions with you and had left notes, too.

And it felt so good to be able to do stuff, and on your own!

You were mulling over all of these thoughts as you scurried back and forth to set the dining table the way Savannah had taught you, when you accidentally knocked one of the empty drinking classes off of the table.

You squeaked in alarm, jumping as it hit the tile floor and shattered, bits of glass going every which way.

"Oh no," you whispered, your vision already blurring with tears as you stared down at the mess in horror.

It was instinctual the way you immediately backed away and crouched beneath the overhang of the kitchen isle, staring at the broken glass–something pretty of Ransom's that you had ruined–as you started to tremble.

He rushed into the kitchen a moment later, pulling up short at the sight of the broken glass on the floor, and then his gaze flickered all around before it found you, curled up on the kitchen floor and staring up at him like you had done something unforgivable.

Ransom's face softened as he made his way toward you, crouching down to your level as his eyes surveyed your bare feet to make sure you weren't injured. 

“Sorry! I’m sorry!" you gushed, recoiling from him and pressing your back against the cabinet. "I’m bad. So bad. Broke it. Bad, very bad. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay," Ransom replied, settling on his knees beside you and reaching for one of your trembling hands. "It was an accident. We can get a new one." His thumb gently stroked over your knuckles as he dipped his head to meet your gaze and give you a smile. "You’re not bad, you’re so good. My good, sweet kitten.”

You perked up at his words–at your nickname–sniffling and wiping away your tears as you tentatively shifted closer to him. "Not mad?"

Ransom immediately shook his head. "I'm not mad, I promise." His touch was soft as he gripped your arms, encouraging you out from your hiding spot. "Can you come out from there for me? Sit at the table so I can sweep up the glass, okay?"

Nodding, you didn't resist as Ransom rose to his feet and brought you with him. Instead, you clutched at his shirt sleeves, gazing up at him with tears still shining in your eyes. 

"I'm sorry," your lower lip wobbled. "Wanted to do something nice…"

You sank against his chest, feeling him still for a moment before his hands were gently rubbing up and down your back. 

"It's okay. And you did do something nice," he murmured, smoothing a hand over the back of your head. "Dinner smells amazing and I can't wait to eat."

Your head popped up, a smile tugging at your lips as you sniffled back the remainder of your tears and told him, "I cooked it! Ruby helped but I cooked it!"

Grinning, Ransom guided you to the nearest chair and away from the glass on the floor. "Well then, let me clean this up really quick and then we can eat."

Soon the floor was spotless and the broken glass was disposed of and you were sitting next to Ransom at the table as you both ate dinner.

"Oh my god," Ransom groaned around one of the biscuits. "This is so good."

You shot up in your seat, grinning as you chirped, "I made that!"

Your excited gaze shot all around the set table and you pointed to the plate of sliced chicken and the dish of roasted vegetables. 

"I made that! And I made those!"

"You're a very good cook," Ransom smiled, shoveling some more food in his mouth, his eyes sparkling as you watched him with the sweetest pleased look ever on your face. 

"Thank you," you hummed, happy as a clam as you settled back in your seat.

You lifted your fork for another bite of chicken, but paused as Ransom leaned close. 

"You're getting so good at taking care of me, kitten," he teased. "Better be careful, or I'm never gonna let you go."

Squirming in your seat as an unfamiliar warmth flooded your chest–feeling like so much more than happiness–you peeked over at him as you whispered, "Promise?"

Ransom was quiet as he watched you, his eyes oddly darker than usual and so intense, and then he started to lean in close again, like he had done earlier in the day during reading time. 

You weren't sure what was happening, but what you did know was that warmth in your chest suddenly felt like a crazy fluttering in your tummy, and you felt your heart start to beat really hard as Ransom's dark gaze dipped to your mouth and lingered.

He blinked owlishly before his eyes reconnected with yours, more of the short distance between the two of you slowly disappearing as he shifted even closer.

And then his cell phone began to ring, the loud sound making both of you jump. 

Huffing, Ransom fished his phone from his back pocket, glancing down at the screen and frowning. 

"I should take this," he muttered, giving you an apologetic look as he rose from his seat. "Keep eating, I'll be right back."

Pouting, you watched him go, the fluttering in your belly lingering as you settled into your seat and resumed eating your yummy meal.

Ransom swiped his thumb across his phone screen, answering the call as he stalked into the study and closed the door behind him for privacy.

"Dude, I can't believe you're still there," the voice of his best friend Bryce Langley bemoaned on the other end of the line. "It's been like two months."

Ransom scoffed, pacing the length of the study as he replied, "Yeah, well, as much as I despise my parents, I do enjoy the trust fund."

It was Bryce's turn to scoff. "You don't even need it anymore. Between all those investments you made and our app? Fuck them."

There was a long pause and then Ransom could hear the smirk in his friend's voice as he continued. 

"No wait, do you think your mother would be game? She may be a cunt, but I bet she’d be a wildcat in the sack—"

"Jesus, shut the fuck up," Ransom snapped, pausing in the middle of the room and pinching the bridge of his nose against an impending headache. "What is wrong with you?"

"That list is endless," Bryce laughed. "Seriously though, are you going out of your fucking mind? How long do you really need to stay there? Just come home, man."

Ransom was silent, his eyes glazing over as he stared off into space, unseeing.

As much as his trust fund had factored into his initial agreement to come here after getting clean at rehab, the truth was, it wasn't just about the money.

Not anymore.

After everything, not only the distance from his old life and wild ways, but after being here, with you, and discovering a new way to spend his time, a way that felt good, that made him…happy?

Ransom wasn't so sure going back home right now was what he actually wanted.

"Did the call drop, what the fuck?" Bryce snapped.

Ransom blinked back to awareness. "No, I'm still here."

"Yeah you are," Bryce snorted. "And you're missing everything, man."

Ransom could hear the sound of a car parking and a door opening on the other end of the line before various rowdy voices filled the background.

"But don't worry," Bryce laughed. "I'm still having fun without you."

It was the nasally squeal of his ex, Isablle's, voice that had Ransom rolling his eyes and muttering, "Yeah, I bet you are."

And then the call did drop, or more likely Bryce hung up on him, and Ransom just stood there for a moment, stewing for a reason he couldn't quite figure out.

Because as much as he didn't necessarily want to be there with them right now, his old crew and willing-to-do-anything-he-wanted ex, something about them so easily forgetting him–but still flaunting it in his face–made him angry. 

So Ransom took a moment to just breathe through the rage and hurt that he didn't really want to acknowledge, because as shitty as he felt right now, he didn't want to go back out there and ruin the dinner you had worked so hard on. 

In fact, doing anything to make you feel sad was the last thing he wanted to do.

And it was the thought of your sweet, proud smile as you excitedly pointed to all the dishes you had cooked that had Ransom's rage melting away as a fond smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his phone call with Bryce already forgotten. 

Later that night, a good while after your dinner had been eaten and the kitchen cleaned up after, you sat with Ransom in the living room, curled up on the sofa beside him as you frowned at his cranky demeanor.

He was trying to hide it, you could tell, because every time he met your gaze he smiled, just a little, but his eyes seemed sadder than usual.

As you wondered how to cheer him up, it popped into your head quite suddenly, one of the games the two of you used to play as children when Ransom kept you company in the shed all those years ago.

"Let's play Truth or Dare," you said, tugging on his shirt sleeve to gain his full attention.

Some of the sadness in Ransom's gaze was instantly replaced by amusement as he turned to you, leaning his arm on the back of the sofa as he grinned. "God, I haven't played that in ages. You still remember that?"

"Yes!" you nodded excitedly. 

"Okay," Ransom laughed, dropping his head into his hand as he watched you. "Truth."

You thought for a moment before giving him a very serious look. "You're really not mad about the broken glass?"

He snickered, shaking his head. "I'm really not mad, cross my heart." He did the little finger motion, crossing over his chest, grinning as you giggled. 

"Good, my turn! Truth!" you chirped, shimmying closer, eager for his question.

Ransom's gaze went soft as he asked, "Are you happy?"

"Oh yes, so happy!" you nodded again, your head jerking up and down like a bobble head. "We have so much fun! And you're so nice! And I'm always warm and clean and we eat such good food! Thank you!" You bounced in your seat, smiling big as you said, "Okay! Your turn!"

"Truth," Ransom drawled, his eyes sparkling at you, like he knew something you didn't.

You thought for a moment, tapping your finger against your lips before a question hit you. "What's your favorite thing?" you asked, swinging your arm wide to gesture at the manor around you. "Like my heated blanket for me! What's your favorite?"

A beat, and then–

"You."

Your eyes went wide as those excited flutters erupted in your belly, and you felt your face warm as your eyes dropped, because it was too much of a struggle to maintain Ransom's intent gaze, especially with the playful, wicked smile tugging at his lips. 

Something about that look made your body perk up in a new kind of awareness. It was overwhelming as you realized how such a simple thing–a new kind of look from Ransom–could affect you in so many different ways.

Your breath catching in your chest and your tummy swooping, your face feeling too hot and your heart skipping a beat. You felt nervous and excited and nearly vibrating out of your skin all at once - and so suddenly!

The sensations were many and confusing–overwhelming in their unfamiliarity–so you tried your best to refocus on your game, and you did the thing Ransom knew you were going to do after too many rounds of Truth - you picked Dare.

“I dare you to kiss me," Ransom drawled without missing a beat.

You blinked at him, your brows furrowing as your head fell to the side in confusion. "Kiss?"

Ransom's lips spread into that teasing, wicked smile again, and it felt like your heart was hammering in your throat as he shifted closer with a quiet hum. "I can show you."

Suddenly he was so close that his chest was pressed against yours, his warmth seeping into your body as his hand lifted to cup your cheek and your eyes went big and round.

His smile grew less wicked and more fond then, his thumb gently stroking the skin along the apple of your cheek as his dark gaze flickered to your parted lips.

When Ransom dipped his head, his mouth hovering just over yours, you recoiled in surprise, a nervous giggle erupting from you as your fingers found purchase on his sweater and fisted the soft material. 

"What are you doing?" you whispered, your own gaze dropping to Ransom's mouth and lingering as you noticed how pink and soft his lips looked.

Smiling, Ransom brushed his knuckles over your warm cheek. “Do you trust me?” 

You nodded, your eyes still the size of dinner plates as you whispered, "Yes. Always."

Tenderness flooded Ransom's gaze as he murmured, “Then let me show you, kitten."

This time when he moved closer, you didn't retreat, gasping when Ransom's lips touched yours. The press of them was so soft and gentle, and you made another quiet noise when he angled his face differently and his nose brushed against yours, making you shiver.

Both his hands framed your face, his touch warm and comforting as his lips kept working against yours, until you were tentatively mimicking his kisses with shy ones of your own, trying to make him feel as good as he was making you feel. 

"There you go, good girl," Ransom breathed against your lips. 

His words had a zip of excitement and need shooting through you, and you whined softly at the sudden, unfamiliar throbbing between your legs, somehow knowing that Ransom was the only one who could make it better. 

You pressed closer, clutching Ransom's shoulders as you kissed him more urgently than before, desperate to chase that exquisite feeling and quell the dull ache deep within you with each eager press of your lips.

Only when he started panting against your lips–both of you gasping for breath between frantic kisses–did Ransom finally pull away, smiling at the sound of disappointment that fell from your lips as you tried to follow his retreat. 

"Hold on, kitten, give us a minute to catch our breaths," he laughed.

"Okay," you panted, closing your eyes and pressing your forehead to his, hugging him tightly and feeling oddly vulnerable despite how much you had liked kissing Ransom.

Somehow he picked up on that, because he was curling an arm around your back and tugging you closer, settling you into his lap until you were straddling his thighs and staring at his mouth like you were hypnotized.

"So," he purred, grinning big as he asked, "What did you think of kissing?"

"Wow."

Ransom chuckled at how awestruck you sounded, smoothing a hand up your back and corralling you flush to his chest. "You wanna keep playing our game?"

"Game?" you blinked owlishly, uncomprehending as you finally pulled your glassy gaze from Ransom's lips.

"Truth or Dare," he reminded, looking oddly smug.

You shook your head with a smile, your hands tentatively lifting to cup his face the way he had done to you before. "No, I want more kisses, please."

Giving you a soft smile, Ransom murmured, "Whatever my sweet kitten wants, she gets."

Before you could respond, he was cradling the back of your head and guiding your lips to his for another round of thorough, enthusiastic kisses. 

The kind of kisses that kept you both busy for hours.

The kind of kisses that had you wide awake later that night, smiling to yourself in the darkness of your bedroom as you recalled the feel of Ransom's mouth against your own, your fingers tracing along your lips as you craved the taste of him again already.

I'M SORRY, SIRI IS UNABLE TO RESPOND TO YOUR COMMENT RIGHT NOW, SHE HAS DISINTEGRATED (HOE SNAPPED, IF YOU WILL) FROM THE SHEER LEVEL OF SWEETNESS (NOW WITH SLIGHT HORNINESS!!!) THAT WAS THIS CHAPTER AND THESE TWO SOFT BEANS. 

(No, but seriously, what did ya think?!?!)

NEXT PART

---

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

Bucky’s breath is steady; yours only slightly less so. His hands are gentle weights on your arm. It’s how you know for sure the Soldier is gone.

Killing Scarface might have been the last thing he did.

The gun is at your feet; someone kicks it away. Steve speaks to you both; neither of you answer.

There aren’t any words either of you dare say.

Someone—Sam—grabs you by the shoulders to pull you away from the Soldier. He doesn’t react when Sam pulls you back, and though you try to shake Sam off of you, it doesn’t work.

“Let go of me,” you argue, but Sam won’t be deterred. “Sam, he needs me, I need to—"

The Soldier doesn’t protest. He watches you with hungry, lost eyes, arms still held where you’ve been wrenched away.

But he doesn’t reach further to you. There are no dying protests on his lips, as if all the fight has left him, leaving only a shell behind.

And after a moment, you stop fighting, too, as you let Sam lead you away.

*

It’s hours before you talk to anyone. But Sam brings you a blanket, brings you tea, brings another nurse to look at your stomach wound and give you antibiotics and replace the dressings.

They’re mostly healed anyway. It’s been a week, and even without antibiotics or trained care, the Soldier did everything right.

You sit under your blanket, cradle the tea as it grows cold, and wait for someone to come and tell you what will happen next.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper to Sam.

“I know,” says Sam, and he doesn’t ask you to say more.

Three weeks later

It’s sunset when you step out on the tarmac at Avengers Compound, heat shimmering from the day in the swiftly dimming light. The Quinjet waits not far away, your bags already stowed, seats already waiting for you.

“Ready to go?” asks Sam.

You don’t answer. Your fingers tighten on the backpack strap over your shoulder as you scan the horizon, hopeful, worried, waiting.

“Wakanda’s a nice place, you know,” says Sam. “Good food. Great views. Best sunrise outside of Louisiana.”

You smile, and tug at your shoulder strap.

“You know Steve didn’t want you there,” says Sam after a moment of quiet. “Told Barnes we’d keep you safe, if he wanted to go in alone. But Barnes insisted. Said you needed to be there.”

Sam glances at you. “Was he right?”

You nod.

Sam sighs. “You’re gonna have to talk sometime.”

You shake your head slowly, eyes on the horizon.

Sam’s gaze is knowing, soft. “Come on. Let’s get you on your way.”

“We couldn’t tell you,” Steve had explained. “There was too much risk, if you went under the triggers again, that you’d say too much.”

You understand. You do. You even understand why Bucky insisted you go with him, why he didn’t want to tell you. Why he let you believe that he’d slipped back into the Winter Soldier, run straight from your arms to those of HYDRA.

What he’d whispered in the parking garage, the moment before he broke your spirit.

The only way out is through.

Maybe you should have known. Maybe you should have remembered whispering it to him once, to soothe and reassure him. He’d wanted it to do the same for you.

You didn’t remember until later.

You haven’t seen Bucky since Sam pulled you away from him in the medical bunker. He hasn’t sought you out—but then, you haven’t sought him, either.

Steve and Sam and everyone else have assured you he’s fine. He’s safe. He’s even mostly himself, and becoming more himself every day.

He hasn’t spoken either, apparently. Not a word.

As if he’s afraid of what might happen when he does. You understand the feeling.

“Wakanda has the best medical facilities in the world,” Bruce had told you. “And with what we’ve learned, Shuri can remove the triggers Hydra implanted. From both of you.”

You follow Sam up the ramp at the back of the jet, eyes on the metal struts, heart pounding. It’ll be seven hours to Wakanda’s Golden City, easily, and then… then maybe two or three days, before Shuri can pull the words from your head, make it so they were never there to trigger you in the first place.

Maybe then, it’ll be safe to talk. Safe to hear endearments you’ve been wanting to hear your whole life. Safe to hear your own voice saying words you never thought you’d be afraid to say.

Even safe to say them to Bucky, if you want.

(You want. You’ve never been so sure about anyone or anything in your entire life.)

Sam sits you down on one of the side benches, and you busy yourself with the various straps that will keep you secure during take-off, while he helps stow your backpack above.

He touches your shoulder when he’s done. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You nod, giving him a tiny smile, and then he moves away.

That’s when you see the other man sitting across the way from you. Strapped in just the same as you. Looking at you like you’re a ghost.

Bucky.

He looks so different from how you saw him last. He’s no longer a shell filled by someone else; he’s a little more pale, maybe, but there’s life in his eyes, along with the hunger, a brightness you recognize from hundreds of lunches and thousands of shared smiles. His lips are parted, wet like he’s just licked them, like he’s as desperate to speak as you are.

Your lips part, as if to say his name.

His expression doesn’t change, but his lips quiver a little, like he’s about to say yours.

Clint’s voice echoes over the speakers. “Well folks, thanks for joining us on Avenger Airlines, we know you have zero choices for your travel needs and appreciate your trust in us. Just sit right back, make yourselves comfortable, and feel free to shout your complaints about the service to your pilot. Who is me. And unless I hear otherwise, we’ll be playing some rockin’ tunes back there for your listening pleasure. No complaints? None? Fantastic. Feel free to let me know if you want a change of station or would like to cancel your automatic $500 tip.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a moment in exasperation—but when he opens them, they’re straight on you, and there’s a smile on his lips.

You, you can’t stop smiling.

Bucky’s eyes shine—hope, and warmth, and faith—as he mouths something to you: Three days.

Your heart stutters in your chest, but you mouth it right back. Three days.

Bucky will be there, when your words are gone. You will be there, when Shuri removes his.

And you know exactly what you’re going to say, and who you’ll say it to, when it safe to speak again.

end

Log Date 53498Willow5

Male subject released from quarantine. No harmful outburst observed toward female subject. Both subjects stabilizing in enclosure. Further observations to follow.

The boulder grew, stretched overnight. Like a dining room table set for the two of you.

Your meals appear with a quiet clunk-clunk for you both to dine before the glass. Side by side.

The cage disappeared, too. Your new roommate waking up on the soft ground where it once stood. The sign outside your window replaced by an avid crowd, ready to observe your interactions.

Kurt prods at the goo on his plate. An aggravated pinch in his jaw.

“Is everything okay?” you ask, nudging the nuggets of almost potato around your plate.

He sighs and drops his fork, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you call these?” He nods toward the plate.

You glance down at your own and point to each with your utensil. “Uh, potato rocks, purple fluffy stuff, and,” you pause to scoop some of the blue goo into your mouth, “gross blue gunk,” you say with a grimace. “Most of the time, they stop sending the nasty ones after a time or two.”

“What’s your favorite food?” he asks, tone somber as he stares at the alien food without touching it.

“Oh.” Of all the fascinating and delicious foods you’ve been given—your favorite? You take a moment to think before replying, “those flower things. And I think they know it. They always put them on my plate when they want me—”

“No,”Kurt interrupts. Your lips clamp shut. His tone harsh, gritting in his throat. “What’s your favorite food from home?”

Your lips pop as you think. Wondering whether it’s best to just leave it, or if bonding over your pasts will somehow make this experience easier.

“I, uh, I,” you clear your throat, “this noodle dish my mom invented, as far as I know. She only ever made it on my birthday.” You stop, turning your gaze down to the plate. The alien food. You don’t even know its real name. “It always made me feel at home,” you whisper more to yourself than Kurt.

“I always liked a nice massaman curry.” His fork prods at the blue gunk. His teeth grit, a tic in his jaw. You ignore the moisture that beads on his waterline. His throat clears. “And I miss the sun,” he says, head tilting back on his shoulders. The artificial light shines on his skin.

You stare, drinking in the angles of his form. The sharpness of his jawline. The slope of his throat. The width of his shoulders. And the long lashes that brush his cheeks. All accented by the art that paints his skin—flowers and fauna, real and abstract, hard and soft lines flowing across planes of muscle, reaching up his neck and down to his toes.

But you don’t know how to respond, utensil scraping against your plate.

“I’m sure they give us enough vitamins and nutrients to keep us healthy,” you finally say, tipping your head up to search for the ceiling you can never make out.

“Is that enough?”

Your lips seal, pressing together. He turns his eyes to you, the harsh edge of his stare cutting.

The utensil clinks softly as you set it down. Your fingers pop as they roll and twist together. “We don’t have much of a choice,” you admit in lowered tones. Your eyes flick to the window, the door. “We can’t escape from here.”

“We could—”

“We can’t,” you interrupt quickly. “I saw someone try. It hurt.” You rub the band of light around your arm. Head shaking, look to Kurt. His fierceness broken as he meets your eye. “At least they treat us well here.” You nod, more to convince yourself than him. Blinking a few times, you clear your head. With a steadying breath, you ask, “So, what was your favorite movie?”

He doesn’t respond right away, letting the silence stretch taut and uneasy.

“The Man From Goldenrod,” he finally relents.

You roll the title around in your head. “You mean that spy one?”

He nods and returns to his meal, finally shoveling a spoonful into his mouth with a grunt.

Kurt is content letting you ramble, comparing his favorite movie to one of yours. The space filling with your chatter. He even participates in the conversation, grumbling or responding in his way.

It’s one of the first real conversations you’ve had since your capture. You smile at him, a soft sweet press of your lips. Finding a companion in the person stuck here with you. Learning about his mom, his little sister. The life he has to leave behind.

After your shared meal, the tour of the enclosure is brief. A sweep of the layout, explaining the areas of privacy—the shower and the bed. Even as you wonder why there’s still only one. The sleeping surface the same as ever. The rest of the time, you spend watching him explore the platforms, hammocks, and lofts of rope high above. The thought of joining him up there enough to make your stomach flip with dread.

But you watch his muscles as he reaches. The strain of his inked skin sculpting around them. The furrow of his brow as he concentrates. Something about his features rough and uninviting, but, like this, in this light, he’s also kinda beautiful. You wonder why they took him.

He thumps to his feet behind you, the soil dipping to cushion his impact. His hand scratches through the shorn side of hair. Eyes tipping up as he gestures to the hammock.

“I can sleep up there tonight,” he says with a nod.

You hum in response, rolling the thought over in your head. Your perch is certainly more comfortable—you would know.

Which is how he ends up on it beside you. It took some convincing, sure, but you knew what you were talking about.

“Isn’t this better?” you ask, rolling to your side to face him.

He grumbles and shifts on his back. “I guess.”

You smile and tug the blanket over your body. “And you should be fine. They keep the temperature pretty steady at night.”

He rolls to face you. Shifting back at your close proximity. “And yet you’re still using a blanket.” He tucks it over your shoulder, eyes focused on his task and hands gentle.

You blink in surprise. A flutter in your stomach.

He looks up, his fingers lightly grasping the fabric at your shoulders. A crack in his surly demeanor. His eyelashes flutter as his eyes rove over your face. Something unspoken sparking to life in their grey depths.

Next Part

You have learned to read Andy well through the past weeks: the way he stands at a window, how he crosses the flagstone kitchen after lunch, the angle of his body when he sits at the enormous marble island, elbows planted, hands steepled. Today, there is nothing predatory in his posture—no sharpness, no smirk—but a kind of diffident calculation, as though he’s rehearsing a script only halfway written. Still, you leave him to reveal whatever it is he’s thinking about for when he decides to bring it out and present it to you. He remains contemplative all morning.

You are rinsing your plates after lunch, and you’re considering taking the walk down to the lake, when Andy finally says, “Wait.” The word lands with no urgency or demand, it is simply a marker before what he wants to come next.

When you turn, he is already moving toward the glass-fronted cabinet near the pantry—a section you have seen but never opened, because you’ve lived off simple meals through the early parts of the day—bread, figs, cheeses. And for the rest of your meals, at some point a private chef descends either to cook dinner or drop off dishes for the week, and occasionally Andy will drive you to one of the lakeshore trattorias and order for you in his fluent, unshowy Italian.

Andy returns to your side with an old, battered notebook in hand. He sets the notebook on the counter with both hands, a careful act. You recognize the reverence in his fingers, feel the slight uptick of gravity in the room.

It’s a spiral-bound thing, the kind you’d expect to find in a grandmother’s kitchen drawer—edges dog-eared, pages stained with rings and flour-dust, a dozen tabs made of masking tape and ancient Post-its. The front cover says, in an elaborate, feminine hand: FAMILY RECIPES.

You dry your hands before reaching for the precious tome. You flip through the pages, careful, running your thumb along the edge the way you might with old money or ancient letters. Most of the recipes are written in faded, looping script, others in blocky, penciled all-caps. There are short, cryptic notes in the margins—“add more lemon if not fresh,” “marinate overnight or don’t bother”—and the effect is of something not curated for show, but built up over years of trial and error.

You glance up at Andy, who is watching you with a studied nonchalance, as if he might bolt if you laugh at this offering.

You run your hand down the page, feeling the indentations of the pen, the grit of flour caught in the spiral’s seam. “Did you ever make these? Or is this… was this your mom’s?”

“It was hers. We made most everything in there at some point together.” He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. You imagine the blocky script then has to be his additions and annotations. “I thought it might be good to have a few things from home here. For the future.”

The word future lands heavy between you, but not unwelcome. He edges closer, almost bashful, as if worried that presenting this piece of his past is a violation, or an imposition, or worse, a vulnerability. You can hardly believe how tentative this moment is between the two of you, how precious and telling.

“Which do you like?” you ask, voice softer than you intend, but Andy doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in and flips to a page marked with a yellowing Post-it, the ink here a mix of bold and delicate: LEMON CHICKEN. There is a doodle of a chicken in the margin, and a note in a younger hand: “good for impressing guests.”

Andy’s finger rests there, but he doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he moves behind you, arms coming to rest on either side of the notebook, bracketing you in. His chin finds your shoulder. “We could try this one,” he says, after a moment. Another beat, and then, “It’s more complicated than it looks.” His mouth is close to your ear, but the games are absent; this is not a seduction, but something closer to an ask. You realize it is important to him, more than he will admit.

Your turn your head slightly so you can meet each others’ eyes. “For tonight?”

You see the exact second he wants to say, No, not tonight, but he’s set this gambit in motion, and a mafia boss won’t blink. “Tonight’s good if you’re up for it,” he says, as though it isn’t the most loaded suggestion possible.

You are up for it. And it’s the first of what becomes the everyday ritual of cooking something out of the family recipe book for dinner together.

The first day you attempt the lemon chicken, you are both so hyper-focused on the recipe that you forget to set the table, and end up eating off the kitchen island straight out of the pans.

The next night you try the thyme and basil roast pork, and the next after that, a tortellini in brodo that requires two hours of simmering and a phone call to Ugo for advice about the right kind of herbs to gather from the garden.

By the end of the week, you are inviting dinner guests—first just a pair, then a trickle, then somehow, the momentum of the lake and the villa and the rumor of a young American couple in residence brings neighbors out of the woodwork. There’s a widow from the slope above, her British accent perfection and her opinions more so, and the retired engineer with his grandchild, and eventually, a small parade of acquaintances who rotate through with bottles of local wine and offers to swap garden produce. The first time, you’re nervous, certain one or another of them will see through you and Andy, but the rhythm of food and small talk smooths everything while also seeming to stitch the two of you closer together.

If there’s one spot on the estate of this Italian villa that you love more than any other, it is, without question, the terrace that features a fine outdoor dining table intended for small gatherings of friends or family, nestled under a lush, vine-covered pergola looking directly over the lake. Now that it’s coming into late October, the evening temperatures of autumn are crisp enough that everyone is in sweaters, and there are heat lamps, but with the warmth precautions, it’s still pleasant enough to eat outside in the stunning setting. The space is illuminated by a stunning chandelier glass chandelier, augmented with strings of white lights threaded through the vines. It’s been the most enchanting place to host your new friends with your new husband in this new life that feels endlessly surreal.

The dinner table is big enough for twelve, but tonight it’s just eight. There is a bowl of lemons at the center, bright as orbs stolen from a still-life painting, and the smell of the lake is so clean and sharp you can taste it even through the heady wafts of roast chicken and white wine. Andy pours for everyone, moving around the table with a host’s grace that no one at the table would clock as anything but camaraderie, except you who knows that he’s a ruthless mafia boss back home, but even you question who he is now that you’ve seen so many new elements of him that exist here.

Tonight, the table is loud with stories and laughter. The gathering includes the widow, Sarah, with her foxlike charm and acid tongue; the engineer, Paolo, his wife, and their college-aged grandson, who is mortified by everything; and a pair from lower on the hillside, a married couple who bring a kind of Mediterranean tennis-pro energy despite clearly hating sports. There are also two empty seats for “a last-minute add-on,” as Andy puts it, and when they arrive, it’s a surprise: Sarah’s daughter, home from Rome, and her boyfriend, a Spaniard who teaches at the university.

You’ve come to relish hosting the rotating circle strangers-turned-friends you’re quickly building, but you’re still adjusting to the tradition of an Italian dinner party, which is as much about the relentless, cascading waves of conversation, as it is about the food. Here, no one is allowed to be quiet for long.

You’re impressed at the ease with which Andy navigates all pockets of conversation across the table, how deftly he manages the pivots from politics, to soccer, to the village gossip. It seems impossible, but he makes it look like he’s always lived here, always belonged.

You play the part too, trading stories, laughing into the night. When Sarah asks, point-blank and with the confidence of the terminally curious, “So. You two—how did this happen?” she makes a little waggle of her empty glass at your newly minted wedding bands. “You’re newlyweds, and you said it was a quick engagement, but what got you to that altar? How did you and Andy meet? You never told us the whole of that story.”

The table hushes, expectant. You’ve become aware how much you’ve inherited Andy’s ability to evade and deflect, to answer with a truth that is not entirely true.

Andy’s head cocks. He’s winding up for a deadpan lie or a polite deflection, but you’re quicker tonight, emboldened by the wine and the waves of collective cheer.

“Oh, it’s nothing as romantic as it looks.” You set your fork down, lean an elbow on the table, and say, “He extorted me. Threatened to ruin my life if I didn’t say yes.”

There’s a beat of silence, then the neighbors laugh—first a burst from the widow, then the rest, the sound rolling in like the waves lapping up against the property of the villa. “Honestly, I’m trapped. A prisoner of the fearsome Andy Barber.”

The joke lands, the table erupts in laughter, but Andy is not among them. His mouth approximates a smile, sure, but there’s a sudden, unmistakable torque to his jaw that tells you he in no way appreciates your antics. Nobody else catches it, and then Paolo is recounting his own disastrous engagement story for the benefit of his grandson and the young Spaniard, who are, against all odds, enraptured. But you see the way Andy’s hand curls around his wine stem, the white of his thumb gone bloodless, and you feel the new coil of tension slither under the table straight from where he sits at the head of the table to where you sit on the other end.

When you excuse yourself to fetch dessert from the kitchen inside, Andy follows. He is so casual about it—“let me help,” because he always does as you two host these evenings—that no one at the table thinks twice. But when you pass from the spill of terrace light into the dimness of the patio leading up to the villa, you feel the change in pressure, the sharp coiled energy in the silence. You can feel every motion of Andy stalking behind you, every footstep measured, the gravity of his attention drawing up the length of your spine.

You step into the kitchen and turn to face him, but he’s already seized your wrist, pinning you to the cool marble counter with so little force it’s almost nothing, but you both know the implication. His eyes are dark, unblinking.

“Don’t do that again,” Andy says, voice only just above a whisper. “Don’t ever joke about me owning you.”

You stare at him, momentarily stunned by the vehemence, but you hardly miss a beat, and the words, “But you do, don’t you?” tumble out of your mouth.

You say it like a dare, but Andy steps even closer, eliminating the gap until your hip is pressed flat to the lip of the counter. “I would burn down everything you’ve ever loved before I let you make a cheap joke of this,” he says, but his hand is shaking, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. “Don’t do that again.” His grip tightens, a flash of heat, then he releases you. He turns away, breath ragged. You haven’t seen him so intensely worked up in months. You forgot this part of him existed.

You stay where you are, hand braced on the marble, as Andy looms back to his full height. You feel something flare at your core—that traitorous twist of desire when he’s like this, a spike of outrage that he’s resorted to it, the seams of both threading together tight as wire.

You tilt your chin up to meet his gaze, your pulse steadying into a challenge of its own. “It was only meant to be clever banter,” you say, careful to keep your voice low and even, but letting him hear the needle in it. “No one believed it.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Andy’s eyes bore into you, reading for signs of retreat or remorse. When he finds neither, he finally inhales—slow, deliberate, calming himself by increments.

“I know what you were doing,” he says. Because you know as well as he does that jokes are always a vector for the truth. “But I mean it. Don’t.”

He’s still a gracious, charming host the rest of the evening, but you see that it’s subdued, less warm.

The moment you’ve called out the last of your goodnights from the front steps as your guests wander home, Andy turns, looks at you with those hard, steel blue eyes, and goes inside without a word.

Now it’s you following him into the kitchen, because the clean up from these dinners with friends has become part of the closing ritual that you two share, as well, but when you step up next to Andy at the sink, he growls, “Leave it and go upstairs.”

You don’t bother to argue, to offer some response meant to salve either of you and smooth things over. Instead, you pivot with a clipped, “Fine,” and leave him. You don’t bother flipping on lights as you reach the master. You stand there in the dark, hearing your own heart thumping, feeling every inch of your skin alive and restless, your body trying to decide if it is angry or simply keyed up by the aftershock of that confrontation.

You pace the bedroom, back and forth, and finally drop onto the edge of the bed, arms crossed hard over your chest. For endless minutes, you’re just locked there in the moon-shadow, staring out over the black sweep of the lake, counting seconds. You’re waiting to hear Andy’s footsteps, the sound of him coming up to finish what he started, to demand a further reckoning.

When Andy finally comes upstairs, you’re ready for him. He enters without a word—just a sweep of dark eyes, a tightening of his mouth as he closes the door behind him, the quiet slide of the latch declaring this space sealed from the rest of the world. You don’t let him get two steps in before you say, “It’s not going to be anything like it is here when we go back to Boston, is it?”

He stops. The shadows cut the sharp lines of his bearded jaw, and for a second you wonder if he’ll lie—if he’ll even bother with a performance for your benefit or simply bulldoze past the question. Instead, he stands there, hands in his pockets, and weighs you like a problem.

“No,” he says. “It won’t.”

You push up from the bed and take a few steps forward. “Why?”

He stalks the edge of the bedroom, not coming closer, his hands still jammed in his pockets. His voice is quieter, but it vibrates at a pitch meant for you alone. “Because,” Andy says, each syllable landing deliberate, “a honeymoon is a liminal space, a fairytale. It isn’t real.”

You know what he means, but you want to punish him for the admission, want to see how far he’ll go in spelling it out. You cross your arms tighter, say nothing, hold the silence until he continues. He’s right, but this hurts because you wanted it to be more than temporary.

“This,” he gestures vaguely—at your body, at the lake, at the high, old bones of the house, and the air quivering between you—“is a retreat. It’s not the world. It’s not sustainable. I borrowed this time for us. But it can’t last.” You watch him, still and wary.

“Why can’t you fucking want us?” Andy asks.

You want to scream because somehow you’ve unraveled everything right back to the start in the space of mere hours. You don’t scream, but you do choke on a frustrating sob when you say, “Because you demanded it. I would have chosen you if you’d been kind instead of cruel, but you never even gave me a choice.”

You say that last part too loud, but you want him to hear the garble and the pain in it, that you want him to finally react as a person, not as an institution or a fortress. Andy holds very still.

“Don’t you see?” he says, and he’s close enough now that you can see the quiver in his left hand. Then his hands curl, not into fists, but into something worse—into the shape of wanting to touch you. He comes closer, walking with a kind of exhausted inevitability, and you can tell he’s been fighting with the words since before he came up the stairs. “If I didn’t take you, you would have run.”

You surge forward and raise your hand to slap him, but he catches your wrist before you can strike. You try to shake out of his hold, but he doesn’t let you.

“You don’t know that,” you argue. “You never even let me make the call.”

Andy doesn’t flinch, but his grip changes, less capture and more containment. Andy’s breaths are ugly and uneven. “I wasn’t going to risk it. I couldn’t.”

Your pulse is skittering under his thumb where it grips your wrist. You wish you could say the feelings are all anger, but the emotions are thick with something raw and unkillable that’s lived under your skin since the first week you met, all the more terrible and breathtaking now that whatever’s between you has evolved and expanded deeply here in Italy. You close your eyes, just for a second, because the only thing worse than being seen by Andy is seeing the want on his face.

He yanks your body tight to his, foreheads nearly colliding. You feel the way his whole being is trembling, probably close to shattering, you in the fallout zone. “You don’t understand,” Andy says, and you hear the ferocity in his conviction.

“Then make me,” you bite back.

You are thrust backward, the world contracting to the violence of his mouth on yours, then down the column of your neck, his tongue ferocious and wild. There is nothing careful in the way Andy drags you toward the bed, your body crashing against the mattress, his grip so absolute you know you’ll wear the ghost of his fingers for days. He tears at your clothes—not undressing you, but stripping you, rough and elemental—and pins your wrists above your head, his weight a pact that you are not leaving, not now, not ever.

He fucks you with a savagery you haven’t seen in him since the earliest days, when everything between you was a war, and then an addiction, and then a war again. There is no foreplay because your bodies remember every password, every escalation, and Andy knows yours by heart. He forces you open, mouths your skin so hard you arch up in shock, pleasure already a cry from your throat. He bites at your mouth, your jaw, the line of your neck.

He forces a knee between your legs, spreads you wide, and fucks into you in a single, savage thrust so deep your vision whites out for a second. There’s only the impact of Andy’s hips crashing into you, the push and force of hands you could never mistake for gentle. You are flipped as if you weigh nothing, your face pressed to the mattress, your body pinned in a way that is—should be—danger, but now reads as his. Because his cock finds you wet, spread, so ready you want to scream with the humiliation of it, and when he plunges in, you do scream, muffled by fists knotted in the bedding. He fucks you with a violence that lights up every nerve ending in your body, stroking so deep it feels like he’s remaking you, each thrust a seismic reminder that you are his, that you have always been his, that even now, especially now, you want it. You want it more than you want to win.

He is relentless. He takes you from behind so hard you nearly lose your bearings, his hands bruising your hips, his cock battering a rhythm into you with no mercy, no space for anything but the friction and fullness. He grunts into your shoulder, each sound a confirmation that the only thing he wants is more—more from you, more inside you, more of everything you have to give.

When you come, it’s not a climax so much as a collapse, a convulsion that tears something loose, but Andy doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through it, not letting up, as if your pleasure is a thing to be drained. You sob, raw, and he covers your mouth with his—biting, licking, silencing the sharpness with his tongue. He flips you again, manhandling you onto your back, and hooks your knees over his elbows, spreading you so wide you can barely breathe. His cock pistons in you, deeper, until you are gasping, keening, until you are reduced to the rawest version of yourself, nothing left but sensation, the feel of him, the violence of his wanting you.

He is not gentle, not even a little, and you don’t want gentle. You want to be consumed, and Andy obliges—he fucks you until your body is shaking, until the tears spill down your face, until your voice is hoarse from the pleading, the yes, the please, the more that you can’t help falling from your lips. He does not stop. Not until you are truly broken open, legs trembling, cunt so raw and used you think you will never get the ache out of your bones.

He circles back to your mouth, forces his tongue inside, kisses you with the same ferocity as he fucks you. He bites your lower lip until you taste blood, and then licks it away, tongue soft as an apology, but you know it is not one. You have been wrecked in the span of a few minutes, but it’s clear he’s not done.

He is going to fuck you until you don’t remember your own name.

He crawls up over your body, grabbing your jaw with his big hand and shoving the wet head of his cock between your lips, not waiting for an invitation. The first taste is salt and skin, your juices and his precum, the burn of him so deep on your tongue you gag, but Andy does not relent. He drives his cock into your throat, one hand fisting in your hair to keep you exactly where he needs you, the other bracing against the wall as he looms over you, and all you can do is take it. If you try to twist away, he holds you tighter. If you choke, he says, “Good girl,” and pushes in further. Your vision blurs with new tears as he fucks your face, the thick, hot shaft of him relentless, your mouth ruined already from the earlier kisses and now wrecked by the invasion.

You want to hate him for it, you’re sure you do, but you are gone, reduced to this animal need to please and to be conquered, to see how far he’ll push you and whether you’ll break. You need to be ruined by him, made anew, fucked out of even the memory of the anger that brought you here. You try to breathe through your nose but he’s too deep for too long, and when he finally lets go, you gasp so hard your lungs ache.

Andy groans as he fists himself furiously and then comes across your face, and shifts so he can shoot the rest of his load over your chest. When he finally releases your head, you collapse backward on the bed, breath heaving, spit and come and tears streaking your face. Andy towers over you, his own chest heaving in time with yours.

You feel the collapsing hush of the bedroom as Andy composes himself, standing at the edge of the mattress, his features still marred by the wet brilliance of anger and longing both. Your legs are spread, trembling, and you hate how much you love the weightless aftermath of being used until your head empties out, until there’s no room for doubt, only this: this knowing, this rawness, like a secret you must never confess.

You don’t flinch as he reaches for your chin, thumb smearing his come from the corner of your mouth and dragging it slow across your cheek, tracing his claim into the skin. It’s humiliating, and it’s the only thing that quells the shaking inside you.

He leans down, bracing his hands on either side of your head, and you see the play of war and reverence in his face—still caught between violence and awe. Then he kisses you, you, deep, with a hunger that seems bottomless, the heat of his tongue against your teeth and the salt-blind taste of your own tears and the ache he’s left in every muscle. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, more bite than balm, but it binds you to him in ways words never could. You can taste the iron resolve in it, the promise of obliteration and devotion entwined. He doesn’t say “I love you” — and you don’t want him to. Not like this, not ever. All the same, you know the truth of it down to your marrow.

Andy injects his cursed, talented fingers into your cunt, tormenting you with the mess of your ruin, again, knuckles grazing your clit and making you buck up on reflex because you are so tender and slick all movement is pain-laced pleasure, so much more intense than usual. He probes two fingers inside, pressing deep and curling to stroke that perfect, devastating spot. “You’re dripping, cunt still gripping for me,” he murmurs with a strange reverence, as if confirming a suspicion about the physics of your body. He works his fingers in and out with increasing speed, and the obscene wet sound of it is so raw you want to die. “You take every inch of me,” he says, not as a question, but as the ending to an equation. “You’re made for me.”

He moves with a deliberate roughness, fucking you with his hand, thumb never leaving your clit, and in seconds you’re strung out and shuddering again, unable to stop. You wail into the darkness, no longer caring if it sounds like anger, or keening, or the wound of wanting. Andy doubles down, unrelenting, until your body spasms and you break yet another time for him, this time so wrung out you black the edges of your own consciousness, every muscle clamped and helpless to resist.

After, you lie there, wrecked, every limb trembling and dead, your breathing wild and uneven. Andy finally draws away from you, leaving, and you can’t pinpoint to where since you can hardly sustain your own functionality.

Andy’s presence is gone for less than a minute, but the void is so total it makes your ears ring. When he returns, he is silent. He carries a hand towel in one hand, and in the other, a damp cloth. You lie there, still splayed and shaking, and let him clean you—face, chin, the slick mess over your breasts. He is methodical, almost gentle, the movements so unlike the violence that came before you want to claw at him for the contradiction. You’d planned to meet his eyes, maybe spit a retort or something wounding to break the spell, but the look on his face is so devastating, so utterly intent on you, that you can only stare back and let him do what he will.

He wipes his hands and sets the towel aside. Then leans back, surveying you. He should be satisfied, should be spent, but you feel the air thicken again—the promise of more, of escalation. Without further warning, Andy slides his hands under your shoulder and thigh and flips you face-down to the mattress, your body a ragdoll in his grip. You are so dazed you don’t even register the force of it, the way he wrests your upper half down to the pillows while yanking your hips up with his other hand. You wind up face down, arms crushed beneath your chest, your ass arched in the air and on display, vulnerable and wide open.

You whimper, not even sure if it’s resistance or anticipation, and try to close your legs, but Andy just presses your knees wider, immobilizing you with a ruthlessness that’s almost tender.

He presses your chest to the mattress with one palm, weight pinning you flat, the other hand palming your ass, squeezing, kneading, as if cataloguing every inch of you before making a decision. You can’t see him, but you feel the heat of his breath ghost over your skin, and then—his tongue, hot and slick, working a slow, punishing stripe from your cunt to the rosebud of your asshole. You buck, shocked at the invasion, but Andy’s grip on your hip is iron.

The first lick is speculative, as if Andy is testing the edge of your reaction, what you have left in you tonight, but when your hips jerk and you press back, he doubles down, dragging his tongue in slow, obscene circles around your rim, then spearing it in with a precision that leaves you keening into the bedding. He holds you wide, open, and feasts on you, his tongue circling and plunging, working you in both places with obscene, relentless pressure. It is too much, and not enough, and you cannot believe you are so needy that when he works his thumb inside your ass, you nearly come from just that.

He fucks you with his tongue and his fingers and then both, alternating, escalating, until your thighs are slick and the sheets beneath them are soaked, and you have lost the thread of yourself entirely. There is no air, no sound but your own voice breaking, the wet slick of his mouth and the way your body trembles and begs for more. You arch, you plead, you scream into the mattress, devoured, mindless, reduced to a surface of nerves and a single quaking need. It is worse—better—when he spits on your asshole, massaging it with two wet fingers before working them in, stretching, filling, never ceasing his licking and sucking at your clit.

You sob, humiliated and mind-shattered, when Andy’s fingers press deeper, opening you; you arch and shudder, every part of you stinging, burning, exquisitely ruined. He pushes three fingers into your cunt, then adds a second into your ass, the double invasion so intense it makes you come almost instantly, the orgasm breaking through you like a blackout. You can’t move, can’t even process the pleasure—just take it, and take it, every aftershock.

Andy finishes you, and himself, in a blur of escalation and satisfaction, then, without ceremony, lifts you from the wreckage of the sheets—one arm under your knees, the other braced at your back. You’re so limp he might as well be carrying a sack of flour. He deposits you so achingly gently onto the still cool and untouched side f te bed, then climbs in beside you. He wraps both arms around you, winding you tight into his chest, flushed naked skin next to his flushed naked skin. You don’t fight him. In fact, you’re still so strung out that you cling to him, so spent it takes you a minute to realize he’s murmuring something—a string of words, low and urgent, nearly inaudible above the static in your ears.

You scrabble for a reply, but your own pulse is so loud it drowns out everything; your only coherent thought is the feel of his hand in your hair, the rough sweetness of it, an anchor to reality.

You drift toward sleep. Andy holds you so tightly you can’t tell if your ribs ache from the aftershocks or from the pressure of his arms. His breath comes in a slow, deliberate cadence, each inhale a claim, each exhale an ironclad reassurance.

He never releases you. Even as your breathing slows, even as your mind empties out, he keeps you pinned to him, chest to chest, as unwilling to let you drift in sleep as he is this marriage. You can’t move. You don’t want to. There’s nothing left in you that isn’t claimed, nothing untouched by Andy’s insistence. Even your bones feel different.

Andy presses a solemn kiss to your forehead, and the weight of it is so grave, so final, that for a moment you are sure you will never be released.

You try to stay awake, to hold on to something—anger, maybe, or identity—but it dissolves, every thought leaching out of you until only Andy’s grip remains, steady and absolute.

You wake at dawn with your thigh thrown over his hip, his hand still buried in your hair. The room is cold, but your body is kept warmed by his. He still has you locked, but the violence is gone, replaced by a solemn stillness that feels almost, but not quite, like peace. You move to extricate yourself, but he anticipates the

As the waves of everything that transpired the night before roll over you, battering your memory, your throat aches, and your eyes burn, and softly you start to cry.

The last time you were held like this was years ago, childhood, your mother tucking you in on the worst night of your life. The same hush, the same grave quiet, as if by clutching close she could keep the world from breaking you. Some animal core in you recognizes the shape of this hold, the way it’s designed not just to possess but to comfort, to render you safe against your will.

You hate him for it. You hate him in a way that loops back on itself and becomes something else entirely. You hate that he’s devastatingly handsome, that he’s capable, that he’s clever and so good at loving you—yes, loving, you are not a fool. You hate that he can make you want him even after he’s destroyed you, that he can ruin your body for anyone else and then hold you like you are a thing to be treasured.

Andy wakes exactly when you need him to, which is to say, when you are at your worst, about to break down. His arms shift; his breath changes. You sense him resurface and look at you, then the thumb at your cheek, rough but oddly tender, and he wipes away a tear.

“Don’t cry,” he soothes, and you lean into his touch for one brief last moment.

When you push to roll away, Andy lets you go. You shift to the other side of the mattress, heft your legs over the side, and pull yourself out of bed. “I want to go back,” you say, voice sanded raw. You don’t say back to where—you both already know.

Andy props himself on an elbow, gaze unreadable. “Good,” he says. “I already arranged it.” His tone is flat, businesslike. “But not until the end of the week.”

You blink, waiting for the justification, and he gives it without you having to ask. “We’re expected for dinner at Paolo’s tomorrow, brunch at Sarah’s on Thursday, and we owe our neighbors a few more nightly dinners, so they don’t think anything’s awry.”

“You just expect me to play house with you until you let us leave?”

“That’s exactly what I expect of you. The charming newlyweds who’ve welcomed so many new friends to their home wouldn’t leave without inviting everyone over for a farewell-for-now dinner.”

It takes everything in you not to stamp your foot. “You’re unbelievably infuriating.”

You don’t wait for Andy to respond, biting down the taste of an argument you know he won’t let you win. You dress in whatever shirt is closest, clambering into soft pants and hissing at the burn between your legs as you do. You stalk through the villa and out onto the upper terrace. The sun is not fully over the mountains, and wind off the lake stings your face, cooling the sweat and salt and tears you haven’t yet washed off.

You pace the perimeter path above the water for an hour before you realize you haven’t brought anything with you—no phone, no shoes, not even the scarf you’ve worn every morning for weeks. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need anything but the sensation of your feet striking the cold flagstones, don’t need anything but the air to burn out the memory of last night and everything that led to it.

You re-enter the villa through the kitchen, hoping for empty space, but Andy’s already there, leaning over the marble island, hunched in concentration as he prepares your preferred morning drink right alongside his. He doesn’t look up right away, only when he’s poured your cup and slides it across the counter to you.

You take it, despite yourself, and let the liquid sooth the rawness in your throat.

“Chef’s been notified to resume evening meals,” he says without any undercurrent. “I told her to stock us up for the week, until we leave. If there’s anything you want, just let me know.”

“I’d like to have no plans,” you say, and the words come out so blunt it surprises even you. “No social obligations. No guests. No performances.”

Andy shakes his head. “You already know that’s not up for negotiation.”

“I won’t share a room with you here anymore.”

Andy takes a beat, then nods. “Fine,” he says, and you can feel the shift in him—the hard retraction of self.

You did not expect him to agree to that. And certainly not so easily.

So you quickly add, “I don’t want to share a room when we get back to Boston, either.”

Andy scoffs, and his eyes narrow. “No deal. We both own that this honeymoon has been a suspension of real life, so separate rooms will do us both good to recalibrate. But when we get back to Boston, you are my wife. My wife, not my guest. We start our real life then.”

You wonder if Andy’s version of real is something you will even recognize, let alone want.

You set your mug down with care, fingers curling around the handle as if to anchor yourself. Andy watches, lips pressed thin, and you can see he's expecting a counter or a protest. Instead, you say, “I don’t know if why you never believed me or never understood, but I said it in the beginning, I said it last night, and I still mean it now: you never should have forced me into you bed or to accept your proposal. You keep making these choices for us, and you keep assuming I would have run if you hadn’t forced it.” You wait for him to look at you, to meet your eyes, and when he does, you let out a breath that tastes like iron. “But that night—the first night—if you’d asked, really asked, I would have chosen you. No threat, no blackmail, no war. I would have said yes.”

You say this, and your hands shake around the mug, but you don’t look away. Andy doesn’t either. The stillness is absolute—so sharp you hear the tremor in your pulse, the old house humming with the tension of two people who want, and are ruined, and will not concede.

You really would have said yes to that first night and undoubtedly so much more.

You didn't know he was this—the depth and breadth of so much good, so much bad, so much ugly—but part of you had wanted him and assumed he'd never seriously entertain your as an option.

He’d taken you so seriously you never saw him coming.

A fairytale honeymoon had been the curse, not the breaking of a spell, and the next chapter awaiting you in Boston? You truly didn’t know where you would land, how it would mold and carve itself, especially now that you knew what had existed here with him in Lake Como, both of you transformed, and now seemingly all of it lost.

This is how I feel posting this chapter. I've questioned going back on it all week, but ... I think the fact that I'm so conflicted means it was what needed to happen. I'm not second-guessing the longterm plot, I only feel bad about how it hits in this moment right now.

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

They’re talking amongst each other, laughing and leering at you, before looking away. The Soldier’s scowl deepens with every passing moment. It shouldn’t feel safe, to stay shielded behind him, to feel the warmth of him against you. But it does.

Whatever his reputation—whatever the Soldier plans to do to your friends when you arrive—you don’t think he means to hurt you.

At least, he hasn’t so far.

The flight is both long and far too fast; your heart never stops pounding, but the Soldier never leaves your side, either.

Once you’ve landed, Scarface leads the pair of you to a windowless transport van, shoves you in with the rest of them, but the Soldier holds his ground there, too, lashing out when one of the others dares to reach for you.

The Hydra goon’s fingers barely brush your arm, and half a second later, he’s down on the ground, screaming in pain while the Soldier straddles him, knife already slicing through skin.

“Enough,” says Scarface, lazily, not even paying attention, and when the Soldier rejoins you, he pulls you close, even though you’re shaking too hard to stop.

It’s the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, when you finally exit the van, the Soldier gripping your elbow tightly. You stumble, exhausted and sore and stiff, but he keeps you upright and doesn’t look at anyone else.

“The entry codes, please,” says Scarface. It’s almost polite.

You stare at him. “Uh, no?”

He sighs. “If you insist on doing this the hard way—”

“You’re the one who brought us to the middle of nowhere,” you point out. “I don’t know why you’re asking me anything.”

Scarface leans into you. You try to lean back, but the Soldier stands behind you, an impenetrable, unmovable brick wall. When you glance up at his face, you’re a little surprised to see his throat swallowing and swallowing, over and over.

“There is, approximately forty feet under the surface, an Avengers stronghold for various medical experiments that Dr. Banner wishes to remain under wraps, so to speak. You know where the entrance is and how to access it. I strongly recommend you share that information, or I will ensure that the Asset convinces you. And you will not like how he convinces you.”

You try not to shudder, or push yourself into the Soldier’s chest. You fail at both. “He’s not going to hurt me. Or them. He’s not yours.”

“Isn’t he?” Scarface stands up, and flicks his finger.

The Soldier’s grip on your arm tightens, so tightly, so fast, that you have pins-and-needles in your fingers. You cry out before you can bite the noise back.

“I’m not telling you squat,” you spit, gasping through the pain.

Scarface takes a step towards you, and the Russian that flows from his lips is achingly, heart-breakingly familiar. “[Beautiful]. [Sensual]…”

The fog washes over you, and you fall back on the Soldier again, trembling, covering your ears with your arms, your hands in fists against the Soldier’s chest. “No. No. I won’t…”

“[I want you]….”

You close your eyes, squeeze your forearms against your head.

And feel the bulk of something sharp, something familiar, something you last saw a thousand years ago, tucked under the Soldier’s arm.

“You think he’s not mine?” hisses Scarface. “You think either of you are not mine? You both answer to me, and no one else!”

You yank at the knife, pulling it from under the Soldier’s arm and pressing it against your throat. The sharp tip stings, but you keep your eyes solidly on Scarface. “Then order him to kill me, or I’ll do it myself!”

He laughs.

He laughs. “Soldat… finish the job!”

You hold your breath.

Hands grip your wrists, pulling the knife away from your neck, as the Soldier’s voice speaks low into your ear, the Russian a rough, guttural bite of words.

“ты нужен. ты твой.”

You suck in a breath, blinking fast at Scarface, who’s smirking in triumph.

Words you’ve heard him speak before.

[I need you.]

With one… small… difference.

[You are yours.]

The words echo, the cloud around your head remains… but it doesn’t close off. Oblivion remains at bay.

The Soldier’s whisper drops, a caress so quiet, so low, directly in your ear. You fall into it, clinging to it, desperate for something to hold to keep from falling.

“Tell him the absolute truth. Everything he asks. Trust me. You know what to say. Gotov soobshit’.”

You stare at Scarface, and the words slip from your lips. “Готов сообщить.”

*

The underground bunker is far from empty, but the Soldier takes down every combatant with ease. One shot each, so fast and furious that you barely see where they’re shot before they fall.

With every step, the fog recedes, but the horror does not.

The Soldier leads the way, unerringly, and when there’s a fork in the road, Scarface gives you a rough shake, and you tell him which way to turn to find the control room, where he’ll have access to everything the Avengers want hidden.

You want to lie. You want to scream and kick them both, run in the opposite directly, hit the fail-safes that litter the halls, the ones that will send the entire bunker into lock-down before the Soldier can take out a single other person.

Trust me, Bucky had whispered.

Tell the absolute truth, he’d said, so you do, hating every word.

You watch as the Soldier overpowers Widow.

You watch as he outshoots Hawkeye.

And when you reach the control center of the bunker…

“Cap,” you say, your knees almost giving up. “You’re alive.”

Steve, standing tall and strong and proud in the center of the control room, gives you a sharp nod. “Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

Falcon rolls his eyes. “Man, stop using references you only barely get.”

“Bucky,” says Cap, focusing on the Soldier. “You don’t have to do this.”

“But he does, Captain,” says Scarface scathingly. “Or didn’t you notice, they both belong to me. The brains and the brawn, so to speak. She has led me straight to you, and now my Soldat… he will remove you from the playing field.”

Scarface looks at the Soldier. “Kill him.”

The fight is every bit as physical and draining as any of their sparring sessions. Sam is knocked against the wall within moments, wings curled around him, forgotten as Cap and the Soldier duke it out, blow for blow.

“No, hold back!” Scarface orders the rest of the Hydra battalion as they surround the fighting super soldiers. “Let them finish it alone.

“Now do you see?” he says to you. “He was never theirs. He’s not even his. You both belong to Hydra. And soon, so will everyone else.”

*

The fight ends with Cap on his knees, and the Soldier behind, gun at his head.

“Captain America,” scoffs Scarface. “I could give you the opportunity to join us.”

“You could,” agrees Cap, breathing hard. You wince; you can hear the pain in his voice, the way the blood runs down from the side of his mouth. You think, given the wheeze, that there’s a good chance he has at least one broken rib. “Or you could stick some words in my head and make me whatever you want.”

“I admit, that thought had occurred to me. Would that be easier for you?”

“Nah,” says Cap. “Not sure the system’s entirely fool-proof.”

“Is that so?” says Scarface, as the Soldier pushes the gun against Cap’s head, and Cap leans forward a bit more. “You don’t think I control them both? You don’t think he answers to every order I give him? You don’t think he would kill you now on my command?”

“Nope.”

Scarface stares at Cap.

“Wanna know why?” says Cap.

“I await your delusion with bated breath,” says Scarface.

Cap grins at you. “You said she’s the brains, right? Has to answer every question with the absolute truth? Why don’t you ask her, who finished saying the Soldier’s trigger sequence back at the Tower.”

Oh.

Oh.

“What?” says Scarface. He shakes you. “What is he talking about?”

“Me,” you say, realizing. “I finished them.”

Scarface throws you to the floor. You wince and bite back the cry. “You’re lying.”

You look up at him. “I can’t lie. You programmed me to tell the truth.”

It happens fast. Instead of Hydra surrounding the Soldier and the Captain, now Hydra is surrounded, by every agent the Soldier had taken down. Or not taken down, because they’re there, fully armed and fighting. Hawkeye and Widow, Iron Man and Hulk, with barely a scratch on them.

But when it’s over—and it doesn’t take long—it’s Bucky’s gun, aimed at Scarface’s head instead of Steve’s, that has your attention.

“Buck,” says Steve quietly, gently. “Stand down. It’s over.”

The Soldier’s jaw tightens.

“Bucky,” repeats Steve.

Your heart pounds. You stand up from the floor, walk over to him, and gently touch his elbow. “Bucky?” you whisper. And then, when he doesn’t respond, “Soldier?”

He glances at you, his arm shaking.

“It’s your choice,” you whisper. “No one’s ordering you to do anything.”

He takes a deep breath, chest rising and falling.

Scarface smiles, and opens his mouth, the words already on his lips.

The Soldier shoots him in the dead center of his forehead.

Epilogue ->

One of my favorite elements is the "takedown". Because HYDRA believes The Winter Soldier to be so ruthlessly and fantastically efficient (based off previous deployments), they don't even question that he can one-handedly take down the entire host of SHIELD agents and each of those Avengers with almost no effort. It's such an excellent ploy.