For shits and giggles!

Things are different in the weeks that follow the visit from your guests from the south. You sense it in the way Steven moves through the halls—with more watchfulness than before, less the heedless animal force that once hurled him at everything in reach and more the measured, circumspect tread of a man who has recognized, possibly for the first time, the possibility of losing some part of his world.

He wakes you each morning with the same relentless heat, the same demanding hands and cock, but sometimes in the small moments after—when his breath has slowed and your bodies are still tied together by what he’s poured into you—he watches you as though trying to decipher a language only you two share, and that he’s afraid to find his own words missing.

He fills his days with a new kind of purpose, stalking the battlements at dusk, making careful inventory of the armory, drilling the younger men himself, relentless and all-consuming. He is building something, you think; you are watching him fortify what he loves, even if he cannot say so aloud.

It changes things between the two of you, this awareness—a tension not of violence or even sex, but of something almost—fragile. It surfaces in the way he sometimes laces his fingers with yours, as if idly, but never breaks the hold first. Or in the way his hand will pause at your back, hovering as though it wants to support you, but cannot quite allow itself the indulgence of tenderness outright. You feel it when he watches you from across the hall during mealtimes, and in how he discusses matters of the court with you, less dismissive, more—what is it, respect?—than before.

You’d imagined, once, that the longer you stayed here, the more invisible you might become. That a queen, even one captured and bartered for as you were, would eventually be more statue than person, a vessel for tradition and dynasty, not for selfhood. But the opposite has happened. Your days are full—helping Ursa plan the planting festivals, overseeing repairs to the winter-damaged barns, learning which of Helga’s cryptic warnings to heed and which to ignore. Even the village children know you now, trailing after your skirt-hems, bringing you bits of amber and sea glass as trophies.

You do not yet know all your position will be nor what your marriage is, but it has grown in ways you did not expect.

Today the itch comes before the noon hour but you try to ignore it—try to keep occupied, try to let your hands and mind be so full of tasks that they might crowd out the throb in your thighs, the heat curling low in your belly. You visit the kitchens, where the steam and spitting fat makes you lightheaded; you walk the length of the halls. Nothing works. The ache is stubborn, eager, and it turns every thought toward Steven and the way he sometimes bends you over the windowsill, or pins you against the wall, or drags you across the floor, or—most especially, most humiliatingly—the way he simply looks at you from across the room and makes you want to drop to your knees and beg for him.

It’s the wanting that undoes you.

So you go to him.

You find Steven in the council room, hunched over a parchment at the long pine table. Two of his advisors—Lorens with his pinched mouth and restless fingers, and Samuel with his strong jaw—lean in, voices serious as the men confer. The fire is banked low, providing warmth in the chill of late winter, some light still making itself available at the end of the afternoon.

Steven glances up before the others notice you, as if summoned by the heat of your gaze. His eyes meet yours and for a fraction of a second the animal in him flares out from behind his eyes—hungry, sharp, but now tempered by something that almost looks like pride. Then his face flickers back to impassiveness, the steel mask that serves him so well.

You linger at the edge of the room, weighing whether to approach, and Steven’s head tips a fraction—an order: come here.

You cross the stone flags, your steps soft in the hush, and though both advisors shoot glances your way, neither wavers in their discourse with their king. Steven’s attention swings fully your way. “What is your need?” he asks, tone flat, but his eyes flick down your body in a way that indicates he has a suspicion.

You feel the heat rise up your neck, but you meet his gaze with steadiness. “May I have a moment alone with my husband?” you ask, glancing at the two counselors, but then back to Steven, who holds the power to determine.

Steven doesn’t bother with the pretense of courtesy or debate. “You are both dismissed,” he says, without looking away from you.

Lorens rises first, shuffling his papers together, darting you a glance that slides away as soon as it lands. Samuel lingers a moment, still watching Steven, then bows and retreats. The door closes and the hush in the room is absolute.

He shifts his weight back, squares his shoulders and leans into the chair in a way that makes you aware, acutely, of the span of his thighs and the space he commands even at rest.

You cross the distance with measured dignity, careful not to let your pace betray the heat burning in the marrow of your bones, and stand just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, like a sun behind a cloud. He is silent, letting you name your need, or your shame, whichever will come first.

Steven watches you for a long moment, eyes keenly narrowed, the muscle in his jaw tight. He says nothing.

For a moment, you don’t know where to begin. Everything seems both urgent and trivial in the presence of his attention, so you choose the truth. “There are things I want,” you say, boldness tripping up over the lump in your throat.

He lets the silence hang there, sharp as a blade, before allowing himself the faintest lift of a brow. “Then take them.” He speaks with the same ruthless clarity he brings to every command, but there’s no mockery in it. He means it, means for you to have whatever you dare to name.

You do. The table is long, but you are bold; you slide one knee onto the bench beside Steven, the movement deliberate, and then sit on his lap, straddling him there in the firelit hush.

His hands go immediately to your hips, holding you hard but not to control—just to steady you. You feel the heat of him, not just between your thighs, but burning clean through the linen of his shirt, through the wool of your own bodice. He stares up at you, face hungry.

You stare at him, daring him to make the next move. He doesn’t. His hands rest at your hips, heavy and expectant. The fire at your back, the muscle and heat of him before you—everything about Steven in this instant screams that he is ready to be the instrument of whatever you wish, but will not move first. Not on this.

“Is that an order, my king?” you ask, your voice breathier than you wish it to be.

He tilts his head, considering you with that odd, deep tenderness that you’ve begun to learn is not softness, not in the way you once recognized, but a fiercer kind of loyalty. “If you want it to be,” he says. “If you find that easier.”

You shake your head slowly, hands coming up to splay over the breadth of his chest, flattening your palms against him. Your center rocks forward, brushing over the bulge beneath his breeches, his cock hard and already straining, and your knees nearly give out at the contact.

You move your hips again, slow at first, feeling the thick heat of him grow even harder through the layers of cloth. His hands tighten at your waist, fingers digging in, but he still does not guide, does not take—just lets you rut against him, lets you chase the friction, lets you lose yourself in the animal want while the firelight flickers on his jaw and shadow.

You know what you want. You want to make him want, want to crack this composure, want to see him desperate and raw for you in the way that matches the heat that drove you here, the appetite he’s shown so consistently for you night and day. You grind down, seeking the angle that brings his cock flush against your throbbing center. Steven’s hands tighten with every pass, and his breathing grows shallow, the tips of his ears red with the effort it costs him to hold back.

You slide your hands to his face—beard rough against your palms—and force him to look at you, really look. “I want you to fuck me,” you say, and the baldness of the word makes you pulse with shame and thrill both. “Here. Now.” The echo of that word clings in the air, lurid, and the last filter between you and your want is gone.

Steven’s mouth doesn’t twitch with a smirk, but his eyes—blue, hungry and dark—crinkle at the corners in a way that says everything. His hand moves, slow as a glacier but infinitely more dangerous, sliding beneath the folds of your skirt, up the naked curve of your thigh. The callused pads of his fingers ignite a trail of prickling heat as he climbs, relentless. He finds you already slick, sodden with want, and his thumb strokes the seam of your cunt with a firm, approving press.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice soft but thick with command, “you’re already soaked for me.” There is no pretense, no veneer of gentleness—he takes pride in your need. He sinks the tip of his finger into you, just a knuckle, then deeper, testing your readiness, your greed.

He pulls out, coats his thumb in your arousal, and draws lazy, humiliating circles over your clit. Every nerve is strung to that spot, never letting you retreat from the pleasure he wrings from you. You clutch at his shoulders as the world narrows to the relentless, masterful pressure of his hand, the delicious grind of your hips against his, and the raw, unslakable need that’s driven you across half the castle to tremble on his lap like a supplicant at an altar.

He toys with you like this until you’re panting, biting your own lip to keep from sobbing with how close you are, how much you need more—him, inside you, every inch. Steven keeps you there, strung out on the edge, until you think you’ll break apart from the wanting. He waits, and he watches, the blue eyes locked on yours as if daring you to beg.

You do, in the end. “Please,” you whisper, and the word is so thin and desperate it hardly sounds like your voice, but it gets the reaction you want. He withdraws his hand entirely, leaving you gasping and empty, eager.

His voice is a rough thread as he says, “Up. Bend.”

Your legs shake as you climb off him, but you obey instantly, turning to face the table and propping yourself on your elbows, the rough grain cool beneath your cheek. You hear him behind you, the scrape of his chair across the stone as he moves to stand. The weight of his hand at your back is both warning and anchor as he flips your skirts up and over your waist and exposing your bare flesh to the chill of the council room. The air is cold, but his hands are a brand, searing every inch they touch.

He grinds up behind you, the heavy, swollen head of his cock lining up with your slick, clenching entrance, and you are so hungry that you try to wriggle back to catch him, but his other hand clamps to your hip, holding you in place.

Steven bends low, beard scratch and all, and growls into your ear, “You want to be claimed, little queen? You want to prove who you belong to?” The timber of his voice, the brutal edge of the words, makes your knees go to water. The answer is obvious. The answer is him. Always, always, always him.

You nod, but it isn’t enough for Steven. He wants words, he wants confession, he wants you to submit to this truth with clarity. “Say it,” he snarls, and the hand at your hip shifts to wrap around your throat, not hard, but with promise of force.

“I belong to you,” you say, the words the admission to usher in the next movement. You feel the hot slide of the broad head of Steven’s cock dragging slow and deliberate through your folds—soaking it in the mess he’s just made of you, teasing as though there is any possibility you would not take him instantly and whole. He rubs the slick head up and down, slow, then lingers at your entrance, not yet breaching, just savoring the helpless flex and pulse of your body trying to draw him in, refusing you the fullness you crave.

“You’re so desperate, you will let me fuck you right here on the war table,” he mutters, voice raw. The hand at your throat tightens slightly, making you shiver. “Would you let the entire kingdom see their queen bred by her king?”

You whimper, the shameful thrill of his words tightening every muscle in your core. “Yes. I would.” The fibers in your throat burn with the confession, but Steven’s hand at your nape releases just enough to let you gasp in relief. He’s proud of you—can feel it in the pulse of his cock, straining now, that he has made you need him so absolutely in this place and in this way.

Then there’s the sharp, deliberate press of his body crowding your ass, the hard and heavy heat of his cock settling between your cheeks, threatening the softest, tightest part of you. He bends down, mouth at your ear, and you feel the scrape of his beard and the thrum of his voice as he says, “Hold still.”

You do.

You pulse with anticipation, with nerves, with a need that borders on terror. Steven spits into his hand—loud, crude, and the sound goes straight to your clit—and then he smears the spit over the head of his cock, and over you, and then the push comes, blunt and inexorable, at the forbidden ring of muscle. It is too much, always, but you want it, you want the proof of his hunger, the rawness of being taken where only he has ever claimed.

The stretch is a fire in your bones. You dig your fingers into the edge of the table, desperate to ground yourself as Steven pushes past every last shred of resistance. It is agony and rapture, the full width of him splitting you, and for a moment you go blind, dizzy from the stretch and the heat and the sheer, obscene fullness of him forcing its way inside you.

He doesn’t take you all at once. He works you open, withdrawing and then pressing back in, a little deeper with every rut until you shake beneath him, gasping for air, sobbing around the thickness of him. Sweat beads along your spine, and you are aware only of the way the rough grain of the table digs into your cheek and the way his voice is a rasp of praise washing over you as he speaks.

“You take it,” he says, a kind of awe in the echoing hollowness of the council chamber. “You take me so well, little wife.”

Once fully sheathed, he holds you there, impaled, the hand on your neck now a bracing anchor, his hips flush to your ass. His other hand splays over your lower back, holding you steady and open, thumbs digging in just above the curve of your hips. You feel the tremble in his thighs, the fight he wages to keep from just rutting you through the table; you feel, too, the seething pride in how willing—how eager—you are to take whatever he gives, no matter how intense.

Slowly, Steven withdraws, the drag of his cock raw against the tight, trembling ring. He spits another mouthful into his palm, adds more lube to your now-aching hole, and sets a rhythm that is measured, deliberate. The sound of it—his hips meeting your flesh, the wet suction, the low, rough praise in his voice—is a percussion that underlines every brutal stroke. You crave the violence of it, the way he fucks you open with single-minded focus, and still, still, you want more.

“Steven,” you gasp, not knowing what you’re begging for, only that you want every inch, every ounce of him, even in the places that ache and pulse and maybe cannot take more. He answers with a groan, a hand moving from your hip to your clit, grinding over the little bundle of nerves with all the wicked skill he’s refined over months of your fucking.

The overwhelming friction, the fullness, the throb—is unbearable, and you come, hard, so hard it borders on violence. Your body clamps around him, the spasm nearly paralyzing you as your limbs weaken, every muscle in your core pulsing and throbbing around the invasive, overwhelming width of your king. The edges of your vision blur and the sound you make is animal, wordless, but Steven answers, driving you through the crest of your climax, sinking into you with a force that obliterates all thought.

He fucks you through it, relentless and victorious, hands huge and hard at your hips, jerking you back to claim every last inch until you’re sobbing with how full, how impossibly stuffed you are. Each thrust pushes you flat to the table, and you are only vaguely aware of the smears of spit and slick and sweat pooling at the join of your bodies, the way it soaks through your thighs, leaving you wrecked and open for him.

He’s not finished with you, not by a long shot. Steven’s cock withdraws from your ass with a slow, wrenching drag, leaving you shuddering and empty, all your muscles fluttering and your face hot against the cold grain of the table. You sob, a little, at the loss, and you can feel the slick mess of your own juices and his spit running down your thighs, the burn at your rim pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

But then his hands are gentler—one at your hip, one braced at your shoulder as he lines himself up again, this time pressing the heavy, hot tip of his cock between your thighs, seeking the place you are already swollen and desperate for him. You whimper, still spent and oversensitive from your first climax, but even so, you arch your hips, eager for the fullness only he gives.

He slides in, not slow but not cruel, just driving every inch into your aching, greedy cunt. You keen, desperate, not even caring that your voice is a needy, broken thing in the echoing hush of the council chamber.

Steven’s mouth finds your ear, “Every man at court, every lord, every advisor—every last one knows you are mine, but I want it ringing in their ears forever as I breed you.”

With every stroke, Steven’s cock brushes the most sensitive part inside you, your battered and wet cunt spasming around him, milking him for all he can give. You feel every vein, every ridge, every pulse of his cock as it spears you open, and it’s so much, so good, you come again, harder this time, a rush that’s almost terror but made only of pleasure, pure and shattering.

Your cunt pulses around him, hungry and slick, wringing him, wringing you, until there is nothing left in your head but the need to come again—and the way Steven makes you do it, every time, with just a fuck and a promise and the weight of his whole body pressing you down. You arch your back, desperate to take him deeper, and the hand at your shoulder pins you flat to the table, holding you still as he braces and thrusts, making you quiver and moan, making you mindless for him.

The pace now is punishing, but you crave it. Each time your hips threaten to buck off the wood he keeps you pinned down, rutting into you as if you’re a thing made only for his taking. The itch in your belly blooms to wildfire, sharp and wild, and the overstimulation is edged with a pleasure so beautiful you could scream for it, could cry for the way it rips you open and fills in every last corner of your wanting, and so you do.

He fucks you through the aftershocks, fucking every last spasm of pleasure from your body, fucking you until you’re hoarse and sobbing and barely conscious with the white-hot pleasure and the raw bruise of being so completely, so thoroughly used. You know you will wear the marks of this for days—on your throat, on your hips, at the tight, spent holes still drooling spit and slick and sweat down your thighs.

Steven comes at last with a roar, hips slamming into you so hard the edge of the table cuts the breath from your lungs, and the twitch and pulse of his cock fills you, flooding you in one final, conquering pulse. The heat of him, the quantity of him, is unspeakable—you feel it sear a path to your womb, a brutal, claiming flood that fills you so full the excess is forced out around his cock, further slicking your thighs, sticking your skin to the wood.

The hand at your nape strokes the ridge of your spine, his breath crashing against your back, and you realize he is fighting himself, struggling to corral the violent tenderness now threatening to shatter him from the inside out.

For a long while, neither of you move. The only sound is the ragged thrum of your breaths and the wild, feral stammer of his heart as it tries to slow. Your legs are boneless, splayed wide, and he keeps you pressed to the table, still impaled, as if even a breath’s space could risk losing what he’s just staked his soul on.

Finally, Steven eases back, hands gentle as he scoops you from the table—your limbs limp, trembling, useless in the aftermath—and cradles your whole body against his chest. He gathers your legs up as he moves back and reclaims his earlier seat, settling you in his lap, bundled and shattered against the heat of his skin. He strokes your hair, your back, mauling you close as if afraid you might dissolve into the air if not caged to him. His cock softens inside you, but he cannot let you go, not yet; he just clutches you tighter, your spent body rocked gently soothed, a motion at odds with the violence of minutes before.

When you can finally catch your breath, you turn slightly more into him and you press your cheek to the hollow of his throat. You listen to the tide of his pulse, the desperate hunt of his lungs for air. Somewhere outside, the world carries on—voices, firewood splitting, kids shrieking down the corridor—but here, in this carved-out moment, you are the only two who exist.

Steven is the one to speak first, rough and low in your ear. “I want—” He breaks off, his voice rough and strangely weak, so unlike the man who just ruined you over a council table you hardly know how to answer it. The man who has ruined you so many times. You lift your head to meet his gaze. The fires in his eyes are guttering now, but not cold—they burn with a different fuel, something almost like desperation.

“I want you to want it,” he says, the words torn from some engine deeper than pride, deeper than need. “Not just because I am your king. Not because it is owed. I want it because you choose it.”

The statement lands in the hollow between your ribs like a fist. You don’t know how to answer except to touch your lips to his, gentle, a whisper of a kiss where violent need reigned just minutes before. You press your mouth to the corner of his, then to the sharp line of his jaw, then the hollow beneath. “I do,” you say, and it’s a word so small it could barely crack a window in the cold stone of the Kongsgård, but you see the effect it has. His grip on you shifts, softer now, and he lets his forehead fall to yours, breaking into a long, shaky exhale. In this way you know that you have power, too—a different kind than you ever imagined, but no less absolute.

You stay like this, bodies twined, until the fire in the hearth burns low and the sweat on your skin cools to a chill. Every inch of you aches in the most delicious, dangerous ways. Your cunt is tender, the ring of your ass still pulsing with the memory of how he split you open and left you gaping. You ought to feel shame, but all you feel is a molten pride that you can take everything Steven gives and still want more.

You let him hold you until your breathing matches his, until your own hands find the strength to fist in the linen at his collar. His sweat cools in the hollow between your bodies, and you let your head rest heavy against his chest, the salt of his skin mixing with your own. Neither of you moves for a long while. When you finally slide off his lap, legs watery as river clay, Steven follows you, only a half-step behind, as if the gravity between your bodies is too constant to fully break.

You should return to your duties. Somewhere you are most certainly needed. But when Steven cups your chin and tilts your face up, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth, every reason to leave the room vanishes. His lips devour you, slow and thorough, as if he wants to memorize this, encode it in every cell, until no part of you is untouched by the taste of this moment.

You break apart only when the need for air forces you to, but the hunger in it lingers. His hand cups the nape of your neck, thumb stroking slow over the vein that jumps there, and he rests his forehead to yours like a man newly landed from a voyage half the world wide. “You have unmade me,” he says, and it is a confession, not a complaint.

You laugh, shaky and soft, pressing your nose to his. “You did all the unmaking yourself.” The words are true, and you let them settle between you. He grins, the wolfish flash of his teeth just visible, and with it the tension diffuses, neither of you quite knowing what to do with so much tenderness made raw.

You gather yourself, smoothing your wrinkled skirt down over sticky thighs, but Steven is not finished. He crosses to the door, and opens it to speak with the attendant there. He instructs that a meal to be sent up to the royal chamber, and for a bath to be drawn, hot as the hearth can offer. The servant, catching the devastation in your overall appearance and the almost drunken glaze to Steven’s eyes, bows with a speed rarely seen and disappears before the king can clarify any further.

Steven’s attention returns to you. “I do not believe we are fit for anything but to retire for the rest of the day.”

For a moment, you feel like a maiden caught in mischief, but then Steven’s eyes drop to your mouth and you remember you are not a maiden, you are a queen, his queen, and whatever want burns in your blood is not merely allowed, but expected, demanded, starved for. His. Deeply his. And you feel anchored in that surety now.

Are we in a happily ever after yet? No. But things are certainly changing.

Please reblog if you enjoyed this/enjoy this series. My blog got marked as explicit permanently by dumblr, which means that my posts no longer show up in the public tags, so people honestly won't find it unless it's gets passed along by your reblogs now. 🥺 I'm wavering on how much longer it may or may not be worth it to post here if the point is being able to share it with others.

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

“Show me how you’d take my cock.”

Your hands tremble with need as you slick the realistic silicone toy with lube. You position the camera lower, your eyes locked on the screen where Bucky’s sprawled in his apartment, metal arm gleaming as he fists his massive erection. Pre-cum beads at the tip, his strokes slow and deliberate, thumb circling the head on every upstroke. God, you’re already so wet. The sight of his cock makes your mouth water. You can almost feel the ache in your jaw trying to get all of him in.

You press the dildo against your soaked entrance, teasing your folds like he commanded. “Like this, Bucky?” you moan, pushing it in inch by inch. The stretch burns so good, your tits heaving as you arch your back. Your free hand rolls a stiff nipple, hips rocking to work the toy deeper.

“Fuck yes, just like that,” Bucky groans, pumping his cock faster now.

You’re fully seated on the dildo now. You smile wickedly, trailing a finger down your sternum. Your eyes lock on Bucky’s movements.

“Imagine it’s my tight, wet mouth sucking you down. Spit on it for me, Bucky. Get it nice and sloppy.”

He obeys with a filthy curse, spitting into his palm before gliding that slick grip up and down his shafts

His metal fingers tighten around the base while his flesh hand works the shaft, long, firm strokes that make wet, obscene sounds. His abs flex and clench, eyes hooded and hungry on your dripping pussy clenching around the dildo.

“Think about burying this fat cock in my dripping cunt instead of your fist. I’d ride you so good, squeezing every inch…”

“Ride it, sweetheart. Pretend it’s me splitting you open. God, look at that pretty cunt taking every inch.”

You obey, thrusting the toy in and out in time with his strokes, fast, deep, angling it to hit that perfect spot. Your other hand frantically rubs your swollen clit, thighs quivering, moans spilling louder.

“Bucky…fuck, I’m so close…”

He matches your pace, fist flying, veins standing out on his forearm. “Come with me, doll. Let me see you fall apart.”

“Come for me, Bucky,” you beg. “Stroke that cock like you’re fucking me raw. Do it, baby, let go. Explode for your girl.”

Bucky’s voice cracks into a filthy groan as his cock pulses, thick ropes of cum shooting across his abs and chest.

The sight sends you over, your walls clamp down hard on the dildo, back bowing as the orgasm rips through you. You cry out his name, juices soaking your sheets, body shaking through every wave while he milks himself dry.

Meanwhile Bucky keeps stroking through his own peak, eyes locked on you.

“Such a good boy,” you purr. “I feel a premonition… next stream, you’re coming over for the real thing.”

The tech lead actually took a physical step back, his bravado evaporating the moment Steve's shadow fell over him.

"Excuse me," Steve said. The frequency of his voice seemed to vibrate right through the frantic noise in your head, obliterating half of your stress instantly. He didn't even acknowledge the other man's existence. His blue eyes locked onto yours, softening with a look of deep, observant concern.

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

You blinked, your brain struggling to switch gears from liquid cooling to your man.

"Steve? I'm right in the middle of a…" You gestured vaguely at the mess of schematics. It was a damned meeting you'd been praying to escape for hours, but the professional guilt still clung to you.

"It's kinda urgent," he repeated, his eyebrows scrunched in a way that made your heart jump. You quickly gave a once-over. He looked alright. Your mind immediately went to Bucky…was he hurt? Was there a mission that you were not aware of? You'd been so busy you felt like floating through the days. Without another word to the stunned tech lead, you excused yourself and followed Steve into the hallway.

As soon as the doors closed behind you, Steve turned immediately, his large hand winding around your waist to pull you into his space. You stumbled slightly, steadying yourself with your hands flat against his firm chest.

"Steve, what's going on? Is everything…"

"You look like you're about to snap in half," he murmured, cutting you off. He reached up, his thumb grazing the pulse point at the base of your throat, feeling the frantic rhythm of your lingering adrenaline. "Bucky's downstairs. The car is packed. We're leaving."

"Steve, I can't," you protested, your hands flying up to gesture wildly at the door you'd just exited. "We're a week behind on the next design phase, and if I don't finish figuring things out, the whole project stalls…"

"You've got five minutes," he interrupted.

His voice dropped an octave, shifting into that 'Captain' tone, the one that had led armies. It wrapped around you like an unyielding vine. It was a gentle warning, but a warning nonetheless.

"Go back in there, tell them what they need to know for the weekend. If you aren't out by the time the clock hits five, I'm coming back in there and putting you over my shoulder. I don't care who's watching."

You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him about the deadlines and the arrays, but the steady, burning look in his eyes stopped the words cold. He wasn't joking. He was perfectly willing to carry you through a building full of high-ranking scientists.

"Five minutes," he reminded you, stepping back just enough to let you move, though his gaze never left your face. He leaned in one last time, a mischievous glint glimmering in his eyes. "Personally? I'd love an excuse to come back in and get you."

You rolled your eyes, a reluctant, exhausted smile finally breaking through the stress. You knew when you were beaten, and you were beaten long ago. Turning back toward the door, you prepared to give the tech lead the shortest briefing of his life.

Bucky was leaning against the driver's side door, looking far too relaxed in that blue Henley.

As you reached him, trailing behind Steve with your arms crossed and a pout that was mostly performative at this point, Bucky reached out. He cupped your jaw, tilting your face up.

"Thought for sure you'd be coming out over his shoulder," Bucky chuckled, as he leaned down to press a lingering kiss.

"I would've been if I stayed one second longer," you grumbled, though the fight was rapidly draining out of you.

Steve's grin widened, triumphant and impossibly bright as he tossed your laptop bag into the car. He looked back at Bucky, clapping a hand on the roof of the SUV.

"Told ya," he said, his voice brimming with that insufferable lift. "Five-minute warning worked like a charm. Didn't even have to break out the tactical carry."

"You need a break, sweetheart, and that's that." Bucky reaffirmed.

"I'm just outnumbered," you muttered against his chest as he pulled you into a quick, rib-crushing hug.

"Correct," Bucky murmured, already steering you toward the open passenger door with a smirk. "Now get in the car before Steve decides he wants to jog to the cabin and pull us there himself."

Steve scoffed, pulling you in for a kiss.

Charming idiots.

The transition from the sterile tension of the lab to the silence of the woods was almost jarring. As the SUV crunched over the last stretch of gravel, the cabin emerged from the treeline like something pulled from a dream--surreal, secluded, and perfect. Just stunningly perfect.

The structure was a beautiful contradiction of rugged timber and soft, inviting light. On the north side, the forest seemed to be trying to reclaim it; thick, ancient branches of hemlock and oak draped over the roof like a heavy green velvet cloak, shielding it from the rest of the world.

On the south side, the cabin opened up to a sprawling stone patio. It was laid with irregular flags of slate that still held the dying warmth of the afternoon sun. A set of Adirondack chairs sat perched near a fieldstone fire pit, overlooking a steep drop that revealed a breathtaking view of the valley below, now swathed in the purple haze of twilight.

Heavenly.

It was chilly, biting at your cheeks with a crispness that tasted of damp earth and pine resin. Every time you inhaled, the cold felt like it was scrubbing the scent of recycled office air out of your lungs. Your breathing finally leveled out, smoothing into a steady, deep cadence. For the first time in weeks, the only "thermal array" you had to worry about was the heat of the hearth waiting for you inside.

You gasped at the beauty of it all. As you looked around amazed at the scenary, Bucky decided to give you a piggyback ride and who in the right mind would say no to that.

As soon you stepped in, you were carried straight to the bedroom.

In no time, you were stripped and spread between your two men.

"One more, Plum, you can give us one more," Bucky groaned, his thrusts deepening.

You shook your head, whimpering in pleasure.

"She will, Buck," Steve rasped against your neck, pulling your thighs wider for Bucky to grind deliciously against you. With your back to Steve's front, he easily wrapped an arm around your throat, pulling your head up to give you a kiss.

You cried out loud as Bucky decided it was the moment to suck on your tit. In mere seconds, you were falling apart. Bucky groaned, pulling your face close to look you in the eye as he came.

"So pretty, babygirl," he whispered, tugging you into his arms and you let him. Their intoxicating smell wafting around you and the fire crackling in the hearth put you asleep in mere seconds.

You lay there, head smushed on Bucky's chest, limbs tangled between Steve's thighs, and fingers clutching onto Steve's hand, which was wrapped around your waist. They had cleaned you up and put on a soft, oversized t-shirt.

Steve waited a full five minutes after your eyes closed before he dared to move, gently tucking the edge of the blanket around your chin. "Look at her," he whispered, his voice thick with affection wrapped in worry. "You should've seen her in that lab, Buck. I thought she was going to bite that guy's head off."

Bucky let out a silent huff of a laugh, his chest vibrating against your back. He adjusted his arm protectively wrapping you more closer to him weight across your waist.

"Look at those eyebags, she's fucking sapped," Bucky whispered.

"Stubborn as a mule," Steve said, moving closer.

"You mean to say as stubborn as you?" Bucky raised a brow.

Steve rolled his eyes, scoffing weakly.

Bucky snorted, the sound raspy in the quiet room. "Don't you start, Punk. With all the 'I can do this all day.' Where do you think she learned that it's okay to run yourself into the ground?"

"I am not that stubborn," Steve countered, though his protest was weak.

"Right," Bucky whispered, his eyes gleaming with fond exasperation in the firelight. "Honestly, Steve, between the two of you, I'm the only reasonable one in this relationship."

Steve raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at Bucky, "Reasonable? You're the one who wanted to barge in and beat the shit out of the people worrying her."

"Hey," Bucky muttered defensively, his jaw tightening slightly before he softened again, looking down at you.

Steve reached over, his hand resting briefly on Bucky's shoulder, bridging the gap over your sleeping form. "Well, she's here now."

"Yeah," Bucky murmured, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the cushion. "Mission accomplished."

Bucky had breakfast ready the moment you'd stepped through the door. You tried to sidestep him, your mind still buzzing with the phantom sleep and the orgasms, but Bucky was faster. With a low, rumbling hum of disagreement, he snagged your waist, his large hand anchoring you before he effortlessly pulled you back and settled you firmly onto his lap.

"I'm not hungry, Buck," you insisted, your voice small as you tried to wiggle away from the heat of his chest.

"Oh, I'm not asking, Plum," he countered, his voice a smooth, gravelly command that brooked no argument. He picked up the fork, his metal fingers glinting under the kitchen lights as he held a perfect bite toward you. "Now open your mouth."

Your protests were wild, a flurry of "I'm fine" and "maybe later," but he simply waited you out with that steady, unimpressed gaze until you finally gave in. You let him feed you, one bite at a time.

"Good girl," Bucky murmured with a soft, satisfied smile, leaning in to press a warm kiss to your cheek the moment the plate was clear.

"What's he up to?" you asked, glancing toward the empty hallway, curious about the sudden lack of your other man.

"He's outside," Bucky said, shifting his weight comfortably beneath you. "Chopping some wood."

Your eyebrows shot up instantly, a devious spark lighting up your eyes as you realized exactly what that entailed. "And we're sitting here and missing out?" you asked, a breathless chuckle escaping you as you started to scramble off his lap. "Absolutely not. Let's go."

Bucky let out a short, rhythmic snicker, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched your sudden surge of energy. "Yes, ma'am," he said, offering no resistance as you grabbed his hand and began dragging him toward the door, eager to find where the sound of the axe was echoing through the trees.

You and Bucky settled on the weathered, wooden porch stairs. You leaned into him, your shoulder tucking under his, and he didn't hesitate, draping his thick arm around you, his thumb tracing absentminded circles over your arm as he rested his cheek against the top of your head.

Steve stood planted, his legs set wide for stability, the heavy splitting maul resting momentarily on the block. His skin is already gleaming, a light sheen of sweat catching the warm light, accentuating the deep, familiar contours of his physique...the broad slope of his shoulders, the thick ropes of his biceps, and the V-taper leading to his waist.

Good lord!

With an easy grace, he hoisted the maul high. The muscles across his back bunched and tightened. Muscles so fucking defined that it made you want to climb him up. He paused for a heartbeat at the apex before unleashing the downward swing with smooth power.

The maul dropped with brutal speed, hitting the dead center of the log. There's a sharp CRACK that echoed off the trees, and the two halves of the log spring apart symmetrically, landing neatly at his feet. Steve barely broke the rhythm. Before the sound even faded, he'd bent down to hoist the next piece of oak onto the block. He took a breath, his chest expanding, a slight ripple passing through his abdominal muscles as he readied the maul once more. The fragrance of pine resin and freshly split wood drifted thick on the cool air, mingling with the primal scent of your soldier.

Fuckin' hell!

What did you do to deserve your godly men? You were a lucky bitch, alright.

"Here to help me?" Steve asked, his voice carried effortlessly through the clearing. He didn't stop his rhythm. He reached down, calloused fingers hooking into a fresh log of oak, and hoisted it onto the stump with a grunt of effort that made the muscles in his forearms cord like steel cable.

Show off.

"No," you said, a traitorous giggle bubbling up as you watched the way the rising sun caught the sheen of sweat on his shoulder blades. You tucked your chin closer to Bucky's chest, hiding a devious smirk. "We're strictly here for the entertainment. It's a very high-quality show."

Steve paused, the heavy splitting maul resting near his boots. He looked over his shoulder, squinting against the golden hour light, his hair tousled and damp against his forehead. "You coming, Buck? Or are you just going to sit there with our girl and objectify me?"

Bucky didn't move an inch. He just squeezed you a little tighter, his chest vibrating with a low, rumbling chuckle. "What she said," he jested, his voice raspy and relaxed. He tilted his head, eyeing Steve's form with an appreciative sort of mischief. "Besides, you look fine without my help. Real fine."

"Real fine," you echoed with a dramatic, dreamy sigh, letting your head fall back against Bucky's shoulder so you could take in the full view of Steve's V-tapered back.

Steve let out a huff. With one final, fluid motion, he brought the maul down, burying the blade deep into the heart of the last log with a final, echoing thud. He left it there, the handle quivering, and turned fully toward the porch.

He stood there for a moment, chest heaving with the exertion, hands settling on his hips. He was flushed from the work, his skin glowing in the amber light, but it was the stupidly cute, lopsided smile on his face that really did you in.

"Tease me and see where that'll get you," he declared, his voice dropping into that low, 'Captain' register that usually made people stand at attention, but here, it was a playful promise.

That, of course, was all the permission you and Bucky needed. The teasing only intensified as Steve finally bridged the gap between the chopping block and the porch, smelling of fresh wood shavings and salt. He didn't just give you a good time, he showed you a real fine time.

Well? 😏

Take a moment to reblog if you enjoyed reading it. 🥹

“There are several retreat routes…,” your voice suddenly takes a higher pitch and you choke as his fingers brush higher, teasing the edge of your panties. 

Fuck, wearing a skirt to the breefing was definitely a mistake. 

You glance at him with a pleading face. The smug look he gives you makes your hand itch to smack him if only the whole team wouldn’t be here to witness it.  

You grab a scrap of paper, scribble something and slide it toward him.

Stop!

Bucky reads, writes something back and flicks the note your way. 

But I'm having such a good time.

The video call has just started as you slip inside the small meeting room. Bucky raises his eyes from the screen and waves dismissingly.

You almost turn around to leave but then stop suddenly. There is just a moment of hesitation before you drop to your knees and crawl under the desk. 

“It’s not really about the copyright, Sam, isn’t it…,” Bucky’s voice suddenly fades into a sharp gasp as you settle between his spread thighs and unzip his pants. 

You smile wickedly as Bucky’s metal hand grips the armrest. He’s already half-hard when you pull him free. 

“Stop it,” he hisses under his breath, muting his mic for half a second.

You look up at him through your lashes. 

Though you know him well, you know he's grown tired of this trip. Nothing of a result of you, nor his brother, simply the fact that he could no longer take the heat. He had burnt a fair bit this week, his shoulders a shade of red that surely worried you. It's those very english genes of his.

You're all on the a near desolate, hidden beach set up under an umbrella. Mandy sits at the end of your lounger, her attention locked on the mechanics of your sunglasses — her focus opposing yours. You study the back of your husband, stifling a smile as you stare at the phallic shape his brother had branded onto him with suncream earlier this week.

"What?" Tangerine asks, feeling the weight of your eyes on him. He peers over his shoulder to look at you behind him, salted, beach curls framing his face in the most perfect of ways. "What's so funny?"

You stiffen your face, and straighten your lips. "Huh?"

"Ha," he laughs sarcastically. "D'you find that massive nob on my back amusing or something?"

"We have young ears present," you scold, eyeing your daughter who has since moved on to chewing at the corners of her armbands. "What'd we agree about using that word?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. The pasty white willy on my back," he exaggerates dramatically, eyes theatrical with their movement. 

You chew on the inners of your cheeks so as not to acknowledge the amusement you found in his rewording. "That's better, thank you." 

Tangerine turns his attention away and to his daughter, eyes leaving yours as they grow in further adoration at the spitting image of him that sits between your knees. "Why is your mummy always telling me off, huh, Mands?" he questions her, face playful to match that of your daughters. 

"You can't bad mouth me to our kid. That's not how that works."

"Yeah well, I'm sweaty and annoyed, I can say whatever I want," he picks Mandy up and settles her on one of his knee, propping her up as he wipes in the suncream you had not long applied. "Can't I, poppet?" he coos at her. 

Though Mandy turns to look back at you, and so you decide to speak to your husband through her. Just like he did a moment ago, only you're allowed to do such a thing — your body made her. That gives you the right, you believe.

"Looks like daddy's sleeping on the sofa tonight," your voice soft and playful. "Ain't that right, munchkin?"

The sunhat nearly covers the top half of her face, but still she giggles, finding entertainment your tone.

You scrunch your nose at her as you smile, giving her an enthused nod. "That's right," you turn to meet the displeased face of your husband and shrug playfully. "You can't argue with that face, love."

"Yeah, well," Tangerine scoffs, and shakes his head — trying to get the last word, only he had nothing to say.

Fortunately for himself, Lemon has begun to make his way over to you all from his extensive time in the sea — doughnut floatie around his hips, exotic and neon tropical shorts sat beneath. His taste far brighter than his brotherly counterpart of blacks and navies.

"Why aren't you fuckers in the sea?" he calls out, hands either side of his mouth as if to amply his already booming voice. 

Tangerine sets Mandy aside, placing her on the sand in front of a shovel and bucket. "You'll get a slap for that," Tangerine warns, gesturing back to you with his thumb. 

When Lemon finally reaches you all, he stops just beside his brother, standing over him almost menacingly. He taunts him for a moment, extending his dripping arm to hang over his brother — droplets of salt water falling from his fingers and atop Tan's head. Lemon then goes with his thoughts of impulse and shakes himself, flicking cold specks of water over his very burnt, very cranky brother.

Though your husband decides against retaliation and rejects a reaction — he's simply in no mood with the sun behaving the way that it is today. 

Lemon instead chooses to prod, quite literally. He pokes at his brother's burns and snickers, finding humour in the drawing on Tangerine's back he's since forgotten. "How you liking that dick? Bet you're not used to having such a massive nob, hm?

You knew better than to react, knew it best to keep out of brotherly bickering; especially with these two. You instead reach into the cooler at your side and pull out a few drinks and sandwiches that you had prepared before leaving this morning. Food was a good deflection, you thought, rather, you hoped. 

And so you pass around tin-foiled baguettes, handing them to either brother with contents of their preferred fillings. Like you'd planned it, they grow quiet — the squabbling ceasing as you all enjoy your lunch to the sounds of lapping waves. 

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Though you know him well, you know he's grown tired of this trip. Nothing of a result of you, nor his brother, simply the fact that he could no longer take the heat. He had burnt a fair bit this week, his shoulders a shade of red that surely worried you. It's those very english genes of his.

You're all on the a near desolate, hidden beach set up under an umbrella. Mandy sits at the end of your lounger, her attention locked on the mechanics of your sunglasses — her focus opposing yours. You study the back of your husband, stifling a smile as you stare at the phallic shape his brother had branded onto him with suncream earlier this week.

"What?" Tangerine asks, feeling the weight of your eyes on him. He peers over his shoulder to look at you behind him, salted, beach curls framing his face in the most perfect of ways. "What's so funny?"

You stiffen your face, and straighten your lips. "Huh?"

"Ha," he laughs sarcastically. "D'you find that massive nob on my back amusing or something?"

"We have young ears present," you scold, eyeing your daughter who has since moved on to chewing at the corners of her armbands. "What'd we agree about using that word?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. The pasty white willy on my back," he exaggerates dramatically, eyes theatrical with their movement. 

You chew on the inners of your cheeks so as not to acknowledge the amusement you found in his rewording. "That's better, thank you." 

Tangerine turns his attention away and to his daughter, eyes leaving yours as they grow in further adoration at the spitting image of him that sits between your knees. "Why is your mummy always telling me off, huh, Mands?" he questions her, face playful to match that of your daughters. 

"You can't bad mouth me to our kid. That's not how that works."

"Yeah well, I'm sweaty and annoyed, I can say whatever I want," he picks Mandy up and settles her on one of his knee, propping her up as he wipes in the suncream you had not long applied. "Can't I, poppet?" he coos at her. 

Though Mandy turns to look back at you, and so you decide to speak to your husband through her. Just like he did a moment ago, only you're allowed to do such a thing — your body made her. That gives you the right, you believe.

"Looks like daddy's sleeping on the sofa tonight," your voice soft and playful. "Ain't that right, munchkin?"

The sunhat nearly covers the top half of her face, but still she giggles, finding entertainment your tone.

You scrunch your nose at her as you smile, giving her an enthused nod. "That's right," you turn to meet the displeased face of your husband and shrug playfully. "You can't argue with that face, love."

"Yeah, well," Tangerine scoffs, and shakes his head — trying to get the last word, only he had nothing to say.

Fortunately for himself, Lemon has begun to make his way over to you all from his extensive time in the sea — doughnut floatie around his hips, exotic and neon tropical shorts sat beneath. His taste far brighter than his brotherly counterpart of blacks and navies.

"Why aren't you fuckers in the sea?" he calls out, hands either side of his mouth as if to amply his already booming voice. 

Tangerine sets Mandy aside, placing her on the sand in front of a shovel and bucket. "You'll get a slap for that," Tangerine warns, gesturing back to you with his thumb. 

When Lemon finally reaches you all, he stops just beside his brother, standing over him almost menacingly. He taunts him for a moment, extending his dripping arm to hang over his brother — droplets of salt water falling from his fingers and atop Tan's head. Lemon then goes with his thoughts of impulse and shakes himself, flicking cold specks of water over his very burnt, very cranky brother.

Though your husband decides against retaliation and rejects a reaction — he's simply in no mood with the sun behaving the way that it is today. 

Lemon instead chooses to prod, quite literally. He pokes at his brother's burns and snickers, finding humour in the drawing on Tangerine's back he's since forgotten. "How you liking that dick? Bet you're not used to having such a massive nob, hm?

You knew better than to react, knew it best to keep out of brotherly bickering; especially with these two. You instead reach into the cooler at your side and pull out a few drinks and sandwiches that you had prepared before leaving this morning. Food was a good deflection, you thought, rather, you hoped. 

And so you pass around tin-foiled baguettes, handing them to either brother with contents of their preferred fillings. Like you'd planned it, they grow quiet — the squabbling ceasing as you all enjoy your lunch to the sounds of lapping waves. 

⎯ ☆ ⎯

He turned to hang the coats, but his attention didn’t really leave her. Even when he stepped away, moving toward the kitchen like he desperately needed a task to ground himself, the air between them stayed pulled tight. 

Lisa set her purse and the brown paper bag from the bodega on the island. She leaned her hip against the counter, watching him without trying to hide it. 

“I’ve got something,” he said, opening the fridge. “Guess it would be good with the wine.” 

“What kind of something?” 

He pulled out a small platter. Instantly, that quiet, intense focus dropped over him—familiar and absolute. Like flipping a switch. 

“Been messing with this earlier,” he said, grabbing a spoon from the drawer. “Didn’t finish it, but—” a small shrug, “—it’s close enough.” 

“What is it?” 

“Custard. But lighter.” He glanced at her briefly, then back down, adjusting something microscopic on the platter. “Eggs, cream, a little citrus. Dark chocolate on top. Just bitter enough so it doesn’t get, you know —” 

“Too much?” 

“Yeah.” 

Lisa smiled a little. “Sounds interesting, Chef.” 

He huffed a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. He stepped closer, stepping directly into her space. 

He didn’t hand her the spoon. Instead, he lifted it. 

“Wanna taste it?” 

Lisa blinked once, a sudden rush of heat flooding her chest.  

“Sure,” she said, almost too shy.  

She parted her lips. The taste hit first. Soft. Not too sweet. The citrus cutting through the richness perfectly. 

Her eyes fluttered shut without her permission. 

“Wow, okay,” she breathed out, barely above a whisper. “That’s—” 

She opened her eyes. 

He was close, inches away, watching her. Not the plate. Not the dessert. Her. 

“What do you think?” 

“It’s... very good.” Lisa let out a quiet, almost amused exhale, her heart hammering against her ribs. “And you are... very close.” 

“Sorry,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to her mouth before coming back up. “Got a bit carried away.” 

Something in her chest shifted. A sharp, dangerous kind of pull. 

She reached for the brown paper bag, needing something to do with her hands. “Let me open the wine... before you burn a hole through me.” 

“Go ahead.” He stepped aside, but not far. Still within reach. Still there. 

She pulled the bottle out and grabbed the corkscrew from the drawer, working it loose. Beside her, Carmy turned his attention back to the small platter, leaning over the counter to carefully shave a final curl of dark chocolate over the custard. 

They moved around each other in that quiet, unspoken rhythm that didn’t need explaining. 

“Glasses?” she asked. 

“Top shelf. Left.” 

She reached up for them. 

Carmy paused, his hands stilling over the plate as he watched her do it. The way she didn’t hesitate. The way she moved through his sterile, quiet kitchen like she belonged there. It did something to him. Something heavy that he didn’t quite have a name for. 

“Can I put some music on?” she asked, setting the glasses down and glancing toward the speaker on the shelf. 

“Yeah, sure. Put whatever.” 

Lisa scrolled on her phone for a second, letting a low, slow beat fill the room. Soft drums, a little bass. Just enough to sit in the background and blur the edges of the heavy silence. 

She poured the dark red wine, then picked up both glasses. 

“Come with me,” Carmy said. He picked up the dessert and a couple of spoons, nodding toward the living room. 

They didn’t bother with the dining table. 

Instead, they sat on the floor, their backs resting against the base of the couch. It was easy. They sat close to each other, setting the dessert right on the rug between them.  

“This is nice,” she said softly. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” She lifted her glass slightly, the dark red liquid catching the dim light. “We should probably do a toast.” 

He leaned back, one arm resting on his knee, his intense blue eyes locked on hers. 

“To what?” 

Lisa hesitated for half a second. 

Then, softer— “To us.” 

He held her gaze. The corner of his mouth ticked up into a faint, real smile as he lifted his glass to meet hers. 

“And to Ben,” he added quietly. 

Lisa’s smile widened, reaching her eyes. “To Ben.” 

The glasses clinked softly between them. 

Lisa took a sip first, the wine rich and heavy on her tongue. She let her eyes flutter shut for half a second, exhaling slowly as the warmth spread through her chest. 

“God,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “I missed this.” 

Carmen glanced at her over the rim of his own glass. “The wine?” 

“Yeah.” She laughed, curling one leg closer beneath herself. “The nine months of the pregnancy plus this year and half of breastfeeding basically killed my alcohol tolerance. Just a sip and I’m already feeling it.” 

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Take it slow... We’ve got the whole night to finish this bottle.” 

She laughed again, softer this time. 

And somewhere after that, the rest of the tension began to loosen. 

The dessert sat forgotten between them as the conversation drifted naturally from one thing into another. No awkward pauses. No careful searching for subjects. They already knew how to talk to each other.  

Carmen told her where the custard came from—how he’d been trying to recreate an old dessert Michael used to love without making it feel too heavy for the menu. Lisa listened, her elbow propped on the edge of the couch and her head resting comfortably in her hand, watching the way his entire face changed when he talked about food and his brother. More open. More alive. 

And in return, she found herself telling him things she hadn’t planned to. 

He already knew her parents had passed in an accident when she was sixteen—she had given him the basic facts back in New York. But she had never really gone deeper than that. Never opened up about the messy, human aftermath of it with anyone.  

But sitting there on his rug, anchored by the wine and his quiet, unwavering attention, it didn't feel heavy anymore. It just felt like a memory. Something safe to hand over, the same way he had just handed over his memory of Michael. 

So she told him about Noah. About how her brother had suddenly been forced to step up, trying desperately to take care of her and keep them functioning as a family when it was just the two of them left. She told stories about Noah stubbornly attempting to keep their mother's Sunday dinners alive. About burned roast chicken and oversalted potatoes and the way grief had turned them both briefly incapable of functioning like normal people. 

That was the one that finally got him. 

Carmen laughed. 

Not polite laughter. Real laughter. Head ducking slightly, shoulders shaking once beneath the soft dark navy shirt as he rubbed a hand across his mouth. 

“Three weeks?” he asked. 

Lisa laughed too. “Three consecutive weeks.” 

“That's impressive.” 

“That's exactly what I said.” 

Another laugh escaped him, quieter this time. 

Then he looked at her differently. Like something had quietly clicked into place. 

Suddenly, Noah made a lot more sense. 

Lisa stared at him for a second after the laughter faded. Because she realized, suddenly, that she had almost forgotten what he looked like relaxed. 

The wine worked slowly through both of them after that. 

Not enough to blur anything. Just enough to dissolve the last layer of self-consciousness still sitting between them. 

Carmen’s posture loosened first. One knee angled closer until it rested lightly against hers. Then stayed there. 

Lisa noticed. 

He noticed her noticing. 

Neither of them moved away. 

And after that, the touches started happening naturally. Easily. 

Her hand brushing his arm when she laughed. His fingers catching briefly against her ankle when she shifted positions on the rug. Small things. Tiny things. But every single one felt loaded anyway. 

Because they were both aware now. Constantly aware. 

And Carmen—God, Carmen watched her. 

Not subtly, either. 

He watched her over the rim of his wine glass. Watched her when she laughed. Watched her while she talked, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of this version of her sitting in front of him now. Older. Softer in some places. Stronger in others. 

There was something almost disorienting about being looked at like that for too long. Like she was the only thing in the room capable of holding his attention. 

And maybe she was. 

The dessert eventually disappeared. The wine bottle sat almost empty on top of the couch table. Outside, the wind rattled faintly against the windows, but inside the apartment everything had settled into something warm and suspended. 

Not rushed. Not fragile. Just… intimate. 

The kind of intimacy they had never really known how to build in New York. 

Lisa wiped her thumb absently against the edge of her spoon before setting it down on the empty plate between them. Then she leaned her head back against the couch and looked at him sideways. 

“So... Was it that bad?” 

Carmen frowned faintly. “What was bad?” 

“The date.” A teasing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You looked deeply offended when I told you we had to go on one.” 

A quiet huff escaped him through his nose. He looked down at his glass, thumb dragging absently along the rim. 

“I wasn’t offended.” 

“Mm.” 

“I wasn’t.” He glanced sideways at her. “It just felt weird at first.” 

“Weird how?” 

Carmen shifted slightly against the couch, one knee angled toward hers now. 

“I don’t know.” He shrugged once. “Just… asking you out. Planning shit.” 

Lisa smiled into her wine. “Very traumatic for you, I’m sure.” 

“Yeah, devastating experience.” 

She almost giggled, and Carmen looked at her for a second too long before continuing. 

“I think I just…” He exhaled. “I already knew I wanted you. So part of me was like—what’s the point?” 

The honesty of it made heat rise slowly into her chest. 

“But then we got there,” he said. “And it didn’t feel like I thought it would.” 

Lisa’s gaze stayed on him, attentive and warm. 

Carmen rubbed his thumb against the glass again, searching for the words. 

“There’s stuff I forgot,” he admitted. “Little things. The way you are about certain things. What you like. What annoys you.” 

Lisa smiled faintly. “I still hate raw onions.” 

“Yeah, see?” he muttered. “That stayed.” 

She laughed quietly again. 

“But other stuff…” He shook his head once. “There’s a lot I don’t know anymore too.” 

His eyes lifted back to hers then. Steady. Open. 

“About you now.” 

Lisa looked down at her wine for a second, smiling faintly to herself. 

“Yeah,” she admitted softly. “I get that.” 

She rolled the stem of the glass slowly between her fingers before glancing back up at him. 

“I almost regretted asking you to do this, actually.” 

Carmen’s brows pulled together immediately. “The date?” 

She nodded once, a little sheepish now. 

“At first.” A quiet laugh escaped her. “I thought maybe I was making things unnecessarily complicated.” 

His gaze stayed fixed on her. Listening carefully. 

“But then tonight happened and…” She shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. It made sense.” 

Carmen didn’t say anything right away. 

Lisa smiled faintly into her glass. 

“And honestly?” she added. “I think I’m figuring you out again too.” 

That finally pulled a small smile from him. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Her eyes drifted over him deliberately. “You changed.” 

Carmen huffed. “That good or bad?” 

“Definitely improved,” she said. “Thank God.” 

That made him laugh properly. Short, warm, real. 

He bumped his shoulder lightly against hers. “Alright, fuck you.” 

Lisa grinned into her wine. “See? Emotional growth already.” 

He shook his head, but he didn’t move away afterward. 

If anything, he settled closer. His arm stretched along the edge of the couch behind her now, relaxed enough to look accidental. 

It wasn’t. 

Lisa felt herself becoming hyperaware of the warmth of him beside her. 

“I think that’s kind of the point, though,” she said after a second. “Getting to know each other again.” 

“Yeah,” Carmen said softly. “I think so too.” 

Silence settled briefly after that. Comfortable. 

Then Lisa glanced at him again. 

“So that doesn’t freak you out?” 

Carmen frowned slightly. “What do you mean?” 

“This.” She gestured lightly between them. “Us doing this again.” 

Her voice softened at the edges. 

“The not knowing part.” 

He looked at her for a second, and something in his expression shifted immediately when he heard the real question underneath it. 

Lisa tried to hide it behind another sip of wine. 

It didn’t work. 

Carmen turned more fully toward her, his arm sliding a little closer behind her shoulders. 

“No,” he said quietly. 

Lisa looked back at him. “No?” 

“No,” he repeated, lower this time. “It doesn’t freak me out, Lis.” 

He let out a slow breath, his eyes dropping briefly to her mouth before lifting back to hers. 

“If anything…” 

Lisa swallowed. 

“It just makes me more sure.” 

“Sure of what?” she asked, barely above a whisper. 

His gaze dipped again. This time he didn’t bother hiding it. 

“Of how much I want this,” he murmured. “You.” 

He lifted his free hand then, rough fingertips brushing lightly along her jaw before settling at the side of her neck. His thumb rested against her cheek. Warm. Careful. 

Lisa felt her breath catch. 

The room had gone completely silent around them. No music anymore. No wind outside. Just the heavy pulse of blood in her ears. 

Carmy stayed there for a second, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her mouth but not closing the distance. 

Giving her room. Always giving her room. 

And somehow that almost undid her more than if he had just kissed her. 

Lisa’s eyes flicked once to his mouth before she leaned in first. 

The kiss started soft. Almost cautious. Like neither of them trusted themselves with more. 

But the second Carmen kissed her back, the restraint cracked instantly. 

His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head deeper into the kiss as he exhaled sharply against her mouth. Lisa felt herself melt toward him automatically, one hand catching against his chest to steady herself even as she moved closer. 

The wine made everything warmer. Slower. The kiss deepened in careful stages until careful disappeared entirely. 

Carmen’s arm slipped around her waist suddenly, pulling her across the small space between them. 

Lisa barely had time to breathe before she was halfway in his lap, her knee sliding against his thigh as his mouth pressed harder against hers. 

A quiet sound escaped her before she could stop it. That seemed to do something to him. 

His grip tightened slightly at her waist, fingers spreading against the fabric of her dress like he was trying very hard to keep control of himself and losing the fight inch by inch. 

And she felt it too. 

Two years of anger and grief and wanting him anyway collapsing into this tiny space on his living room floor. 

Lisa kissed him harder. 

Carmy answered immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission. 

His hand slid from her waist to her thigh, pushing carefully beneath the hem of her dress just enough to feel warm skin. 

Not greedy. But not innocent either. 

Lisa’s fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt as his mouth moved against hers again and again, deeper now, slower somehow despite the intensity building between them. 

Everything about him felt overwhelming up close like this. 

The warmth of his body against hers. The roughness of his fingers on her skin. 

Lisa shifted instinctively in his lap, trying to get closer without even realizing she was doing it. The movement dragged her hips against his. 

Carmen inhaled sharply against her mouth. And suddenly she felt it. 

How much he wanted her. 

Not subtle. Not imagined. Immediate. Real. Hard. 

Heat rushed through her so fast it almost made her dizzy. 

The effect it had on him was instant. 

His grip at her thigh tightened hard enough to make her breath catch as the kiss broke abruptly, Carmen resting his forehead briefly against hers like he was trying to steady himself. 

“Lis,” he whispered, her name sounding almost like a warning. Or maybe a plea. 

He moved his mouth, pressing a light kiss against the corner of her jaw, then lower, breathing uneven now. 

Lisa’s pulse jumped violently beneath his lips. 

Because this was no longer flirting. 

No longer tension. No longer almost. 

This was real enough to ruin them if they weren’t careful. 

And they both knew it. 

Carmen exhaled slowly, one hand still spread against her thigh beneath the fabric of her dress while the other stayed firm at her waist, holding her close like he physically couldn’t make himself let go yet. 

“If we keep going,” he murmured against her skin, voice rough and low, “I’m not gonna wanna stop.” 

And the terrifying part was—she didn’t want him to stop either. 

Lisa let out the smallest nervous laugh, breathless and overwhelmed all at once. 

Not because it was funny. 

Because she understood exactly what he meant. 

The room stayed still around them. Neither of them moved away. 

Carmy’s thumb stroked slowly once against her leg beneath the fabric of her dress, grounding himself as much as her. 

Then, quieter this time: 

“Which is probably not the point of this whole thing.” 

Lisa looked at him for a long second. 

Close enough to kiss him again. Close enough to keep going. 

But instead she lifted her hand to his face, brushing her thumb lightly along his cheekbone. 

“No,” she whispered. “Probably not.” 

They stayed like this for another second. Unsure of what to do next.  

Then Lisa let out a quiet breath and shifted slightly, starting to pull back just enough to climb out of his lap. 

Carmen’s arm tightened around her waist immediately. 

“Where’re you goin’?” he asked. 

The question came out so fast it almost made her laugh. Lisa pulled back just enough to look at him properly. 

“We literally just agreed we should slow down.” 

His expression stayed completely serious for another second before something softer flickered through it. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But didn’t say you had to leave.” 

The honesty of it hit her directly in the chest. Lisa smiled despite herself, shaking her head lightly. 

“You’re making this very difficult.” 

“I know.” He sounded almost unapologetic about it. 

She laughed softly then leaned in, kissing him once before he could keep arguing. 

It shut him up immediately. 

His hand slid slowly from her thigh to her waist instead, holding her there while the kiss softened into something slower this time. Less desperate. More lingering. 

When she pulled back again, she stayed close enough that their noses still brushed. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly. 

Carmen frowned slightly. “For what?” 

“For actually trying.” 

Something in his expression shifted immediately at that. 

Lisa traced her thumb lightly along the collar of his shirt, eyes dropping there for a second before lifting back to his. 

“I just…” Her fingers twisted slightly in the fabric of his shirt. “I wanna be careful with Ben.” 

At the mention of him, the room settled again. 

Lisa glanced away briefly before continuing. 

“He’s little, but he notices everything.” A small breath escaped her. “And if we start doing this around him and then somehow…” She hesitated. “I don’t know. I just don’t want him confused.” 

Carmen listened without interrupting, his hand moving slowly against her back. 

Then, after a second: 

“Okay.” 

Lisa looked back at him. “Okay?” 

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed once along her waist. “We keep it between us for now.” 

No argument. No frustration. No defensiveness. 

Just him meeting her where she was. 

And somehow that affected her almost more than the kissing had. 

Lisa stared at him for a second before leaning forward and kissing him again. Small. Warm. Grateful. 

When she pulled back, she let out a quiet, reluctant exhale. She dropped her gaze, her hand sliding slowly from the collar of his shirt. 

"It's late," she murmured, the reality of the hour finally catching up to the quiet room. "I should probably get going." 

Carmen's eyes closed briefly. 

Like the sentence physically annoyed him. 

Lisa laughed softly. 

"What?" 

He shook his head once. 

"Nothing." 

"Carmy." 

Another sigh. Then finally: 

"I just... liked this." His eyes lifted back to hers. "Having you here." 

---- 

Eventually, they moved. 

Slowly. Reluctantly. 

Like separating was the hardest part of the entire night. 

Lisa changed in his bathroom, washing her face with trembling fingers that still felt the imprint of his hands everywhere. By the time she stepped back into the bedroom wearing one of his old t-shirts, Carmy was already in bed, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants, the covers pushed down to his waist. He was scrolling mindlessly through his phone, but the second he heard the door click, his head turned. 

His eyes tracked over the oversized shirt, lingering for just a second on the expanse of her bare legs, before snapping back up to her face. He swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet room. 

Lisa tried to hide the soft, self-aware smile pulling at her mouth. She walked over to her side of the mattress and climbed in, slipping under the sheets. 

The physical proximity felt entirely different in here. The mattress dipped slightly under their combined weight. 

Carmy reached out, clicking off the small bedside lamp and plunging the room into total darkness. 

For a second, Lisa lay on her back, wondering if the agreement to "take it slow" meant they were going to sleep on opposite edges of the bed like polite strangers. 

She didn't have to wonder for long. 

The mattress shifted. Carmy didn't even try to keep his distance. 

He moved closer, reaching out in the dark to wrap a heavy arm around her waist. Without a word, he pulled her backward, dragging her across the sheets until her back was pressed completely flush against his chest. 

Lisa let out a soft, surprised breath as his body heat enveloped her entirely. 

His hand stayed spread against her stomach, keeping her tucked tightly against him, like letting go wasn’t even an option anymore. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his nose brushing her hair. 

“Still think this was a good idea?” she asked quietly, trying for teasing and missing by a mile. 

His arm tightened around her just a fraction more. Not sexual. Just a desperate, quiet need to have her as close as humanly possible. 

“Go to sleep, Lis,” he murmured, his voice a low, heavy vibration against her skin. 

Lisa let out a soft laugh that sounded suspiciously like relief. 

The room went quiet after that. 

Carmen didn't move away. He stayed exactly like that—tangled around her, breathing in the scent of her skin, holding her close enough that she could feel every slow breath leaving his chest. 

Somewhere between the wine, the laughter, and his arm around her waist, she'd stopped waiting for the moment everything would go wrong. 

Saturday morning. 9am sharp, you were scheduled to meet in Camden with a certain Alfred Solomons. Rarely did you meet with “business” partners without Tommy. Only when the deal needed a special touch to seal it did you get sent in. A sweet smile (falsified or not), a gentle hand guiding the pen and promise. Allegedly Mr. Solomons had nearly put Arthur and John’s head through a window at the last business meeting, and you were deemed the most capable of smoothing things out with the big brute. Had you ever met him? No. But the fact that you were still deemed the best choice to make amends tells you that your brothers must have truly mucked it up.

So there you go, stepping oh so regally out of the car, clothes perfectly pressed and tailored, a right glittering star amongst the cosmos and chaos of Camden. A basket of gin and fine French wine under your arm as a peace offering. Solomons was said to be usually at home on a Saturday morning, so you had made the executive decision to go straight to his home. Optics of a young woman going to a bachelor’s home sans chaperone be damned.

A prim knock on the door brought forth a stout old woman with the sweetest face on earth, with a crisp floral print dress. Your heart ached, she looked like your primary school teacher. “Good morning ma’am, may I help you?”, she chirped.

You nodded, “Good morning, I’m here to see Mr. Solomons. I’ve been sent to deliver some goods to him. I believe he’s expecting me - I’m Miss Shelby.”

“Oh yes yes yes. The younger one aren’t you? Yes I have been expecting you. Come come.”

You were ushered into the fold by the older woman - the housekeeper Mrs. Fitz you would come to find out. Taking your hat and over coat, she beckoned you to the study on the second floor.

It was certainly a bachelor’s home, but kept tidy by the craftsmanship of Mrs. Fitz certainly. Books were piled in various corners, with notebooks and pens scattered throughout, “I do tell him to simply put things back where they were but… you know I think his mind moves faster than his body I really do. God forbid I touch some stacks because I ruin his ‘system’. Bless him. He’s strange but a lovely man. I wish he’d find a nice girl but he tells me he’s too busy and a woman would touch his things. I mean what nonsense truly…”

She prattled on but you could not help but laugh quietly. You loved it when the housekeepers gossiped. That’s where all the good information lay. But she didn’t speak of him like the wild animal she had always heard of. No she spoke of an… eccentric bachelor. She may as well have been paying a visit with the matchmaker and a new client.

The walls a wash of deep green, and dark wood flooring and crown molding. It felt deep and rich, like an expensive chocolate or your favorite dish on Christmas Eve. It felt luscious and hearty in the home. Making it difficult to keep your guard on full attention. Mrs. Fitz knocked on the second door you passed and announced, “Mr. Solomons sir, I have a Miss Shelby here.”

“Yeah alright.”, a voice rumbled through the door and into your chest.

Mrs. Fitz smiled and whispered, “He was raised in a stable so don’t be offended by his manners.”

You stepped through the door and were amazed. From floor to the ceiling were books tucked in shelves. On the floor there were several piles of various lengths. On the wall and opposing the desk was a large fireplace, lowly crackling but perfuming the air with its wood. In front were two plump seats, begging to be of use. Hulking over the desk on the other side, was your host.

Imposing. That’s what you would say. But it was more than that. As tall as Arthur, but where Arthur was wirey, this man was a solid brick wall. The muscles of his back undulating like the waves of the sea underneath a linen shirt. Arms filling out the sleeves that were pushed up to expose strong tattooed forearms.

But he looked a right mess. As he turned to you, it looked like he hadn’t had a proper haircut in months. His beard wild, and shirt half done. His eyes were vast and … just staring.

“Who the hell are you?”, his voice rumbled.

“…Miss Shelby?”

“Tommy’s sister? The unmarried one?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, screwing up his mouth. “Nah that can’t be right.”

“But it is.”

“No it can’t you see because every Shelby I’ve met, instantly gives me an ulcer, even the Ada girl. The Shelbys got this little superiority complex that just right pisses me off - you… you don’t have that look so therefore you cannot be a Shelby.”

You stare at him as he rambles on in the strangest tangent you have ever heard. His bejeweled fingers catching and throwing the light all around him. You felt your eyebrows draw together as you were trying to figure out what he is saying.

Interrupting him you cut, “Mr. Solomons… that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my life.”

Alfred Solomons breath caught in his throat and he nearly choked, “Did you just call me stupid?”

You nodded vigorously, “Yes because that sentence made no comprehensible logic. Do you talk like that all the time?”

“No one has ever called me stupid and lived darling.”

You stuck your arms straight out at your sides, spirits clinking in their bottles, “You going to shoot me then? Go ahead, then I don’t have to explain why your logic is absolutely ridiculous.”

Alfred turned in a circle, as if looking for someone to jump out and say this was some sort of prank. Because this woman came in - into the King of Camden’s study - and called him stupid. And was not afraid of consequences. No one clarified for him, but he did see the glitter of a bottle. With a thick finger he pointed, “What’s that in the basket?”

With a roll of your eyes, you pulled out the two bottles, “Gin and French wine. Compliments of the Shelby family. I was asked to apologize and make amends for my brothers’ foolishness a few days ago.”

Something about your irritated face and pursed lips made Alfred want more. He wanted you to get angry again. “So your way of apologizing for your brother’s foolishness… was to come into my house and call me stupid.”

“You don’t want the apology and spirits, I’ll take them with me.”

Not what he wanted.

“No no darling you … damn… you sit down there and let me get us some glasses.”

“Mr. Solomons I really should be-“

“Alfie darling call me Alfie. And you must stay and take a drink with me. You’re apologizing to me now aren’t you?”

“Mr. Solomons it is 9 in the morning.”

“Perfect time to begin in getting to know each other better.”

He started with the wine, which is possibly the better of what he could’ve opened. As you sipped your wine, you tried not to notice how he was devouring you with his eyes, “Why haven’t we met before dear?”

You look at him through the wine glass. He looked like an absolute wild man. “I don’t typically go to the parties thrown by my family. And I haven’t needed to come to any business meeting.”

“I think I would’ve enjoyed the meetings more if you were there darling.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Something really good to look at. Especially when you get tetchy.”

You squinted your eyes. Who the hell did this man think he was? You allowed the silence to settle around you. The room was comfortably warm, and the fire continued to crackle and snap. You forced your heart to settle down, Mr. Solomons had launched your heart rate upwards as soon as you had locked eyes with his stormy eyes.

You weren’t able to meet his eyes right now. Which was unlike you. You prided yourself on being able to stare down men and keep them pinned. But with this Mr. Solomons, you felt a lurch in your stomach, and a desire to … run?… punch him? Punching him sounded good right now.

But Mr. Solomons, little did you know, had already decided that you would be his wife. One way or another. Even if he had to sign a shit contract or 10 with the Shelbys. From the moment you called him stupid and scrunched your nose at him, he wanted you. He wanted more than anything for you to howl and stomp your feet in anger at him. He wanted to kiss you fiercely, and dote on you. He wanted to watch you devour him whole.

And Alfie was a man of action.

“Just to let you know… I’m going to marry you Miss Shelby.”

You coughed on your wine, trying to catch your breath, but your brain was becoming scrambled eggs.

“I beg your pardon?”

Alfie smiled deliciously behind his beard. Sitting down his wine and leaning in his chair he repeated, “I’m going to marry you. I know quality when I see it.”

“Did you not just threaten to kill me moments ago?”

“No I said that no one had yet called me that and lived. But the way you threaten me… well I won’t get into that yet till you accept my ring.”

You stood up quickly, “Mr. Solomons you are the most brutish, uncouth, unmannered being I have ever met.”

He pointed at you with a wink, “You just said three words that mean the same thing.”

You felt your cheeks get hot. And when did the air leave the room? You stepped forward, “I should slap that hideous beard right off your stupid face.”

He just preened, “Oh darling please don’t tease.”

You turned swiftly, walking towards the door, “I assume the apology is accepted. Good day Mr. Solomons I hope to never see you again.”

As you walked down the wooden steps you felt his lumbering feet following you, “Ah Miss Shelby why are you running from destiny? I felt it, you felt it. Come now don’t run away from a good squabble.”

You grabbed your coat, and we’re about to grab your hat when it was so quickly plucked from your hands by his paw. As you turned you immediately ran into his chest. Soon you were pressed between the door and his strong body. He held the hat above your reach, “When can I see you again?”

“Give me my hat this instant.”

“You’ll get your hat when you tell me when I get to see you again.”

“Beast!”

“For you alone. Now… dearest tell me where to find you. Or I’ll have to hunt you down myself.”

You stared right into his eyes with fire, and his stormy eyes was molten with adoration. Pure adoration. It made you sick… you think.

You pushed his chest, to no avail, and spit out, “The Garrison tomorrow at 7. In the back room. Don’t annoy me by being late. And take a shower, you disgust me.”

He smiled warmly, placing the hat so gently on your head. “I’ll get a haircut this afternoon.”

You nodded. You hated his face. You hated his bushy beard and eyebrows. And his open shirt and tattoos. You hated those dark eyes with his long blonde lashes. You hated his mouth and that smile that just reeked of devotion. And most of all you hated that he was the only man who had actually made you feel something other than pity.

You fix your hat on your head, even though it was perfectly put on to your great irritation. And push him again with all your might, making Mr. Solomons chuckle. “Good try darling. I’ll see you soon.”

By the time you reach your bedroom that evening after dinner, there is a large bouquet of tropical flowers. The card, in quick and splotchy writing read,

For my rare flower.

I promise to behave.

Forever your devoted (soon to be) husband,

Alfie

You roll your eyes. Yet you keep the card propped on your vanity. As a trophy of another easily kept man you tell yourself.

So what if you spend more time on your dress when going to the Garrison?