SYNOPSIS: on your way home from work, you spot a stray dog and decide to help it from the pouring rain. little do you know you caught the attention of the scary, unapproachable mob boss and now that he’s got his sights set on you, he never plans to let you go. based on this request.
WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI — alternate universe. fem!reader, oblivious!reader, sensitive!reader, age gap (reader is early20s & bucky is late30s) reader works a normal office job, pet names such as “baby” , “babydoll” & “sunshine” , reader hates cursing, reader adopts a puppy (teddy) stalker!bucky, mention of steve being bucky’s head of security, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, bucky hides his identity for a while, eventual smut, kidnapping, blood, guns, murder, reader gets injured, happy ending, no use of y/n
AN: this is a mini series that should have 1-3 parts. if there’s any more, you guys will be updated.
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SUMMARY. What’s so bad about Bucky Barnes? The fact that he watches you or calls you kid while he does it?
WORD COUNT. 12.2K
WARNINGS. age gap, dad’s best friend, bucky calls reader ‘kid’ but she’s 25, MDNI, smut, forbidden relationship, guilt, mutual pining, first time, virginity loss, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, breeding kink, cum play, possessive language, bucky is obsessed with reader’s stomach, soft aftercare, porn with plot sprinkled, no use of y/n.
FROM KIE. The summary makes it seem like he’s some sleazy asshole, he’s not. I tried real with the title and summary, and that’s all I could come up with. Sigh.
Kid. The word has always been there between you, too worn-in to sound accidental now. Kid at nineteen, when you came home during college break and saw him for the first time, sitting at your father's dining table, quiet and so beautiful it annoyed you for three straight days. Kid at twenty-one, when you brought home cheap wine and he took the corkscrew from you while you were mangling it, his fingers brushing yours, that you almost dropped the bottle opener entirely. Kid at twenty-four, when your dad started leaving tools here and Bucky started appearing in your kitchen with excuses thin enough to see through.
Kid, so he could look away.
Kid, so you'd stay safe.
You've been watching him for six years now. Learning the way he takes his coffee, the tells when he's had a bad night, how he'll rub at his left shoulder where metal meets flesh, like the junction still aches. You've seen all of it, studied all of it. Sometimes you think about making a list, just to prove to yourself how pathetic you've become. Line item number one: he takes his coffee black but adds sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Line item number seventy-three: the nightmares are worse in winter. You could write a dissertation on Bucky Barnes and never run out of material.
You've watched him go from your dad's traumatized war buddy to something resembling human again. Watched him learn to laugh at your dad's shitty jokes and argue about sports teams and pretend the nightmares didn't still wake him up sometimes.
Watched him, lately, watch you back.
It's different the way he watches you. You don't think there's a name for it, or if there is, it is too scandalous to say out loud. His gaze will catch on your mouth when you're talking, or track the movement of your hands, or linger on the strip of skin between your shirt and jeans when you reach for something on a high shelf. Then he'll look away fast enough to give himself whiplash, and call you kid again like the word's a shield against whatever he's been thinking. It's one of those 'say it enough times, you'll start believing it' situation.
The first time you caught him staring at your mouth, you'd forgotten what you were saying mid-sentence. Just stood there like an idiot while he blinked and looked away. Your dad asked if you were feeling okay. You weren't. You haven't been okay since you were nineteen and saw him for the first time.
What's killing you now is that you don't know what happens next. You've played out a dozen scenarios in your head — him kissing you against the kitchen counter, you finally calling him on his bullshit, the world ending before either of you has to acknowledge this thing happening between you two. But you can't predict Bucky Barnes. He's controlled but also has triggers you don't know from stories he won't tell, and trying to guess his next move is like trying to catch smoke.
When you let yourself into your apartment on a Tuesday and hear him at your sink, you're not even surprised anymore. This has become routine. Your dad forgets his stuff more often than not, Bucky shows up to collect them, the excuse wearing thin each passing day. Both of you pretending this is normal.
"Kitchen," he calls before you've closed the door.
You don't question why he's here before you're even here. To be honest, it makes you happy, to see someone else — no, to see him. The henley he's wearing enhances his biceps, you almost want to chew through it. You've seen him in this shirt before. You know you have. But every time feels like the first time, like your brain can't quite process the reality of him. There's grease smudged on his jaw that he's completely missed while washing, all you want to do is let your fingers touch him under the guise of removing it. His hair's getting long, and you have approximately thirty seconds before you do something stupid like offer to trim it for him.
"Where's dad?"
Bucky glances at you, a fractional hesitation before he shuts off the water. "Got held up at work." He reaches for the dish towel — the one you've told him a hundred times not to use for his greasy hands — and starts drying off. "Said he'll grab the bike next week."
"Right. Next week." You drop your bag on the counter, not surprised once again. Your dad's been saying next week for three weeks now. At this point, the bike is practically furniture. Why does he leave his things over here if he never cares enough to get them back himself?
"Well, he's busy."
"So, he sent you?"
"He didn't send me, I offered," he says. The way he's looking at you now makes your aware of your heartbeat, the steady thunk it used to be is now replaced by this erratic energy that has nowhere else to go.
The kitchen suddenly feels too warm. Or maybe you're too warm. Maybe you've been too warm since the moment you walked in and saw him standing at your sink. You shrug out of your jacket, feel Bucky's eyes track the movement, watching the fabric slide down your arms, every inch of your skin waking up under his gaze. When you look back at him though, his eyes are fixed on the ragged towel at his hand, like they weren't on your skin this whole time.
The grease on his face is starting to bother you. Though, bother would be a big word. You just want to rub it off. Why? You don't know. Maybe to get your hands on him. "You've got something on your face," you tell him.
His hand rises automatically, searching for the stain in the wrong place. "Where?"
"Other side. No — here, just —" You step closer, and immediately realise this is a mistake. You know it's a mistake even as you're doing it, but your hand's already there, thumb swiping at the smudge on his jaw.
Bucky goes still, that's the only way to put it. A whole-body freeze, every muscle locked down. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you absolutely do not want to. That's what you keep telling yourself. Liar, something in you whispers. You've wanted to count them since forever. You've wanted to note every detail of him and keep them somewhere safe.
There's a faint knowing of the world running in the background, but nothing else seems to matter when he's still not moving. And neither are you. "Got it," you say, but you don't step back.
"Thanks."
Your thumb's still on his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin. You can feel the texture of it, slightly coarse. Suddenly, you're struck by the intimacy of knowing how his face feels under your hand. This is the kind of knowledge that belongs to girlfriends and wives, not to the daughter of his best friend who's been harbouring increasingly inappropriate thoughts for years. You can feel his pulse jumping in his throat, like he's been running. Neither of you is moving. Neither of you is even breathing if you're entirely honest. There's a slow dance of his eyes, from your own to your mouth, then back to your own. Yours do the same, mirroring him in the most minute way possible. There's about three inches of space between your mouth and his.
"This is a terrible idea," Bucky says as he leans in, which in turn makes you lean in. The distance closes in itself by excruciating degrees.
"The worst." The two words from your mouth are swallowed by his own, the space between you both narrowed to a negative as his lips touch yours. The first graze of it is gentle, testing. Like he's afraid you'll shatter or bolt or realize what a stupid thing this is. But you've been waiting for this. There's months — no, years — of watching, wanting and pretending you weren't doing either, years of lying to yourself that you could be satisfied with just existing in his orbit, and gentle just isn't going to cut it. You fist your hand in his shirt and pull him closer, breaking whatever thread of control he's been clinging to.
Bucky makes a low sound in his throat and kisses you harder, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, metal arm sliding around your waist. The metal is cool even through your shirt, a shock of temperature that makes you gasp into his mouth. He tastes like coffee and mint gum, the taste so unique because it's him. When his tongue sweeps into your mouth, you forget how to think in complete sentences. Language becomes optional, unnecessary. Who needs words when you have this, have him finally, finally touching you the way you've dreamed about. Your free hand finds his shoulder, gripping hard enough to feel the shift of muscle under skin, as he backs you up until your hips hit the counter.
The kiss turns messier and desperate. His beard scrapes your chin, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling small sounds from you. You'd be totally embarrassed if you had any capacity to think. But, you're drowning in it, in him, in six years of wanting finally combusting into this.
The limbo of the kiss, the existence narrowed down to the dance of your lips is mercilessly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.
Bucky tears his mouth away from yours with a curse that would make your father blush, his forehead finding residence at your temple, both of you panting. You can feel his breath on your skin, uneven, matching your own. His hand shakes slightly as he fumbles for his phone.
"It's your dad."
The words are a bucket of ice water, waking up fear and shame, squashing any leftover desire. Guilt crashes over you in waves. This is your dad's best friend. Your dad's traumatized war buddy who he trusts completely, who he invited into his life, into your life. And here you are with swollen lips and shaking hands, having just had his tongue in your mouth.
Bucky steps back, puts physical distance between you before he answers the phone. The loss of his warmth feels physical, like something's been ripped away. "Yeah?" His eyes are still on you, pupils still blown, gaze oscillating between your parted lips and your pleading eyes. "No, just wrapped up. Heading out now." A pause where he could take a deep breath, but doesn't. "Yeah, she's good. I'll tell her."
When he hangs up, the silence that follows is excruciating.
Expectant eyes search his face, his mouth, guilt threading through your own features as you take in his. Whatever you'd expected him to say, it wasn't this, "I should go," Bucky says
"That's it?" The words tear through you, frustrated and angered by his choice, his decision. "That's all you're gonna say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Maybe any sentence that doesn't make me feel like I imagined the last five minutes."
His jaw clenches and unclenches. You can see him thinking, the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing what he should say versus what he wants to say. He looks like he's choosing his next sentence carefully. But when it does come out, it doesn't seem all that careful. "You didn't imagine it."
"No? Great. Very comforting." You cross your arms, looking like the very kid he claims that you are. "So what, you kiss me like that and then just leave?"
Bucky doesn't quite meet your gaze as he grabs his jacket and starts his way away from you, stillnot looking at you.
"Why?" You prod.
"You know why." Finally, he looks at you, whatever you see on his face makes you want to hit him or kiss him again. Pain, maybe. Regret. Want that he's trying desperately to bury and failing. Not trusting your body to keep its distance, you put some between you, stepping back. Bucky sighs, and runs his metal fingers through his hair. "Your dad's my best friend. I'm too old for you. This is — we can't —"
"I'm twenty-five, Bucky."
"I know how old you are. You think I don't know exactly how old you are? You think I — Fuck!" The frustration in his voice borders on anguish, like the knowing is what's killing him.
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is that your dad would kill me. The problem is that I've got no business touching you. The problem is that I can't —" He runs his hand through his hair again, and you think he might pull it off if he's not careful. "I need to go."
Bucky walks out, leaving you standing in your kitchen with kiss-swollen lips, racing heart, and anger. You're furious. At him for kissing you and leaving. At your dad for existing. At the whole goddamn universe for making this so complicated. At yourself most of all, for still wanting him even as he walks away.
A week. Seven days of you jumping every time someone knocks on your door, checking your phone obsessively like he's going to text you, half-expecting Bucky to show up with another tissue-thin excuse about tools or motorcycles or whatever.
He doesn't.
Day two, you convinced yourself you hallucinated the whole thing. Day three, you stared at your kitchen counter trying to remember the exact spot where he'd backed you up against it, like if you stand there long enough you'll be able to conjure the feeling of his hands on your waist.
Your dad picks up the bike himself. Mentions Bucky's been busy with some job for Sam, says it casually, disinterested. That means he has no idea anything's changed. You smile, nod and try not to think about the way Bucky's mouth felt on yours.
It doesn't work.
You replay the kiss in your mind so many times it starts to feel like fiction. But, you can still feel the ghost of his metal arm around your waist, still taste coffee and mint when you close your eyes.
On day seven, you've nearly convinced yourself to show up at his apartment and demand answers.
But he shows up at yours.
It's Tuesday night, exactly one week later. You're in old sweats and a tank top, halfway through a pint of ice cream you're eating straight from the container.
The knock is an inconvenience at this time, perfectly ruining your plans of rewatching Brooklyn 99, turn your mind off and eat the damn ice cream. You almost don't open, 9 PM is hardly any time for visitors, hoping that person takes the hint and fucks off.
The second knock comes up more insistent, a hurry in the air, forcing you to pad towards the door, ice cream in hand.
And there's Bucky.
Bucky, who looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, wearing an expression like he hasn't slept in days. He looks how you feel, which is both gratifying and heartbreaking. His hair is damp. It takes you a moment to understand it's drizzling. Drizzle would be a stretch, for the raindrops are the size of a pomegranate pearl, dropping down with vigour.
"Hey," he says.
"No." You start to close the door, even though all you want to do is haul him inside, towel off his hair, dry those strands that are matted together.
His boot hits the doorframe, an obstacle in your plans, a test on your self-preservation. "Wait —"
"I don't want to hear it, Bucky. I really don't." You try to push the door close anyway, mustering up the courage. But he's stronger than you physically, stronger than your thinning anger, which is dissipating by the second. "Move your foot," you try somehow.
"Not until you let me talk."
"Why should I?"
"I don't know. Maybe you're a nicer person than I deserve."
A smile starts to break into your features, but you quickly tone it down. He's not playing fair, showing up here looking lost and using that voice. "Flattery's not gonna work."
"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to apologize."
You stop pushing on the door, the bare minimum you could do without showing all your cards. "Then apologize."
"Can I come in?"
Now, that would be a tremendously bad idea. If he comes in, you're not sure where else he'll be coming in.
"You can apologize from right there."
Bucky's quiet for a moment, studying your face. You try not to show your true feelings,keep your expression neutral, unaffected, like your heart isn't actively trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I'm sorry. For leaving like that. For not calling. For —" He looks like he's frustrated with himself, abruptly stopping the sentence. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "for all of it."
"Okay." You still don't open the door wider. "Apology received. Have a good night."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Shut me out. I know I fucked up, but —" He runs his hand through his hair, the water droplets cascading down his skin. You hate that you find it endearing, that even now, even angry and hurt, you're memorising the way the water runs down his temple, the exact shade of misery in his eyes. "Can we talk? Please?"
The 'please' is what does you in. You've never heard Bucky Barnes say please about anything, the sheer novelty of it makes you hesitate just long enough for him to see the weakness in your armor. "Five minutes," you tell him, stepping back.
You close the door behind him as he enters. When you turn around, he's closer than you expected, your back hitting the door with the need to put distance between you both. "You said you wanted to talk," you remind him, voice breathier than you'd like.
"I can't stop thinking about it." His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips. "About kissing you. About how you tasted. About the sound you made when —"
Feigning indifference seems like the only way out of this. "Okay." You try to sound unaffected, like your pulse isn't racing, like you haven't been thinking about it too. Obsessively, unhealthily, to the point where you can't focus on anything else. "So you've been thinking about it."
"That's not okay."
"No?" You raise an eyebrow, daring him. "Sounds like a you problem."
Bucky takes a step closer, trapping you between him and the door, the distance feeling anything but threatening, not having felt this alive in seven days. "I've been trying to do the right thing. I know that sounds like garbage from where you're standing."
"It does have that smell."
His lips curve into a smile. You wish you were immune to that, to his smile, to him. His hand comes up, hovering near your waist but not quite touching. "Your dad trusts me. He's trusted me for years. And here I am, showing up at his daughter's apartment, thinking things I've got no business thinking."
"What kind of things?"
"Don't ask me that."
"Why not?" You're goading him, and you both know it. "Afraid you'll tell me the truth?"
His hand finally makes contact, just a light touch on your hip, just over the fabric of your top. "I've thought about you in every room of this apartment. I've thought about you when I shouldn't, in ways I definitely shouldn't. I've tried to stop, and I can't, and it's driving me out of my mind."
"You should suffer a little. You left me standing in my kitchen like what happened meant nothing."
"It meant everything." His other hand finds your waist, both of them spanning your hips, and you wish you weren't wearing anything, just so you could feel his hands on your skin. "That's the problem. If it meant nothing, I could've walked away and stayed away. But it meant everything. I still tried to stay away — tried to do the right thing, but here I am."
His breath comes out hard, he's so close you can clearly see the flecks of gray in his blue iries, which are turning black by the moment. You can smell the rain on him, soaked strands falling in front of his face, begging to be brushed away from his eyes.
"Stop calling me kid," you tell him.
Bucky's hands tighten on your hips. "I didn't call you that tonight."
"Not tonight. In general."
Bucky doesn't respond, but his hands move a fraction, the metal in his arm grazing your skin, cool even through your thin tank top.
"Say my name."
He hesitates like the word might burn him. You watch him struggle with it, something like pain or hurt flickering across his face before he utters, "sweetheart."
"That's not my name."
"Please." His voice is rough, pleading.
"Say it, Bucky."
"Please don't make me."
The vulnerability in it catches you off-guard. "Why not?"
"Once I say it, that's it. I can't take it back. Can't pretend this is something I can walk away from."
"So you do want to walk away still?"
So soft, so fragile, your name leaves his mouth. It sounds different in his voice, shaped by his accent, rough with want. You've heard your name a thousand times but never like this.
"Was that so hard?" Your own voice is softer now, your hands somehow having found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.
"Yes." All that want he's been trying to bury, is written across his face in sharp relief. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide, grip on your hips tight enough to bruise. "You have no idea how hard it is."
"Saying my name is hard?"
"Saying your name while I've been watching you, wanting you, knowing I shouldn't touch you. That's hard."
"You want me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.
"Don't ask me that." It sounds like it's being dragged out of him. "Please."
"Why not?"
"You know why."
"No, I don't."
Bucky makes a sound that just might be the frustration in him seeping through, but his eyes are full of want. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I want you. I want you so much it feels like it's killing me. Happy now?"
"Not yet," you tell him befote smashing your lips into his. Anything but gentle, absolutely no testing the waters thing he did the first time. This is want distilled into action, six years of waiting and pretending all combusting at once, every fantasy you've ever had, every late-night thought you've tried to suppress, finally made real. Your hands fist in his damp hair, tightening his grip on your hips, bruising. When you bite his lower lip, he groans into your mouth like you've wounded him.
"We shouldn't," he speaks against your lips, but he's doesn't pull away, not even close. "Your dad —"
"Is not here." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Do you want to stop?"
Bucky looks at you like you're asking him to cut off his other arm. "No."
"Then stop talking about my dad while you're kissing me."
That startles a brief laugh out of him. Without wasting another second, he's kissing you again, walking you backward through your apartment. You're vaguely aware of furniture and doorways, of his jacket hitting the floor somewhere, of your ice cream forgotten on the counter. None of it matters as much as the slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of him, the way his hands are mapping your waist like he's memorizing you.
When the backs of your knees hit the couch, you try to pull him down with you, but Bucky resists. His hands find your hips, steering you around until you're standing and he's sitting, thighs spread wide to make room for you between them. The position puts you above him, taller for once. On his face, theres a crack in the armor where you can see straight through to the want underneath.
He looks up at you, and you've never seen him like this. Vulnerable doesn't seem like the right word for Bucky Barnes, but it's close. It's in the way his hands rest on your hips, loose enough that you could step away if you wanted. In the tilt of his head, exposing his throat, how he's letting you see him want you without the usual defenses. It makes you feel invincible and terrified both.
"Still time," he says.
"For what?"
"For you to tell me to leave."
You reach down, fingers sliding into his hair. The strands are cool and wet against your palm. When you drag your nails lightly against his scalp, his eyes flutter close. "I don't want you to leave."
Bucky leans forward, resting his forehead against your stomach. The intimacy of it steals whatever breath you have left. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs stroking small circles through your tank top, the warmth of his breath you can feel through the thin fabric.
"Should've done this right," he mutters into your stomach. "Should've taken you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Not just shown up at your door like some —" he stops, breathing into you, the warm breath wet against your skin even through the flimsy cloth.
"Like some what?" You prod.
"I don't know. Obsessed asshole with no self-control."
That makes you laugh, earning a smile from him that you feel against your stomach. "I don't want dinner," you say.
"You should want dinner. You should want the whole thing — flowers, romance, somebody who isn't —" He sighs, not able to finish what he was going to say. If he says it, it will be real.
"Who isn't what?"
"Too old for you. Too —"
"Bucky." You tug his hair until he looks up at you, mouth parted, so gorgeous. "I don't care about any of that."
"You should."
His hair is soft under your touch, your fingers playing with them as you speak. "Well, I don't. And for the record, I hate fancy restaurants. They never give you enough food, and everyone whispers."
His mouth quirks into the fondest of smiles. "That's your objection? Portion sizes and volume?"
"I'm serious. I went to this place once where they served a single scallop on a plate the size of my head. One scallop. I'm supposed to eat one scallop and pretend I'm satisfied?"
"Sounds terrible."
"It was. I stopped at McDonald's on the way home." It had been a date, actually. Some guy from your office who'd taken you where the menu didn't have prices and the portions were insulting. You'd been hungry, bored and wishing the entire time that you were with Bucky instead.
Bucky's hands slide under the hem of your tank top, fingers finding bare skin. "No famcy restaurants where they serve a single scallop. Noted."
His touch almost derails your thoughts, you have to work to keep your voice steady. The rough calluses on his fingers drag against your skin, leaving trails of fire. "Anyway, you're here now. That's worth more than some overpriced shit."
"Is it?" There's doubt clouding his eyes, you can see clearly.
"Yeah. It is." You just hope he understands how much you mean this.
His hands move higher, taking your shirt with them, bunching the fabric above your waist. The metal hand is cool against your overheated skin, cold enough to make you gasp. Bucky stops his touch on its tracks. "Is it cold?"
"A little."
He starts to pull back, his touch leaving you becoming a physical thing you feel the loss of. Catching his wrist, you hold the metal hand flat against your stomach. "Don't."
"You sure?"
"I like it." The contrast, the warm flesh on one side, cool metal on the other, makes your skin feel alive. You've thought about his arm before, late at night when you shouldn't. Wondered what the metal would feel like against your skin, wondered if he'd let you touch it, trace the plates. "Feels good."
His grip tightens, both hands spanning your waist now, the slight tremor in his fingers you feel more and more each passing second. Like he's overwhelmed by being allowed to touch you like this. Like he can't quite believe you're real. The next thing you know, Bucky is leaning in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.
The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes your knees weak, almost wobbling. He does it again, lower this time, tongue tracing a path across your stomach that has you gripping his shoulders for balance. His stubble scrapes your skin, adding another layer of sensation you've never felt. When he bites down gently on your hipbone, a soft gasp leaves you, like there's not enough oxygen in this room for the both of you, especially not with the way he's pressing these kisses.
The silence while he's kissing your stomach is too much. You need to fill it with something before you combust entirely. "Been thinking about this?" Your voice comes out breathy.
"Yes." Bucky doesn't even attempt to lift his head, continuing his way across your stomach, hands holding you steady.
"How long?"
Bucky's mouth stills against your skin. For a second you think maybe he won't answer, maybe he'll pull back, and this is it. But almost soft as a whisper, his words come. "Long enough to feel ashamed about it."
"How long is that?"
"Remember that barbecue last summer?" His lips brush your navel as he talks. "You were wearing that black top, and you bent over to grab a beer from the cooler? Yeah, I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to stare at your ass."
"That was July."
"I know when it was." His hands slide higher, taking your shirt with them. He pushes the fabric up and over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your bra from the waist up. The air feels cold against your exposed skin, but Bucky's gaze is hot enough to burn. "Been drivin' me crazy for months."
You remember that day. Remember catching him staring and thinking you'd imagined it. Apparently, you hadn't. Bucky looks at your bra, but decides against it, pushing it up too, just shoving it out of the way, pulling you down into his lap. The position puts you straddling his thigh, friction of his jeans against your sweats making you acutely aware of how wet you already are. Embarrassingly wet. He's barely touched you and you're already soaked through, probably leaving a damp spot on his jeans.
Bucky's mouth finds your breast, and whatever coherent thought you had left scatters like startled birds. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tongue working the sensitive peak. Your hips roll forward involuntarily, the pressure against your clit perfect but not nearly enough, chasing more friction, grinding down on his thigh.
"That's it," he murmurs against your breast, switching to the other side. "Take what you need."
His metal hand cups your neglected breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, the cool touch making you gasp. He seems to like that reaction, doing it again with more pressure. Having him like this, puts all your fantasies to shame, your fingers threading through his hair to hold him close.
You didn't know it could feel like this. This consuming. Every nerve ending in your body is focused on the wet heat of his mouth, the cool press of metal, the friction building between your legs. You're making these small desperate sounds you can't control, hips moving faster now. Bucky groans against your breast like watching you get off on his thigh is the best thing he's ever seen.
"Bucky —" You're close already, wound too tight, and it's almost embarrassing how fast he's gotten you here.
"I know." He bites down gently on your nipple, soothing it with his tongue. "Can feel how wet you are through your sweats. Gonna cum just from this, aren't you?"
The words almost send you over, but before you can, he lifts you off his lap, laying you down on the couch. You barely have time to process the change before he's hooking his fingers into your waistband, dragging both your sweats and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your bra which was previously pushed atop your breasts, is discarded too, and you're naked. Completely naked while he's still fully dressed, and somehow that makes this hotter. There's this moment where neither of you moves, stuck in a limbo, where he just looks at you, sprawled across your couch. You watch him take in every inch of exposed skin. You watch him watch you.
"Jesus," he breathes.
"Are you just gonna stare, or —"
Bucky kisses you, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark you were about to make, mouth insistent, tongue tasting yours. When he pulls back, you try to follow, chasing him, but he's moving down your body.
He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse is racing. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, if he knows what he does to you. He takes his time with your breasts again, like he can't quite believe he gets to touch them. His mouth blazes a trail down your sternum, mapping the soft plane of your stomach with lips, teeth and tongue.
When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips inside, circling, your back bows of the couch in response. "Bucky, please —"
"Patience. Wanna look at you first." His hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. The first brush of cool air against your wet core makes you shudder. You should be self-conscious about this, spread open for him, the position in itself making you vulnerable, but the way he's looking at you makes you feel like a goddamn masterpiece, killing any embarrassment before it takes root.
His finger traces your slit, so light it's almost not there, and you try to cant your hips up for more pressure. Bucky's metal hand presses down on your lower stomach, holding you still.
"Stay," he says, like you're a misbehaving dog and not someone who's writhing for breath beneath him. It's not quite a command but close enough to make you clench around nothing.
Bucky explores you with devastating thoroughness, tracing the shape of you with one finger, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you whimper. He spreads you open with two fingers, just looking. "She's so pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So fucking pretty."
He leans down to lick a stripe up your center, tongue flat and broad, and you forget how to breathe. Even the first touch of his mouth is too much, when you're already so worked up, so close from grinding on his thigh. The wet heat of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, not even embarrassed about how loud you are. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building know. He seems encouraged by the sound, doing it again with more pressure. He eats you out like it's the only thing he wants to be doing. Like he could spend hours between your legs and die happy. His tongue works your clit in slow circles, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has you squirming. When he closes his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, you nearly come off the couch entirely. "Oh god — Bucky —"
He slides one finger inside you while his mouth stays focused on your clit. Your fingers on his hair tug them harder with each pass of his tongue, almost scaring you with how tight you're pulling and whether you're hurting him. You might actually rip his hair out, but you can't bring yourself to care because it feels too good. None of that even seems to cross his mind as his finger curls, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. He works it mercilessly while his tongue keeps that same steady rhythm.
You're pretty sure you're babbling now, saying his name and god and please in an endless stream, nails of your one hand — the one not currently buried in his hair — grasping his flesh shoulder, hard enough that it has to hurt. Again, Bucky doesn't seem to care. If anything, he doubles down, adding a second finger and increasing the pressure of his tongue. He's going to ruin you for anyone else. Not that there's ever been anyone else to compare with, but after this, you're done for.
You can feel the release gathering in the clench of your thighs, in the way every muscle in your body goes tight. Bucky seems to sense how close you are, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as he keeps that relentless pace. "C'mon," he says against your clit, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through you. "Let me taste it."
The orgasm crashes over you, your whole body seizing as pleasure tears through you. With your hands, it's never been like this. Never this intense, never this all-consuming. This feels like you're coming apart and Bucky's the only thing holding you together. You're dimly aware of crying out his name, your thighs trying to close around his head, the way your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers. Bucky works you through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're pushing at his head from oversensitivity.
When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He looks obscene, debauched, like something out of your dirtiest fantasy. The satisfied look on his face would be smug on anyone else. On him it's just honest satisfaction, like getting you off was the highlight of his month. "You good?" His voice is rough.
Words seem far away right now, you can barely remember your own name. You just nod, boneless, wondering if it's possible to die from pleasure.
Bucky crawls up your body, settling his weight on top of you carefully. Even wrecked with want, he's careful not to crush you. When he kisses you slowly, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It feels filthy and intimate at the same time, sending a fresh wave of arousal through you despite having just come. "That was —" You still can't form complete sentences. "You're really good at that."
He grins against your mouth. "Yeah?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." Bucky is smiling, you realize this might be the most relaxed you've ever seen him. Happy. He looks happy. When was the last time you saw him look happy? "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."
"Since July, apparently."
His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing spit. "July's when I stopped being able to pretend."
"What changed?"
"You looked at me." He says it simply, like it explains everything. "Just me. After that, I couldn't pretend anymore that I didn't want you looking at me like that all the time."
You've been looking at him since the day you knew him. You don't tell him that, those demons can stay where they lay. You pull him down into another kiss, slower this time, trading breath and heat. When you finally break apart, you can feel how hard he is against your hip, still fully clothed and probably painfully uncomfortable.
"Your turn," you tell him, reaching for his belt. Bucky catches your wrist, slowing you down, thumb stroking across your radial pulse, eyes pleading, saying everything his mouth can't. The gentle touch is at odds with the hunger in his gaze. You feel your pulse jumping under his fingers, giving away how badly you want this.
"I want to," your voice is barely a whisper. You need him to know, to understand that this isn't one-sided, that you've been wanting this just as long. That seems to be all the permission he needs. He releases your wrist and lets you work his belt open, the metal buckle clinking as you pull it free. Your fingers are shaking slightly, adrenaline and want making them clumsy. His jeans follow, while he watches with those hooded eyes, like this is some kind of religious experience.
When you get his shirt off, you take a moment to just look. God, he's a masterpiece. You've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never laid out for you, never yours to touch. There are scars you knew about, the ones you've seen at pool parties and barbecues, the ones your dad mentioned in passing when he thought you weren't listening. But there are others you didn't know, smaller ones scattered across his ribs and chest, a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone. Each one tells a story he's never shared, pain he's survived, and you want to learn every single one. The place where metal meets flesh is a work of terrible artistry, plates and skin fused in ways that probably hurt more than he'll ever admit.
You lean in and press your lips to his shoulder, right where metal becomes man. Bucky goes very still. Like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to recoil, to change your mind. "You don't have to do that."
You don't respond him with words, just another kiss to the seam, the metal cool under your lips, then lower, across his chest, the skin warm, the contrast intoxicating.You work your way down his body, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his boxers, wanting to map every inch of him with your mouth, memorize the way he tastes. Bucky's hand leaps to tangle in your hair, gentle but insistent nonetheless, pulling you back up.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. But if you put your mouth on me right now, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he answers. The admission goes to your heart and cunt at the same time, the idea that you affect him that much doing things to you.
That makes you pause, a laugh threatening to bubble out of you, but you keep it contained. "How fast we talking?"
"Thirty seconds, maybe." He doesn't look embarrassed about the admission, though there's a slight red tinge to the tip of his ears. That blush, that tiny hint of vulnerability, makes you want him even more. "I've been half-hard since I kissed you in the doorway, and I've been thinking about this for months. So unless you want me coming down your throat before we even get to the good part, you're gonna have to wait."
The bluntness of it sends heat racing through you, right between your legs, warmth spreading over the apples of your cheeks. Glancing down to not meet his eyes, you're met with the unevenness of this situation, suddenly very aware that you're naked while he's still got his boxer briefs on. "That's not fair."
Bucky manoeuvres you, hands on your hips, guiding you back down to the couch with a gentleness that contradicts his size. "Life ain't fair, sweetheart."
Bucky's body looms above you as he settles between your thighs. The breadth of his shoulders blocks out the light from the lamp, casting shadows across his face that make him look almost dangerous, but he's soft to you. You watch him shove his boxers down, cock springing free, curved slightly towards his stomach, thick and flushed, bead of precum spilling over the tip. It's bigger than you expected, thicker, and for a moment anxiety spikes through your arousal. His flesh hand wraps around himself, working his cock, while the metal one is braced against the couch, framing your head. And you realise this is quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever seen.
"Like what you see?" You'd assume it was asked out of cockiness if you didn't know him better. You know him better, and there's genuine curiosity in his question, mixed with almost boyish shyness.
"You already know the answer to that."
"Maybe I wanna hear you say it."
"You're fishing for compliments now?"
"Is it working?"
"Yes," you admit, earning a bright eyed and genuine smile from him,transforming his whole face, making him look younger, happier, and you want to be the reason he smiles like that forever. "You're gorgeous, okay? You're so hot it's actually annoying."
"Annoying?"
"Yeah. You walk around being all broody and hot, and I'm supposed to just — what? Pretend I don't notice?"
"You can notice me all you want, sweet girl."
Sweet girl. You like the sound of it, somehow much more intimate that anything he's ever called you. It's not really an accomplishment because all he's called you before is 'kid'.
Bucky laughs, a sound you want to bottle up and listen when your days get dark. His fingers are between your legs again, two of them sliding inside easily, thanks to your orgasm from earlier, still wet, still open. But the stretch makes you gasp anyway, an open-mouthed silent cry, that he swallows for himself with a kiss. He works them slowly, watching your face, conflict playing across his features. Want versus restraint. Need versus caution.
"You're so tight," he mutters, almost to himself, fingers pumping in and out. Each slick sound makes your face burn, embarrassingly loud evidence of how much you want this. "Gonna have to take my time with you."
"I can take it," you tell him, voice fracturing with need, the ache to be filled by him. His cock stands proud against his abdomen, jerking with every motion of his fingers, taunting you. You want to feel the weight of him inside you, splitting you open, claiming you completely.
"I know you can." He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your back arch, and does it again just to watch you squirm. "But I'm not gonna hurt you. Not if I can help it."
He leans down to kiss you, slower this time, thorough, his tongue plunging into your mouth, remnants of your own juices lingering, while his fingers keep that steady rhythm. You're climbing toward another orgasm already, your body wound tight and responsive. Bucky breaks the kiss, only to pepper a few more on your jaw, the corner of your mouth, breath coming in hot.
"Have you taken cock before?"
The question catches you off-guard, the blatant crudeness of it. Stilling beneath him, you will your breath to come, his fingers slowing on your cunt not being of much help.
"Baby." His free hand comes up to cup your face. The tenderness in the gesture makes your eyes sting. "I need to know. Need to know how careful I gotta be."
The truth sits in your throat, heavy as a stone. You could lie, tell him you've done this a dozen times, that you're experienced and worldly and this is no big deal. But lying to Bucky feels wrong, feels like starting this thing between you on a foundation of sand.The way he's looking at you, open and honest, worry lines framing his face, also makes it impossible. "No," you finally whisper.
His fingers stop moving, just frozen inside you while he stares at you with an expression you can't quite read. Shock. Concern. Fear? "What?"
"No. I haven't."
Bucky starts to pull his fingers out, a pained expression on his face, like the knowledge of it physically hurts him. "Jesus Christ. You should've — I wouldn't have—"
No, no. He can't do that. You catch his wrist, holding his hand in place. "Don't."
"We can't —"
"Yes, we can." You roll your hips, taking his fingers deeper, and watch his eyes go dark, control slipping. "I want this. I want you."
"Your first time shouldn't be — It should be special. Someone who —"
"Someone who what? Takes me to a fancy restaurant and serves me one scallop?" You're babbling now, words tumbling out, desperate to keep him in. "I don't want that. I want you. This is special."
"I'm too old for you. Too fucked up. Your dad's gonna —"
"I don't care about my dad right now." You tighten your grip on his wrist, needing him to see that this isn't some impulsive decision. "I care about you. And I'm not some delicate flower you're gonna break. I can take you."
Bucky looks at you like you've wounded him, like the trust you're placing in him is almost too much to bear. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, and you hope he loses, you hope the walls he'd erected within the past twenty seconds crumble and he comes back to you. "You're all I want, Buck," you press.
A long sigh leaves him, but finally he says, "you tell me if it's too much." The words sound torn from him, reluctant but resolute. "The second it's too much, you tell me and we stop. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"If it's too much, I'll tell you." You pull him down into a kiss, teeth claiming his lips. You bite down, tasting copper, needing him to feel something, anything. "Now stop treating me like I'm made of glass and fuck me already."
That startles a laugh out of him. You wrap your fingers around his length, almost pulling him by his dick, he doesn't seem to care though. The skin is hot and silky under your palm, cock twitching in your grip, precum leaking from the tip. Bucky pulls his fingers free, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses against you, even that initial pressure making you tense. "Breathe," he instructs. "Just breathe for me, sweetheart."
You force your muscles to relax, and he pushes in. Just the tip at first, just enough to make you gasp at the stretch of it. It's immediately more than his fingers, wider and so overwhelming you forget how to think in complete sentences.
Bucky freezes, his hard length stuffing you halfway. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just — a lot."
"I know, sweet girl." His metal hand comes up to cup your face with a gentleness, it in itself bringing you to tears, cool metal against your overheated cheek grounding, keeping you anchored. "We go slow. As slow as you need."
He works himself in gradually, stopping every time you tense, giving you time to ease yourself. It's torturous, this slow invasion, your body struggling to accommodate his size. But his words keep you company, praise, reassurance, sometimes filthy little things he'd want to do once you get used to this. Things about how he'll fuck you in every room of this apartment, how he'll bend you over the kitchen counter, how he'll wake you up with his cock inside you. About how good you're doing, how tight you are, how perfect you feel. When he's about halfway in, tears fully start leaking from the corners of your eyes. You don't think it's from the pain, just from the overwhelming fullness of it, the sensation of being split open, claimed and filled so completely there's no room for anything else.
Bucky immediately senses the tears and stops, jaw clenching with the restraint of holding himself still above you, trembling with the effort of not moving. "Too much?"
"No." Back of your hand rushes to wipe your eyes impatiently, frustrated that your body's betraying you like this, showing weakness when you want to be strong for him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
"You're crying."
"I know I'm crying. It doesn't mean —" You roll your hips, to show him that you can take him deeper, that these are good tears, from pleasure alone and nothing else. At another roll of your hips, Bucky groans. "See? I can take it."
Bucky stays still, his hand finding your lower stomach, pressing down gently. The added pressure makes everything more intense, even fuller. "Can feel myself inside you," he mutters, almost wonderstruck. "Right here. Can you feel it?"
"What?" You're barely coherent, too overwhelmed to process what he's saying. You think he's trying to distract you, the palm on your abdomen pulls you enough from whatever discomfort you might feel from your first time. You welcome it.
Bucky takes your hand and presses it against your lower stomach, right where his hand was. You can feel it, feel the solid presence of him inside you, the way your body's stretched around him. "Oh my god." The realization is visceral and overwhelming. "That's — you're —"
"Yeah. That's me, fillin' you up, sweetheart." Sounding wrecked, Bucky pushes the rest of the way in. The slide of it, the final inch that seats him fully inside you, makes you both freeze. You just lie there connected, trying to adjust to the reality of this. Through hooded eyes, you look at him. He's focused, jaw tightening as his gaze is fixed on the way your cunt swallows him whole.
"You okay?" His eyes tear from your place of union reluctantly to look into yours.
"Ask me that one more time and I'm gonna hit you."
That makes him laugh, the movement jostling where you're joined, making you clench around him involuntarily.
"Can you —" You shift your hips experimentally. "Can you move? Please?"
"Yeah." He pulls out slowly, so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein, before he pushes back in just as carefully. The slide is easier now, your body adjusting, learning to take him. "This okay?"
"More." You're chasing the friction, hips canting up to meet him. "I need more."
Bucky is so careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But when you urge him on with hands, hips and broken pleas, his control starts to slip gradually. The thrusts get deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, until you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.
It's never this good when you're alone. Bucky seems to have woken up your body from a slumber you didn't know it was in. Every sensation is not only new but also heightened.
"So fucking tight," he groans, his hand pressed to your belly again. "Can feel my cock moving inside you. You're takin' me so well, sweetheart. Look at you."
You can't look at anything except him, his jaw is clenched with effort, pupils blown so wide there's no blue remaining, just black, the flush spreading across his chest. The still slightly damp hair falling in front of his face, but he makes no effort in moving it off, the salt and pepper stubble that scratches your cheek everytime he pushes forward, everytime his pelvis meets yours. He's gorgeous like this, desperate and wanting.
"Bucky —" You're climbing again already, wound too tight to last much longer. "I'm gonna —"
"I know, baby." His thumb finds your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Can feel you getting tighter. Squeezin' me — fuck —"
The added stimulation is almost too much. You're right on the edge, balanced on that knife-point between pleasure and too much. Already at the verge of losing, made worse by Bucky leaning down to suck a mark into your neck while his hips keep that relentless rhythm. "Wanna fill you up," he mutters against your throat. "Wanna fuck you full of my cum. Wanna fuck a baby into you."
"Yes — Please —" You are completely disconnected from your mouth, it being a separate thing only remembering words that are his name, yes and please.
"Gonna make sure it takes." His thrusts get erratic, control fraying. "Gonna keep you full of me until your belly swells. Until everyone can see what we've been doing."
The image he's painting is filthy and visceral. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, verge of telling him yes to everything when he keeps going. This is not just distraction anymore, the farthest part of your brain whispers.
"Think about it," he groans, hand spanning your stomach again. "You round and full with my kid. These perfect tits getting bigger." His thumb presses harder on your clit, while he bends to take one nipple into his lips, neck straining. "So full of milk you'd need me to help you, need my mouth on you. They'd be so heavy, baby."
That's what sends you over. The orgasm tears through you, whole body seizing as pleasure obliterates thought, ears ringing, not even hearing the way you scream his name. Your inner walls clamp down on him so hard, he curses, loses his rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
Bucky fucks you through it, chasing his own release. "That's it. Milk my cock. Show me how much you want it. Want me to breed you properly —"
He comes with your name on his lips, hips grinding against yours as he spills inside you. The warmth of it, the sheer volume is startling, pulling soft noises from your wrung out body. You can feel it coating your walls, filling you up exactly like he promised, marking you from the inside out.
Boneless like you, Bucky balances himself on top of you, forearms braced against the couch, not pulling out. You feel his cock twitching inside you, spurting the remnants of his release, and feel the wet slide of cum down your inner thighs. Through the haze of your orgasm, something clicks into place. The way he'd been fixated on your stomach from the beginning, how his hands always found their way there, pressing, holding and claiming. The breeding talk that seemed to come so naturally to him. He'd been obsessed with it, with your stomach, with the idea of filling you up, you'd just been too overwhelmed to notice.
"You're obsessed with my stomach," you say, still trying to catch your breath.
Bucky lifts his head to look at you, and there's no embarrassment in his expression. If anything, there's pride there, satisfaction. "Yeah. Have been since you wore crop tops all summer."
"All summer?"
"I'm not proud of it." But he's smiling slightly, thumb stroking across your stomach where he's softening inside you. "Couldn't stop thinking about marking you here. Putting my hands on you. Making you mine in every way that matters."
The possessiveness in his tone, the raw need, stirs something primal in you, that wants to be his. The fact that this is your first time ever doesn't concern you, just makes you feel wanted and claimed in the best possible way.
He finally pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. The slide of him leaving you feels like a loss, an ache of emptiness. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you. Those worry lines are back, you want to smooth them away. "That was perfect. You were perfect." You kiss him softly. "I'm fine. Better than fine."
He still looks unconvinced, but before he can spiral into guilt, you pull him down on top of you. His weight is comforting rather than crushing, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. His arms band around you, face buried in your neck.
For a while, he stays where you put him, his body heavy over yours, warm and shaking in small, leftover ways he would probably deny if you mentioned them. His face remains tucked in your neck like he can hide there from every terrible, responsible thought trying to crawl back into his head. You can feel the guilt gathering anyway. It keeps making itself known in the careful way he holds his weight off you, the tiny pauses before his mouth touches your skin, the way his arms tighten whenever you shift. The guilt doesn't get to settle in though, because you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, pulling him back to look at you. "Stop thinking so loud."
"I'm not —"
"You are." Your thumb traces the crease between his brows. "I can hear it from here."
Bucky huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before starting a slow path downward. His lips drag across your sternum, then lower, mapping ribs and soft flesh. Each kiss is soft and slow, like he's got all the time in the world to learn what makes you sigh. When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips in the same way it did earlier, circling, and your hips twitch involuntarily.
"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin, quiet want in his tone. His mouth continues lower, across the plane of your stomach, and this is where he lingers. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to skin that's still flushed and overheated, his stubble scraping in ways that make you squirm. Both hands splay across your belly, spanning the width of it, metal and flesh holding you like something precious. He's almost worshipful about it, pressing his lips just below your navel and staying there, breathing you in.
"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out soft.
"Thinkin' about how good you'd look." His thumb strokes back and forth across your stomach. "Round and full. Wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."
Bucky's orgasm doesn't seem slow him down, he's only edging you towards the start of another one, the words sending signals straight to your core. "You already can't keep your hands off me."
Bucky laughs as he presses another kiss lower, then another, working his way down until he's kneeling between your spread thighs.
You're about to pull him up, tell him you're still not recovered, but Bucky's not looking at your face anymore. His gaze is fixed between your legs, watching as his cum starts to leak out of you, painting your inner thighs white. "Fuck," he breathes, his fingers gathering the mess and pushing it back inside you. "Can't waste it," he mutters, almost to himself, two fingers pressing deep, pushing his release back where it belongs. "Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta keep you full."
You're boneless, can't do anything but lie there and let him have this strange, filthy little ritual, watching through dazed eyes. The room smells like rain and sex. Your couch is absolutely never recovering, and maybe neither are you. He keeps his fingers inside you with that focused, almost frightening devotion, pushing the mess back where he thinks it belongs, one open-mouthed kiss landing on your lower stomach as he does it.
You reach down and catch his wrist, stilling his hand. "Bucky. I'm not going anywhere. It's not going to leak out in the next five seconds."
He looks up at you, a bashfulness in his face you've never seen on him before, caught doing exactly what he wants with zero shame left to hide behind. "I know. I just —" He trails off, fingers still buried inside you.
"You just what?"
"Like seeing it," he admits. "Like knowing I put it there."
The honesty of it makes you want the next round desperately, and before that thought could take root, you tug on his wrist, pulling him towards you. He withdraws his fingers reluctantly, wiping them on his discarded shirt before crawling up your body. When he settles next to you on the couch, you turn into him, tucking yourself against his chest. His arm comes around you, metal hand cool against your overheated skin.
"So that happened."
"Yeah. That happened." His lips and hands keep mapping your body in small increments, like he's making up for lost time, like he doesn't want to let you go.
The silence stretches. You count his heartbeats — twelve, fifteen, twenty — before he eventually says, "your dad's gonna kill me."
"Probably." You trace patterns on his chest with one finger, following old scars, the raised tissue telling stories he won't. "But at least you'll die happy."
"Small comfort."
"I could tell him it was my idea," you supply.
"That'll make it worse. Then he'll kill me for not having more self-control." He catches your hand, stilling your wandering fingers mid-trace. "He trusts me. Trusted me with you. And I just —"
"Fell in love with me?"
The words shatter between you. You've never said them out loud before, never put a name to this thing that's been building since you were nineteen. Bucky goes very still at that, body stopping everything, even breathing. "What?"
"That's what this is, right?" You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Because if this is just some — I don't know, some itch you needed to scratch, you should probably tell me now before I —"
"It's not." He cuts you off urgently. "It's not that. It's —" The struggle plays out on his face, words getting stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.
"It's what?"
"It's me being stupid in love with you for the past six months and trying real hard not to be," he finally says. The confession comes out rough, like it's been dragged from deep inside him. "It's me seeing you and forgetting how to be a person. It's me lying awake at 3 AM thinking about your laugh. It's — fuck, I don't know. I'm not good at this."
"Doin' fine so far," you tell him softly.
"I'm old. You just graduated college a few years ago. Your dad's my best friend. I got no business —"
"Bucky." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, meet your eyes, the intensity in them hopefully squashing any lingering doubts. His eyes do that thing where they won't hold yours for more than two seconds, darting away like he's afraid of what you'll see if he stays. "I'm twenty five. I have a job, an apartment, a 401k that I don't understand but I have one. I'm not some kid you're taking advantage of."
"I know that. I do. But —"
"But what?"
"But I've been to war. I've killed people. I got nightmares that wake me up screaming and a metal arm because I got fucked up and — You should want someone normal. Someone who doesn't have to check the exits in every room and who doesn't flinch at loud noises."
You think about all the times you've watched him scan a room, cataloging threats that aren't there. How he never sits with his back to a door. How he jumped that time your neighbor dropped a toolbox in the hallway. "Should I? Is that what I should want?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I don't." You lean in and kiss him before he can argue, or state reasons why this shouldn't happen. You continueto speak against his mouth, "I want you. Nightmares, metal arm, all of it. I want you at 3 AM when you can't sleep. I want you checking exits. I want all the parts you think are too broken to love."
A frustrated sound leaves him, sounds like a laugh but could easily be anything else. "You're gonna regret this."
"Let me worry about that."
"When your dad finds out —"
"When my dad finds out, we'll deal with it. Together." You settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its jumping out of his ribs. "Besides, he likes you better than me anyway. I'm pretty sure if it came down to it, he'd keep you and disown me."
That actually makes him laugh. "That's not true."
"It absolutely is. You fixed his transmission. I can't even check my own oil."
"I'll teach you."
"See? This is why he likes you better." You press a kiss to his sternum. "Useful."
"That's me. Useful." You can hear the smile in his voice now, the tension finally bleeding out of him.
"Among other things." Your hand drifts lower, fingers trailing down his stomach.
He catches your wrist, halting its path. "Again? Already?"
"What? You get to be obsessed with my stomach but I can't appreciate yours?"
"I don't —" He stops when you look up at him. Your expression must give away exactly what you're thinking, Bucky's jaw tightens, Adam's apple bobbing on a hard swallow. "Okay, yeah. I'm obsessed with your stomach. Happy?"
"Very." You kiss his jaw. It's hard to keep your hands to yourself when he's laid out beside you like a Greek statue taunting you. "For the record, I'm obsessed with your arms. Both of them. And your shoulders. And this thing you do where you bite your lip when you're concentrating."
"I don't do that."
"You absolutely do. You did it like three times while you were trying to get my bra off."
"I was nervous," he admits. There's a pink tinge creeping up his neck, faint but visible. "Kept thinking you'd realize this was a mistake and change your mind."
"Not a mistake." You tilt your head up to look at him properly. "Best decision I ever made, actually. Well, second best. First best was wearing that black crop top to the barbecue."
He groans. "Don't remind me. I had to hide in the garage for twenty minutes."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?" He shifts, and you feel the evidence of why pressing against your hip. "You bent over to grab a beer and I thought I was gonna die right there."
"Poor baby. Must've been so hard for you." You're not even a little bit sorry.
"Not funny."
"It's hilarious." You kiss him again, deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours lazily, like you have all the time in the world. When you pull back, his eyes are dark again. "Also, we should probably move to the bedroom. This couch isn't big enough for both of us."
"Can you walk?"
Good question. Your legs feel like overcooked pasta, your body wrung out and remade into someone new. "I — Maybe?"
Bucky sits up, taking you with him, and before you can protest he's scooping you up. "I got you."
"I can walk," you insist, even as you're wrapping your arms around his neck. The automatic way your body curls into him feels like muscle memory you haven't earned yet.
"Sure you can." He's heading down the hallway. "But let me do this."
"Such a hardship, carrying me around naked."
"The worst." He's grinning, and when he lays you down on your bed, carefully, like you're precious cargo. He stands there for a second, just looking at you sprawled across your sheets. You should feel exposed — you are exposed, completely bare under his gaze — but the way he's looking at you kills the urge to cover up.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing. Just —" He shakes his head. "Can't believe this is real."
"Want me to pinch you?"
"Smart ass." He crawls onto the bed, settling beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. You curl into him automatically, throwing one leg over his hip, and he makes this satisfied sound in his throat. Out of content, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell the difference.
"Gonna stay?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.
"Yeah." His arm tightens around you. "If that's okay."
"More than okay." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like yours. "Bucky?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you too. Just so you know."
For three full seconds, he doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe if you're being honest, his ribs don't move. You're about to take it back, pretend you were joking, anything to break the awful stillness — "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Have for a while now. Since before the barbecue, even. Maybe since I was nineteen and saw you sitting at my dad's table looking all broody and tragic."
"I wasn't broody."
"You were absolutely broody. You still are. It's annoyingly attractive."
He huffs a laugh against your hair, the warmth spreading to your neck, raising goosebumps. "Attractive, huh?"
You bite his shoulder lightly, teeth scraping enough skin to make him hiss slightly. "Everything about you is attractive."
"Everything else like what?"
"You don't cut your hair unless it bothers you, until it falls over your face and blocks your vision, like now. You like it when I ask you things, when I need help… I think it makes you feel wanted, you don't know that I always want you." Your mind goes to your windowsill. "You always fill the bird feeder, even if I forget."
"You noticed all that?"
"I've been studying you for six years, Barnes. I could talk about you in my sleep."
"That's — That's a little creepy, actually."
"Says the man who just spent ten minutes trying to plug me up with his cum."
A soft laugh vibrates from him as his fingers trace idle patterns on your hip. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."
There are a hundred things you could say. Practical things about what happens now, how this changes everything, whether he'll still come over for coffee on Saturday mornings with your dad or if this makes it weird. But your eyes are heavy, body sated and wrung out, not enough energy to keep the conversation going, even if you so badly want to.
"Buck?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't leave before I wake up."
"Not going anywhere. Not anymore, sweet girl." A soft lingering kiss to your forehead is all you remember, the ghost of its touch following you to dreamland.
MY MASTERLIST!
EXTRAS. what can i say i love the concept of dbf bucky, i have like 15 more dbf pwp in mind lmao… also no taglist bc this is queued.
Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.
note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok.
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
You’ve found some footing outside your room.
In the last week, you’ve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and you’ve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.
It doesn’t work.
They’re everywhere.
Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. They’re in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you don’t respond, keeping you apprised of the day.
“Johnny’s out until the afternoon, chasin’ down a lead. I’ll be here if you need something.”
“Gonna go out for groceries. D’ye need anything?”
“Simon’s on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.”
It does scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. You’re afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that you’re safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you why you’re here, why you’re trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct. Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.
The outside threat, or them.
Your pills aren’t working.
It’s the fourth morning in a row where you’ve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkiller… and felt nothing.
No relief. No numbness.
Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.
It’s taking a toll.
“Dove?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war you’re playing with yourself. They should be working. Is it because you’re too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?
Simon says your name, but you ignore him.
Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?
A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.
Your reaction doesn’t deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.
“Ye’re warm, sweetheart. Ye feelin’ alright?” You nod, but don’t say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. “Ye barely ate.”
“Not hungry.” You croak. You lean away from him. He’s too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you, he could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-
Stop.
You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. “Whoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?”
“I don’t know.” You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnny’s bright and concerned, Simon’s dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.
“Maybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?” You shake your head.
“No, no… I’ll go back to bed. I’m probably just tired.” An obvious lie, but you can’t admit to them how badly you’re hurting. Your pride won’t allow it.
“Alright…” Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. “Let’s go get ye comfortable.” You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.
You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. You’re not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnny’s, and then Simon’s behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything you’ve ever felt spreading through your blood.
An infection.
They made you sick.
They’re making you sick, still. Somehow.
Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.
You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you can’t. The effort would be too much.
“Jus’ rest.” Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. “I’ll check on ye in a bit.” You scowl.
“I’m fine. Just tired.” You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.
“If ye say so.”
You’re full of restless energy when you wake up.
It’s after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp that’s on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.
You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but there’s this… unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.
Anxiety, you think. Has to be. You’re not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though it’s never felt like this. It’s a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.
The blankets you’re hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.
There’s nothing, except for the empty bedroom.
The bedroom that’s too large, too open.
It’s problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.
You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and you’re enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.
But it still doesn’t feel right.
That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasn’t gone away.
You eye the lamp.
It’s too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.
Better, but still not right.
Maybe it’s the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.
Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.
You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if it’s a fruitless endeavor.
It should work.
It should.
You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.
The closet catches your eye.
Maybe it’s too big, you wonder. Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.
You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.
It’s dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.
You drag everything you’ve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so they’re perfect for burrowing, snuggling.
Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.
Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.
Everything is a little blurry, if you’re honest.
The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.
You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When there’s a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you don’t move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.
Simon.
Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread it’s a part of what you’ve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.
His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.
“This is nice,” he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, “bit small for your nest though.” The horror is immediate. Is that what this is? Is that what you’ve done? It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt like this.
No. You’re not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open to them.
“It’s not a nest.” You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. “I was just… I needed to get out of bed.” He cocks his head.
“It’s not? Sure looks like one to me.” Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. “It’s okay,” he soothes immediately, “you did good, dove. It’s a good nest.” He’s speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omega preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. It’s like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.
Stop.
Stopstopstopstop please stop-
The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you can’t stop it. You’re paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you can’t do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. “Such a good omega.”
That snaps you out of it.
The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. It’s dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals done to their bones.
You won't let that become who you are. You can't.
You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesn’t last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.
“Dinner’s ready.” You shake your head.
“I’m not hungry.” It’s not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with this situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, it’s still there.
“You need to eat.” You’re about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. “Do you need me to bring you downstairs myself?” He will, you know it. You don’t doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.
“N-no.” You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.
“C’mon then.” He extends his hand, and the part of you that’s growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like it’s being played by a puppeteer. It’s only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He’s not leaving, not until you’re out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. He’s got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.
You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.
It knows you’ll come crawling back before the night is over.
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your first proper outing, scouting a warehouse used by the enemy, and captain price doesn't make things any easier for you.
part five // part seven
ao3 // rainfall masterlist // main masterlist
You only managed a few hours of tense sleep before you woke, body rising with the dawn, though it took your head—and Price's loud and incredibly annoying alarm—to catch up. Stretching out your back as you sat up, the sheets sliding away, and your eyes popped as it exposed the tip of your thigh.
"How the fuck did you pass basic rising so slow?" Price mocked from the other side of the room, fully dressed and looking as if he'd been up an hour already.
"Turn around." You snapped, yanking the sheets up.
At first, he frowned, confused, and then a smile smoothed over his bearded features. "Why's that, love?" He smirked over the lip of his coffee mug.
"Turn. The fuck. Around." You uttered, drawing out each syllable in a lengthy growl and Price snickered but complied, turning his back.
You slipped out, swiping out your entire duffel, not trusting him to keep his back turned as you disappeared into the bathroom, twisting the lock round tight to get changed. Dressing for the planned day ahead. Plain jeans, t-shirt and a thick jumper. Forced into yet another inappropriate set of underwear for the day and cursing Jenna's name for the hundredth time, hoping the burning of her ears set the bitch on fire.
"You never answered my question, by the way." Price called as you stepped out, kicking the duffel under the bed again.
"What question?" You yawned, fingers twisting through your hair to knot it in a tight braid, sliding some pins through to secure any wayward strands.
When Price didn't respond at first, letting the silence stretch as you pulled out your handgun and went through the necessary checks, leaning back against one of the counters to study your movements. His suggestive gaze dropping down when you twisted to prompt him, heat crawling up your neck.
Without the threads of exhaustion cloying at you, softening your thoughts, you reminded yourself exactly who you were dealing with. Your captain, your boss, the man who shouldn't be asking these questions in the first place. Were all Special Forces this direct?
Price merely crossed his arms over his chest, assessing your stiff stance, his gaze sliding up and down your body as if intent on making you uncomfortable. Humming an affirmative as an offhand, a distraction to the real conversation, the one you were blatantly ignoring.
"Could have you written up for that." Price warned but there was no real bite to it, only a gentle tease. "Inappropriate working condition."
You snorted before you could stop yourself, shoving the handgun into your waistband and draping your shirt, your jumper, over the top to conceal it. Talk about inappropriate.
"Do we know if the meeting is still happening?" You deflected, smoothing your hands down your jumper. Twice. Busying yourself over your boots.
Though you planned on checking out the storehouse, Gaz and Price picked up word of a meeting happening at a local cafe between a courier and one of Dukov's associates.
Price grinned, stepping around the table, your slip satisfying whatever need he had to rile you. "Far as we know." He nodded, "Laswell's been monitoring chatter for any change."
He slipped his phone into his back pocket and you noticed the bulge of his own weapon beneath his button down.
"Then what are we waiting for?" You tugged on the sleeves of your jumper, flicking a glance outside the windows at the puffy clouds, and glanced over at the captain when he didn't move.
Bad move. Bad move. Bad move. Price's grin grew, fixing you under his heated gaze, pinning you to the spot and as soon as the challenge left your lips regret pooled high in your chest.
He only had one word for you. "Lace?"
Taking a deep—half-steadying and clearly irritated—breath, you gripped his gaze as tight as you dared and placed your palms flat on your hips.
"If you think I'm ever going to answer that question, you've got another thought coming."
Price's icy eyes grew bolder. "I've been havin' a lotta thoughts about you, love, not sure you want me havin' any more."
"It's my bloody roommate playing a prank, alright?" You lifted a finger at him, cheeks threatening to combust. "Don't get any ideas."
Price chuckled, a full-bodied, bold smile gracing his cheeks as he swiped the keys from the counter and followed you through the open door. Your gaze fixed on the pavement below instead of the warmth of his smile, waiting for him to lock up and lead the way.
God, this man. The cheek of him. You were so unbelievably flustered already and you hadn't even had a coffee yet, for Christ's sake. "I'm surprised you've never been written up for harrassment before." You muttered as the two of you fell into step with each other.
"How'd you know someone hasn't tried?"
"Please." You shot him a flat look. "If someone like you ever got sent to personnel, the gossip would light the base on fire."
"Hmph." Price pulled a lighter from his pocket, sticking a cigarette between his teeth and the glow briefly ignited his icy eyes. He took a long drag, watching you over the top, and blew the smoke away from you on the gentle morning breeze. "You listen to shit like that?"
"Only when it concerns me." You replied honestly, tucking your already nipped fingers in your pockets. A steady stream of traffic passing you by on the road as you walked towards the centre of the town, glancing down at your shoes.
The incident in Afghanistan briefly flooding your head, wondering if word of your excursion with Price had made it's rounds yet. Though you trusted Jenna, she wasn't the only one there when the lieutenant requested you. Anyone could've overheard in the training centre, saw you enter Price's office. The administrative assistants the worst offenders.
"You talked about it?" Price prompted after another drag of his cigarette and of course you knew what he meant.
"What's there to talk about?"
Price narrowed his eyes. "I read the report, got the cliff notes version." He blew out a puff of pretty white smoke. "You didn't blame the prick responsible."
No, you didn't. Jeffrey had given the instructions, he'd pulled rank on you—being the senior sergeant and all—and though you voiced your objections you let him lead you into the bloody mess.
"We all shouldered the blame by following him." You shook your head unconsciously, "Our orders were to sweep the area, scout for any insurgents, and Jeffrey's instructions were within the bounds."
"Jeffrey took your squad outside the limits of your patrol, you weren't allocated the sector." Price pointed out and you glanced him over. He really had read the report.
"Technically, on a standard sweep like that, any squad is allowed to breach their sector if there's reasonable doubt."
Price flicked his cigarette, a crumb of ash spilling out, the corner of his lip briefly perking. "You're like a walking regulation manual, you know that?"
"Yet, I'm not wrong." Despite the backwards compliment, you smiled.
"Jeffrey didn't have doubts, he had pride, he wanted a score." Price continued anyway, tone brutally honest. "Prick dragged you into it, you should've kicked him to the dirt."
"Surely you of all people know what it's like when you're in the thick of it." You responded bluntly and Price gripped your gaze straight on, your step faltering on the pavement and you averted your eyes. "You put your trust in those around you, you can't second guess them or it might get someone killed."
A momentary pause, the single beat of a heart, before Price answered. "But you did." He remembered and you swallowed, your features falling. "Something in you must've doubted, or those civilians would be dead in the dust."
"Yeah." You tried to work some moisture into your suddenly dry mouth. "And what does that say about me?" You lifted your gaze back to his, finding a drop of sympathy bleeding through the ice. "Still think you picked the right man for the job?"
"Yes." Price didn't hesitate and you recoiled.
"Even if I am a walking regulation manual?" You quoted, hoping it distracted from the shock still pinching your features.
Price's lip quirked as he finished the last of his cigarette, flicking the stub to the pavement and grinding it into the slab with the tip of his boot.
"You don't follow the rules as closely as you think, sergeant." He replied cryptically, leading you round the corner onto a fresh block of buildings. "Else you wouldn't be here."
You narrowed your eyes at him, following his back as he took the lead ahead of you into the town centre. People buzzing about along the morning commute, a few shops lining the main road. Groceries and high street shops with banners in German you couldn't read and Price continued down, the two of you ducking between passersby towards the edge of the town centre. Over where a taller building with a triangular roof stood on the outskirts in clear view of a little cafe with blue awnings and thatch chairs lining the circular tables made of silver veined marble.
Recognising the name of the cafe from the intel in Laswell's file, the hostess smiling at you as she seated you at one of the outside tables. Offering menus though you merely ordered a coffee. The seat providing a full view of the storehouse opposite you and by the time the coffee arrived your target had disappeared inside the thick double doors.
You stirred a single cube of sugar into the curved white mug, smudging the milky artwork atop as the spoon clinked, settling it on the saucer once you were finished. Eyeing the double doors, studying the guard outside leaning against the brick wall. Looking casual, as if he'd just stopped for the puff of his cigarette.
"You're staring." You pointed out blankly as you lifted the mug with both hands, palm wrapped to the warmth as a chill swept down the cobbled street.
Price sniffed, twisting his own dainty cup—a single shot of espresso—whilst his eyes bore into you unashamedly. "I am."
You took a sip—the coffee hot, bitter, on your tongue—and regarded him coolly over the top. "Shouldn't you be watching the door?" You set the mug down with a soft clink, both hands pressed flat around it. Doing your job, like me.
"He's just gone inside." Price reminded you, knocking the fold of his jacket aside as he brought one leg to cross the other. Still staring. "Won't be out for a while."
He lifted the espresso, the tiny cup dwarfed in his big hands, and took a sip. Gaze locked tight on you as he sipped and you shuffled in your seat, rubbing your forefinger along the porcelain idly.
Your jumper doing little to keep out the chill and you ran your gaze down Price's burgundy suede jacket, lined with soft beige fleece and wishing you'd brought something warmer.
"Besides." Price set the mug down. "Found something prettier to look at."
Not this again. You cleared your throat, lifting the mug again and hoping it hid the sudden flush rushing through your cheeks. Taking a longer sip, ignoring the bite of the hot coffee as it hit your tongue, eyes narrowing as Price flashed the quickest smirk.
"Maybe you should focus on the task at hand, Captain." You suggested, settling the mug back in the saucer.
"Maybe." He agreed softly, unreadable eyes tracking your thumb as you brushed it along your mouth, scraping the foam off your lip.
You swallowed. Shifted in the seat again, stopped yourself short of licking your lips. "Dukov's associate, do they have a long history?" You asked, trying to forcibly shove him back on task if he wouldn't go willingly.
Price took a deep breath, leaning back in the chair, a professional edge hardening his rugged features and you released a silent breath of relief. "Few dealings scattered across the past two years that we can trace but nothing concrete." Price answered, connecting some dots in your head. "Our intel suggests they've been using this courier to make deals with business across town, keep the compound supplied."
You nodded, letting your gaze sweep wider across the street, the few market stalls attracting customers on the opposite side. Their awnings billowing in the gentle wind, the occasional brush of a car passing and the hum of other patrons about the cafe the only sound to be heard in the late morning. A gentleman rustling his newspaper to straighten it. Two of the waitresses giggling together as they passed. The hiss, the steam of the espresso machine echoing from inside.
"What do you see?" Price's deep voice slithered into your thoughts, drawing your gaze back to him, his rugged features.
"Life." You answered, taking another sip of coffee, watching the last swirls of foam on the top as you set it back down. "A quiet Wednesday morning."
"And?" Price tapped the espresso cup once, your gaze snapping to the motion, then to him.
"Civilians." You finished, leaning back in the chair, feeling the outline of the handgun wedged beneath your waistband and a familiar uncertainty took root in the pit of your stomach. "Potential casaulties."
"Obstructions." Price summarised and you nodded, a tally of them totalled in your head.
Your gaze flicking to him, penetrating gaze occasionally caught on something behind you, beside you, and returned the question. "What do you see?"
Drawing the icy blue back to you, his lip quirking beneath the beard and he tapped the cup again. Just once. "Something pretty." You fixed on a point across the street. The flutter of a mother's dress as she stood with her daughter, ignoring the flush returning to your cheeks. "Seriously, you got something against taking a compliment, love?"
You flashed him an irritable look and his quirk grew to a small smile, your grip on the mug tightening. "I do when they come from my commanding officer."
"I might be your captain, love, but the rules don't exactly count out here." He smirked and caught the tiniest frown pinching your brows, his head tilting. "Laswell didn't tell ya, did she?"
"Tell me what?"
"What happens on the mission, stays on the mission."
"I know how shadow ops work, thank you." You dismissed sarcastically, if a little petulantly, and Price's smile still grew.
"To protect an operative's record, they are not required to disclose individual actions taken to achieve the mission's target goal." He replied, literally spelling it out for you and you wanted to be insulted but were too distracted by the way he looked at you. Heated. Expectant. As if he wanted something. "Meaning—"
"What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." You interrupted with a sharp twist of your mug. "Walking regulation manual, remember?"
"In a nutshell, love." Price chuckled breathily, "Same rules don't apply out here, not right now, not to us."
"Even so," You shifted in the chair, fixing your gaze on the mug, Sleeves tugged as far down as they could go. "I take orders from you, it isn't right."
"And if I ordered you to take the bleeding compliment?"
You flicked your gaze up, peering through your lashes, finding his eyebrow quirked softly, a strange smile on his lips. "You're mocking me." You exasperated, though your own lip quirked briefly.
"Nah." He shook his head playfully, moving the espresso so he could lean forward across the table, bringing his gaze closer. "I wouldn't dare mock someone as lovely as you."
You began to smile despite yourself but the flick of Price's gaze over your shoulder, back to the entrance of the storehouse, cut you off. Your back straightening, hands releasing the mug.
"Slowly." Price remained relaxed, finished his espresso as if he had all the time in the world and you watched him curiously. Learning. "He's not going anywhere and neither are we." He set the cup down, his attention seemingly focused on you. "Just a man and a woman sharing a coffee together."
You nodded softly, watching Price's gaze tracking the contact over your shoulder, loosening some of the tension riding up your back to take another sip of coffee. Choking on it as rough fingers stroked along the back of your hand, trapping it tight to the table when you tried to snap it back. The mug clinking hard against the saucer, mouth open to chastise him when a clunky voice sounded behind you.
The associate. Your target. Asking to be seated, for a menu, and the host led them to a table opposite from yours. Close enough for you to hear the low mutter of his voice, his companions voice, and no doubt close enough for them to hear you. A shiver dancing down the stretch of your arms and this time it didn't come from the wind.
"Are you cold, love?" Price frowned, concerned, and scraped his chair back before you could respond.
Shrugging off his jacket and standing to tuck it over you, his hands hovering on your shoulders as he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your cheek. His beard tickling.
“Just follow my lead.” He whispered so quietly you almost missed it, returning to his seat as the waitress came over.
“I am happy to move you inside, if you would prefer?” She smiled, speaking in accented English.
“Tha’s kind of you.” Price returned the smile, his cheeks puffing—sitting in nothing but his own thick fleece now—and nodded back to you. “My girl’s just after the jacket, though.”
Your girl? You began to raise your eyebrows but a muscle in his jaw clenched. Follow my lead. God, he really wanted to sell this whole couple thing and you smiled up at the waitress, tugging the jacket tighter around you.
“It’s my favourite.” You lied, returning to Price, tilting your head. “Looks so much better on me, don’t you think?”
Amusement lit up his deep eyes—genuine, not framed for the waitress—and he took your hand up again after you'd slithered it down the sleeve. Fuck, this thing is warm.
“Ya look good in anything, love.” He complimented, lifting it to his lips to press a fleeting kiss to your knuckles as the waitress left you to it and mischief curled the edges of his smile. “M’sure you look good in nothing at all, too.”
You flashed him a look. Piercing. Warning. His amusement growing, brightening the icy blue. Refraining from snatching your hand back even as he returned it to the table, thumb idly brushing across your knuckles.
“Warm enough?” He teased, the jacket big and bulky on your shoulders and unbelievably warm.
The faintest smell of cigar smoke and pinewood echoing in your nose as you wrapped yourself up in it, smiling back in response. “Perfectly."
This time, you took his hand, entwining your fingers across the table. Leaning forward, head perched on your chin as if enraptured by Price’s attention, lost in just him as the morning swam about around you. Passing idle chit chat, making up the lie of your lives so the gentle hum of your conversation reached your target’s ears.
Passing an easy ten minutes before Price paid the bill and you stood, flinching when Price's hand met the small of your back to guide you away from the cafe, down the street. Masking it with a pretty smile, letting him wrap his arm around your waist and tug you closer.
"Shouldn't we be staying, listening?" You whispered as each step took you further from the meeting.
"It's not the meeting that's important, it's the contact." He answered, drawing you off to the side. Slipping out his phone.
Stopping you by a trough of brightly coloured flowers, positioning you in front and you caught on quickly, falling into a relaxed pose in front of the little statuette. Smiling for him, for the camera on his phone, knowing he had it focused far behind you. Still within eyeshot of the target and his companion and when Price lowered the phone to show, you latched onto his arm, peering across. Smiling prettily as if the photo you stared at was of you and not a zoomed in shot of the criminal's coffee date.
This time he wrapped his arm about your shoulders as you continued down the street, pocketing his phone, and you gingerly clung to his waist. Feeling firm muscle beneath his fleece, the hard plains of his back, and another flush blossomed at the base of your neck. Hidden beneath the collar of Price's jacket.
Synopsis: She is one of the best snipers serving in Iraq but she is also suffering from an attitude problem and ironically has a hard time following orders. After an incident in her former base, she is sent to join the Special Forces unit led by Captain Syverson who requires a talented sniper.
Unlucky for her, Captain Syverson is a hard man who likes things by the book and according to order. He ain’t got the patience for troublemakers.
Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC (Jessica Gallagher)
Word count: 3,790
Warnings: Smut in future (it’s coming next part!!), sexual tension, teasing, big dick energy. Captain Syverson is BFD but also kind of a jerk in this one.
A/N: Ok, I promised smut in chapter 6 but I ended up writing 18 pages, so I have to split this in two so it will be readable. The good news is that I am almost done proofing so the sex coming up like later tonight. Please don’t hate me.
Hello my pretty little ones, this is where you can find Henry Cavill and all his characters’ related fanfiction, drabbles, imagines and headcanons written by yours truly satan.
*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of it. Please don’t add your additions or spin-offs to my existing story.
*Most stories contain 18+ content, please read the warnings responsibly and proceed on your own account
for all of us who can't bear to read anything but CoD fanfiction (due to the 141's fat tits) do you have any all-time favs?
Such an awful, sick affliction. I made one of these lists a while back but couldn't find it so you’re in luck because I have plenty of favorites and I’m happy to share them (in no particular order. I KNOW I'm forgetting at least ten fics I've read and loved but I have a goldfish brain today, forgive me):
And please, read the tags/warnings. Your consumption is your own responsibility.
Neon Medusa
Too sweet not to share
Ghost and Red Fox
Alford plea
The Willow Maid
Exfiltration
The Arrangement
Civilian Asset
See no evil
Squeeze me I squeak
MildLimerence
Mine & Yours
Saltwater
Metanoia
to you I can admit (that I'm too soft for all of it)
white flag
blood on my shirt, rose in my hand
totally platonic
Surviving you
Dog
all that's said in the lowlight
birdsongs or advice and symphonies for your children
Happiness
songs that sound like sea foam
down to the marrow
roommate gaz
Chink in the Armour
Man-sized
Hummingbird
don't leave me locked in your heart
Listening In
Situationship-verse
The Scottish Cabin in the Woods
Spoils of War
Where Your Feet Pass
Neighborly and/or not The Rear Window
jigsaws
pictures in frames, kisses on cheeks
sirius c
Spoils
Cabin Fever / part one
lotus flower
the lies we tell
Who Dares Win
babytrap anthology
The Hard Way
Of Sea Foam and Iron
bury me beneath the basswood tree
Wicked Harvest
Tiger balm
baby blue
Keeper/Kept
Something Sweet
Stay Away
appetite
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Summary: After a drunk night on the town turns you into the only unfortunate witness to a horrific crime, you quickly find yourself in a bit over your head. The bad guy doesn't like loose ends, and the good guys wanna do their job. There's always collateral in some form... isn't there?
Warnings: injuries, language, minor angst, fluff, not edited nor proofread - good luck
Word Count: 2K
A/n: y'all don't understand how much i fw running on these sentences. i hope you guys can read it the way i'm writing it and it doesn't trigger anyone lol also SORRY it took so long i've got so much on the go teehee
~*~
For a man in his forties, Captain John Price gives a cold shoulder that would impress a teenage girl.
He ignores you for two and a half days, offering nothing more than a grunt in response to any question you’ve dared to ask him.
It isn’t until you’ve finished your rations for the night and are heading to the bathroom to redress your wound that he finally breaks his silence and calls your name.
Your real name, not the one they gave you.
You step toward the table he’s turned into a desk, fidgeting when he doesn’t look up from a paper.
Finally, after what feels like hours, he sets the sheet down and looks up at you.
“He says he didn’t ask. That you went to him. That true?”
He doesn’t need to elaborate. You know what he’s talking about.
You feel like a kid confessing to wetting the bed as you nod sheepishly.
He heaves out a breath that must weigh a thousand pounds and pinches the bridge of his nose.
A hundred thousand thoughts and questions are running through his mind like silly little dachshunds chasing their tails. But the one that sticks out is:
“So you heard us?” Though it’s posed as a question, it’s a statement.
A cold hard fact.
You still hesitate for a moment before nodding again, and Price lets out another sigh.
The night that was supposed to be magical and wonderful ended with a cold dose of reality for you.
As if that weren’t bad enough, you actually volunteered for the bloody gig anyway.
He pulls off his glasses and opens his mouth to speak, but you interrupt him before he can get a sound out.
“Listen, you don’t need to explain anything to me, okay? I…” you stop for a moment, eyes looking anywhere but his face. “Just let me know what you need from me.”
With that, you turn and walk away from him with the crumbs of your dignity falling through your fingers.
Price can’t do anything besides watch as you retreat into the bathroom.
The door shuts a little harder than you meant, and you quickly press your back to it and cover your mouth with your hand to stifle your sobs.
You lost it.
All of it.
Everything.
Your life.
Your friends.
Your maybe was kinda sorta blossoming almost-romance with John.
Your teeth grind together and then your fist is hitting the wall and the sound is echoing through the small bathroom.
You regret it as soon as you do it. Not so much because of the pain. No, nothing even comes close to the fire licking its way up your side.
You moreso regret the noise, because now…
Knock knock knock
“Everything okay in there?”
You hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut, almost like if you try hard enough, you’ll disappear.
You’re tempted to try clicking your heels.
You don’t, though.
And you’re still there in the bathroom when you open your eyes.
Still stuck in the tiny bathroom when Price knocks on the door again.
“Yeah.” You regret the word even more than you regret smacking the wall, because your voice cracks and breaks and shatters as soon as you use it.
And then the door is open and John Price is standing there, staring at the scene in front of him.
His sharp eyes are analyzing, taking note of every inch of the room until they zero in on the blood staining your hands.
“What happened?”
You shake your head and swat at him, turning away to hide yourself as much as possible as he crowds your personal space.
“Get out,” you croak, glaring at him with teary eyes.
The sight shoves splinters into his heart and he finds himself reaching for you instinctively, frowning when you turn away further.
“You’re hurt. Let me see your hand.”
Okay.
You stick your bloody hand out, middle finger raised, and the man lets out a tired sigh.
He takes hold of your wrist and inspects your hand carefully, long fingers turning it this way and that.
His thick brows pull together when he finds no visible wound.
“Where are you hurt?”
“None of your business.” It’s childish and you know that, but right now he is the last person you want to accept help from.
“Actually, it is my business. Keeping you safe is my job right now.” A big bear paw finds your shoulder and spins you to face him, and then his eyes are firmly fixated on the nasty gash on your side.
“Bloody hell.”
You turn your face away in shame, hiccuping over soft sobs as he turns your body to face him a little bit more.
He crouches down and inspects the wound carefully, trying to be gentle.
It’s clearly infected, and one glance at the blood-soaked rag on the counter tells him why.
“You should’ve told me about this as soon as it happened,” he whispers, eyes as gentle as his hands as he looks up at you.
He doesn’t want to scare you.
He’s not mad at you for getting hurt, but he certainly isn’t pleased you hid it from him.
“I’m fine.”
He rises to his full height, looking at you with firm eyes.
“Stay here, I’m going to get the med kit.”
He’s only gone for a few short breaths, and then he’s back and washing his hands under the cool water.
“‘M going to clean and sterilize it. It’s already infected, we want to try and clean it and stop the infection before it can spread any further.”
You’re not sure why this makes you cry harder, but for some reason it does.
“Hey, shhhhhh, look at me. Look at me.”
Reluctantly, you bring your eyes to his.
He takes both of your hands in his and gives them a squeeze.
“You’re gonna be okay. It’s gonna sting a bit, but you’ll be okay. I need you to be brave for me. Can you do that?”
You nod tearfully, and he gives your hands a firm squeeze in thanks. “I’ll try to be quick.”
And then he’s opening the med kit and rifling through the contents.
“Lean back.” One hand is pushing on your shoulders until they bump the wall, and the other hand finds your hip, keeping your lower half in place and stretching the skin of your abdomen enough for him to work with.
“Can you take a deep breath for me?”
You breathe with him, squeezing your eyes shut as you exhale.
There’s a splash of cold on your skin for a moment before the area erupts in flames.
You jerk away instinctively, but Price’s grip on you is so strong and so firm that you hardly move an inch.
“Almost done. I know it hurts.”
Tears well up in your eyes.
‘Hurts’ is putting it lightly, to say the least.
You whimper when something cool is suddenly soothing your burning skin.
“This should help.”
It does.
So much so that you manage to peel your eyes open and glance down at him through your wet lashes.
He’s focused on the task at hand, bushy brows furrowed as he tries his best to be as gentle as possible.
The last thing he wants to do is hurt you any more.
A small, foolish little part of you wishes you weren’t in so much pain so you could really bask in the feeling of his hands on your bare skin.
The thought is silenced by Price wrapping you up and turning to wash his hands.
“I’ll change that in twelve hours, and we’ll need to monitor it closely to make sure the infection doesn’t spread.” The way he speaks is so final and factual that you don’t even nod. You just watch him dry his hands and shut the water off.
He turns back to you and leans against the sink, crossing his heavy arms across his chest.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
You just flick your eyes between his boots and his face, never lingering on one for too long.
Finally, he breaks the silence.
“You need rest. Come on.” And then he’s leading you out of the bathroom and toward the makeshift little bed on the floor.
He helps you out of your bloody shirt and into something clean, and when he’s turning to leave you’re grabbing his wrist.
“Don’t leave me. Please.”
He stares at you for a long, calculating moment.
Time seems to slow down as he fights an internal battle, Ruth’s voice nagging in his ear.
But then your bottom lip starts to wobble and his decision is made. He’s helping you to the floor and following soon after, ignoring the alarm bells blaring in his head when you sigh softly.
He helps you lie down on your good side and settles instinctively behind you, ignoring his racing heart when you scoot back a few inches.
It’s sickeningly quiet for a few moments, besides the shrill ringing of ever-present tinnitus.
Your body is stiff as a board, rigid and tense and less than six inches away from the man and it’s making him lose his damn mind.
He stays physically still behind you, quiet and grounding and watching as you slowly relax with each breath you take.
No words are spoken as you ease into dreamland, body going lax so much that you’re all but pressed against him.
And he doesn’t move.
For a long while, he doesnt move.
Just stays parked right behind you, hand hovering over you every now and then as he fights the urge to feel your skin.
He tells himself that he’s monitoring your breathing, making sure your temperature is okay, checking your wound. But he’s not really doing any of those things.
Deep down, he wonders what it would feel like to give in. To lean over and press his lips to your shoulder, wrap his arm around your waist and pull your body flush against his.
The longer he spends by your side, the more he grows to yearn for the position.
Maybe this is his place in the world.
Wrapped up with you safely in his arms.
But the safety is shattered by a vibration in his back pocket.
He’s careful not to move too quickly as he pulls his new phone free, shifting closer to you as he unlocks it and reads the message.
With a heavy sigh and newfound determination, Price forces himself to his feet and gets to work packing everything up.
He works quickly, skilled and experienced, and spends just a few moments watching you sleep before he settles in a crouch by your head.
“It’s time to go, Dove,” he whispers, warm paw landing on your shoulder and shaking you gently until you regain consciousness.
You frown up at him, drowsy and confused and still half-asleep, but to him you’re awake enough.
He helps you into a seated position and slowly begins explaining, keeping his voice low and even to -hopefully- keep you semi-calm.
“We need to leave now. Kyle and Johnny are tailing them, they’re getting too close for comfort.”
You rub your eyes and stifle a yawn as he helps you put your feet in your boots, then tightly laces them up for you.
You watch him as he handles you with such care, and for a moment you almost think the old Price might be back. The one who holds your gaze for a second or two longer than he should. The one who dusted snowflakes off your cheek and gazed at your lips like he’d never heard words before.
These are the thoughts that plague your sleepy mind as he helps you into the car and takes off driving through the snow.
A/N: Reader is female, plus size, shorter than Syverson. No other physical descriptors used.
Warnings: Anxiety, Pregnancy issues. Please let me know if I missed any.
Previous -- Next
Series Masterlist; Tech Tuesdays Masterlist
"I understand you have to tell Jonathan about things, especially in case of emergency," you start. "Do you trust him not to tell anyone else?"
"Aside from his girl, Rose, I honestly believe he won't tell another soul," Sy promises.
"And Rose can be trusted," you nod.
You've met with her briefly at office parties and the Twins' trick or treating visit. Though she seemed rather closed off, Syverson swears she can be quite the sweetheart. Those two traits definitely have you leaning towards trusting her as much as Jonathan.
Looking down, you caress your belly and wonder when you'll start showing. It's been barely two months and you can certainly feel changes, especially with your energy and bladder. But when you look in the mirror, things look relatively normal.
You let out a chuckle when you realize your actions have drawn the attention of both Sy and Lily. Sy tries to not be overprotective, knowing you like your personal space and not wanting you to feel uncomfortable from too much attention. Lilly, on the other hand, has no problems letting you know she's keeping an eye on you. She's been trained to keep you safe, take care of you in times of distress. With your hormones changing, she might not know that you're pregnant, but she certainly knows something's up and she could be needed at any moment.
"I'm okay," you say to your audience. "Just thoughtful."
"And there's a lot to be thoughtful of," Sy nods.
"It'd be easier to think if you held me," you tease.
Sy pulls you close to him and wraps his arms around you. "Whatever you need, Darlin'."
In his daily meeting with Jonathan and Rose, Syverson does something unexpected and closes the door behind him. The other two meeting attendees are immediately on alert for bad news or, at the very least, news that doesn't leave the room.
"Darling is pregnant," Sy quietly announces, grateful to have people he can tell.
Jonathan and Rose are quick with smiles and congratulations. Jonathan even shakes his hand.
"Is there a reason you want this kept quiet?" Jonathan gently pushes.
Sy nods. "Every pregnancy is risky but, given our history, we're tryin' to be especially careful. We wanna wait until things are...more sure."
"Understandable," Rose nods. "But, would it be okay if I sent a little gift to her?"
"I'm sure she'd love that," he beams. "And thank you, both, for understandin'."
"It hasn't been an easy journey and we're happy to do our part to make this leg of it easier," Jonathan reassures.
"Although, if someone from the department asks why we had a closed door meeting, we should come up with something to avoid suspicion," Rose suggests.
"Oh yes. We don't want another repeat of the 'mass firing panic'," Jonathan nods.
"Ain't we comin' up on Ransom's fifth work anniversary?" Sy suggests.
"Perfect!" Rose chimes in. "Not to mention a few of our other employees are coming up on some big anniversaries so if we need to keep quiet after Ransom's work anniversary, we can use the G's 10th work anniversary or, depending on when we count first days, Mike's first year anniversary."
"Excellent thinking, love," Jonathan beams with a small kiss to the back of Rose's hand.
A few days later you're taking advantage of the fact that you actually feel like you have energy, and decide to take Lily for a walk around the block. Regular exercise is good for both you and the baby, after all.
You take the leash off the hook on the wall and Lily is immediately ready to go outside. Maybe it's calming for her to do perimeter checks, like how checking the locks before going to bed helps Sy get to sleep. Maybe you should be doing these walks more. When the baby lets you have the energy.
Still, better the energy drain than the morning sickness. You've had some, yes, but it hasn't been too bad. The obstetrician said that 40% or so of women with morning sickness don't get vomiting. After the years of struggling with getting pregnant, you'll take the blessing of not having to deal with getting sick. Sleeping through the nausea is a welcome alternative.
The walk itself is pretty calm. It's an off time of day for most people so you don't have to worry about strangers approaching or having to keep Lily calm. It really does feel good to go out sometimes. You sometimes wish you had more people than Sy to feel comfortable around. Maybe get yourself one of those "girl days" you've heard so much about.
Stepping back into the apartment building you check the mail. Bills, of course, but also something else. Something with your and Sy's names written by hand. You don't recognize the name on the return address so you're cautious about opening it up.
Sitting at your desk, you open the envelope and are surprised by a card. It's a simple card congratulating you and Sy on your upcoming baby. It's signed by Jonathan and someone else. It takes you a minute to remember that "Rose" isn't actually the name of Jonathan's secretary and suddenly everything clicks.
You smile sadly at the card. You should be getting a lot of these from supportive friends and family. But you've cut off your family for the sake of your life with Sy. And making friends isn't easy when you're certain people are judging you for something or another.
Maybe it's time to make a change, even just one friend can make a world of difference. And you'll be setting a better example for the little one growing in your womb.
Lily licks your hand, giving you a concerned look.
"Don't worry, sweetie. I'm going to be okay," you say as much for yourself as for her.
Warnings: Mild Violence. Maybe I'll add more in the future.
Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.
Word Count: 4.3k
Previous Chapter
She blinked.
Of all the things she had expected him to say -‘give me all you have’, or even ‘where am I?’- that had not been on the list.
Her brain, which had been screaming danger at full volume, stuttered to a confused halt.
"...Excuse me?"
His eyes searched her face, flicking from her eyes to her mouth, then back up. The frown deepened.
"The ring," he said, and there was something in his voice now that hadn't been there before, something that sounded almost like fear, buried under the controlled features. "You put the ring in the chest, did something. You brought me here."
She stared at him.
Right. So. Not a drunk actor. That left her with someone eloped from an asylum, or a veteran with some kind of shock.
She forced herself to take a breath, to level her voice to a stay, calm tone, the way you'd talk to a spooked horse or a confused child.
"Listen, sir," she said. "I don't know what you've got going on in that head of yours, but I am not a witch, I don't know anything about any ring, and I would greatly appreciate it if you got off me. Now."
----
He studied her properly now..
Really examined, now that the immediate threat of the -whatever that thing was she'd tried to brain him with- had been neutralized.
The clothing was wrong. Scandalously wrong. She wore a blouse with short sleeves that ended above the elbow, leaving her forearms bare. And the neckline! God. The neckline was cut in a V that plunged toward her chest with no chemise beneath, no modest linen to preserve decency, with buttons made of something that caught the light, like shell or bone, beaconing the eyes toward the tantalizing curve of her-
His eyes snapped back to her face, jaw tight.
No respectable woman dressed like this. No lady certainly, but even common women knew better than to display themselves so openly unless they were advertising a service. Also, the carmine on her lips. He had never seen such a brazen display.
So. A whore, then? Or a service in whatever establishment he'd been dragged to after being drugged and robbed? The building smelled strange. Earth and growing things, yes, but also that underlying wrongness he couldn't place. And the light overhead wasn't firelight, wasn't candlelight, but something steady that didn't flicker, didn't smoke, just existed like it had been summoned there and told to stay.
Magic. Had to be.
His head was pounding. His ribs ached with every breath. And this woman was staring up at him like he was the confusing element in this situation.
"If not a witch," he said, keeping his voice level with effort, "then what are you, wench?"
Her eyes went wide.
Then they narrowed, and something in her expression shifted from fear into outrage so quickly he almost missed the transition.
"Wench?" she repeated, her voice climbing half an octave. "Did you just call me a wench?"
He frowned. "You object to the term?"
"Get off me, you brute!"
She shoved at his chest with her free hand. Not hard enough to move him, but hard enough to make her intention clear. The outrage was burning off the fear now, replacing it with something that looked a lot like indignation.
He didn't move. Didn't understand her sudden fury.
"I asked you a simple question-"
"A simple-" She made a sound that was half-laugh, half-disbelief. "You pinned me to the floor, accused me of being a witch, called me a wench, and-"
"You tried to strike me-"
"Because you're a stranger in my stockroom!"
"after summoning me here with dark magic-"
"I didn't summon anybody!"
They were talking over each other now, voices rising, and he could feel his own temper fraying. He was tired. His whole body hurt. He'd woken up in a hovel filled with plants and dirt, and that gods-damned light hanging from the ceiling like something out of a fever dream.
Wasn’t a candle, nor a lantern, just a spark that had no business existing without flame inside an unbelievably thin glass.
And now this woman, this… temptress with her bare arms and her plunging neckline and luring lips, was acting as though he was the unreasonable one.
As though she hadn't put that cursed ring in the tournament chest.
As though she hadn't brought him here, wherever here was.
He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to something harder, more controlled.
"Listen to me very carefully," he said. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I woke up in this place with your plants scattered around me and that-" he jerked his head toward the overhead bulb without taking his eyes off her, "thing burning without oil or wick. The ring on my hand is still warm from whatever spell you cast. So you can tell me what you want from me, and where I am, and we can handle this civilly-"
His grip on her wrist tightened slightly.
"-or you can keep pretending you don't know what I'm talking about, and I'll get the information another way."
She stared up at him, breathing hard. For a moment, he thought she might bite at him, she looked angry enough for it.
Instead, with a kind of forced, brittle calm:
"You are insane."
He blinked.
"I'm- what?"
“In-sane.” She pronounced it carefully, as though he might not know the word. “Crazy. Not right in the head. You need a doctor.”
Not right in the head.
The words landed somewhere specific, which was the problem.
There had been men along the country who said it without ever saying it outright, in the way conversations faltered when he stepped into a room, in the way former companions clapped him on the shoulder a shade too carefully, as if he were something that might splinter or lash out depending on the day.
Barnes came back wrong, was the version that traveled fastest, passed between cups of ale and lowered voices in corners they assumed he wouldn't overhear. Too quiet. Too watchful. Sleeps alone, drinks alone, doesn't speak of the time he was missing.
Not right in the head.
As though he hadn’t entertained the possibility himself.
In the particular hours between midnight and dawn, when sleep refused him and the walls of whatever rented room he happened to be in seemed to inch steadily closer, he had considered it more than once.
And now here he was.
Sir James Buchanan Barnes.
Pinning a strange woman to the floor of a room full of crushed plants, in a place he didn’t recognize, beneath a light hanging from the ceiling like a captured star, after being brought here by a ring he had put on for no better reason than to see if it fit.
Not right in the head.
Maybe he was.
The breath left him before he could stop it. Short, sharp, entirely without humor, and yet somehow adjacent to it. The nearest thing to a laugh he’d produced in longer than he cared to reckon, wrung out of him by the worst possible circumstances imaginable, which felt fitting enough to almost be funny.
Then he looked back at her, and his expression settled into something harder, flatter. Guarded.
The joke, such as it was, was over.
“Where is this place,” he said.
Not a question.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then tried again.
"You're in my stockroom," she said carefully. "The Sweet Briar. It's a flower shop on Camden Street."
"What city."
"New Wintermouth."
He stared at her.
New.
"What county."
"Hancock."
The name meant nothing. He watched her read that in his face.
"Maine," she added, as if that clarified anything.
It didn't. That meant nothing either, and somehow that was worse than if she'd said a name he could place and dispute.
"New Wintermouth," he repeated, very quietly.
She nodded.
He looked at the wall, at nothing, at the impossible reality that someone had taken the name of Lord Morrow's seat -the city he'd ridden into a hundred times through the eastern gate, where he knew which taverns watered their ale and which armorers charged fair prices- and transplanted it somewhere else entirely.
Hancock.
Maine.
The place was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
He looked past her, toward the strange window set high in the wall. Pale grey light filtered through, early morning by the look of it, and beyond the clear glass…
He couldn't see much from this angle. A wall, maybe. Brickwork. Something metal, dark and angular, running up the outside of the building like a ladder but too narrow, too precise. Too uniform.
"Hancock County," he said again, quieter this time.
She nodded, still pinned beneath him, still watching him with those wide eyes that were starting to look less afraid or mad and more worried, which was somehow more unsettling.
He stood slowly.
She was already moving before he'd fully straightened, scrambling to her feet and putting the width of the stockroom between them. Her back hit the shelving on the far wall with a soft thud, and she stayed there, breathing hard, watching him.
From standing, the room rearranged itself into something even stranger.
Every surface was occupied with objects that made no sense. He turned his head slowly, cataloguing against his will, his mind trying and failing to organize the wrongness into categories he understood.
The black device mounted on the wall, the thing with the coiled cord she'd been holding before she'd tried to brain him with the trowel. It hung there like some kind of sleek, modern artifact, its purpose utterly opaque.
Beside it, a small table.
And on that table: a cup, and some little storage boxes, made from metal.
He stared at it.
Ceramic, pale pink, a color so uniform and so perfect it could not have come from any potter's wheel he'd ever seen. Too smooth. Too flawless. Not a single variation in the glaze, not a fingerprint or settling mark or any of the small human inconsistencies that came from an object being made by hand.
It looked as though it had been conjured into existence fully formed, which -given present circumstances- he could not entirely rule out.
His attention drifted back to her, because she was the only thing in this room that made any sense, except she didn't.
She didn't make sense at all.
The short sleeves. The scandalous neckline. The hair, uncovered and unpinned like no modest woman would wear it.
And her mouth. A deep red like crushed berries or wine, and he had never seen a woman paint her mouth like that outside an itinerant play.
But she'd said she sold flowers.
Then his gaze dropped lower, following the line of her blouse, and that was when he saw them.
Her legs.
He hadn't noticed from the floor. He'd been too focused on neutralizing the threat, on controlling the situation, on trying to make sense of where he was and how he'd gotten there.
But now, standing, with the full measure of her visible from across the room, it was impossible not to notice her skirts ended below the knee.
Not down the ankle, where they belonged.
Below the knee.
The hemline sat several inches beneath that joint, casual and deliberate, as though this were perfectly normal. As though she had simply decided that the entire lower half of her legs were public information and dressed accordingly.
The shoes buckled neatly at the ankle with thin straps, propped up on heels that were barely wider than his thumb.
Heat crawled up the back of his neck.
He averted his eyes. Glanced back, because he was trying to assess the situation, and that required looking at all of it, required understanding what kind of place allowed -expected- women to dress like this.
But God's wounds, her legs.
He jerked his gaze back to the room, sensing the flush spread from his neck to his cheeks, feeling like an untried boy who'd never seen a woman's ankle and was now being confronted with several square feet of information he had no idea what to do with.
Focus.
There were more objects. Incomprehensible things demanding his attention.
A flat rectangular object on the worktable, smooth and dark. A row of metal implements along the wall, too identical to each other, like they'd been cast from the same mold a dozen times over.
And then, on the wall beside the door, what it seemed to be a calendar. It had Arabic numerals, instead of Roman, but the month across the top was in clean, uniform letters.
Still, he didn't recognize the paper; it was too white, too perfectly flat, without the texture of vellum or the slight yellowing of parchment. Or the image above: flowers rendered in such flawless, vivid detail that they looked real. Not painted or illustrated with some improved technique. Something else entirely. Something that made a cold shiver run down his spine.
He took a step toward it and looked at the numbers. The month. The year in the corner, small and plain.
1955.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he heard himself say, from a very great distance:
"What year is this."
A pause from behind him.
"1955," she said. Carefully. The voice of someone delivering bad news to a person they weren't sure could handle it, which under other circumstances might have offended him.
His stomach dropped.
He turned away from the calendar, one hand reaching blindly for the shelving unit beside him, gripping the edge hard enough that the wood bit into his palm.
The room tilted.
He bent forward, bracing himself, trying to breathe through the sudden lurch of his body trying to reject this information the only way it knew how.
Nothing came up. He hadn't eaten since before the tournament, which was perhaps the only mercy available, so his body produced only a long, miserable contraction that did absolutely nothing except inform his bruised ribs -in exhaustive detail- exactly how much they resented this recent turn of events.
He straightened slowly and breathed through his nose.
Across the room, she was watching him with her arms crossed over her chest -covering that scandalous neckline, finally- still concerned.
"Are you-"
"Fine," he said.
His voice came out steady. He was distantly proud of that.
She pressed her lips together, clearly unconvinced. The red paint held, he noticed with the detached part of his brain that was still cataloguing details. Whatever she'd used, it didn't smear or fade. Just stayed there, perfect and crimson, even when she pressed her mouth into a skeptical line.
Focus.
"1955," he said aloud, because saying it a second time didn't make it better, didn't make it more believable, but at least made it real. A thing that had been spoken and could not be unspoken. "That is the year."
"That's the year," she confirmed quietly.
She was still watching him like he might collapse. Or bolt. Or do something else unpredictable and damaging.
Fair enough. He felt like he might do all three.
----
She watched him stare at the wall.
The anger had gone somewhere quieter while she wasn't paying attention, replaced by something she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to be feeling toward a man who had, not ten minutes ago, pinned her to the floor and called her a witch.
But he looked… lost. That was the word that kept circling back. Not dangerous-lost, not the wild-eyed unpredictability of someone you needed to run from. Just lost.
His eyes were staring, but whatever they were seeing, wasn't in the room. It was something considerably worse than whatever floral calendar and shelf of terra cotta pots were actually in front of him.
She'd seen that look before.
On men who'd come back from overseas and sat in the pews at St. Benedict's on Sunday mornings, staring at the stained glass with that same hollow, distant focus. Present but not present. Seeing Normandy or the Pacific or some foxhole outside Bastogne instead of the story of Pentecost rendered in jewel-toned light.
Poor thing, she thought, against her better judgment and every reasonable instinct of self-preservation.
The real question now was where he'd come from, and whether anyone was looking for him.
The state institutions weren't, by any account she'd ever heard -and she'd heard plenty- places that took particularly good care of anyone. Overcrowded, underfunded, and more concerned with keeping people contained than actually helping them get better.
Some families made their own arrangements instead. An attic room, a trusted relative, a situation that worked well enough until it didn't.
She looked at his clothes again, cataloging details she'd been too frightened to notice before.
The quality of the leather in that belt, in those boots. The weight of the fabric in his shirt, even dirty and sweat-stained as it was. The craftsmanship in the stitching, the buckles, the strange straps running down his thick thighs.
Not cheap. None of it was cheap.
Wealthy family, then. Wealthy enough to commission custom theatrical costumes, or whatever this was. Wealthy enough to keep their troubled son at home rather than surrender him to the state system. Wealthy enough to preserve the family name by keeping the problem private.
And then he'd gotten out somehow -wandered off, slipped away during a moment of inattention- and ended up here.
In her stockroom.
On her begonias.
She uncrossed her arms slowly, a deliberate gesture of peace, or at least of temporary ceasefire.
Alright.
"I have an immersion heater," she said, keeping her voice gentle, unthreatening. "Do you want some chamomile tea?"
He turned from the wall and looked at her with that steady, unreadable gaze.
"Chamomile," he repeated. “What is… tea?”
She blinked at him. He couldn't be serious.
"It's… like a herbal broth, I suppose." She gestured vaguely toward the little table, where she had a tin of teabags and the mug. "You put hot water and the dried flowers that come into a little bag. It's calming. Helps with..."
She trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Helps with shock? Helps with whatever is going on in that head of yours?
"It's nice," she settled on. "Soothing."
Something moved across his face. A flicker of recognition, maybe, or consideration. His gaze went to the tin, then back to her, assessing.
A pause. He seemed to be weighing this information against some internal metric she couldn't guess at. Deciding something.
Then: "No."
Simple. Firm. Final.
Not exactly hostile, but borderline rude.
She blinked. "No?"
"No," he repeated. His hand was still braced against the shelving unit, white-knuckled, like he needed it to stay upright. "I don't need some herb-water. I need to think.”
Fair enough, she supposed. Though he looked like he could use something warm and settling, standing there pale and swaying slightly like a man who'd taken a harder hit than he was willing to admit.
But she wasn't about to force tea on someone who'd already demonstrated he had very effective reflexes, and a concerning assumption she was a practitioner of dark arts.
"Alright," she said. "No tea."
She shifted her weight, smoothed her skirt once more with both hands, and decided that if they were going to be standing in her stockroom together so early in the morning, the least they could do was know each other's names.
So she gave him hers.
He held her gaze for a moment, eyes narrowing with suspicion. But then, his shoulders dropped into a stiff, old-school posture, seeming to accept the exchange.
"Sir James Buchanan Barnes," he said. Each word precisely articulated, formal. "Knight of the Realm."
She blinked.
Knight. Sir.
They were committing fully to the delusion, then.
Hospice or relative's attic, definitely. Or perhaps a family arrangement gone wrong, some relative's responsibility until he'd slipped away when their back was turned. Poor man, probably thought he was Richard the Lionheart half the time.
"Right," she said, very carefully. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Barnes."
----
He frowned.
No curtsy. No change in her posture, no dip of the chin, no clasping of hands or murmured sir or any of the thousand small genuflections that should have followed an introduction like that.
She'd just looked at him, the way one might acknowledge a tradesman. A merchant. A peasant.
Either she didn't recognize what a knight was, which would mean she was poorly educated -but that made no sense, because even the lowest-born knew what a knight was, even children knew- or she knew perfectly well and was choosing to ignore it discourteously.
An insult delivered with that same gentle, careful voice she'd used to offer him a herbal infusion.
The third option, that the title meant nothing here, that it carried no weight at all in this place, he set aside. Pushed it into the same corner of his mind where he was keeping 1955 and New Wintermouth and the impossible light hanging from the ceiling.
He wasn't ready to look at any of those directly yet. Wasn't ready to line them up and see what picture they made together.
It didn't matter. Not right now.
What mattered was the door behind her, and what lay beyond that door. What this place was, and whether the wrongness ended at the stockroom walls or continued out into the streets beyond.
He needed to move. Needed to get outside and find a street corner, a landmark, a church spire, something. Anything he could use to orient himself. Because right now the walls of this small room were doing something to his breathing that he was going to attribute entirely to the bruised ribs and not examine any further.
He pushed off the shelving unit, steadying himself.
"I'm leaving," he said.
It wasn’t a request. Just a statement of fact.
"Wait-" she started, taking half a step toward him, one hand lifting in a gesture that might have been placating or restraining or both. "You don't look so good. Maybe you should sit down for-"
"I'm aware," he said.
The words came out hard, but God's wounds, he didn't need her to tell him he looked like hell. He could feel it in every breath, every movement. Could taste it in the back of his throat, all dust and bile.
He probably looked exactly like he felt.
Which was, to put it charitably, like shit.
He ignored her and made for the door, the one that presumably led out of this cramped back room and into the rest of whatever establishment she was running.
"Is there someone I should call?" she asked behind him.
He paused, with hand on the doorframe.
Call?
The word hung there, strange and contextless. Call as in... summon? Send for?
"Give notice to, you mean?" he said, not turning around.
A beat of silence. Then: "I- yes. Someone who'd be worried. Family members, or..."
"No," he said. "That won't be necessary."
He pulled the door open and stepped through.
----
The proper shop opened up before him, and he stopped.
Well.
She hadn't lied, at least. She did, apparently, sell flowers.
The room was larger than the stockroom, lined with tables and shelving at different heights. Buckets and vases everywhere, stuffed full of blooms in various states of opening, roses, lilies, things he didn't have names for in colors that looked almost too vivid to be real.
Along the walls: more displays. Wreaths hung on hooks. Arrangements in ceramic containers. A small table near the window held potted plants, their leaves dark and waxy.
He walked further in, boots heavy on the wooden floor, his gaze moving over the inventory. The flowers were fine. Good quality, even, from what he could see. Fresh, well-tended, the kind of stock that spoke to either a reliable supplier or exceptional luck.
But flowers.
Flowers.
He tried to reconcile the economics of it and came up blank.
They were... what? A luxury for feast days and weddings. A merchant's wife might buy a small bouquet for her table if she had coin to spare and wanted to show it. A nobleman might send flowers as a token to a lady he was courting, but even then, it was usually a single perfect one, not an entire shop's worth.
How could this possibly sustain a business? Not a shabby street stall where overhead was low and expectations lower, but an entire building. With a dedicated stockroom.
Who was buying this many flowers?
His gaze drifted back toward the stockroom door, where she was still standing there, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching him as though he were the source of confusion here.
He broke eye contact first.
Because looking at her for too long made his thoughts arrange themselves in directions he did not care for. The scandalous skirt and the colored lips. The shop full of flowers that could not possibly keep a roof over anyone’s head unless the flowers were not, in fact, the point.
A front, then.
A respectable veneer for a less respectable trade.
He felt his face go hot.
Whatever this establishment was, whatever this city was, whatever madness had brought him here, he would not find answers standing in the middle of a flower shop while a half-dressed woman studied him like a puzzle she was trying to solve.
He needed air.
He needed sky.
He needed to see the street.
So he turned toward the front door.
“Mr. Barnes-”
The name stopped him for half a breath. Not Sir Barnes. Not Sir James. Mr. Barnes, again, as if she had decided the rest of him was decoration.
He did not turn around.
“I said I’m leaving.”
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
"Your concern," he said, reaching for the door, "is noted. And dismissed."
There was a chime above it. He noticed it only when the door opened and the thing gave a bright, ridiculous little bell, cheerful as a jester's cap.
He made it three steps past the door before the world stopped making sense.
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“Old dog’s can’t learn new tricks, price” Soap would grin across the table. Ghost’s low chuckle followed like smoke. “Bet the missus is bored stiff, Captain.”
Price never rose to the clear ragebait in front of the boys, but the words..stuck. You were younger, gorgeous, and God— always eager for him… yet a small, ugly part of him wondered if they were right. He’d never exactly been the adventurous type in bed—solid, thorough, but not… inventive.
So he cornered Gaz one night after drills.
“Need a favor, Sergeant.”
Gaz raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
Price rubbed the back of his neck, face already red with what he could only pin as embarrassment. “You’re good with the ladies. I want lessons. Real ones.”
Gaz blinked, then a slow, wicked grin spread. “You want a demonstration, Captain?”
Price’s jaw flexed. “Please..”
That’s how you ended up here—naked on the bed, thighs spread over Price’s lap while Gaz knelt between your legs like he’d been invited to dinner.
Price’s big hands were firm on your waist, keeping you pinned back against his chest. “She’s sensitive.” he muttered, almost clinical, but you could feel how hard he was against your lower back. “On with it, sergeant.”
Gaz’s eyes flicked up to yours, dark and hungry. “You ready for this, love?”
You nodded, already wet and aching just from the sheer thrill of the situation.
Gaz didn’t waste time. Two thick fingers slid through your folds, spreading you open. “First thing—don’t rush. Get her nice and wet.” He rubbed slow circles over your clit until your hips jerked, then pushed two fingers inside, curling just right.
Price watched every movement like it was a briefing.
“There’s a spongy spot here…” Gaz pressed upward deliberately causing your whole body to jolt. “Right there. That’s your target.”
He started pumping—steady, focused strokes that dragged over that spot again and again while his thumb kept pressure on your clit.
Price’s voice was rough in your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart. Let him work.”
Your orgasm built fast—embarrassingly so.
“That’s it..” Gaz praised, voice low. “She’s swelling up. See how she’s pulsing?” He added a third finger and the pressure inside became unbearable. “When she starts trying to close her legs, don’t let her. Keep going.”
Price’s hands moved to your thighs, holding them open. You came with a broken cry, but Gaz didn’t stop. He kept fingering you through it, rough and relentless, and suddenly everything felt tighter, hotter, like something was about to—
“There..” Gaz growled. “Let it go, lovely...”
With a whine, a gush of wetness flooded out around his fingers, soaking the sheets and his wrist. Price made a low, filthy sound behind you as he watched you squirt for the first time in your life.
Gaz eased his fingers out slowly, letting you ride the aftershocks, then lifted his soaked hand to show Price. “That’s the spot. Consistent pressure, curved fingers, and you don’t stop when she comes.. you keep going until she gives it to you.”
Price’s breathing was ragged. His cock was nearly throbbing against your back.
Gaz wiped his fingers on your inner thigh, then met Price’s eyes. “Your turn, Captain.”
Price shifted you forward, laying you down properly. He kissed the inside of your knee, voice low with promise.
It all started with a cup of coffee on your desk. At first, you didn't drink it—what if someone wanted to poison you? But after a few days, you decided to give it a try. In fact, it was pretty good.
Then, little sweets started appearing, actually your favorite ones. Was it weird? Yes. But you ate them anyway. It didn't interfere with your job and no one was bothering you, so you were fine.
One day after ending your shift, a young soldier stopped you outside in the base parking lot.
"Hey, uhm. You have a minute?" You could tell he was shy.
"Oh, yes. Do you need something?" It was a rare situation; people didn't usually talk to you after you left work.
"Can I get your number?" The man lowered his voice.
"My number?" You thought about it. The guy was cute. Tall. And he didn't approach you like you were a piece of fresh meat. "Yes, why not." You gave him your number and organized a "date." But you were only going to get coffee and talk in a café nearby the base.
What you didn't know was that someone was watching you from afar, clenching his teeth.
You arrive home. The guy seems nice. Perhaps he was the one leaving the coffee and the sweets on your desk and finally got the courage to ask you out. You were showering when you heard your phone ringing. When you unlocked it, you saw a message from an unknown number.
"Hi, sorry, I can't go to our date. It was a mistake asking for your number."
Okay, that was concerning. You didn't even respond; you just deleted the number and kept going with your life.
The day after, you arrived at the base and made your way to your desk. There was a chocolate and a little note: "You're too pretty for him."
The note left your blood running cold. What the fuck did that even mean? You decided to ignore the note and just eat the chocolate. But you felt that something was off. People were acting weird; they didn't say hello to you, or didn't even look at you. And the oddest thing was Captain Price leaving you some documents personally.
"Hello, sweetheart. Can you leave these documents in Lieutenant Ghost's office? As soon as possible."
"Yes, sir." Those were all of your words.
You were nervous. Your last interaction with Ghost—or Simon—was when he spooked some rookie by claiming that he was your boyfriend. You knock on the office door, waiting for an answer. When you hear, "Come in," you open the door and enter. You see him sitting at his desk.
"Morning, sir. Captain Price told me to give you this paperwork." You softly place the papers on the desk.
"Told ya to call me Simon," he said, observing the papers and grabbing a pen to write on them. In the meantime, you decide to look around. You could count on one hand the times you had been in Ghost's office. Your eyes stopped on a little box of the sweets you had been finding on your desk lately.
"Here, give 'em to Price." Simon handed the papers to you. When he lifted his gaze, he saw the way you were looking at the little box. He smirked. "You want one?"
You look at him with surprise.
"Oh, no. No, sir. I'm fine, thanks."
"Come on, sweetheart, don't be shy. Take one," he encouraged you. And you couldn't deny it, you wanted one, so you grabbed one.
"Thank you, sir—Simon." When you took the papers, you saw it. The same calligraphy. The same calligraphy as the note.
You stand in silence, watching the handwriting.
"Everything good, sweetheart?" Simon took you out of the trance. You blink several times and look at him.
"Sorry, sir—Simon. I have to go. Have a good day." You turn around to make your way to the door.
"Wait." You freeze without turning around.
"How was your date with that guy?" Simon asks. You could feel the irony in his tone.
"I didn't have any date, sir." You turn your head to look at him.
"Oh, didn't you? What a shame. The poor guy seemed pretty disappointed when I made 'im send the message." His voice was cold like ice. At this point, Simon was standing in front of you, with his eyes piercing your soul and your heart beating in your throat.
