Articulations of Aspen

Thea is one of the few souls you trust without hesitation in this world. You study her face in the city-dark, finding closeness there that reminds you, with a pang, of who you were before all this.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say. You mean it harder than it sounds.

The auctioneer welcomes you out onto the stage, and you tentatively step out into the spotlight. All told, you’re nothing necessarily special. You’re wearing a relatively simple sundress, which, even though it only comes down to mid-thigh, is much more modest than the more scantily dressed women being auctioned off. 

There’s an innocence about you even as you straighten your spine and stand tall, refusing to be cowed by the men hooting and hollering in the crowd, calling for you to take your dress off. You don’t do any such thing, raising your chin higher and looking down on the club like a queen overlooking her court.

And big, bad Steve Rogers, the leader of Brooklyn’s most feared mafia organization, is struck dumb. He’s unable to respond when Bucky makes some comment about you causing a riot because the mafia boss has been rendered speechless. It would’ve been funny, if it had happened to anyone else but him.

Steve only snaps back to reality when it’s announced that you’re selling your freedom for a whole year, and the mafia boss knows he has to have you. He’s already thinking about the ways he can put your body to good use, fucking you in that pretty little sundress in the filthy back alley behind his club. He knows, deep in his bones, that you’re going to be so fucking pretty when you cum on his cock. 

It strikes Steve that even a whole year with you might not be enough. But that’s a problem for future Steve. For now, he needs to focus on winning you, buying your freedom, and then he can worry later about keeping you beyond the year. 

Thankfully, Steve regains enough of his senses not to jump in too early in the bidding. His life is one long power play, and he knows how to win an auction. Compared to negotiating peace with Tony Stark’s Manhattan organization, this should be like child’s play. 

So Steve feigns disinterest, sipping on his whiskey and watching as the price of your freedom racks up. He ignores Bucky’s low whistles and mocking scoffs, his best friend eventually realizing what’s going on and that the mafia boss is going to make a play for you. Steve doesn’t need to say that you’re worth every penny, Bucky figures it out.

When the bidding slows down at $1.5 million, Steve knows it’s time to strike.

“Two million dollars,” he calls across the club, the sheer authority in his voice ringing through the space. He watches with a sense of predatory satisfaction when your attention turns to him, your eyes widening almost imperceptibly as you take him in. It takes everything in Steve not to puff up like some peacock. 

The other men who’ve been bidding on you look around uneasily, still trying to discern where the offer came from. Deciding to reveal himself, Steve rises from his seat, taking one last drink from his glass before he shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and begins prowling up toward the stage.

Recognition ripples through the room, uneasy whispers circling the tables of the gentlemen’s club. A few obstinate men look like they’re gathering the courage to try to outbid the mafia boss, but before they can open their mouths, the auctioneer saves them from making the mistake of trying to cross Steve Rogers.

“Sold! To the proprietor of the club,” the auctioneer crows, ushering Steve up onto the stage, even though it’s clear to anyone watching that the imposing mafia boss is going to do as he pleases anyway. “Happy birthday, sir,” the other man simpers.

Steve stalks across the stage while the auctioneer leads the club in a motley rendition of “Happy Birthday,” but the intimidating mafia boss ignores the crowd. He only has eyes for you, the birthday present he’s gifting to himself.

You try to swallow past the lump in your throat, your eyes wide as you stare up at the tall, blond man, using all your strength to keep the steel in your spine and not wilt beneath the intensity in his bright, blue eyes. 

He exudes an aura of danger and violence that has nothing to do with the way his broad shoulders and thick biceps fill out the suit he wears. Instead, it has everything to do with who he is. 

You may not know much about the underworld of New York City, but you know enough to recognize—and be intimidated by—the Brooklyn mafia boss, Steve Rogers. 

It had never been your intention to catch the attention of someone so notorious, so infamous for bloodshed, and now not only are you in his sights, you’ve officially sold your freedom to him for an entire year. 

If that’s not bad enough, you can already read the mafia boss’s depraved intentions all over his face. It’s clear in the way he’s staring at you like a starving predator whose set his sights on his prey—and that prey is you. 

The truth solidifies in your gut, Steve Rogers is going to eat you alive.

Tears prick at the back of your eyes, but you blink them quickly away, cursing yourself for being so stupidly naive. You’d just wanted to help your boyfriend. He’d gotten himself deep into some gambling debts, and you hadn’t even known he’d borrowed money from some seriously scary people until it was almost too late.

He’d been the one to suggest the auction at the gentlemen’s club. The two of you had concocted a plan for you to sell your freedom for a year, both so that you’d earn enough money to clear your boyfriend’s debts, and because the length of time might mean someone would buy you to be a glorified house maid. 

Now that it’s done, though, you can’t help but realize you’d deluded yourself. The look in Steve Rogers’ eyes, filled with hunger and promise, makes it clear that the mafia boss has plans for you—and those plans include using your body in every filthy depraved way he can think of. For a whole year. 

However, when you expect to feel fear at that realization, you feel only…a tentative thrill. A thrumming kind of…excitement. You tell yourself you’ll do anything the mafia boss asks of you so that you can help your boyfriend, but a not-so-small part of you is intrigued about what exactly he’ll do with you…

Only a few seconds have passed since Steve came to a stop in front of you, the echoing refrain of “Happy Birthday” only just tapering off in the club. As you watch him, Steve holds out his big hand to you, and for a moment all you can do is stare at it. 

You know the hand he’s presented to you has been stained with blood on more than one occasion, but it’s also a lifeline. It’s an escape from the mess your boyfriend created, the one that could’ve easily led to you being kidnapped and hurt in order to make him pay back his debts. 

When you continue to hesitate, Steve speaks, and his tone is so soft, so gentle, that it wraps around your heart and soul like a blanket. 

“My diamond,” he says, his voice low like the rumbling purr of a lion. “I believe you’re mine now.”

There’s a question in his words, so subtle you barely notice it, but it’s there. He’s giving you a chance to back out, to rebuff his offer of $2 million and try your luck elsewhere. But your only other options are less money or leaving your fate in the hands of the men your boyfriend owes money to.

Even with the depraved promise in Steve’s eyes, you know he’s your best option. So you slip your hand into his. You’re instantly struck by the warmth of his palm, and the electric sparks that have your body lighting up for him even before his calloused fingers close around your hand.

“Yes, sir, I belong to you,” you murmur, almost forgetting to tack on, “For one year.”

A slow smile spreads across Steve’s handsome face, sharp as the edge of a knife, and far more dangerous if the way your heart flutters is any indication. Quick as a shot, Steve bends over your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, the promise of depravity in the ostensibly modest gesture.

“Right, for one year,” he repeats, and there’s a dark kind of humor sparkling in his eyes before he blinks it away, like he finds something about that statement funny. He draws you in closer, securing you against his side and leading you off the stage. 

When you enter the VIP section on the arm of the mafia boss, a man with brown, messy hair and a scowl on his pouty mouth greets Steve with a question of, “What the fuck, boss?”

Steve smirks, unruffled by the rude question, and squeezes your hip possessively. You only realize he’s not going to explain himself to this man when the mafia boss lowers himself onto one of the leather couches, sprawling out like a king on his throne.

You don’t move until Steve grabs your hand and guides you to sit on his lap, your body leaning against his broad chest while he snags a fresh glass of whiskey off a server’s tray. He asks what you’d like to drink, and you’re grateful for the consideration, asking for something strong, which makes him chuckle, the sound vibrating through your body to settle heavily between your thighs. 

Relaxing into Steve’s big body, you’re distracted by the thick muscle of his leg beneath your ass, and the weight and warmth of his hand where it’s settled on your hip. His thumb rubs maddening circles into your skin through your sundress, the gesture both teasing and comforting. 

You don’t know how you’re going to deal with Steve’s closeness for a whole year—especially when you know he has every intention of stripping you bare and having his way with you. But you’re brought back into the moment when the mafia boss speaks to his friend. 

“It’s my birthday, Buck,” Steve is saying to the other man, hiding a smug smile behind his glass as he takes a sip. “I deserve to get myself something nice—like a little diamond doll.”

Steve turns his smile on you, stealing the breath from your lungs with how handsome he is. It’s ridiculous how good it feels to have him look at you like you’re something precious to him, and you can already tell you’re greedy for more of his attention.

It strikes you all over again that you’re in way over your head. If you’re not careful, you’ll enjoy being Steve Rogers’ diamond doll a little too much and forget the entire reason you sold your freedom in the first place. But would that be so bad?

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

A breathy whimper falls from your lips. Small hearts are filling your vision, since your face is pressed into the mattress - into your cute, brand new sheet.

Steve chuckles, low and a little mean.

His weight keeps you down, though you wouldn't move away from him and his sinful ways, anyway.

The pressure of his fat cock forces your tight rim wider. You've only taken Steve's fingers in your ass before, this intrusion is much more than he could've prepared you for.

He's going to fuck you like this. Prone bone, but with your legs slightly spread, so that your wetness leaves trails on the new bedsheet.

"Cherry, baby, is your sweet pussy making a mess?" Steve slides deeper.

His hips drive into your ass, the movement causing your clit to rub against the mattress.

"Are you creaming from having your tight ass filled? Are you going to come from having my cock in your dirty hole?"

You moan, nodding your head and gripping two fistfuls of heart-patterned sheets. It's overwhelming, it hurts a little, but you can't control the way your pussy flutters and leaks.

"My sweet, dirty girl," Steve purrs, spreading your asscheeks and watching his dick stretch your spit-covered rosebud.

"Taking a cock on her virgin ass and cumming from it onto her cute, pristine sheets."

Steve grians, sliding deeper. One of his hands lands next to your head as he braces himself for amping the rhythm.

"Cherry, I'm gonna see a heart pattern and I'm instantly going to think about fucking your ass. Your innocent cuteness makes me have those dirty thoughts. I bet you like it, baby. Do you like all the filthy things I do to your body?"

Amongst the few people Curtis trusts, Gilliam is the only one who has anything akin to court experience.

"I would recommend you marry one of the nobles," he suggests. "The people will see it as you showing an interest in the kingdom itself and the nobles will appreciate some level of status quo. A usurper king who marries a foreign bride is seen as not interested in his own people."

"A bride..." Curtis grumbles.

A mate, the beast thinks.

"We can have each duchy bring their tribute, swear their oaths of fealty. If they're smart, they'll send their daughters to help present those gifts. I'll choose from them."

"Good plan, Your Majesty," Tanya teases. "And I can get you more information on the ladies the day before; who's polite, who can kiss my ass. That sort of thing."

"Good thinking," Curtis nods, hiding how his inner beast is practically frothing at the idea of a mate.

"You're not going!" Father orders. "The new king is rumored to be a beast, a monster! How can I send my daughter, my only child, into his claws?"

"I have to go, Father," you argue, trying to keep your voice level. "You need to stay because Duke Snyder is trying to push you out. If you go to the palace, he'll seize the opportunity. We don't know anything about this new king so we can't trust he'll support you should Snyder make a move "

Father's shoulders slacken in defeat.

"I wish your mother were here to go with you," he sighs.

Placing a hand on your shoulder, Father looks you in the eyes. "I will send the best of guard with you," he promises. "You are my greatest treasure. I will see you safe."

"Thank you, Father. I will get things ready for the trip "

Despite the risks you were far more afraid of King Everett than the journey. Father sent you along under the protection Sir Conrad, well versed in combat and loyal to his last breath. Initially you were supposed to go with both Conrad and his half brother Pine but you insisted Pine stay with Father. He will need the protection and insight of the older brother. And the journey wasn't so far that you worried about Conrad and his small squad becoming too tired to keep you safe.

For added protection you were dressed up as a young man. Should any ask, you were soldiers doing your duty and bringing your Duke's tithe to the new king. The britches are a bit uncomfortable but you're grateful for the protection from prying eyes.

As you make camp the first night you feel truly helpless. You can't assemble a tent. You don't know how to make a fire and you can barely cook. The best you can do is simply stay out of the way.

Then you notice the berry bushes. They're low to the ground, easy to miss. Perhaps you can gather some and share them with your protectors.

Kneeling in front of the bushes you ask in a whisper, "may I be allowed to pick some of your berries? My friends and I would love to try them as they taste much better than travel rations." Many would consider you crazy but you're not one to give up wisdom your mother taught you before her passing.

Several berries drop and you make sure to thank the bushes before gathering them up. Though Sir Conrad warns you against going off alone again, he does not begrudge your addition to the night's meal.

The next day's journey is cut short by a rainstorm. It's too dangerous to travel and camp must be made up early. It's slow, wet, tiring work and the rains are too heavy to light a fire to warm up with.

In the privacy of your own tent you shiver in just your undergarments as you manage to light a lamp. Your blankets are a small comfort as you force yourself to drink water and eat some of the travel rations. All you can do is wait for the rain to let up.

Amidst the thunderous rain you hear mewling cries and they're getting closer.

Carefully you take a peek through the flaps of your tent. It could be a predator luring you in, but it could also be a poor creature in need of shelter. You need to keep the light from the lantern minimal for your safety and dignity.

As the mewling gets louder you're able to make out a baby fox.

"Oh you poor thing," you gently call to it. "Please, share my tent. We'll get you to your mother when the rain stops."

Lifting the tent flap more, the kit is drawn to the light of the lamp and quickly joins you.

"Here, I have some food as well. Not as good as fresh game, I know. But you'll need your strength if you're going to find your mama."

The kit accepts the food offered, seeming to eat it too fast to taste.

"Let me get one of my cloaks so we can try to dry you off. Must be hard to keep warm when you're soaked."

After you've dried off the little fox to the best of your ability it curls up in your lap and falls asleep. You feel honored and hum it a lullaby you remember your mother singing to you.

"Your Grace! We need to get an early start on the day to make up for yesterday."

Conrad's voice pierces through your slumber and you quickly sit up.

"I'm up! Give me just a few minutes to dress!"

As you get up to get dressed you quickly look around for the kit only to see that it's gone. You're disappointed but hopeful that, once the rain stopped, it went and found its mother.

It isn't until late in the morning, well on your way to the castle, that you spot fox and her three kits. Your heart leaps at the thought that one of them was the one you shared your tent with.

He tuts at your attempted retreat from his touch as he comes to a stop in front of you. His fingers catch beneath your chin, not only to tilt your tear-stained face up, forcing you to meet his gaze, but to reel you in closer, too, so you’re only inches away from his pelvis.

“You’ll learn very quickly not to try to run away from me, sweetheart… I don’t take kindly to defiance, no matter how small the act.” His touch was surprisingly gentle as he drew his knuckles down your cheek. “And something tells me that a delicate thing like you wouldn’t be very good at enduring my brand of punishment.”

You shudder at the steel in Steve’s voice, the hard glint in his eyes.

His outright threat.

Your breath hitches on an aborted sob as he drags you even closer to him, until your face is pressed against the growing bulge at the front of his slacks.

But this time, you don’t try to pull away. Swallowing down your tears, you force yourself to go pliant and sink against him even more.

Steve huffs a quiet, delighted laugh, his voice much warmer now as he coos, “Good girl.”

-

Needless to say, Steve is enjoying himself. Until the business associate across the table from the two of you makes the mistake of looking at you. Of commenting on Steve’s pretty new toy. Of reaching out and brazenly touching your cheek.

Which is the last thing he ever does with that hand.

Or at all.

It happens so quickly, Steve shifting you off his lap, pulling the largest knife you’ve ever seen from behind his back, and stabbing it through the asshole’s hand, pinning it to the table top.

But that isn’t enough retribution for Steve. Before you can blink, he’s on his feet, reaching across the table, and snapping the man’s neck with his bare hands.

You watch in horror as his former business associate slumps across the table.

Dead.

Right out in the open, surrounded by a club full of people, very few of whom seem even a tiny bit surprised or disturbed by this display.

You’re not quick enough—or in your right mind enough—to suppress the terrified whimper that bubbles up as Steve retakes his seat and sweeps you back onto his lap.

“Shhh,” he shushes you with a gentle caress up your side. Until his big hand—one of which he just used to kill someone—is softly cradling the side of your neck and reeling you close.

Steve nuzzles your cheek with a quiet hum, breathing you in on deep breath before letting it out on a sigh.

His fingers tickle beneath your chin, turning your wide, disbelieving gaze his way, and he grins at your complete and utter shock.

“No one touches what’s mine,” he winks before running his thumb along your lower lip then reaching for his drink.

—

But maybe, just maybe, if you’re good for Steve, if you let him use you and you don’t fight him—because you already know he doesn’t like to be defied—maybe he’ll at least let you go once he’s done.

Once he’s satisfied.

A tiny spark of hope ignites in your chest at the thought, and you can’t help but tremble this very thing as Steve touches his lips to the spot where your shoulder meets your neck.

“W-will you let me go? After?”

You feel the way Steve goes absolutely still against you, and you instantly regret your question. It takes everything inside of you not to flinch away as he slowly raises his head and looks you in the eye.

For a long, tense, terrifying moment, his handsome face is a mask of stoic indifference, giving nothing away.

Distantly, fleetingly, you think that this is why Steve is so deadly. So notorious and widely feared. The best at what he does. Because his enemies never see him coming.

After another long, drawn out beat, Steve smirks at you, lips twitching at the corners and eyes shining with a wicked kind of mirth.

You can’t help but get the sense that it’s almost like he knows something that you don’t.

Once again, he shocks you with the gentleness of his touch as he draws his knuckles down the slope of your cheek.

“I’ll tell you what, sweetheart,” he starts, his voice tinged with condescension. “If you don’t like what I do to you, if you don’t enjoy it at all, if you don’t beg me for my cock, or to make you cum, then sure, I’ll let you go.”

At the sound of your breath hitching at his lewd words—at the sinful picture he paints in your mind’s eye—his smirk morphs into a wolfish grin.

Because if there is one thing Steve Rogers knows for sure in this moment, it’s that he’s going to fucking ruin you. He’ll have you begging and cumming and boneless—utterly annihilated and so thoroughly claimed—before the night is through.

And that’s without even fucking you at all.

Because splitting you open with his cock for the very first time? Sheathing himself inside that tight, virgin pussy of yours?

Claiming you as his—and only his?

There was no fighting it – not completely. Neither of you had the willpower to stay underwater when the air you needed to breathe was at your fingertips, your scent all over your house enticing him, his seeping into it in perfect harmony, like puzzle pieces falling into place.

Before you knew it you were standing inches apart, his nose trailing along your wrist with a groan, your mind hazy, body vibrating in anticipation, voice breathless even as you breathed quick and shallow in order to remain composed and at least a tad rational. Exchanging names was the least you could do and the most you managed before you could not hold back any longer.

You knew who he was; he knew you knew. You knew his situation, or enough of it, the star he had been carrying on his chest faded and torn away, his golden boy persona and looks long gone.

It didn’t make a goddamn difference.

If anything, the ragged bearded man who stood but two inches from you was the embodiment of an alpha and everything about him had your inmost carnal instincts and soul-deep longing scream mine.

My Steve. My alpha.

The kiss he pressed to your wrist was tender, the chirp escaping you nearing a whimper, knees wobbling under the overwhelming sensation rushing through your body. He caught you with arm firmly wrapped around you and a kiss that was all teeth and desperate need and laying a claim and you reciprocated with fervour, inhaling his intoxicating scent and the rest were days to remember spent in a haze and pleasure you had never known to exist before.

And pain. Sharp and dull at once, its echo resonating in your ribcage even now as you shed the gardening gloves and went to wash your hands, starting the kettle and laying out ingredients for a warm homecooked meal Steve – former Captain America turned fugitive from the law of several countries – deserved and got to eat scarcely.

Sometimes, you didn’t make it past a hello, his hands on you wishing to recreate the imprints they had left weeks if not months ago, exploring you anew, nose against your neck, teeth scraping over the most sensitive part of your throat to induce pleasure so intense you forgot how to make a sound or think.

Other times, you held each other first and inhaled softly, allowing yourselves to reacquaint with someone who was fated to belong with you, who was yours with every fibre of their being, the cracks in your ribcages mended at last, body, soul and home rebuilt.

Today, it seemed, was the case of the former.

You were ruminating through the cabinets, trying to figure out what to cook, when Steve’s arms circled you from behind and pulled you to his front, nose instantly at your collar, breathing in deeply with a satisfied rumble in his chest that had your omega shivering with delight. Heat rushed all over your skin as you inhaled deeply, hands covering his, body melting in his hold already as you felt familiar burn at the apex of your thighs respond to his presence like clockwork.

“Alpha…” you whispered, shuddering when he hummed behind you, arms squeezing tighter, mouth pressing to the side of your neck, lingering, a quick lap of tongue over your skin making him groan; and you clutch at his forearms, legs turning weaker as your blood rushed elsewhere.

It was torture; torture of the bittersweetest kind, a tease of a promise never delivered on and never as much as made. It twisted your stomach in knots, the ache of his absence, the agonizing absence of a bonding mark already flaring through you and chasing tears into your eyes, deep-bone agony you knew would come again, because you had been here before. Every single time.

-.-💕-.-

“Oh.” Your heart drops to the bottom of your stomach. “That’s totally fine.” You quickly give the tightest, best smile you can, and then focus back on your plate.

“Fine?”

“Yeah, no big deal.”

You hadn’t been getting excited in any way over the fact that this was the first year you were going to actually be with someone in any kind of real way for the holiday. Nope. Things were still very new. Barely a relationship. If it lasted, you could spend the holiday together next year.

“I know Denver’s not usually the dream destination, but I thought you’d be at least a little excited.”

You blink up at him. “Um, I guess I’m excited for you? Take a picture of the crazy horse for me?”

Ari frowns. Then he laughs. “Beautiful, no,” he reaches across the table for your hand. “You’ve gotta come with me.”

“Oh,” you feel heat rise up your neck, and drop your gaze again.

He leans forward while pulling your hand close to his chest. “It’s Valentines Day weekend, you can’t think I’d want to spend it without you.”

It’s a level of earnestness you still have trouble calibrating. Ari’s gaze doesn’t drop, his thumb working little circles over your knuckles like he’s trying to memorize the bones and tendons beneath your skin. You will never get used to it. Not the awe or the attention, the fact that he just gives it so freely to you.

You try to keep your voice steady. “Aren’t you going to be busy up to your eyeballs with, like, whatever it is architects do?”

Ari grins. “I’ll be working, sure. But I’ll finish up site visits in the mornings, then we can go do whatever people do in Denver. Or, you know…” He pulls your hand up so he can press a warm kiss to your wrist, and you try desperately not to melt immediately. “We could just stay in the hotel room. I booked a suite with a view. There’s even a fireplace.”

You try to swallow, and nearly choke instead. “You already booked it?”

Ari shakes his head, the smile softening around the edges. “Only the hotel. I wanted to make sure you could come before I bought tickets. If you can’t miss work, I’ve got to go out Wednesday but you can come Thursday or Friday night, as long as you’re there for the weekend, that’s all that matters. We’ll fly home together Monday, since it falls over Presidents Day weekend this year.”

You purse your lips together, trying to look thoughtful, but the part of you that’s been so carefully pacing itself—don’t get too eager, don’t get ahead of yourself, don’t assume you’re wanted—wants to climb into his lap and say yes, yes to anything, yes to a bleak Denver February, because it’s with him.

Instead you give him a slow, careful smile. “Sure, Denver. I should have the hours, and we’re usually light in February. I may not be able to swing Wednesday, but probably Thursday.”

Ari beams. “Text me tomorrow as soon as you clear it with your boss.” He’s so open, so easy, it almost breaks you. The way he lifts your hand to his lips again, reverent. It’s not entirely clear whether the gesture is about you or about him, like maybe he’s grateful for being allowed to adore somebody this straightforwardly. Either way, you try to receive it, to let it land. You try not to think about how, if you’d ever had to design a person for yourself, you wouldn’t have had the audacity to sketch out the veritable greek god that sits across from you.

“What’s this?” Ari asks, coming into the bathroom as you’re just putting the finishing touches on your makeup.

You glance over, then almost drop your mascara when you see he’s holding up the modest piece of lingerie—a teddy.

“Where did you—? How did you—?” It was nothing too flashy, but something that you felt like you might feel confident enough in to wear this weekend with Ari. Maybe. But it was supposed to be tucked away in the zippered pocket of your suitcase—partly as a surprise, but partly in case you couldn’t muster the gumption this weekend to trot yourself out on display for him.

Ari smiles, wickedly. “I was shamelessly trying to hide one of my shirts in your luggage to take home—isn’t that one of the perks I’m supposed to spoil you with as your boyfriend?”

Swoops of butterflies.

This man.

He comes up behind you and you catch his eyes in the mirror, the gleam in them, the entirely unsubtle, delighted flirty mischief. You’re not sure if you’ll ever get used to the way Ari looks at you, especially when you’re not even in the outfit yet.

“I didn’t know if I’d—if you’d—”

He loops a hand around your waist and presses a kiss just below your ear. “The only thing that would disappoint me about this,” he murmurs, “is if you didn’t wear it.”

He starts kissing his way down the side of your neck, the brush of his beard sending up a tiny parade of goosebumps along your skin. You laugh, try to squirm away, but his arms cage you in, broad and insistent. “Ari,” you gasp, “we’ll be late for the museum. Remember? The whole reason we got out of bed this morning?”

He grins into your pulse. “My only plan today is to be with you. Everything else is a footnote.” The look he gives you in the mirror is pure hunger, softened by a kind of wonder as if he can’t quite believe you’re real. “Now that I know this was in your suitcase the whole time, how am I supposed to think about paintings or sculpture or even breakfast?”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, but your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. “You’re hopeless.”

“Damn right I’m hopeless when it comes to you.” His hand tightens, gently, on your waist. “You don’t have to wear it, of course,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. “But if you wanted to, I might actually die.”

Your eyes flutter closed as he kisses your neck again. “Ari,” you nearly moan.

“You decide, museum or a morning here, I’ll go back out and wait, and when you come out to join me, whatever you’re wearing will determine the experience I will happily facilitate as your doting and dutiful boyfriend.”

He smiles warmly at you in the mirror’s reflection before pressing a quick kiss to your temple and then exiting the bathroom.

You bite your lip, weighing the options. This is how it’s always been between you and Ari: a careful negotiation between the allure of his certainty and your own ingrained skepticism. From the beginning, he clocked your wariness—how you read every compliment as possibly ironic or, worse, as an act of charity. You’d been slow, not because you didn’t want him, but because it seemed cosmically impossible that he wanted you.

Still, he met your pace. If you pulled away, he waited, hands gentle, eyes steady. If you wanted him, he came to you like you were gravity. He told you what he wanted—your hands, your mouth, your laugh. Sometimes he said it in words, sometimes with the weight and heat of his body pressed to yours. You’ve been dating for months, and you are beginning to believe that this is real. He never hesitates to touch you—not in public, in private, with friends, alone. He’s direct with his feelings. But years of not being the desirable one is hard work to unlearn.

It’s not that you haven’t had sex before—god, no, Ari’s appetite for you is prodigious, and you have learned things about your own body and the sheer power of longing you didn’t think possible from a man who looks at you like you’re a whole constellation. But lingerie was new, and with it came all the crusted-over narratives from years of body shame, the ones you thought you’d shed in your mid-twenties but always managed to drag along by a thread, a kind of tattered emotional security blanket. Have you ever felt beautiful, truly beautiful, exposed?

With Ari, yes, your heart says. And your gut agrees.

You look in the mirror at the the girl you’ve known for years: thick through the arms and hips, a jaw too soft for angles. But your cheeks are glowing and your eyes sparkle, and you realize, abruptly, that you look happy.

There is a fizzing anticipation now—not just the memory of Ari’s lips, but the invitation in his words, the dare of intimacy without holding back. You reach for the scrap of black silk and lace, finger the tag, and press it tight against your chest. There’s a shiver—not fear, exactly, but the feeling of standing on a high diving board, toes curling over the edge, looking down at the impossible blue below.

You step out of your jeans and toss your t-shirt across the room with a confidence you don’t quite possess yet, underwear and bra coming off quickly as well. The teddy slips on easily, a soft statement of delicate but calculated desire spelled out in lace and silk. You inspect the fit—there’s nowhere to hide, curves pooled and displayed, but instead of humiliation, you feel almost electric. This is not the body you were supposed to have, according to the magazines, but it’s the body you’ve had since the day you and Ari met.

You take a full, bracing breath and step out of the bathroom.

Ari is sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand but not looking at it, gaze already drawn and fixed to the doorframe at the first click of the knob. He stands. The world tilts slightly with the force of his attention. You have to grab the jamb to steady yourself, which is either mortifying or thrilling or both.

Ari closes the gap between you in three strides, slow enough that you could step back if you wanted, but you don’t want to, not at all. His eyes flick up and down, reverent and a little wild, hands hovering at your hips as if asking permission with every micro-movement. When he breathes it’s a little ragged, and he says your name in a voice that makes you feel newly invented.

For a full ten seconds he just looks at you. Not scanning for flaws, not searching for argument, just taking you in fully, and finally letting his hands trace your waist as though it’s holy work. “You are so fucking gorgeous,” he says, almost helpless.

If you could bottle this moment, you would: his breathing, the way he’s fighting the urge to speak but can’t help it, the look of overwhelming want. His fingertips are shaking a little as he slips them under the thin straps, then drops his forehead to your shoulder and just stands there, holding you.

You giggle, unexpected and high-pitched. “Ari, you’re making a scene.”

He brings his lips to your temple, your cheek. “Good,” he growls, smiling.

You cluck your tongue, but you can feel your face heating. The nerves are dissipating, melting out through your skin, ovrtaken by something molten and exhilarating. You lean up, press your lips to his neck, and savor the way it makes him shudder.

He hands move down over your waist, then under your thighs, and suddenly the floor drops away and you’re in his arms. He carries you with no visible strain, and deposits you in the center of the bed with a deliberate reverence. The sheets are cool and crisp beneath your bare skin. He sits on the edge, arms bracketing you, tracing his palm up your thigh, over your hip, to the small of your back.

“You,” he says again, shaking his head, as if you have upended the entire order of things. “I don’t think you have the faintest idea what you do to me.”

You do, a little, but only because he makes it so obvious. Even now, his hands can’t stop touching you. He pushes your hair back, kisses your collarbone, your jaw, and when his mouth finds yours it’s half-hungry, half grateful, like he’s thankful for something you did not realize mattered so much. You let him, and you let yourself, too. The whole bed rocks with the intensity of his worship, and you realize—hushed and dazzling—that there is nowhere else in the world, possibly the entire universe, that you want to be. The memory of old shames, all the careful, reticent years, dissolve in the heat of his mouth on your skin.

He slides a palm down your thigh and back up, pausing to thumb a lace edge with such focus it’s almost comical, as if reading a map written in touch. When he shifts, his jeans creak and you realize Ari is trying and failing to keep himself composed, the hard line of him pressing against the fly.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, “I want to slow down, but you—” and then he’s kissing you again, but this time it’s with an edge, your name half-growled against your mouth, his hand a hot stripe across your ribcage. You reach for his shirt, tug upward, and Ari laughs into the kiss and obligingly peels it off, tossing it behind him. You savor the view as always: Ari’s golden tanned skin, the muscle of his shoulders, the hair over his chest and the trail down to his manhood cock.

Ari’s hands are on your shoulders, then your hips, guiding you back to the mattress. He lowers you with a gentleness that only makes the hunger more acute, kissing you all the while—with an urgency that infects your whole body. You’re aware of your heart, your skin, the press of his chest hair against your breasts through the lattice of black lace. You’re aware of the heat of his breath, the way his hands cup your thighs as if nothing in the world matters more than the exact give of your flesh beneath his palms.

And then, with a suddenness that’s almost comical, he breaks the kiss, leans back, and rolls, so you’re straddling him, knees bracketing his waist. Ari grins up at you, a wildness in his eyes. You feel suddenly, alarmingly exposed, perched over him in your tiny slip of nothing. But then Ari’s hands are back, running with purpose over your thighs, and then he’s bracing you by the hips, sliding you further upward, until your knees are on either side of his shoulders. The world pivots, every point of contact suddenly the precise axis of your need. He’s looking up at you, mouth already open, eyes almost black with intent.

And then, in that voice that’s all velvet and steel, Ari says, “Please sit on my face.” Like it’s not even possible to be embarrassed, like it’s the most obvious idea in the world, like you hadn’t ever considered it because you didn’t think you could possibly be the kind of person someone would want that much. He says it again, slower, each word a benediction: “Sit. On. My. Face.”

You blink, heat flooding your face—no one’s ever asked you for this, not so directly, so greedily. Ari doesn’t ask, though, so much as he demands, invites, wants. So he waits for you, hands gentle but insistent, the axis on which the universe turns. He licks his lower lip, and the sight is so obscene and so beautiful that you have to bite back a gasp.

You hover for a moment, uncertain—you in your ridiculous lace, the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, the daylight too honest in the window, until Ari’s hands tighten, just a bit, and he says, “I need to have you like this.”

And just like that, your last reservations dissolve—not because Ari is goading or pressuring, but because he means it. He wants you, all of you, with such ferocity that the only possible answer is yes. So you let yourself slide into place, guided by his hands, knees pressed into the sheets, thighs tensing as you hover above him. He looks up at you with devotion, hands smoothing the curve of your ass, the insistent flex and squeeze, and then he’s pulling you down, gently, no half-steps, mouth finding you through the silk first, a decisive kiss, and then pushing it aside, one thumb, and you’re bared.

The first contact is so tender it nearly buckles your knees, but Ari holds you steady, flattening his tongue, a careful, patient sweep, indicating he’ll play the long game. Then he grows bolder. He licks, then sucks, suck, sucks until you gasp and roll your hips forward, meeting that hunger head-on—then something opens up inside him, and he buries his face in your cunt.

Ari’s builds a rhythm of furious generosity; he’s greedy for it, yes, but not rushing, and every time you shiver, he murmurs these little words of encouragement, half-lost in the press of your thighs against his ears. You’re undone. The ceiling vanishes, the Colorado morning outside the window fades to a watercolor blur, and the only thing real is the trace of tongue and teeth and devotion.

You grip the headboard—no, you’re white-knuckling it, gasping something that might be his name or just a prayer. Ari’s hands aren’t gentle anymore; they’re greedy, molding your legs around his head with full intent. He doesn’t let up, not for air, not for a reprieve, and you want it that way, all the way, his eyes closed in rapture, like he can taste your soul.

You’ve been eaten out before—been eaten out by him before—but never like this. Every nerve ending in your body sings with electricity. You ride it, your brain flickering between arousal and laughter and disbelief and awe, until your breath is ragged and your voice is nearly gone.

He brings you to the edge and holds you there, again and again, until you’re babbling his name, a litany, the wet suck of his mouth a punctuation mark. There’s a moment where you think you might cry, the feeling is so intense, but instead you arch your back, pulling at his hair, and Ari makes a sound—delighted, greedy—grabs you harder, and just like that you come, shuddering so hard you’re certain you’ll leave a dent in the mattress.

But Ari doesn’t stop, tongue coaxing you to a second, smaller aftershock, hands gentling as though he knows that too much might tip you right off the planet. For a bright, trembling minute, you lose the thread of all language; you just hang there, open and panting and amazed that you are still in your body, much less staring down at the man you love, whose whole jaw is slick with your arousal, his eyes filled with the kind of pride usually reserved for Olympic gold medalists.

Fuck.

The man you love?

Ari’s hands slide under your thighs and, with an indulgence of gentleness, he lowers you to the mattress. You expect him to collect your body to his, tuck your face into his neck and maybe mumble some praise against the top of your head, but instead—he shifts, one knee on the bed, and then shoulders his way back between your legs like he’s clearing a path through the world.

You are about to protest, to tell him you’re already more than spent, that you might actually vaporize if he doesn’t let you recover, but you never get the words out. He’s planted himself between your knees, wide palms pushing your thighs apart and anchoring you as if you might try to escape. Like you could, even if you wanted to.

He’s merciless this time. You keep expecting him to slow, to ease off, to let you down gently, but he devours you, tongue and lips and whole face buried in the heart of you. The sensation is more intense now, and every nerve ending lights up with raw, electric pleasure. The overload is so complete your body can’t keep up; your hands scrabble at the sheets, your knees clamp hard around his head, and you curse, helpless, every word a rush of disbelief and wild joy. He pulls you apart and fastens you back together, again and again, each pass of his mouth intentional and deft. He’s not just eating you out, he’s consuming every atom you can offer, like you’re the only meal he’ll ever get.

You come again—harder, sharper—and it’s so much you sob, just a little, into your forearm, tears hot and unwelcome but somehow perfectly right. Ari never lets up. He holds you open, reverent, face wet with your need, tongue pushing you into a fourth, blinding orgasm. By the time he finally pauses, his cheek pressed to the inside of your thigh, your whole body is a jumbled mess.

Your breath is still coming in ragged tides, and your vision is streaked at the edges with the afterburn of ecstasy. But the moment your body slackens, Ari’s hands regrip with intent, and you realize—with a stab of terror and awe—that he is nowhere near done with you.

You try to wriggle away, or at least signal surrender, but Ari responds with a low, animal hum, so deep you feel it vibrating through the muscle of your thigh, and pins your hips down with a sweet, inexorable force.

Ari’s mouth returns to you, so greedy and thorough you realize that nothing on earth will slow him except your absolute depletion. He wants you ruined, wants you delirious and molten and incoherent. The only sounds in the room are your hoarse whines and the obscene, wet music of his mouth. When you try to catch your breath, he pulls you even closer, arms like iron bars under your legs, hands digging into your hips like he could wear you as a second skin. He doesn’t say a word, but everything about the way he eats you reads as a promise and a warning: he’s not finished until you’re empty, trembling, boneless. Maybe not even then.

You have no memory of ever feeling so helpless in the best possible way, all self-consciousness stripped away by the relentless, gracious violence of his devotion. You start laughing midway through the fifth, sixth, seventh wave—gasping, “I can’t—I can’t—” but Ari only redoubles, pulling every last shudder from you. When you finally fall limp, sobbing silently, the world reduced to a damp whiteout of spent pleasure, he cradles you like a prince rescuing a glass slipper.

Your bones feel unstrung, muscles flickering with the afterimage of climax. You fit perfectly in the crook of his body, cheek mashed against the warm, sweat-sticky skin of his chest. He breathes you in for a while, as if you’re some rare flower that might vanish if he blinks.

You don’t talk at first. You float on the leftover waves of pleasure, feeling the burn of your own thighs, the weirdly delightful chill of air on your wet skin, the thudding of Ari’s heart next to your cheek like a language you’re starting to learn. For a while he holds you that way, cradled in the safety of his ridiculous embrace, and lets you drift. Fingers play the vertebrae of your spine, gentle, one by one, as if your bones are a musical instrument and he’s determined to coax every note.

Eventually, your vision returns, embarrassment trying and failing to find oxygen in the thick air. Ari is still there, of course; he never leaves. “Hey,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, “are you alive in there?”

“No,” you say. “Ghost haunting you now.” Your voice is shredded, sore, so you croak it out, exhausted and elated. Ari’s answering laughter floods into the hollow between your collarbones, and you feel it like a soft animal curled in your ribs. He tucks you in tighter, wraps the sheet around your legs, drapes a tender, solicitous arm across your midsection like a shield.

Minutes pass. You’re not compelled to talk, which is one of the best parts of being with him. The silence isn’t expectant or loaded, just soft, feathered with the little sounds of breathing and heartbeat and, from the street below, the white noise of Denver plowing its way through late winter.

You press your ear to his chest, listen. Underneath the thick, dull rush of his pulse you can hear, distantly, the sound of his stomach rumbling.

“We… missed breakfast,” you mumble.

“You did, I didn’t.” He snorts, the sound reverberating through both of your bodies. “That was my breakfast, Beautiful. I could eat you every day for the rest of my life and never want for anything else.”

You try not to laugh, but the absurdity, the sincerity, it undoes you. Ari tips your chin up with a finger, then kisses you, gentle and lingering, as if you are a secret he means to keep. When he pulls away, he looks so smug it’s almost criminal.

You snort. “I’ve seen the amounts of food you consume to stay alive.”

He grins and shakes his head. “I guess that’s what room service is for then.” He stretches to the side, dragging you with him to keep you splayed half over his chest, retangling his long legs with yours under the sheets as he reaches for the phone on the bedside table. You arrange your cheek against the fuzz of his pec and let the slow, narcotic thump of his heart lull you back into you post-coital trance while he rattles off a long, impressive order that you miss the end of for falling asleep.

um 🥹

On some level there's always at least a whisper of some part of me in the reader characters I write, but I put a lot of what I would hope to find in a partner/relationship into this reader and this architect!Ari.

Heart divider was made by @firefly-graphics.

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You’d expected a lot of things when you agreed your husband’s oldest friend should come spend the holidays with you, but not this: you naked and splayed open, your back against Bucky’s chest, and Steve knelt between your legs, focus absolute as they took you apart.

Bucky’s lips moved against your neck, not quite kissing, hand sliding to cup one aching breast. “You want to feel for the ridge, the soft roof inside. Feel it?”

Steve nodded, learning by the tremors that rippled through you.

And you? You could only moan as his fingers sought a place only Bucky had touched before tonight.

Steve’s breath ghosted along your thigh, cool in comparison to the heat pooling where his fingertips pressed. “Like this?” he asked, looking up, seeking confirmation from Bucky.

Bucky squeezed you, barely-there pressure, his thumb circling your nipple. “Yeah, there—you’ll feel it through the front wall. Little bump.”

Steve slid his fingers deeper, slow and careful, and you arched back against Bucky’s chest. The pressure inside shifted, molten but sudden, and you gasped at the feel of it when he found it—that ridge, the soft roof, as Bucky had described it. Steve’s big hand trembled just a little as he kept it inside you, gentle but greedy, desperate to get it right. The man was as worshipping as he was determined, brow furrowed, lashes dark against his cheek as he mapped each element of your reactions.

And Bucky watched, grinning against your ear, voice thick. “That’s it, Steve. Watch her face, see how her mouth falls open? Touch her there, a tiny bit harder, that’s it, yeah.”

He kept the pressure steady, calloused thumb skating circles over your clit while his fingers pressed up, learning you, working with the careful tenacity he applied to every complex operation.

Bucky’s own hand drifted lower, his touch rough at your hip, a grounding force. You couldn’t move if you’d wanted to, pinned between them, the air thick with sweat and something like ozone.

You bucked, pulse thumping in your throat, teeth gritty against a whimper. Steve’s eyes flicked up again, shining, hungry, and your swore you might come just on the taste of his focus. With every press against that spot, your vision stuttered out, blinking in firework-bright bursts.

Bucky’s voice pressed into the shell of your ear, low and lazy, but with that hint of command that still managed to thrill you, even after all these years. “She’s real sensitive right there, Steve. Just steady. Keep the rhythm—yeah, just like that.”

“Fuck, Buck—she’s gonna—” Steve’s fingers jittered, the tip of his thumb ghosting over your wet clit.

“Let her,” Bucky hummed, open-mouthed over her shoulder. His other hand covered her thigh, holding her so wide the ache felt like a dare. “Make her feel it.”

Steve’s hand was huge, careful, coaxing, until it wasn’t, until the motion grew greedy, needy. You’d never been shy with Bucky, but with the attention of two lovers you felt nearly too open and exposed, nerves sparking along every limb. Bucky’s thumb toyed with your nipple, drawing it taut, while Steve’s fingers pursued your impending orgasm relentlessly.

And the orgasm came with no warning, just an unbearable pressure and then a bright, skittering release, your vision white-out as you shrieked and clamped around Steve’s hand. He nearly lost his balance but Bucky steadied him—steadied you—bracing your shaking limbs as you rode the aftershocks. Even after the pleasure crested, Steve’s fingers didn’t stop. He worked you through every shudder, sucking a breath through his teeth, awed. His voice was a fervent whisper, “Jesus. You—fuck, you look good like this.”

“She always does,” Bucky replied, mouth slick on your jaw, catching the sweat there. “You wanna see her come again?”

Steve’s hand stilled, then slowly slid free, leaving you embarrassingly empty and sticky. He watched you with dazed awe, pink flush climbing from his collar to cheekbones, as if he couldn’t believe the thing he’d just made happen, for you.

“Yeah, I do. Will you let me?” he asked, eyes meeting yours again.

You nodded, voice gone to wool and cotton, incapable of anything but a whispered, “Please.” The word left your lips desperate, high-pitched, a note of wildness that made Bucky’s hand tighten against your thigh, a subtle anchor to keep you from dissolving completely.

Steve’s smile broke open on his face, that cocky little tilt that always got him his way. He ducked down and pressed his mouth to your thigh, some kind of benediction, before giving Bucky a look, a question you weren’t included in: permission, or maybe the next step in instructions. Bucky’s hand still gripped your thigh, and the pressure from his fingertips went from comfort to proprietary.

“Take your time,” Bucky told him, slow as syrup. “She’s got plenty more in her if you work it up right.”

You whimpered, and Steve’s hand found your knee, thumb brushing circles that didn’t seem to know whether they were meant to calm or tease. He spread you even wider, fingers delving again, but now the touch was softer, coaxing in a new way. He watched your face the whole time, never letting you look away, and the sheer heat of his attention made it impossible to catch your breath, impossible to be anywhere but here, between them, for them.

You let your head loll back on Bucky’s chest, and he inhaled you like a secret. Steve’s mouth ghosted over the inside of your knee, the lightest of touches, as his hand slid slick with you, coaxing you open again. There was awe in his expression, like he couldn’t believe the things your body was capable of. That he couldn’t believe you let him see it.

Bucky’s voice was right in your ear, velvet and wicked. “You love this, don’t you? How he touches you, how he looks at you?” His teeth grazed just below your pulse, almost biting, his metal hand now flat and heavy on your soft stomach.

Steve’s mouth found your clit then, hot and wet, and you bit your lip, trying not to break apart too quickly, but Bucky’s other hand snapped up to your chin, forcing your jaw open. He slid two thick fingers into your mouth, muffling your gasps as Steve reached for that place inside you again, a blunt presence that made your hips twitch uncontrollably, mouth kissing and lapping at your clit.

“Be our good girl,” Bucky murmured, voice a velvet drag along your nerves. “Let me hear you, sweetheart.” He pressed your lips open wider, thumb tight on your cheek. Everything about him said claim, but you felt less like territory and more like treasure—something precious they’d both agreed to share.

You moaned and sucked on Bucky’s fingers, desperate for something to hold onto. Steve’s tongue drew slow, wide circles, alternating with little flicks that made you see stars, and every time his fingers curled inside you, you wanted to shake apart. Bucky’s hand pressed at the base of your throat, a leash without pressure, just a reminder of where you belonged.

Steve’s tongue moved with a rough, hungry precision that made your lashes flutter, the strangeness of his mouth—different than Bucky’s, somehow broader and needier—forcing you up against the edge of your own appetite. He groaned into you, animal, and the vibration made your toes curl as your hips bucked, seeking more, seeking everything.

The sound of you—wet and needy—filled the room, obscene, and Steve was impossibly focused. You could feel the shift as Steve’s mouth grew unabashed, each lap and suckle more confident. He lapped greedily, not just at your clit but at the desperate, shuddering noises you made, feeding on them, letting them escalate him past any feigned self-control.

Bucky murmured filth in your ear. “Such a pretty thing, all open for Steve. He’s a fast learner, isn’t he?” His fingers slipped from your mouth, gliding down to squeeze your breast with proprietary delight. “Sensitive here, too, Steve. She likes it just a little mean when you bite.”

Steve’s lips left your cunt, replaced by the blunt, perfect drag of his teeth—just a graze, but amplified by the velvet heat radiating between your thighs. The wild sound you made told him everything he needed. He grinned, eyes bright, and gave you another drag with his tongue and the barest scrape of teeth. Your legs shook, clamped for a second around his broad shoulders as he tormented you, licking through the slick he’d made.

“She’s right there,” Bucky insists, “but don’t let up.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving, as Bucky’s words poured through you, making it impossible not to want to give him everything, even the parts you thought you’d never let anyone else but him see. He tugged his hand from your mouth, and you gasped, “I’m close, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Bucky coaxed, hand splayed again over your breast, pinching and then soothing. “Let him taste it. Let him taste everything.” He nuzzled the space behind your ear, catching the lobe between his teeth, a punctuation to his demand.

Steve’s hand, meanwhile, never stopped mapping you. His thick fingers curling again against that spot inside, a squirming, irresistible pressure, while his mouth closed around your clit and sucked, hard, and the world melted into a soundless scream in your throat. You bucked up, hands grasping at Bucky’s biceps, and came again, hard enough you thought you might black out.

This time Steve didn’t bother with awe, only a growl of triumph and gratitude as he licked you through every convulsion, not stopping until your thighs trembled against his head and Bucky had to murmur, “Enough, big guy, you’ll melt her.”

You didn’t remember the transition—somewhere in the haze of pleasure, Steve had shifted you onto his lap, his cock thick and leaking, pressed impossibly hard against your hip. Bucky sat facing you both on the foot of the bed, blue eyes greedy and soft at the same time, mouth slack with want. Steve held you to his chest, the thrum of his pulse wild and loud beneath your palm.

“Fuck, honey, you alright?” Bucky asked, thumb brushing along your jaw. You only nodded, eyes glassy, limbs a little insubstantial.

“She gets real soft after she comes,” Bucky explained. His metal hand stroked your cheek, thumb scraping your parted lip. “Steve, you ever eat a girl out til she can’t think straight, and then fuck her so good she gets slick again just from the memory?”

Steve’s gaze flicked down to your face, as if he needed to check in, as if the rules of this odd, shared gravity could change at your whim. But you only leaned harder into his chest, the memory of Bucky’s words blooming low in your gut. “Not like this,” Steve said quietly, the confession tumbling out like an apology. “Never had someone so slick and eager and pliant. She’s so fucking sweet.”

“She likes making a mess, especially when she knows someone’s gonna clean it up nice for her.”

It was obscene and beautiful in the same breath, the way your body pulsed and ached for these two men. You knew Bucky intimately, but Steve was still a new entity, it should be unbelievable what you were letting him do to you, and yet you were willing because Bucky said you could be.

“You wear her out, and she lets you do anything you want.” Steve pressed his lips to your temple, the gesture as tender as a prayer, but you could feel the tension in his body—like he was holding himself back as much as he was holding you up.

“Do you want him to fuck you?” It was as blunt as a knife’s edge; Bucky never did like to leave things to implication.

You meant to say yes, steeled and confident, but the only sound you could make was a whimper. Bucky grinned. “Use your words, honey. Steve’s been waiting a long time.”

Steve’s hands tightened on your hips. “Since your wedding,” he confessed, and you gasped.

Bucky nodded, proud, calm, even though this revelation was ricocheting through your mind. Steve had been overseas for years until just recently, and of course he hadn’t missed his best friend’s wedding—had been the best man—but it had also been the first time you’d met him.

You remembered the speech, the toast. Steve smiling at you across a room of strangers, nothing but friendship and pride in his voice, but now you wondered how long he’d been drinking you in, how long he’d been simmering in this kind of want.

You also remembered—vivid as if it bloomed on the backs of your eyelids—the way Steve’s eyes had lingered at the reception, how his hand seemed to swallow yours when he shook it, holding on a beat too long. You’d caught him watching you and Bucky slow dancing, his smile softer than it ought to have been, heavy with yearning. At the time you’d wondered if maybe he was just that kind of romantic, or maybe a little lonely after so much time away.

But now that memory rewrote itself, charged and electric, searing through you as Steve took your chin in his hand and kissed you—soft at first, learning the taste of you. His mouth tasted like you, and you shivered, deep in your bones, at being desired by these two men.

Bucky reached for you, steady hands bracketing your thighs, and you sank back against Steve’s chest. Your husband ducked lower, pressing a line of kisses from your hip bone to the soft, over-sensitive spot at the seam of your thigh.

You shivered as Bucky trailed his tongue through the wetness Steve had left behind, mouth hungry and reverent. He licked slowly, then nosed at your clit, already swollen and sore from Steve’s attention, and the jolt of sensation made you gasp into Steve’s mouth. He devoured your sounds greedily, tongue parting your lips as if he needed to taste how undone you were.

Bucky’s tongue was firmer than Steve’s, more insistent, and when he flattened it against you and sucked, you felt every vibration in your teeth. You whimpered into Steve’s kiss, and he swallowed the noise, hands squeezing your hips as you rolled against the heat of Bucky’s mouth, your body burning, melting, until there was nothing left but sensation.

You weren’t sure Bucky’s mouth could ever be called gentle, but right now it was a new kind of slow, each lap deliberate, stroking the sharp edge of oversensitivity and coaxing pleasure out of it until your eyes watered. Steve’s hand wound into your hair, guiding your head back against his shoulder, and you let him, lost in the heat radiating from both their bodies.

“She’s shaking,” Steve whispered, awe thick in his voice.

“She knows what she likes,” Bucky replied, voice muffled between your legs. His metal hand dug into your thigh, cool and greedy, while the other traced lazy patterns over your ribs, drawing your skin tight with anticipation for what would come next.

Bucky pulled his mouth away with a slick, obscene sound, smirking up at you. “You ready for cock?” he asked, and this wasn’t an idle question. Bucky wanted you to say it, wanted you to beg for it. Steve’s cock pressed up under you, thick and hot, and you could feel how desperate he was for it. You were too.

“Yes,” you said, or maybe just moaned it, letting your knees fall as wide as Steve and Bucky wanted them. “Yes, please.”

“Fuck, she’s polite,” Steve mumbled, hands already guiding you up, shifting you onto your knees, palms bracing the mattress as Bucky moved to the side of you, one hand fisting his own stiff cock, the other smoothing down your back and skimming over your ass. You could feel Steve’s cock, hot and insistent, nudging between your thighs.

“She likes a full feeling,” Bucky told Steve, the statement an offer and a warning both, and you blinked up at him, swallowing. “When you fuck her, you gotta go deep.”

Steve’s hands caught your hips, palms broad enough to span almost from waist to thigh. There was a reverence in his movements, but also the first hints of impatience—the way his fingers flexed, the way his cock jumped when it brushed against you, smearing precum along the seam of your body. He lined himself up and held, not yet pushing in, and the wait felt like another kind of pleasure, anticipation sharp as a blade.

Your chest seized—with anticipation or hesitation, you weren’t sure—as you realized Bucky was going to let Steve fuck you bare.

“He’s a big one, sweetheart,” Bucky warned, and you could hear the grin on his face. He planted a hand at the small of your back, keeping your spine bowed. “Nice and slow. She likes to feel every inch.”

You pressed your face into the pillow, bracing for a stretch that came slow and monumental—Steve’s cock parting you, nudging inside until you couldn’t breathe for the fullness, the hot-dull burn that quickly blurred into something sweeter.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured. “Let him all the way in.”

You were so wet he didn’t even need to force it; the broad head split you open easily. You heard Bucky’s purr, almost proud, as if he had made you this way, greedy for the kind of ache only they could give. Bucky loved to torment you with this kind of fuck when he slid inside you, so his direction for Steve to as well was to be expected.

Steve held, fully sheathing himself, body trembling with restraint. “You okay?” The sound of your name was different in his voice, kinder, stripped of any artifice.

You nodded, eagerly pressing your hips back, and the slide hit something deep, a place that made your toes flex and your mouth fall open. Steve’s hands stroked your hips, grounding you, his breath rough as he held as still as he could manage. Bucky’s voice was syrup-sweet at your ear, “Go on, Steve. She wants it.”

The first thrust was a slow, rolling motion that stole your breath. Steve drew out nearly all the way, then slid back in, the burn giving way to a greedy, clutching pleasure. You held perfectly still, squeezing your eyes shut, learning the new shape of yourself with Steve inside you. You keened, knuckles whitening in the bedsheets. Bucky stayed close, palm at the nape of your neck, his own cock hard and leaking, pressed to your shoulder as he watched Steve fuck you.

“She takes cock so well, doesn’t she?” Bucky crooned, his tone barely above a purr. “Bet you never seen anyone so hungry before.” His metal hand traced your spine, ratcheting the tension higher as he pet you and praised you, the words a molten thread tangled through every harder, deeper thrust. Steve’s hips pistoned slow, but with such force you swore you could feel it in your throat, each time catching a spot Bucky had mapped just for him.

Steve’s rhythm was a miracle of endurance, slow and deep, every thrust measured, watched, almost academic in its hunger. His hands never stopped moving, stroking your waist, your belly, your ribs, learning every inch of you as if he needed to memorize the route. His hips stuttered occasionally, evidence of his own struggle not to lose himself too quickly to the wet heat you offered him.

And he whispered your name between every other breath, like a vow, like he was kneeling in church.

Bucky’s hands grew rougher on you, easing your thighs farther apart, planting dirty encouragements in your head that made you slicker, filthier than before. “You should see her face, Steve. She’s so beautiful right now.”

Bucky coaxed your head up and to the side so Steve could see the exact, filthy pleasure contorting your features. And you felt it, the slide of your own tears, half-joy and half-overwhelm, as Steve picked up the pace, his thrusts deeper, harder.

Bucky wiped a tear from your jaw with his thumb, then sucked it into his mouth. “So beautiful when you’re ruined like this.”

Steve’s fingers dug into your flesh, and you could feel how close he was to letting go of decorum, of caution, of the last rags of self-control. You wanted it. You moaned for it. Your head swam with the ache of being so fucking full, of being seen and used and loved all at once.

“Not gonna last,” Steve groaned, the confession breaking at the seam. “Feels—fuck, Bucky, how do you keep your head—”

“I don’t, punk. That’s why I always make her come first.” Bucky’s laugh was sharp and breathless, the sound of a man profoundly in love with his own wife. He trailed a hand down your front, fingers gliding over the slick mess Steve had made of you. “And always make it up to her after, too. She loves that part too.”

Bucky’s hand found your clit, thumb and forefinger pinching, rolling it just this side of cruel, and you yelped, the sudden spike of pain-pleasure a match to the fullness Steve was feeding you, and your whole body shuddered. Bucky laughed—warm and wicked—and reached down, fingers sliding through the mess of slick and sweat and precum at the seam where Steve’s body split yours, then smeared it over his own cock.

He pumped himself once, twice, eyes locked on where Steve’s body met yours, and you watched, unabashedly.

Bucky leaned forward, mouth hot at your jaw. “You want me to fuck your mouth while Steve fucks you?”

The question, blunt and bright, sliced through your haze. You nodded, desperate, and Bucky grinned, wolfish. He pressed his thumb to your lips, smearing the taste of yourself across them, and then shifted around in front of you, kneeling up so his cock bobbed level with your mouth. It was already slick, the head flushed dark, and you opened for him automatically, tongue out, dutiful and greedy all at once.

“That’s my girl,” Bucky breathed, sliding in slow, letting you feel the heft of him as Steve’s cock ground into your cunt from behind. You could barely spare the coordination to suck and moan at the same time, the boundary between pleasure and humiliation dissolved.

Your throat worked, helpless, as Bucky fucked your mouth in shallow, reverent thrusts, and your jaw burned with the effort of taking him as deep as he wanted. He pulled back every time you gagged, not to spare you, but to watch the string of spit connect your lips to the tip of his cock. You blinked up at your husband, tears streaming freely now, and saw how it undid him—made him thrust a little deeper, fuck your mouth a little harder, hands cradling your jaw, both anchoring and guiding you.

“Pretty thing,” he muttered, almost gentle, “look at you. That’s it. Just like that. God, Steve, you’re going to love fucking her throat.”

“Buck, you can’t just—” Steve had to groan before he could finish his thought. “You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to last.”

You moaned, mouth full of Bucky and body full of Steve, your whole self strung taut between their appetites. The rhythm between Steve’s hips behind you and Bucky’s in front of you a terrifying, perfect sync.

Bucky smirked, thumb wiping spit from your chin, then dragged it down to your throat, pressing lightly so you felt the stretch of yourself inside. “Bet you want him in your mouth right after he fills you up, don’t you?” Bucky’s voice was honey-thick, tugging need like a thread from your cunt all the way up to your brain.

You nodded, desperate, and that was all it took—Steve’s grip on your hips locked down, his pulse a wild thrum against your skin, and he buried himself in you with one last, shuddering thrust. You could feel it, the way he pulsed and spilled hot inside, and the sound he made—it was raw, almost animal. He held inside, grinding so deep you felt it all the way up your spine, filling you so perfectly a whimper broke loose from your lips even with Bucky’s cock still in your mouth.

Bucky eased out of your mouth, palm still warm against your jaw, thumb stroking where his cock had just been. He grinned at you, all sweet-and-mean, then leaned in to press a kiss over your spit-slick lips. “That’s it,” he whispered, reverent, like he was kissing holy ground. “That’s my good girl.” The words landed low in your belly, twisting up with the mess Steve had left in you.

But his cock was still inside you, too, and he collapsed forward, chest to your back, his arms caging you in. You expected him to pull out, to give you a moment to recover, but instead he rocked his hips, slow and greedy, as if he couldn’t bear to lose the feeling of you squeezing around him.

And then, without warning, his hand slid under your belly, fingers finding your clit, already swollen and overstimulated. He drew tight, precise circles with the pads of first two fingers, not letting up, even when you whined and squirmed beneath him. Bucky’s hands held you steady, anchoring you so Steve could play your body like an instrument.

The friction was so good, so dirty, that your cunt clamped around him involuntarily, milked every last drop as Steve’s fingers worked you up again, your body already betraying just how ready it was to be used a second, third, hundredth time.

“Fuck, she’s insatiable, isn’t she?” Steve said, voice almost fond, the sound of it a pressure at the base of your skull.

“She’s always been that way,” Bucky answered, a frayed thread of pride winding through his voice. “After the serum, I never met a partner who could keep up with me until her. Like you were made for a super soldier, sweetheart.”

You laughed, or tried to, but it came out a shaky, desperate gasp as Steve’s fingers wrung another whimper from you. Your knuckles dug into the sheets, the only tether as your overstimulated clit set off sparks behind your eyes. “Bucky,” you croaked, barely audible, “I can’t—”

“You can, honey. You’ll show Steve just how much you can take.” His gaze was intent, and for a moment you remembered every night the two of you had built trust on, every whispered dare and secret need he’d coaxed from you, every time he’d made you shatter and put you back together.

You barely had time to brace—Steve’s closed closed hard and firm around your clit, pinching, sending a lightning bolt through you, and as your body seized, his mouth found the meat of your shoulder and bit down. Not a warning, not a tease—a real goddamn bite. It ricocheted up your spine and detonated any coherence you had left. Your vision went blinding white, then red, and you screamed, nails gouging at the mattress, his hardening cock still buried so deep inside you it felt like you were cleaved in half.

The orgasm hit different—shocking, jagged, beyond pleasure and into a place that was just sensation, raw and total. You were crying, you realized, drool and tears tracking down your chin, but you couldn’t stop, couldn’t get enough, not even when the world blurred and your whole midsection pulsed around Steve’s cock, milking him for everything he had.

Bucky held your gaze the whole time, watching you unravel, watching every second of you coming apart for his best friend.

“Never gets old,” Bucky said, voice ragged with want, “seeing you come apart.” He stroked your hair, gentling you even as Steve’s cock kept you pinned and shuddering.

Steve pulled out, finally, leaving a slick trail down your thigh, and you expected collapse—rest, maybe, or at least a breath of air.

You got part of what you wanted as you were manhandled with a gentle efficiency—Steve lowering you to the mattress and Bucky rolling you over onto your back. The two men bracketed themselves around you. Bucky’s thumb smoothed tears from your cheeks, his lips hovering at your brow. Steve’s palm swept your hair from your face, tucking the wild strands behind your ears, and he smiled at you, dazed and open and deeply, deeply gone himself.

“You okay?” he asked, voice so hoarse you wanted to laugh, if only you didn’t feel so utterly wrung dry.

Bucky’s hands mapped your body, stroking down your arms, your waist, as if to collect every piece of you that had scattered. “She’s perfect. She’s got a thing for being ruined,” Bucky said, rubbing his thumb hard across your jaw, “but it’s more than just the mess. It’s being wanted, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

You trembled, the answer right there but too big for your mouth. All you could manage was a soft, but firm, “It’s both.”

It was. The ache between your legs, the aftershocks twitching in your thighs, crescendoed in the knowledge that you belonged—here, between them—because you were wanted. Not just by Bucky, whose love for you was a still wildfire after the first few years of the life you were building together, but by Steve, the last person you ever expected to want anything at all.

They held you in the perfect kind of silence for a while. Bucky stroked your sternum with two fingers, tracing the rapid pounding of your heart, while Steve drew lazy patterns on your ribs, the gentle touch making your bones melt.

Steve was the one who broke the silence, voice still thick and slow. “I’m sure Bucky’s told you how everything feels amplified for us, after the serum?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice, but Steve caught your chin and made certain you were listening, blue eyes intent on the fall and rise of your chest. He thumbed the corner of your mouth, gentle in a way that didn’t match the bite mark blooming on your shoulder. “It’s true. Everything’s hotter, sharper. Smells, tastes, touch.” His hand wandered down your neck, tracing the chain of your pulse. “It’s like all the dials turned up past what they’re supposed to do.”

Bucky grinned, mouth curving against your temple, proud and a little feral. “It’s why we’re so good at this,” he said, and the “we” wasn’t just the two of them, but you too, looped into their satisfaction by being the one they found satiation with.

You remembered, dimly, what Bucky had once told you—something about how pain and pleasure were just colors in a spectrum for men like them, how sometimes the best you could do was grab hold of the brightest one and hang on until it faded.

You barely noticed when Bucky’s hand slid lower, two fingers sliding along the seam of you, dipping just inside. You’d thought you were emptied out, rung dry, but the dull ache at your entrance proved otherwise—the evidence of Steve inside you, the slow ooze of it, making your lashes flutter in a way that felt almost innocent.

“You want to keep going, honey?” He asked because this—the consent, the agency—was one of the roots of his pleasure. You nodded again, too spent for speech. “Yeah, you do,” he murmured, pressing his own cock flush against your thigh, hot iron against soft flesh. “And you want Steve to watch, don’t you?”

The way Bucky framed it, you didn’t just want to perform, to be seen—you wanted to be worshipped, to be watched while your body proved itself again and again. There was no performance anxiety; there was only the heat of two impossible men zeroed in on every twitch of your muscles. You felt your own slick between your thighs, the slow, filthy trickle of Steve’s cum pooling out of you, the ache where you’d been so thoroughly stretched.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky chuckled. “Words.”

You tried to say, “Yes, please,” but it came out as a sigh, and Bucky’s grin only widened.

Steve cradled your head like a priceless artifact, thumb pressing a sleepy circle against your jaw while his gaze moved between your eyes and the place where Bucky’s fingers cupped your cunt. You felt your hips roll up, wanton, trying to keep contact with Bucky’s hand even as he toyed with your entrance but never quite let you have the friction you needed.

“You want to show Steve how we fuck when it’s just you and me in the dark, how well you take me.” A statement, not a question.

“Mmmhmm,” you groaned, and Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then knelt up, hands guiding your unresisting legs apart. He knelt back on his haunches and pulled your hips close. You heard Steve’s breath stutter at the sight, and it filled you with a greedy, wild pride. Bucky teased the seam of you with the head of his cock, up and down, up and down, making you whine.

At the last moment, Bucky relented and pushed inside, filling you with a swift, brutal thrust that bottomed out in one motion. There was no slow stretch, no easing in—just the violent, relentless press of his cock, and you arched off the mattress with a helpless, desperate moan. Your body was made to take him, every inch of you was slick and trembling, so the pain blurred seamlessly into pleasure and back again until you weren’t sure which you preferred.

He moved slow at first, kneeling above you like a god, letting you feel the thickness of him as he rocked in and out, but it wasn’t long before he found the rhythm he liked—a rough, demanding piston that left you scrambling for breath, for touch, for anything to keep you from coming apart entirely. You felt every ridge and vein, every rutting pound as he chased his own need, each thrust fusing the two of you back together.

All you could do—wanted to do—was take it. The raw, pounding pleasure, the relentless stretch, the feeling of Bucky’s cock rutting into you deeply. You heard yourself sob—and it was not a neat or pretty thing, but a wrecked, raw sound that only made Bucky groan above you. He caught your thighs in his hands, spreading you wider, and you felt the obscene heat of the stretch, the way your cunt seized around him with each battering drive. The slick noise of it—your body, his cock, the fucking mess Steve had left in you—filled the room, a rhythm and a punctuation to Bucky’s breathing as he drove deeper, harder, faster.

Steve’s hand found yours in the sheets. He laced his thick fingers between yours and squeezed, grounding you, letting you feel the reverent awe rolling off him in slow, steady waves. But there was an unmet hunger still lingering there under the surface. You could feel it in the tense of his body next to yours, and when you turned your face, eyes seeking his, he met your gaze without hesitation.

Steve bent to kiss you, and there was no veiling tenderness or shy request for permission. His tongue pushed into your mouth, greedy and wild, tasting the ghost of Bucky on your lips, tasting the salt of your tears. You kissed back with everything you had, drawing another moan from your throat as Bucky pistoned into you, the force rocking your whole body up into Steve’s chest.

Bucky’s thrusts didn’t slacken—they were still relentless, still merciless—but as you and Steve kissed, the tempo oscillated into something deeper, a series of slower,seismic detonations. Each time Bucky bottomed out inside you, he held there, grinding, spine arched, as if the sight of you kissing Steve was as much a pleasure to him as the feel of your cunt squeezing him.

Steve groaned into your mouth, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw, and Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, like he needed to stake a claim even as he offered you up. With every new roll of Bucky’s hips, a different noise tore its way out of your throat—some for the pain, some for the pleasure, some for the blissful humiliation of being made a spectacle for their eyes.

“Fuck her mouth, Steve,” Bucky said, a low, hungry rumble.

Steve didn’t hesitate, and it was only for a fraction of a second before he was shifting up, the broad line of his thigh braced alongside your head. His cock was still half-hard, glazed with your slick and his own release. The sight of it, flushed angry-red and wet, made your cunt clench around Bucky. Steve cupped your chin, thumb curling along the hinge of your jaw, and you sucked him into your mouth, the taste salty and obscene.

You groaned around him, lips stretching, tongue flattening under the thick, salty weight. He barely thrust, just eased forward, but the size of him still made your throat protest. Bucky continued his slow, tortruous pace below, watching intently as Steve’s cock parted your lips, and the sight of it—his best friend fucking your mouth while he still pounded into your cunt—nearly undid him, you could feel it in the grip of his hands on your hips.

“Deeper,” Bucky ordered, and Steve obeyed. He slid in, careful but insistent, filling your mouth until you gagged, until your eyes watered anew. Steve slid in, your throat stretched, and the assault of it made you gasp around him, desperate for air, for mercy, for more. Steve petted your jaw, his other hand cupping the back of your head, and for all the brutality of the act there was infinite patience in how he held you there, letting you adjust, letting you learn the unique shape of his need. Somewhere above, Bucky laughed—a single breath of filthy awe, a marvel at the spectacle of you taking both their cocks at once like this.

The taste of Steve’s cum was thick in your mouth, the smell of sex and sweat and ozone burning in your nostrils. You wanted them both to know how much you liked this, how much you needed every inch of what they gave. So you hollowed your cheeks and sucked, rolling your tongue with just enough pressure to see the effect in Steve’s eyes—head thrown back, spine bowed glorious, hand clenching your jaw with a desperation that made you burn with pride.

Bucky’s cock pounded up into you from below, and Steve’s pushed into your mouth from above, and you—pinned, stretched, used—were nothing but bliss. The sensation was a hinge, your body swinging wild between the two of them. You felt the echo of your own heartbeat in your cunt, in your mouth, in every thrum of the mattress and grind of their hips.

Steve’s thrusts grew bolder, and at each push he eased a little deeper, patience thinning as your mouth softened to his shape. His voice, when it came, was raw and rough, “Fuck, fuck, you feel so good—” your name murmured as its own curse when it fell from his lips in this moment.

He spilled his seed down your throat, but not all of it. He pulled out and shot the rest over your breasts, warm rope after rope of it across your heaving chest as Bucky pistoned in even harder, the thudding slap of his hips the only sound in the world.

Bucky slammed harder, harder, until you felt the actual bruise of him inside you, some deep purple echo of the violence. He reached for your clit, pinched, and your body shuddered into another orgasm, spasms wracking you so hard you thought you’d bite your tongue. You moaned so sweet and so ruined as he flew over the edge.

Bucky’s cock throbbed inside you, a shuddering full-body tremor, and then he was coming, hips jammed flush as he spilled molten and messy into the deepest part of you. His moan was raw, unguarded, and he didn’t let up, kept grinding through every spurt, making sure you took every last drop. The pressure of it set off a chain reaction—your body seized, aftershocks tearing up your thighs and into your belly, squeezing around him in greedy, involuntary pulses.

Bucky’s head dropped back, his jaw flexing as he held your hips pinned. You watched him, glassy-eyed and adoring, as every muscle in his chest locked. “Christ,” he panted, eyes flickering to Steve, “This is unreal.” He pulled halfway out—slow, slow—then pushed in again, a wet, obscene sound marking every inch. “She’s still squeezing me, even after you ruined her.” Bucky’s grin was all teeth, all pride and filth. “Can feel your mess inside her, Steve. So fucking wet she’s dripping down my balls.”

You moaned in the hinge between them, wrung out and wild, as Bucky fucked you through the last quakes and Steve’s hand fanned gently against your throat, thumb pressing the pulse there like he wanted to count your heartbeats—maybe hold them for ransom.

Bucky let out a ragged exhalation and pulled out, the head of his cock dragging on hypersensitive nerves, leaving you gaping and gasping and dripping. Bucky didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction. Instead, he watched the spill with a sick, loving sort of pride, then reached down, scooped his own cum with his fingers and smeared it over your breasts, painting you in it, mixing it with his best friend’s seed until your whole chest was slick with it. He held you there for a moment, painted and panting and caught in the liminal pleasure, before tilting your face up and licking a stripe from your collarbone to your jaw, tongue lazy and flat. Bucky’s mouth found yours, and you tasted the salt of Steve and yourself on his lips. You kissed him like you were dying, and Bucky kissed you back harder, swallowing you whole.

Steve’s voice burrowed into your ear with shocking gravity, arms closing around your limp torso as if to protect you from the world outside this narrow, unrepeatable moment. “You are so fucking beautiful ruined like this,” he said, voice half-reverent.

Bucky’s thumb pressed under your chin, tilting your face: “You want more, don’t you?” You did. That was the devastating truth of it. Even as your body ached and stung from orgasm, you wanted all the ways they touched you, every version of this night.

“Are you sure, Buck?” Steve asked, incredulous.

Bucky’s laugh was a bright, sharp crack in the haze, so full of delight it rang in your bones. “Oh, sweetheart. Steve has no idea what you’re capable of after a few more rounds.”

He bent over you, hands braced by your head, and pressed a kiss to the center of your brow—a benediction at odds with the lazy trail of his hand down your body, cupping your breast, then skimming the mess he and Steve had left there. He rubbed their slick together with an idle curiosity, like a child finger-painting, until Steve’s hand joined his, pinching a nipple between two careful fingers and rolling it until you arched up, spent muscles clenching with electric aftershock.

“We could let her rest,” Bucky said, tongue laving your earlobe as he spoke, “but why waste a perfectly good afterglow when you haven’t even fucked my wife in the shower yet?”

WE ALL KNOW I'M RARELY CAPABLE OF CUTTING SOMETHING DOWN

SO

I HOPE YOU'RE ALL HAPPY/RUINED RIGHT ALONGSIDE ME.

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

It couldn’t have come at a better time. You needed a change, a big one. You’d been deeply unhappy, caught in a rut with no one to lean on. So you’d picked up everything and moved to a new place. A completely fresh start. You couldn’t wait to see what this new life held in store for you.

For now, what it held in store were high ceilings and built-in arches. Your old apartment could never. This was the first step to the ideal, happiest you. 

You were celebrating by unpacking boxes, aided by a moderately expensive bottle of wine you’d been saving for a special occasion. You’d made sure to unpack your wireless speaker first and were now blasting a high-energy oldies mix, reveling in the fact that you didn’t share walls with anyone anymore. “I love you, baaaaby,” you shouted along to the music, “and if it’s quite alright, I need you baaaaaby, to warm the lonely night.” Your half-drunk glass of wine sloshing dangerously in one hand while you rifled through a box of knick-knacks with the other. And yes, you were a little drunk, but that didn’t explain the intense chill that ran up your spine. And then– 

BANG

BANG

BANG

The house shook with the force of whatever had just happened. You jumped, wine spilling across the hardwood floor in a gruesome red splash. Your heart was in your throat. Adrenaline rushing through your veins. What the fuck was that? The sounds had come from upstairs. You took a deep breath and tried to calm your body. It’d probably just been a stack of boxes falling or– There was obviously an explanation, and you just needed to go upstairs and look.   

The chills were still crawling through your body, but that was just the adrenaline, just your spiked heart rate. As you approached the staircase off your front hall, you grabbed an umbrella that’d been haphazardly leaned against the door frame until you could find a permanent place for it. With a vice-like grip around the handle, the sharp tip pointed out to stab any would-be intruders (Oh god, please don’t be an animal. You had no idea how you’d get rid of it yourself), you forced yourself up the stairs. The first thing you noticed when you got up to the top was that the doors to what you’d decided would be your bedroom, the guest room, and your office were all closed. You hadn’t done that. Holding the umbrella out in front of you, you cautiously opened the first door, then shrank back in defense. But there was nothing there. It was completely empty. The gentle sounds of the suburban neighborhood at night filtered in through the open window. Oh right. You’d opened all the windows upstairs to let the lingering mustiness of the unoccupied house air out a little bit. A gust of wind must have blown through and shut all the doors. That was all. You let out the tension in your body with a laugh, then closed all the windows. But you didn’t glance outside to see that no wind blew through the trees and the air was completely still.

Your first night, you slept a little weirdly. You couldn’t remember your dreams, beyond the fact that you had some, but whatever they were, they’d left you feeling unsettled. You chalked it up to being in an unfamiliar place and got out of bed, ready to start your day.

You went for a run, excited to explore your new neighborhood. You also hoped that being out and about would give you a chance to meet some of your neighbors. You never really knew anyone in your apartment building. People were always moving in and out, which made it hard to forge any real relationships. Now that you were somewhere permanent, you were hopeful that that would change.

But as you ran, you quickly became discouraged. People were out: working on their yards, getting the mail, bringing in groceries. But anytime you tried to initiate contact, with a friendly wave and a happy “Good morning!”, you were just met with uncomfortable stares. The worst was an elderly couple tending to their flower beds. At your greeting, the woman leaned over to her husband and whispered something in his ear. He looked up at you, making eye contact, and sadly shook his head. Then they both got up and went inside. You didn’t understand what you’d done wrong.

You reassured yourself as you got back to your house that these communities could be insular. Maybe new people didn’t move in very often. You would just strengthen your resolve. Win them all over. You could do it. They’d see. You were gonna be a great neighbor.

Two days later, you were making good progress. You’d unpacked all of the essentials you needed to live, and now you were focusing on the little sprucing-up projects you wanted done before you’d get the furniture all in place and art on the walls. Fresh coats of paint in some of the rooms, updated fixtures here and there. The house didn’t need much work, but you were making it yours. It filled your heart to do it.

Currently, you were on the highest step of your stepladder in your bedroom, taping where the wall met the ceiling before you started painting an accent wall. You weren’t the most comfortable up so high, but you’d checked to make sure the stepladder was perfectly steady before you’d gotten on it.

You were about halfway done when a chill went up your spine, and you swore that you felt something behind you, and then, as you instinctively turned your head to look, the step stool just tipped over, the right two feet coming fully off the ground and you tumbled off of it with a shout, landing in a jumbled heap on the ground. 

You breathed heavily as your brain tried to catch up with what had happened. Without thinking, you were already cradling one hand against your chest. It’d taken most of your weight when you’d hit the ground. It hurt, but the pain wasn’t blinding. You tentatively touched your wrist and then carefully rotated it. You could move it. It wasn’t broken. With a sigh of relief, your heart still pounding in your ears, you picked yourself up and turned back to deal with the stepladder. But– That wasn’t right. It was just sitting there, perfectly upright, like nothing had happened. No. It’d fallen over. Hadn’t it? Maybe– Maybe when you’d felt something behind you, you’d turned around more sharply than you’d realized and lost your balance. That was what happened. It was the only explanation.

As you went to wrap your wrist, just to be safe, you ignored the loud voice in your head insisting that you’d been shoved. 

You loved this kitchen. You loved it so much. Marble countertops, a gas stovetop with six burners and a built-in griddle, an honest-to-god breakfast nook. It was like the whole thing had been plucked right out of your dreams. You still had no idea how you’d been able to afford a kitchen like this, how this whole house hadn’t been snatched right up above asking the moment it’d been put on the market, but you weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You just let yourself be happy with it. 

Your music was blasting, and you danced around the built-in island as you made yourself dinner. Your first real meal in your incredible kitchen, all of your cookware finally unpacked, put exactly where it all needed to go in the ample cabinet space. 

You were sauteeing vegetables when your favorite part of the song hit, and you did a little shimmy as you sang along. But you were cut off when, right up against your ear, you heard a warm, low chuckle. You jumped and whirled around, your spatula held out at the ready. But there was no one there. Of course, there wasn’t. You were alone. 

You shook your head at yourself. It must have been something in the song, or the sound had traveled in from outside, or– Or any number of things. You were just scaring yourself. It was fine. You took a deep breath to settle yourself and went back to making dinner. 

You were in your bedroom. Well, except you weren’t. Not exactly. The shape was right, and you knew it was your room, but none of your things were there. None of your decorations. None of your furniture. Still, it felt familiar to you. You were on the bed, lying on top of the covers in a short, gauzy nightgown. The bed was a little softer than you preferred, the comforter a little downier. There was an armchair set across from the bed, with a man sitting in it. You’d never seen him before, but he was familiar too. He was tall, you could tell, even sitting down. Broad. He had soft-looking dark brown hair and a thick beard. He was staring at you.

He didn’t say anything, but you knew what he wanted. You placed one hand on the inside of your knee, slowly moving it up your thigh. With your other hand, you grasped your breast through the nightie, tweaking the nipple with one finger. You let out a little gasp and he visibly swallowed. The hand on your leg rose higher, but you didn’t rush it. You were taking your time, letting yourself feel. That was what he wanted.

Your hand finally reached your core, and you moaned softly. Oh. You weren’t wearing any underwear. You brushed your fingers across your lower lips, slowly, gently, moving your way between them. Over on the chair, the man leaned forward, and you spread and lifted your knees so he could see.

As you brushed your thumb against your clit, you wanted to close your eyes, sink into it. But you kept your eyes open. He wanted you to look at him, see him. He wanted your eyes on him as you came apart. 

You didn’t try to stifle your gasps and moans as you moved one finger inside of yourself and increased the pressure on your clit with your thumb, moving it in small, fast circles now. With your other hand, you pinched your nipple hard. His icy blue eyes were on you. He licked his lips. The wave was rising inside of you, higher, higher, but you needed more. You slipped another finger inside yourself, spreading them slowly. You moaned at the stretch, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enou–

You woke up with a throbbing between your legs, and your breath caught in your throat. Memories of your dream slammed into you. That was– What? What was that? You rolled over onto your stomach, burying your face in your pillow, muffling your embarrassed laughter. Then you reached over to your nightstand to grab your vibrator so you could finish yourself off before you moved on with your day.

You checked the thermostat for the third time in just a few hours. It’d been chilly all morning, but the readout still said 70℉, exactly what you’d set it at. You must just be running cold today. You grabbed a sweatshirt and hoped you weren’t getting sick. Maybe you’d pick up some zinc at the store.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching you. You were alone in your house. You knew this for sure because, as silly as you felt, you’d checked all the rooms. You’d checked the windows too, but of course, there was no one there. You closed all of the curtains anyway. 

Now you were standing in your bedroom, trying to talk yourself into getting dressed. You were being so ridiculous. You knew it, but something you couldn’t put your finger on had you so completely unsettled. You took a few deep breaths. Come on come on come on. And then, finally, you changed as quickly as you could.

And you were fine. Of course, you were fine. Even though your heart thumped. Even though your skin crawled. You were fine. Another deep breath, and you left your room, turning off the light as you went. 

But once in the hall, you realized you’d left your phone on the bed. You turned around to go get it and stopped abruptly. The light was still on. You’d turned it off. You knew you’d turned it off. You forced yourself forward and then paused in the doorway. You flipped the light switch. The lights turned off. Then you flipped it again. The lights turned on. Flipped it again. They turned off. Everything was working exactly like it was supposed to. You must not have actually flipped the switch all the way when you’d left the room. There. Simple explanation. Everything was fine.

You moved forward to grab your phone, sitting at the foot of the bed, exactly where you’d thought it was. As you started to turn back around, but before you were fully facing the doorway— you only caught it out of the corner of your eye—something rushed past the door, through the hallway. A flurry of movement alone. You saw heard felt it. What the fuck? What the fuck? 

Your whole body was frozen, a chorus of nope nope nope running through your head. What was going on? You coaxed yourself forward enough so you could look through the hall. Nothing was there. But you had seen something. You knew you had. You had to get out of here.

You sat in the corner of the coffee shop, both hands wrapped tightly around the large, warm mug of herbal tea. Something calming. You’d settled down. Your breathing was back to normal. It was time to think about this rationally.

Ghosts, the supernatural, none of that was real. It was just things people made up for movies and books. Whatever you saw was because you were already on edge this morning, your brain in overdrive, looking for things to be afraid of.

Still. You took out your phone and googled “what to do if my new house has a weird feeling,” and were met with pages upon pages of results telling you it was perfectly normal to feel uncomfortable in your new home. Unsettled even. It could even send your brain into fight or flight, checking for threats everywhere in a new environment.

You breathed a sigh of relief. This was perfectly normal. Nothing was wrong with you. You just needed to keep working to make the space your own, and everything would settle out.

Later, when you were getting out of your car in your driveway, you noticed your next-door neighbor at her mailbox. Perfect. Forging connections would definitely help you feel more settled. But as you started to walk over, she turned around and quickly walked into her house, slamming the door behind her. You were sure she’d seen you. Why was everyone in this neighborhood so cold?

  You were back on the bed in the room that was and wasn’t yours. The man stood over you now, his fingertips hovering over your naked body. You couldn’t move, but that didn’t worry you. He didn’t want you to move, and you wanted to do what he wanted.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed out, his voice sonorous, hitting you deep in your gut. “And here you are, just for me. I’m so lucky.”

There was deep tenderness in his eyes, but something else too. Possession. It sent a thrill through you. No one had ever looked at you like that before. 

He hummed to himself as his fingers ghosted over your thigh. “But now that I have you, what should I do with you?”

When you opened your mouth, you found that you couldn’t speak. But once again, it didn’t worry or scare you. You were his; you'd do what he wanted. 

He tentatively pressed his fingers to your skin, like he was testing something. He closed his eyes when he made contact and exhaled. His touch sent a shock up your spine. “It’s been such a long time since I've been able to touch anyone,” he rumbled, full of awe. “You really are perfect.”

He dragged his fingertips up your thighs, but then skipped over your core, landing his hand on your soft stomach. You whined in displeasure, trying to tilt your pelvis up at him. He ignored it.

“I don’t even know where to start. I want all of it. All of you. All of you, forever.”

You whined again. Your wetness was pooling between your legs, starting to soak into the sheets. You needed more of his touch, anywhere. Everywhere.

“Patience, sweetheart. We have all the time in the world. All we have is time.”

You opened your eyes, suddenly thrust into full wakefulness. You were soaking wet, with only fragments of memories of what got you that way. But you barely had any time to focus on that. You were freezing. Your entire bedroom was absolutely freezing. 

You stepped back from the door to let the HVAC technician in, wrapped in a thick blanket over your sweatshirt and thick leggings. He paused over the threshold, rubbing his hands together and exhaling. “Oh shit,” he exclaimed with a whistle. “You weren’t kidding. It’s freezing in here. Must be at least a twenty-degree difference from outside.” 

“Yeah,” you said a little helplessly. “It’s been a little chilly the last week, but it feels like it got much colder in the night.” 

You led him to the thermostat, and he examined it. It still read 70°. “Hmm,” he hummed, opening the cover and giving it a once-over. “Seems like it’s probably just not communicating properly. Maybe triggering your AC when it shouldn’t. I’ll take a look downstairs and see what’s going on.”

You were trying to force yourself to focus on reading a book when the tech came back upstairs. His brows were furrowed, and he seemed lost in his own thoughts. You set your book down, not trying to be quiet, and he looked up, like he was surprised to see you there. “Everything okay?” you asked nervously.

“Huh?” he blinked at you. Then he shook his head, like he was trying to rid it of something. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” He paused, then looked at you very carefully. “You been in this house long?” 

You shook your head. “Just a couple weeks.”

His gaze narrowed. “Has everything been okay?”

“What do you mean? Besides the thermostat?”

His eyes focused on you, like he was surprised by your presence again. “No, I– I don’t know. Sorry. Don’t mind me, I just must be feeling a little off today.” He shook his head one more time, then returned to business. “Furnace and AC both seem to be working fine. So it must be the thermostat. I’ll just replace it with a new one real quick, and you should be right as rain in a few hours.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, feeling even better once you heard warm air being forced through the vents. It made it easy to ignore the way it seemed like he couldn’t get out of your house fast enough.

In the room that wasn’t quite yours, you stood in front of a free-standing full-length mirror. You were wearing a short black dress that hugged your curves, a silver necklace around your neck, matching bracelets on both wrists, like cuffs. The man was behind you, pressed against you, his head hooked over your shoulder, making eye contact with you in the mirror, one possessive hand on your stomach, the other coming up to gently wrap around your neck. 

“I’ve been waiting for something for so long,” he whispered into your ear. “Now I know I was waiting for you.” Both hands moved away from you, briefly, coming back together behind your head. Gently, carefully, reverently removing your necklace. He moved slowly, a look in his eye like he was unwrapping a gift he’d been staring at for ages. The necklace disappeared, and he moved on to the zipper of your dress. He lowered it achingly slowly. You didn’t move. He didn’t want you to. You knew that.

He moved the dress down your body at a glacial pace, revealing you inch by inch. His gaze flicking back and forth between your back and the mirror. Taking all of you in. Once it was down to your hips, he let it drop. You weren’t wearing anything underneath, fully exposed to him. For him. It didn’t occur to you to try to cover yourself. Why would you? 

One hand came back around to touch your stomach. It drifted lower, and then he dragged it, oh so slowly, up to your chest. You felt his cold breath on your neck as he sighed–

You were lying on the bed, and he was on top of you. Finally. Your bracelets were still on, and now they were hooked together, keeping your arms above your head. You didn’t try to move them. You stayed where he put you. Of course you did. Your breath felt trapped in your chest. You were waiting. For him. You needed it. He was touching you, your whole body, like he couldn’t get enough. Like it would never be enough–

You were on your side. He was pressed up behind you. The mirror was next to the bed now. So you could see yourself. See him behind you, as he kissed up your neck. Behind your ear. His fingers danced along the cut of you. Between your lips. One, two, three fingers briefly slipped inside. You didn’t need it. You were ready.

You were ready you were ready you were ready you were ready.

You whined. Low and loud and needy. He hushed you. Then. Finally. Finally finally finally he thrust himself inside you. Forcing a grunt a whine a moan out of you. You kept your eyes open, locked on the mirror so you could see your face and his as he was finally inside of you, where he belonged. So you could see the ecstasy on both your faces. 

He kept his eyes on yours as he thrust. As he set a punishing pace. As the pressure inside of you built and built and built. As one arm held you so tight to him, arm over your pelvis, hand between your breasts. His fingers pressing bruises into your skin. The other was between your legs, pressing pressing pressing against your clit, tight circles too much too much too much not enough just right. The hand on your chest pressed even harder, pushing you into his broad chest like he was trying to meld with you. 

As you climbed up up up and finally crested over, the air between his mouth and your neck, in all of the spaces where your bodies made contact, went blurry, squiggly, like he was literally breathing you in. You felt something inside of you go, but it wasn’t a loss. It was right. It was perfect.

You came with a scream. “Andy!” A name on your lips you hadn’t realized you’d known. 

“Mine mine mine,” he chanted as he chased his own release. “Forever. Eternity.”

You woke with a start. Your chest heaving. You were exhausted, like you hadn’t slept at all. And you were sore, stiff, all over. Between your legs. Inside of you. Almost like you’d–

Before you had time to wrap your head around that, you realized something else. You were absolutely freezing. The whole room was freezing. So much colder than it was before. No! You’d fixed it! No!

You didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with this. You were too cold, too worn out. Too fucked out, your traitorous brain supplied. You didn’t want to deal with that either.

You went into your bathroom and turned on your shower as hot as it could go. You didn’t turn on the exhaust fan. You needed all the steam you could get. Once the small room had warmed up a little, you quickly stripped and stepped into the glass shower stall. You stepped directly under the stream of hot water, pushing everything else, all of the very not right, out of your head. Focusing on just getting warm. You weren’t sure how long exactly you stood there for. Awhile. Long enough for the chill to finally leave your bones. Once you stopped shivering, you started cleaning yourself. Trying to let yourself go through your normal routine on autopilot. But that wasn’t possible when you found so many tender spots. On your legs, your hips, your stomach, your chest. New bruises. Like fingerprints. Like someone had gripped you too tight. Like your drea– 

You pushed that thought away before you could even fully think it. Not real. Not real. Not real. You were losing it. Starting to come apart at the seams. Maybe you’d been too isolated. Maybe that was it. That had to be it. You took a deep breath to calm yourself. Then, as you started to get back to washing yourself–

Something brushed against the back of your neck. Like someone’s hand. Like someone had touched your neck. You weren’t making it up. It wasn’t just in your head. It’d happened. You’d felt it. 

With your heart in your throat, you whirled around on instinct. And right there, over where your shoulder had been, in the steam, was the shape of a man’s face. You saw it. You saw it. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. 

You crashed out of the shower, barely keeping your feet under you. You were soaking wet, but you didn’t stop to dry off. You couldn’t. You had to get out of there. You tore into your bedroom, grabbing the first leggings and sweater you could find, throwing them on as you continued to move. You grabbed your phone off your nightstand as you rushed past it. You had to get out of there. You couldn’t get out fast enough.

You didn’t feel safe until you were standing in the street in front of your house, trying to catch your breath, water dripping down your back.  You bent over like you’d just run a marathon, adrenaline coursing through you. You needed to get your head on straight. You needed to think about this rationally. It was just a house. It was just a house. If you thought it enough times, maybe you’d believe it.

You slowly straightened up, trying to force yourself to breathe normally. And that’s when you saw your next-door neighbor, sitting on her front porch with a friend, staring at you. And maybe it was just the adrenaline that hadn’t dissipated yet, but– No. Absolutely not. Not today.

You stormed across her lawn, your best ‘fuck you’ smile on your face, not caring that you were still dripping. Not caring that you looked like a crazy person. “Hi!” you greeted when you’d gotten to the porch, too loud, too aggressive. “We haven’t been introduced yet. I’m your new next-door neighbor. I moved in a few weeks ago,” you gestured at your house, like they hadn’t just seen you run out of it like a bat out of hell.

“Oh my god,” your neighbor’s friend exclaimed, her eyes wide.

“I know,” your neighbor, whose goddamn name you still didn’t know, said to her, shaking her head. 

“I can’t believe you moved into the Barber house,” her friend said to you, her voice tinged with horror. “Why would you do that?”

“What?” you asked, confused, some of your righteous anger leaving you.

She shook her head instead of answering your question, no longer able to look at you. “It was so awful, so awful, and then you just moved in like–” She sounded like she was on the verge of tears. Without another word, she got up and fled into the house. You and your neighbor both stared after her. What was going on?

After a minute of silence, your neighbor turned her steely gaze onto you. “You know,” she said, her voice cold, “maybe it seems like a lot of time has passed since it happened, but it’s still very fresh for this whole neighborhood. We’re still trying to recover. We don’t need someone coming in here and trying to dredge it all up again.”

“What–” you stuttered, “what happened? I don’t–”

“It isn’t easy for anyone here to talk about. They were our friends. I’m sure you can understand that.” Then, without another word, she got up and followed her friend into her house. And you were left standing on her porch alone, trying to catch up.

All you could do for several moments was just stand there, gaping. Your hands were shaking. Your mind was racing. But then, suddenly, you realized how creepy you were being. Oh god, she’d probably call the cops. So, with dread building in your chest, you forced yourself back to your own property.

You stopped at the end of your driveway. You couldn’t make yourself go further. Something was happening. You were missing something big. But you knew now, for sure, that there was something very wrong with your house. So, finally, you did the thing you should have done when things first started getting weird. When you first moved in. Before you even bought it. You took out your phone and you googled your address. Now with the added knowledge of adding Barber to the end of it.

Barely breathing, you clicked on the first result. Three Dead in Gruesome Apparent Murder Suicide.  And there right at the top, a picture of your house surrounded by police. Oh god oh god oh god. You wanted to puke. But you made yourself keep reading.

The Barbers were a family of three: Andrew, Laurie, and their teenage son Jacob. Andrew was an assistant district attorney. Laurie ran a children’s community group. They were well-liked. Pillars of the community. And five years ago, all three bodies had been found in what was now your basement, a shotgun laying next to Laurie. It had rocked the entire community, leaving everyone desperately searching for answers. 

You kept scrolling until you stopped dead in the middle of the page. A picture of the Barbers, happy and alive. Laurie was beautiful, picture perfect, smiling adoringly at her family. Jacob looked like any normal teenage boy, hair in his eyes, annoyed to be there. But that wasn’t what had your heart going still in your chest. No, that was the man looking straight at the camera. Looking at you. Andrew. Andy. Without a fucking doubt, the man from your dreams.

Your phone slipped from your fingers, landing hard on your driveway. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe. What was happening? What– How– The fear was louder than anything else. You’d never been so scared in your life. You had– You had to go.

You ran into your house for the last time. You raced up the stairs, not looking around you. In your bedroom, you pulled a duffel bag from your closet, then just started shoving clothes into it indiscriminately. You didn’t know where you were going to go or what you were going to do. You just had to leave now now now.

When the bag was full, you tore back down the stairs, grabbing your purse and your car keys, heading right for the door. You were going to be okay. You were going to get out. But when you tried to open the door, it was locked. You didn’t remember doing that. You hadn’t done that. With trembling fingers, you flipped the deadbolt and then watched with horror as it flipped right back. No no no no no no no no.

You rushed to the nearest window in desperation, but it wouldn’t budge either. You cried out in frustration and panic. You moved to grab your phone then remembered that you’d left it on your driveway. No. 

As you were about to run to your back door to see if you could get out that way, all of the lights in the house began flickering. On and off on and off on and off. And your bluetooth speaker suddenly buzzed to life, filling the house with music.

You’re just too good to be true

Can’t take my eyes off of you

You’d be like heaven to touch

I want to hold you so much

And there he was, standing in the middle of your living room. Andy. He was there and not there. You could see through him. But it was him. It was unmistakable.

“Shhh, calm down, honey,” he cooed. “It’s alright. You’re alright.” 

“A– Andy,” you could barely get it out, your voice was shaking so badly. You couldn’t wrap your mind around it, couldn’t get control of your fear. You were talking to a dead man. “Please let me go.”

“Honey,” he started, his tone placating, “you know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” It came out as a sob, helplessness crashing down on you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed, his brow furrowing at your distress. “Because we belong together.”

That’s when your tears started. This was another dream, right? It had to be. Maybe you’d never actually woken up. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be real. 

The music got louder, and Andy crouched down in front of you. “This is our song,” he said softly, “remember? From your first night here. I’m sorry I scared you that night. I was– I was very upset. You were barging into my house and– Then you started changing things, changing my house and– you understand that’s why I had to push you right? Why I tried to make you go. But then. Then you stayed, and I started to get to know you. And I realized all the ways we fit. I realized the truth. That you were brought here for me. So that we could be together forever.”

You took a deep breath, forcing it. You wanted to tell him he was insane, but it was even worse. He was dead. A ghost. How could you reason with that? “Andy, no,” you started slowly. “All I did was buy a house. I’m so sorry that something awful happened to you, but this is my house now–”

“THIS IS MY HOUSE!” he roared, suddenly floating above you. The lights flickered even more intensely, and all of your shelves shook, books toppling over. And just for a moment, just for a flash, Andy’s face changed. Half of it disappeared, blood and viscera and bone and emptiness where his skin should have been. But then it was gone, back to normal, and he was once again on the ground in front of you. “This is still my house, that I had built for my family. The people who are meant to be my family are just a little different than I thought.”

You swallowed hard, trying to stop shaking. You had to find a way out. You had to get out of here. Andy was moving, floating, pacing, back and forth, mumbling to himself now. “That fucking bitch. Destroying everything I’d worked so hard for, everything I’d earned.” He was distracted by his own anger. You took the opportunity to start to crawl backward, see if there was something you could do to force the door open. “And then after all that, they left me alone here on top of it,” he continued, before his eyes locked on you, halfway to the entryway. “But you understand that better than most, don’t you, sweetheart? Being alone.”

You stopped in your tracks, collapsing back onto the floor. “What? No, I’m not alone!”

He shook his head sadly at you, like you were being ridiculous. “Honey, come on. I know you. I see you. All I do is watch you. You never go anywhere. You never see anyone. You never talk to anyone. You’re just as lonely as I am. But it’s okay. We have each other now. Forever.”

It was that word, forever, that made the bottom drop out of what you were feeling. Oh no oh god. It was only pure terror now. What was he going to do? What could he do?

He was crouching down in front of you again, so close to you that you could put a hand through him. But it wouldn’t do any good. You knew that. “Andy, I–” you didn’t know what to say, but you had to make him understand. Make him see sense. At the very least, to buy you some time. Get you out of this house. Burn it down, maybe. Destroy every part of it so that you could start over. Again. “You’re right. I see that now,” you lied, trying so hard to keep your voice even. “We fit. But– But we just can’t be together. I’m alive. I need– I need to live my life. We– We aren’t on the same plane.”

Andy shook his head, gliding closer to you as you tried to back up. He was practically on top of you now. It was a horrifically unsettling feeling. It made all the hair on your body stand up straight. “No,” he said, “no, we don’t need to worry about that. You’ve made me so much stronger. Since you came here, I can do so many more things. Things I never dreamt of when I was all alone. And after last night, I made you feel so good, and in return, you gave so much of yourself to me, my love.” The dream, you realized with a start. When it looked like he was actually breathing you in– And the exhaustion you’d woken up with. Like he’d taken part of your lifeforce. “Now I’m strong enough to do what I need to do. To make sure you never leave me.”

Your eyes got wide, and the panic that’d been ebbing and flowing this entire conversation spiked to a degree it somehow hadn’t reached yet. “Andy, Andy, wait, no! What does that mean? What are you going to do?” 

He didn’t respond, just brushed his translucent fingers down your cheek, leaving an awful chill in their wake. And that’s when you heard it, the barely there hiss coming from the kitchen, accompanied by a sulfuric smell that you’d been too afraid, too heightened to notice until this point. Oh god, your beloved gas cooktop. You started sobbing. You couldn’t stop. Doubled over on the floor of this house you thought you’d been so lucky to find.

“Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay, you’re alright,” Andy consoled you. You could feel the whisper of his fingers over you’re hair. “It won’t hurt at all. You’re going to fall asleep, and then when you wake up, you’ll be here with me. Forever, in our beautiful home. It’ll be perfect.” 

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