Mickimoo

“God, baby,” Jake muttered against your lips, his hands holding onto your bare waist above the top of your skirt. “Want you so much. Love you so much.”

You hummed into his mouth with a smile, your hand moving up and down his length, enjoying not only how it felt in your grip, but also the sweet tortured sounds coming from your boyfriend’s lips.

“You love me, huh? And that’s got nothing to do with the way I’m touching you?” You knew you were teasing him, but it was fun. 

“No,” he whined. “I mean yes. Sorta.”

You snorted at his ramblings and the way he was twitching under you. “So eloquent.”

“I don’t believe anybody feels the way I do about you now,” he responded, earnestly between more kisses. “But please, don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop?” you queried. “But if I don’t stop using my hand on you, then I can’t use my mouth or my pussy instead.”

Jake went stock still at your words. “You can stop,” he whispered before trying for some nonchalance. “If you want.”

You let go in an instant. “Yeah?” you asked with a raised brow and Jake gulped. You discarded your clothes swiftly before kneeing between his legs. Jake watched you with wide, lust filled eyes as he kept himself propped on his elbows. “Want me to taste you before I ride you?”

“Uh-huh.” 

God he was cute when he was lust-drunk.

You leant forward slowly, keeping your eyes on his face, as you opened your mouth, stuck out your tongue and then licked a stripe up the entire length of him.

“Oh Christ,” he called out, head tipping back, eyes closing and hands fisting in the sheet. A second cry followed it up as you took him in your mouth with a smile.

His hands came together in a slow, sarcastic applause with a smile of pure venom on his face. His suit was wrinkled from a long night in the club. His eyes raked across your naked body with a newfound sense of ownership that made your skin crawl and bile rise in your throat. You instinctively went to cover yourself, hands coming up to cover your breasts, dropping the glass Ari had handed to you. The liquid splashed against your feet as you drew your legs up.

"Well, well, well," Pete drawled, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Didn't actually think I'd catch you red-handed, Sugar. But here we are."

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you tried to scramble off of Ari’s lap, but his hands tightened around you, holding you in place. You twisted to look at him, searching his face for a shared confusion, for anger, anything, something— but all you found was a cold, detached calm.

"Ari?" Your voice cracked. "What—"

"Relax," Ari said quietly, his tone flat. He didn’t spare you so much as a glance. His eyes were locked on Pete’s with a knowing glint.

Relax.

Relax?

You stared at his face, slowly mapping out his features before you looked at Pete and let out a shocked sigh when your stomach dropped as you put together the similarities and wondered how you could’ve been so blind as not to have seen it sooner.

"Oh, don't look so shocked, sweetheart," Pete said, a mocking sweetness laced in his tone as he stepped closer. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting his face in a way that made him look grotesque. "You didn't really notice the family resemblance?”

“Family.” You said bluntly. “Brothers?”

“My uncle,” Ari explained simply.

“Did you think you were getting away with it? All those private dances, all that cash you've been pocketing without telling me? You thought I wouldn't find out?" Pete asked as he stalked closer.

Your mouth opened, but the sound failed to make an appearance. Your brain was scrambling as it tried to piece together what was happening, as if you were trying to hold water in your hands—everything was slipping through as you tried to make sense of how Pete had found out.

"I—" you started to explain, but Pete cut you off with a sharp laugh.

"Save it,” He sneered. “I know everything. Every client you propositioned. Every dollar you didn't report. Every lie you told." He stopped a few feet away from the couch, arms crossed over his chest as he bent at the middle, towering over you with a triumphant grin, "And you know what the best part is? You walked right into it."

Your eyes darted back to Ari. He was still holding you, still calm, and then realization hit you like a freight train.

He knew.

He was part of this.

"No," you whispered, shaking your head. "No, you—"

"I what?" Ari's voice was cold, detached. He finally looked at you, not as a woman he’d just spent the last hour methodically taking apart, but as a piece of evidence, or a chore he’d finally completed. There was nothing in his eyes. No warmth. No affection. Just... nothing. Not a single ounce of semblance of the man you had grown an affection for over the past few weeks. "Thought I liked you? Thought this was real?"

His words were like a knife to the gut. You couldn’t stop the tears welling in your eyes.

“He was the bait, Sugar,” Pete said coolly, almost cheerfully. “And you took it, hook, line, and sinker. He did his job, got you here, and now…” He trailed off as he gestured around the room, at the manor, at the trap you had fallen into. “You’re all mine… Well, ours.”

Your hands shook, sending a tremble that took over your entire body. You once again attempted to free yourself from Ari, and this time he did let you go. You slip off the couch, your legs shaking, and head past Pete to grab your clothes, the warmth of the fireplace flickering across your skin. As you bend down, Pete’s voice stops you.

“I wouldn’t bother with those.”

You freeze, halfway bent to gather the sorry excuse of a dress.

“You’re not going anywhere, and we’ve both already seen what you’ve got to offer, Sugar. Why hide it now?”

The fear wracking your bones crystallized into something else; something hotter. It floods through your veins like gasoline meeting a lit match. You look at the dress, then back at Ari, who is putting his jeans back on. You waited for him to turn and look at you, but instead, he opted to look out the window as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

You snatch the dress from the floor, turning your attention back to Pete.

“Fuck you,” You spat, wringing out the dress and stepping into it. You heard Ari laugh shortly followed by the click of his lighter as you pulled up the dress and let the straps snap sharply on your shoulders before grabbing your bag. “I’m leaving. Right fucking now.”

Pete’s smile widens, and your stomach turns.

He’s on you within seconds, knocking your bag, the contents flying all over the floor. He grabs your wrist with one hand when they fly up to push him away, and hooks fingers of the other hand under the straps of your dress and snaps them with ease.  He grabbed you roughly, forcing you to lock your eyes with his fiery gaze; his fingers digging into the meat of your upper arms, making you wince and pull away from his grip.

‘’Do you have any idea how much you owe me, Rory? It adds up to a very pretty, very large sum of money that you simply do not have.’’ Pete snarled, venomous and rattling.  

‘’I have it,’’ You pleaded, ‘’It’s at the hotel. You can have it. Just let me go.’’

Pete didn’t answer you. His expression snapped in an instant, switching from a delighted amusement to a cold, hard stare.

He simply whirled you around, pulling your back flush against his chest and bruisingly working his hands against the fabric of your dress to work it down your body until it pooled around your bare ankles. Shakes wracked through your body as a sea formed in your eyes, a devastating storm of hopelessness as an anchor hit the bottom of your gut, rooting you to the mansion floor. Pete turned and shoved you towards where Ari was now on his feet, snapping the band of his boxers against his hips before leaning down to gather his jeans, shaking them out.

Your gaze darted between them as your footsteps faltered, your ankles wanting to give way as Pete began to stalk closer to you again. Your blood turned to ice as he backed you towards the couch. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking an exit; any exit. Instead, you wound up back on the couch, pulling your legs up as Pete loomed over you; his eyes black and vacant.

Ari gave you a passive glance as he lit up a cigarette, taking a long drag as he decided the darkness outside the manor windows was a better view than the debt perched on cold leather.

‘’Here’s how this is going to work, Sugar,’’ Pete says pointedly. ‘’My nephews are going to come through those doors any moment… They’re gonna drop that bag of money you’ve been hiding in that piss-poor hovel of yours at my feet. We’re gonna count it, and we’re gonna calculate the interest–’’

‘’What interest? You have it! You’ll have it–’’

Pete’s hand swung out, and you instinctively curled into yourself, but the blow never came. You peered up to find Ari’s large hand wrapped around Pete’s wrist; not hard enough to cause any damage, but enough to send a message. Your chest heaved as you watched them; it looked like Pete wanted to fight it, but something passed between them– maybe Ari’s size, maybe a respect… You weren't sure. Pete yanked his hand away and let out a defeated huff.

‘’I’ll handle it,’’ Ari claimed, holding up a finger; a warning.

‘’Then handle it,’’ Pete dismissed with a wave of his hand and sulked towards the bar.

Ari took in a deep sigh, finished the last couple of drags of his cigarette, and then planted himself back beside you. He stared into the open space of the living room before dragging a hand down his face, scrubbing at his beard, and taking in a sharp breath before finally looking at you.

‘’Ari, I can’t pay–’’

‘’I know you can’t,’’ Ari cut in. ‘’Which is why you’re going to work it off. Here. With us.’’

Your stomach lurched. ‘’What?’’

‘’There are two options on the table, Sugar,’’ Ari began to explain, monotone and blunt. Option one: You stay here and work on a schedule. Me on Mondays, Curt has Tuesdays, Steve on Wednesdays, Jake on Thursdays, Pete on Fridays, Lloyd on Saturdays.’’ He pauses, letting the words sink into your bones. ‘’Sunday’s… You get to rest.’’

Your vision blurred, ringing overtook your ears, and your chest constricted.  

‘’Option two,’’ Ari continues. ‘’We sell you.’’

‘’Sell me?’’ You whisper, eyes wide.

Ari nods. To one of Pete’s clients. The kind of men who don’t ask for permission, the ones who won’t give you a rest day.’’

A sudden rage blooms, courses through your blood, and explodes.

"No." Your voice is sharp, loud, cutting through the room like a whip. "Absolutely fucking not. You're both insane if you think I'm going to—"

"You don't have a choice!" Pete snaps sharply from across the room, glass thudding against the bar, the liquid sloshing violently. ‘’Unless you want me to make a call and have you shipped off and kept in a fucking cage for the rest of your life. Either fucking way, you are paying me back every fucking cent!’’

‘’I earned it!’’ You fired back. ‘’It’s mine, and you can have it! I don’t fucking need to stay here!’’

“Yours? Yours?!” He sneered, his voice a lethal weapon pointed at you from across the vast living room. “Everything in that club is mine. The floor you walk on, the pole you stumble around on, the laps you keep warm— the fucking air you breathe, the drinks you swallow, and most fucking certainly the clients you’ve been stealing from under my fucking nose, Sugar. I fucking own you. You didn’t earn a fucking dime. It was theft. Plain and fucking simple. You used my establishment to run your own little business and thought you could get away with it…” He trailed off to let out a long sigh after his rant, his expression softening a little. “But, lucky for you… I’ve always had a soft spot for a pretty face.”

Pete stalked towards you once again, but this time Ari made no effort to shield you from him. Pete leaned over you, and the leather creaked as he placed his hand on the couch behind your head. The smell of whisky on his breath made your stomach turn, and his voice dropped to a low, intimate whisper that made your skin crawl.

“My family is a very close-knit group, Sugar. We share everything… And since you've spent so long taking from me— from us, it's only fair that you start giving back. So, I think the choice has been made for you.”

‘’No,’’ You said firmly, sucking in a sharp breath as Ari let out a slow breath.

He stared down at you with a look of cold, almost clinical evaluation. He leaned in closer, his presence oppressive and dangerous, the air between you both feeling thick with a threat that had no need to be voiced. He didn’t seem offended by your outburst; if anything, he once again looked thoroughly amused, as if your defiance was nothing more than a puppy daring to bark at a wolf.

“See, that’s the thing about the word “no”, Sugar. In your situation, it has no place in this house. It’s a word you get to use when you don’t have a debt to pay. It’s for guests. You’re not a guest. You’re a piece of property with a very high interest rate.” Pete leaned in closer, his voice dipping to a soft, terrifying purr beside your ear. “I’m a businessman, Sugar. I’m not gonna drag you kicking and screaming by your hair to a bed. No one’s gonna hold you down and make you do a single thing. It’s boring. It’s predictable. It’s what you expect to happen. I prefer incentives.”

Pete stepped back abruptly, arms flaring out to gesture to the opulent surroundings of the manor.  

“You can fight it. You can scream, you can refuse, and cry and beg. You can be the brave little pup trapped in a wolf’s den, but every day that you refuse to give us what we want, every moment you make us wait… The higher the interest climbs and the longer you stay.”

You opened your mouth to fight back, plead your case, attempt to find any string of words that could wake you from the grim nightmare you had found yourself in– or rather, been lured into; however, the tension in the room was snapped by the sound of the front doors being opened once again. Dread washed over you as Ari stood and stepped towards the windows and stared down the dim hallway. A second later, Ari let out a small bark of a laugh, and a grin broke out on his face.

“Damn, her leaving you hit you hard,” Ari mocked, playful and light with what seemed like a genuine grin towards the footsteps in the hall. ‘’Look at that fuckin’ bush on your face, man.’’

“Yeah? Look who’s talking, “ The voice responded. It wasn’t as deep as Ari’s, and the man who emerged almost took your breath.

He wasn’t as tall as Ari, although not far off. Dirty blonde hair and a thick beard that put Ari’s to shame a little. He looked as if he’d taken a mental beating or two, eyes wary and shoulders tense. The brown leather jacket clung to his large shoulders, the white tee stretched over his chest, and his large hands clutched car keys; the bend in his arms showing off the power in his arms. Under any other circumstances, just like Ari, you could happily find yourself staring at a man like him all day long. The half-smile on his face fell fast and far once he laid eyes on you, before his face scrunched up in a disgust that made you find the floor more interesting.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he spat.

“Steve—“ Pete spoke before being abruptly cut off.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” Steve chastised as his feet thundered across the floor.

You instinctively peered up, finding him coming towards you as he stripped off his light brown jacket and quickly laid it around your shoulders, offering a small, tight smile before both of your gazes turned to Ari, who offered nothing but a roll of his eyes.

“Don’t do that,” Ari chuckled shortly, pointing a finger. “You still showed up.”

“You said she’d have a choice,” Steve shot at him, eyes hardening and fist clenching at his side. “Shaking and crying on the couch— naked!” Steve punctuated with a sharp point towards you. “Isn’t a fucking choice!”

“She was given a choice,” Pete dismissed, as if he were referring to you simply picking what to have for dinner. “I’m still waiting to hear what she’s decided.”

“What choice did you give her? Here or there? Us or some sick fuck that’ll turn her out?”

“Better the ones she knows, hmm?” Ari tried to reason.

“Out of your minds,” Steve laughed, hollow and ludicrous, a hand smoothing over his hair as he let out a rough, angered sigh.

“You still showed,” Ari pointed out, parroting his words from before. “Let’s step off the high horse.”

Steve opened his mouth to fire back at Ari, but the sound of the oak doors opening once again drew everyone into a silence until it was broken by two disembodied voices, lazily sharing a conversation as they stepped closer to the living room. One had an impossibly deep gravel to his tone; the other light, almost boyish— like the world hasn’t hit him hard enough just yet.

“When does Lloyd get here?” One asked.

“Saturday,” the other answered bluntly, closing the door and coughing softly. “Hate how this fucking house smells.”

“It is Saturday,” The first one pointed out.

“Next Saturday, numbnuts.”

“You can’t let him near her,” Steve agonized towards Ari, like he almost feared the voice himself.

“I told you telling him was a bad idea,” Ari groaned, letting out an exasperated laugh. “Always gotta act as the sun shines out of your ass. Why the fuck are you here?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Steve fired, eyes blazing and body tense as he pointed out to the hallway where the footsteps drew closer. “To stop him, because you fucking idiots don’t see how fucking unstable—“

“Don’t let who near who?”

It was like another version of Ari had stepped into the room. Instead of the full beard, thick locks, and tanned skin, it was replaced by harsh stubble, a buzz cut, and ink covering every inch. Behind him was a smaller version of Steve, grinning from ear to ear  with an almost childish charm as he nodded at his brothers.

“Hi,” The tattooed version of Ari drawled, mouth ticked up in a predatory smirk as his eyes wandered your body, not taking them off you, had he held out the black duffle bag in his hand— the very same that had been hidden under your hotel room— and passed it off to Pete. “I’m Curtis.”

“Great, she can go,” Steve said directly, moving back towards you with a hand held out.

“Go?” Ari scoffed, stepping closer as well.

You looked between them, unsure of your next move. You desperately wanted to take the hand of the only man who saw sense and wanted to take you out of there, while fearing the repercussions of the man who wanted you to stay; the one who you were still trying to piece together in your head.

“You have it, she can go,” Steve replied, looking down at you with a nod towards his outstretched hand.

“Interest, Steve,” Ari pointed out sharply, knocking his hand away from you before you could even lift your own to take Steve’s. “Please tell me that losing her made you lose all your brain cells as well.”

“Are you all done squabbling?” Pete asked them both, only turning back to Curtis when they both stood down and averted their gazes from one another. “How much is in here?” Pete followed up, tugging the straps, letting the bag bounce.

“Take a look for yourself,” Curtis replied, his eyes glued on you.

You held your breath, refusing to be the first one to break as you heard Pete sigh, followed by the sound of the bag thudding against the leather chair and the agonizingly slow sound of the zipper being pulled. Curtis’ eyes lit up when Pete let out an appalled gasp.

“You scheming little brat,” Pete said, dangerous and slow.

“What?” You asked breathlessly, finally losing the battle, as you looked over to where Pete was standing over the open bag, with a horrified expression.

“How much? I want you to tell me how much is in this fucking bag,” Pete said lowly, fists balling up by his side.

“Around thirty thousand, just a little under. I don’t keep—“

“Do not fucking lie to me!” Pete seethed, and within a flash, he was thundering towards you.

You instinctively curled yourself back against the couch; however, Pete didn’t get far because both Steve and Ari shielded you against the couch, making Pete stop dead.

“Sugar. How much is in there?” Ari asked calmly.

“I just told you!” You cried out, hands thumping heavily in your lap as you squeezed your eyes shut to stop a fresh wave of tears from falling. Your fists found the fabric of Steve’s jacket, clutching it tight to your bare skin and sinking back into the leather of the couch.

Ari let out a breath before walking over and peering into the bag himself. He paused for a moment, shook his head, and then hauled the bag up and brought it over to you, opening it wide to show the stacks of bills— more than what you’d ever placed inside them. Your eyes widened as your pulse kicked up speed and your lungs refused to expand the way they should.

“No— This… This isn’t all mine. There’s no way,” You whispered frantically, shaking your head before swallowing the lump that formed in your throat. Your eyes darted between the men occupying the space in front of you. “Please, this isn’t mine,” You whined desperately. “Yes, I was working on the side. Yes, I was doing it with club clients. Yes, I shouldn’t have done it, but I have not made the amount that’s in here. This isn’t all mine.”

“Oh, so the money fairy came and put it in there while you were being screwed by my nephew,” Pete scoffed.

“It’s not mine!” You cried.

“How much do you think?” Pete asked, his attention back on Curtis as if you’d simply ceased to exist.

“Hundred thousand, easy. Want me to count it?” Curtis pointed towards the bag in Ari’s hands.

“Go.” Pete nodded towards another room.

“Ari, please, you have to believe me,” You begged, trying to find some semblance of the man you knew just a few hours before.

“I don’t have to believe anything.” Ari zipped up the bag and passed it off to Curtis, who threw it back over to Pete. “It’s above my pay grade.”

Curtis left the room for a moment, disappearing into a side door and returning with a money counter. You kept your gaze on Ari as the clunk of the machine hitting the table was followed by the whirring of money being funneled through the machine. The room was suffocating, and everyone stood in silence as Curtis loaded stack after stack onto the machine. Your stomach turned as the amount rose higher and higher. Your mind switched channel upon channel, trying to figure out just how a half-empty bag was suddenly bursting at the seams.

Had Pete set it up? Had Ari? Did one of the girls know? Was it a client? Who knew where you stayed? How did this happen?

“One hundred thousand…” Curtis began to read out, and a wave of cold nausea washed over you with every word. “Four hundred and thirty-two dollars.”

Pete whistled, followed it up with a short bark of a laugh, and downed the rest of the liquid in his glass, grimacing and shaking his head.

“Well, hasn’t someone been a busy little lamb, hmm?” Curtis taunted.

“And you said you didn’t fuck ‘em,” Ari scoffed bitterly, turning his nose up at you.  “Who’s the liar now?”

“I didn’t—“ You insisted.

“Don’t fucking bullshit me,” Ari shot back.

“Some of them were generous! I didn’t do anything like that!”

“Yeah, bet you were too,” Ari huffed, shaking his head with a tense smile.

“Stop!” Steve barked.

“She good?” Curtis prodded towards Ari with a sick smirk as he began to load the remainder of the cash back into the bag.

“Not bad,” Ari shrugged.

“Talking about me like I’m a toy. I’m right here!” You cracked, fire bubbling out of your throat.

“That’s what you are now,” Curtis scoffed, glancing at his brothers like what you had said was ridiculous. “S’all you are, baby. A shiny new toy for me to break and you’re here for a while, Sugar, a lot of time to find all the ways you can break.”

“I’ll find a way—“ You attempted to plead with Pete. “You have the money, please. I can figure it—“

“Nope! You won’t— You can’t!” Pete cut off dramatically, leaning against the bar and giving you that sick, sly grin. “So, once again, the choice: I can either line up a buyer, hand you over and you can pray to see next month, or you can stay here and work it off by keeping us all company, however we see fit.”

“Be trafficked or be a communal fleshlight— Wow, incredible options she has—“ Steve mocked, shaking his head.

“Why the fuck would you put it like that?” The youngest one laughed, face scrunching up as they paced in front of the fireplace. “That sounds—“

“Wrong?!” Steve thundered, earning dismissive smirks and choked back laughs from his brothers. “Disgusting? Because that’s what this is, Jake!”

“She doesn’t have to do anything,” Ari attempted to sway, laughing it off like Steve was overreacting. “But the longer she doesn’t, the longer she stays and the higher the debt climbs.”

“That isn’t a choice—“ Steve let out a vexed growl, throwing his hands up before he headed towards the hallway, your eyes following his every move with a voice in the back of your head begging him to stay.  “Fuck it! I’m done! I’m leaving, I can’t be a part of this—“

“Go ahead,” Pete dismissed. “Oh,” He said sharply, holding up a finger. “But, who’s gonna clean up Curtis’ mess?” Pete pointed out, stopping Steve in his tracks. “That’s why you’re here and everything.”

“See you Tuesday, Sugar,” Curtis drawled provocatively, making your face scrunch up and turn away from the shitshow before you. “Aw, the shy little baby,” Curtis mocked, honeyed and low, making your hands fist up and tremble. “Fucking adorable.”

“He won’t give her a choice,” Steve pleaded to Ari.

“That’s why you’re needed,” Ari stressed, standing and making his way over to Steve, hands on his shoulders, keeping him steady in place. “Your day counts no matter what she does. Fuck her, sing her a lullaby— who fucking cares? That’s the point. It’s up to us how it’s paid, and if she refuses then… Guess she’s got another day of the week to make it up—“

“What day is mine?” Jake piped up.

“Thursday,” Pete replied.

“Cool. I’ll leave you all to argue,” Jake said coolly, as if he’d simply asked when dinner was going to be ready and didn’t spare you a second glance as he made his way around the back of the couch and his footsteps faded with each step on the stairs.

“What’s the total with interest?” Ari asked, turning his attention to Pete.

Pete pondered for a moment, lips twitching from side to side as he calculated the sum in his head.

“Half a mil,” Pete said simply, turning to you with a cold glint in his eyes and a mocking smile. “Maybe just a little under.”

“And per shift?” Ari quizzed.

“Waiting for Lloyd to get back to me,” Pete answered. “But, I think it’s based on what you think she’s earned. He’s just gonna put a cap on it. She hasn’t actually decided yet what she’s doing.”

“What’s it gonna be, Sugar?” Curtis piped up. “Sold or stay?”

“You have the money,” You protested with a whine, letting out a huff and twisting your face up as you planted your feet against the floor and leaped up off the couch. Steve’s jacket grazed your mid-thigh as you clutched it closed against your chest. “I’m not staying here,” You bit out, eyes blazing and staring Pete dead in the eye. “I’m not being sold. I’m not being passed around. I’m not doing any of this. You can all go fuck yourselves.”

Pete’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes— amusement, maybe; perhaps interest, you weren’t sure, but you were sure of the fact you weren't staying with him for any longer than you needed to. You needed to find a way out– quickly.

“Brave,” Pete mused softly as he stepped closer to you. “Stupid, but brave. It’s a shame brave won’t serve you well here, Sugar. Submission? That’ll get you really far.”

"And just so we're clear," Pete adds, leaning in close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath, "the longer you fight this, the longer you stay. Every time you refuse, every time you make this difficult, you add time to your debt. It could be weeks. It could be months. It could be years. Up to you."

"Then I'll fight for years," you snarl. "I'm not doing this."

‘’She’s a fiery one,’’ Curtis laughed, a low, ugly sound. ‘’I like that. You’ll be more fun to break, Sugar.’’

‘’Take her upstairs,’’ Pete ordered Ari. ‘’Get her settled. You’ll like your room, Sugar. A helluva’ lot better than that hole you slept in.’’

‘’I’m not fucking staying here!’’ You cried out.

‘’You can get up, or I can get you up,’’ Ari said darkly, towering over you from the side of the couch, hands at the ready.

“You heard your man, Sugar. The choice is yours. You can walk out of here on your own two feet, or he can carry you out kicking and screaming.”

Pete stood aside and let Ari take his place, looming over you, his large shoulders blocking the view of the vast living room. He didn’t say a word, just stared down at you, with an expression that made your heart sink. He was actually enjoying this. He liked you trembling, cold, and scared. Ari’s hands flexed at his side, head tilted as he waited, just waited… as if he was waiting for the moment the reality of the situation burned out the fire inside of you and you were left with nothing but a crushed spirit— or, for the sick thrill he’d get hauling you, wailing, up the manor stairs and into the dark.

“Ari, please,” You whispered. “Just tell me this is a joke.”

“Why would we joke about this?” Ari’s voice was flat, devoid of empathy or regret.

He didn’t even blink; he just looked at you as if you weren’t a woman, but as an object that had been successfully delivered to its rightful owners. The silence that followed his words was a desolate suffocation, punctuated by the distant, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere in the manor. The betrayal was absolute. The man who you thought had seen you as you saw him was now looking at you as nothing more than a dollar sign.

‘’I thought…’’ Your voice wavered as you spoke. ‘’Oh, fuck.’’

“Oh, look at that,” Pete drawled, his voice dropping to a mocking cop. “You’ve broken her heart, Ari.” He let out a soft, sharp titter. “It’s a shame, really. Maybe we’re on the way to losing that spark that would’ve been so fun to snuff out of you.”

“I’d get all those pretty tears out now, Sugar… Before Lloyd gets home,” Curtis spoke, an ominous ring to his comment.

“Plus, tears don’t pay off the debt. Neither does disappointment,” Pete added.

“Well, there’ll be a good payment for Lloyd. He loves it when they cry,” Ari shrugged, his voice devoid of any warmth.

The comment was delivered with such a casual indifference that it felt more like a physical blow. Ari wasn’t just betraying you; he was willing to hand you over to someone who sounded far worse than himself, Pete— even Curtis. You prayed silently to never meet the man behind the name, but you knew it was feeble, inevitable. Ari gestured to stand with a crook of his neck, acting as the gatekeeper to a grim future you couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Ari stepped back just an inch as you hesitantly braced yourself to stand, his gaze remained fixed on you; expectant and patience waning. The luxury of the manor—the fire, the velvet of the curtains, the ornate rugs, and the expensive leather — felt more like a gilded cage. Every extra second you spent hesitating felt like a gamble with a debt that was already spiraling out of your control.

“How could you do this?” You whispered as you looked up at him.

“I’m a professional,” Ari offered, his gaze cold and his voice flat.

“You’re an asshole,” You corrected.

Ari didn’t flinch, didn’t show any offense; no malice, no amusement. The man who had just been whispering filth in your ear and pulling you into his chest was gone, replaced by a cruel stranger who looked at you as if you were nothing more than a piece of furniture he was getting ready to move. He shifted his weight with a heavy sigh, crossed his massive arms over his chest, biceps flexing as he created a wall of muscle that felt absolute, impenetrable. “You were a job,” Ari informed. “A way to bring you in without causing a scene, to stop you running. Please don’t mistake a few weeks of scattered pleasure for a friendship, a relationship. We don’t do that here. It doesn’t work. I’m getting tired, and you need to move.”

You let out a shaky sob, fingers flexing against the leather seat, and before you could even attempt to move yourself, Ari’s patience snapped. Hands grab you, rough and bruising, and you explode into motion. With a cry, you twisted and kicked in his grip as he spun you and hauled you up against his chest. You kicked into the open space as Ari began to walk you towards the stairs. You clawed at his forearms, nails raking across the skin, pebbles of red blooming in their wake, causing him to swear viciously.

“Fucking bitch—“

You screamed; a raw, primal sound, a sound torn from somewhere deep in your chest, pulled from the depths of your soul. You thrashed against his grip, bare feet kicking at his shins, hands slapping the meat of his arms. You fought with everything you had, but it’s no use. His grip tightened as he took the first step. You crane your head back, and your eyes lock with Steve’s. His face was pale, a hopeless worry creased into his forehead, his hands clenched tightly at his side; it looked like he could be sick, but he made no attempt to help you.

No one came to help you.

“Let me go! Let me fucking go!” You screamed.

Ari’s fingers dug into your side with enough pressure to leave bruises. You planted your feet against a higher step, attempting to anchor yourself to the cold marble slabs as you twisted your head, teeth gunning for his arms, but he jerked you sharply with a snarl.

“Fuck you!” You wailed, thrashing harder. “Fuck all of you!”

“Stop fucking fighting.” His voice was an eerie calm. “You’re only gonna make it worse.”

With a grunt of effort, Ari lifted you higher, your feet dangled in the air as you were manhandled up the rest of the stairs. You didn’t stop fighting. With each agonizing step, you screamed until your throat was raw, kicked until your legs ached, twisted your body until your muscles burned; screamed, cried, and wailed out every curse your tongue had memorized, but it’s no use. By the time you reached the second floor, you were gasping for breath, your body trembled with exhaustion and fury.

You were carried through the dark of the hallway, portraits watched you with judgmental eyes, and a row of doors taunted you as you passed each one. Ari didn’t say another word through your continued struggle, each moment making your bones scream, and your lungs beg for mercy. The silence from him was a wall, unclimbable; inescapable.

He stopped at the end of the hall, double doors towering above you both. He managed to keep a tight grip on you as he reached for the handles and pushed them open, revealing a bedroom that was staggeringly opulent. A luxurious space with a massive canopy bed with silk sheets, detailed dressers, ornate chairs, and gold accents peppered around the room. Any other time, the sight would’ve been welcomed, but the sight made you sick. He kicked the doors closed behind you with a loud thud and dropped you to the floor.

“Jacket,” He ordered with a snap of his finger and a held-out hand.

You clutched it tight around you as you scrambled to your feet and put as much distance between you both as you could; Ari was left standing at the door while you shrank yourself into the shadows of the towering windows.

“Steve gave it to me,” You sniffled. “How could you do this to me? You can’t do this to me!”

“I can, and I am,” He replied, an exasperated huff expelling from his chest, as if dealing with you was a chore he’d rather forget.

“You liked me, you did… I know you did.”

“No, I didn’t,” He said with a grim smile. “I like obedience. Give me the jacket, Sugar.”

“No!” You cried. “Fuck you! We had something, we were going to have something, you know it!”

A flicker of boredom flashes across Ari’s eyes. He made no attempt to move; he simply watched you with a detached curiosity, as if you were attempting to explain a concept that sounded deranged and tedious. The massive scale of his frame seemed to shrink the room around you as you waited for him to break his slice, like he was the only thing your mind could focus on. He didn’t look at you with hatred, that would’ve required an emotion he wasn’t willing to spare, but you had a clawing need to drag it out of him anyway.

He shifted his weight, the fabric of his shirt straining against the same shoulders you had clung to hours before. The silence, however, was broken, but not by Ari, but by the boisterous laughter of the family in the den below; a muffled reminder that your life had been meticulously, and maliciously partitioned into days of the week.

“Why are you all like this?” You whispered.

“Like what?” Ari challenged, his expression remaining flat.

It seemed like, to Ari, that the question seemed entirely illogical, as if you were asking why the rain was wet or why a predator hunted its prey. There was no guilt, no empathy, nothing in his eyes; no flicker of regret for the way he had used your body to bridge the gap between your trust and your capture.

“Twisted,” You spat. “Wrong.”

He took slow, calculated steps forward, his feet padding against the thick, piled carpet, the distance between you closing at an agonizing pace. His shadow swallowed you whole as you backed into the wall between the windows, trapped in the darkness. He didn’t touch you, but the heat radiating from him was palpable, a warning of the strength he could use to crush you if he ever decided to stop being patient.

‘’The world is twisted, Sugar. It’s how it works. We just know how to navigate the curves. You take what you can, and when you can’t take anymore… You pay the price. You thought you were playing a game with the house, and the house always wins, baby. That’s not twisted, it’s not wrong… It’s just math.’’ Ari paused for a moment, his eyes landed on your trembling lips as his words twisted around your throat, something flickered in his expression– not pity, but perhaps the ghost of a memory, something human– before the stone mask slammed back down. ‘’Now, give me the jacket.’’

‘’No, you said firmly.

‘’Sugar–’’

‘’If it's okay for you to take, why can't I?’’

Ari’s eyes narrowed slightly, a genuine amusement finding its way into them as he let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, though his face remained devoid of any real humor.

‘’Because you’re weak,’’ Ari answered. ‘’You thought you were playing the game. You thought you were clever, stealing pennies from a mountain. You thought you could get away with it. We know we can.’’

Your bottom lip trembled as Ari brought up a hand to cup your cheek.

“Now, stop trying to argue. I don’t know what gave you the idea that you’re even in a position to object, because the only position you’re in right now…” Ari trailed off, sliding a hand to the nape of your neck and then suddenly sliding it up to seize a sharp handful of your hair by your crown. “Is to obey.”

He gave a quick tug, forcing you closer to him; the sounds of your cries fell on deaf ears.

‘’You think I get to say ‘no’? ‘Sorry, Pete. Sorry, Lloyd, I don’t feel like doing that shit today, I’d rather go and… Bask in the sunshine, or whatever the fuck normal people do? We’re all stuck, Sugar, just some more than others. Get used to it.” His eyes shifted from yours to the leather that encased your frame. “Jacket. Off. I’m not asking again, and I’m really starting to lose my patience.”

The sounds of the ruffling leather were loud in the grim silence of the room. The clink of the zipper and the shaky breaths mixed together in a symphony of misery. Your fingers shook violently as you pulled the jacket sleeves and slipped it off your shoulders, exposing the pale, wavering skin that Ari had fraudulently worshipped.

It was only when you stood bare, completely exposed, your vulnerability stark against the backdrop of the room's calculated luxury, and held out the jacket in the space between you both that Ari released the harsh grip on your hair and snatched the jacket from your hands.

His gaze scanned your body with a cold, professional detachment; almost as if he was inspecting a new piece of inventory. He made no move to touch you, nor did his eyes show any sign of the hunger that had once pooled there. He wasn’t looking at you for pleasure; he was ensuring the total erasure of your old life. You tried to cover yourself under his intense stare, boredom settling in the deep blues, as if modesty to him wasn’t a virtue or a boundary; it was inefficiency. A delay in the process that the men of the manor had set forth.

Ari reached out, large fingers gripping your wrist and pulling it from your body; firm and capable, his voice dropping to a low rumble.

“You don’t have a right to privacy anymore, Sugar. Everything you are, every inch of this skin, belongs to the house now.”

Ari shoved your arm back at you before turning, jacket clutched in his hand along with the rest of your dignity, and walked towards the doors. He pressed the pad of his thumb against the handle, and with a beep, the lock clicked. You stared after him, unable to move as he opened the door. He paused for a moment, his silhouette blotting out the light from the corridor, and then looked back at you— naked, shivering, and wide-eyed.

The dynamic between you both had shifted completely; no longer potential lovers, but a stripped-down object at the mercy of its master.

“Get in the bed. Stay there. Someone will bring you breakfast in the morning.”

“As long as it’s not you,” You threw at him, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I won’t ever sleep with you again. I hope you know that. I’ll go to each one of them, but never, ever you.”

Ari’s hand freezes on the handle of the door. You can see the slight tension pull tight across his back and pinch at his jaw. The silence that enveloped you afterward was heavy, stretching out until the only sound was your own frantic heartbeat. The air thickened, and for the first time since you’d learned your fate, Ari’s composure cracked. He doesn’t turn, but his hand grips the handle of the door tightly, and a rumble, almost a growl, settles deep in his chest.

“Fine by me,” Ari spat back at you.

Then he stepped over the threshold, and without a second glance, he slammed the door shut, and the lock clicked.

For a moment, you just stood there; chest heaving, hands shaking, quick shuddering breaths before a white-hot fire ran through your veins, which made you lunge at the doors, slamming your fists against the wood.

“Ari! Let me out! You can’t do this! Let me the fuck out.”

You pounded until your hands ached, until your knuckles were raw and droplets of blood mocked your feeble attempt. You screamed until your voice cracked, until your throat felt like you had swallowed glass. You kicked, threw your weight, and pried at the seam, but it didn’t budge. You moved to the window next; the grounds were lit by scattered lampposts, intricate and dim. The round driveway beckoned you, the gates in the distance called your name, and the trees in the small woodland waved you over.

Freedom was right there, so close that you could almost taste it.

You didn’t bother trying the handles; instead, you grabbed the edge of the window frame and pulled, trying to pull it open from the hinges, but the nails didn't budge. You let out a growl as your hands slapped your bare sides before your eyes darted around the room searching for something— anything— to use as a lever. You moved quickly, pulling open drawers, looking under furniture, and finding bolts to keep them secured to the floor.

You grabbed a small wooden chair by the vanity, ignoring the panicked woman in the reflection, and moved to swing it at the window. The impact sent a jolt up your arms, but the glass remained intact; the reinforced glass wobbling as a middle finger to your efforts. You swung again, and again, and again. Until your arms were shaking and the chair legs cut into your hands.

You drop the chair, depleted, and sink to the floor, hiding in the shadows once again. You backed against the wall, the cool brick sending a shiver through you as you pulled your knees to your chest. Your whole body was trembling— rage, fear, exhaustion crashing over you in a series of waves that threatened to pull you under.

But you’re not done. Just resting. You’ll figure it out… You have to figure it out.

You let your forehead rest on your knees, taking a few deep breaths and exhaling slowly. When you bring your head back up to find your next plan, you spot two divots in the light that shines through under the door. You stared for a moment until you saw the shadows shuffle, and you sprang into action, practically flying across the room and slamming your hand against the wood of the double doors.

“Ari?!” You called out, pausing to press your ear against the door. “Ari, is that you?! Please, I’m sorry, please open the door!”

You waited for a response, but got nothing.

“Ari, please, please listen—“ You hesitated, pressing your ear against the door again, and listening closely. The shoes shuffle against the carpet, but not like Ari’s would. Ari’s heavy boots, his feet, crushed the piles under the sheer weight he carried; this was lighter, more careful…

It had to be Steve.

“Steve?” You asked softly, “Is that you? Please let me out. You know this is wrong, please, please, Steve, please.”

You hear him beyond the wood, a deep breath and a long exhale. You wait, and you hope, but nothing comes.

No words.

No movement from the handle.

No click.

No light.

Nothing.

“Steve!” You shout, slamming your hand against the door. “Open the door!”

But he doesn’t. He just stands there for a few more seconds, and then the shadows from his footsteps retreat from the light and leave you alone in the dark.

The morning came slowly.

Light filtered through the tall windows, casting amber and pink along the cream carpet. You hadn’t moved from the space between, back against the wall, arms hugged around your bare legs. Each time you closed your eyes, you saw Pete’s face, heard Curtis’s voice, and felt the vacant stare of Ari. Sleep wasn’t an option, and not something you wanted anyway.

The door’s lock clicking open rang out like someone pulling a pin from a grenade, and when it opened, Jake appeared. He was carrying a tray—eggs, toast, orange juice—and set it down on the dresser with a smile that made your skin crawl. His eyes were downcast on the tray as he ensured he settled it correctly before dusting his hands.

He was dressed in grey sweats and a black shirt that stretched across his frame. He wasn’t as big as the others, sure, but nothing to scoff at. His blond hair was tussled from sleep, and mismatched socks padded towards you.

“Morning,” Jake chirped brightly, like the morning routine was perfectly normal to him. “Thought you might be hungry…” He trailed off, and his face fell slightly as he finally laid eyes on you. “You know there’s clothes in here, right?”

You make no attempt to reply, no muscle twitches to move, your face set in stone, and your eyes boring into his.

“Come on,” He attempted to coax, waving a hand to get you to stand. “Let’s find something for you to wear, and then you need to eat.”

“Get. Out,” You bite out, voice hoarse from the screaming.

Jake’s smile fell slightly, but his tone didn’t “You should really—“

“I said get out.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes didn’t harden the way Ari’s would’ve, he didn’t make a move to pull you off the floor; he simply shrugged and turned to walk back towards the door.

“Suit yourself,” He said calmly and left.

You sat there, eyes glued to the wood grain, and let out a long breath. You made no move to grab the tray. Not out of fear— out of defiance. The only power you had left was to refuse whatever they brought through that door, and you were going to use it until you couldn’t anymore.

The morning dragged on.

Muffled footsteps came and went, voices drifted from the rooms surrounding, you’d hear the occasional slamming of the door, and piece by piece you were gathering together the rhythms of the house— who’s where, when, and how often. Pete was downstairs most of the time, choosing to waste his day in the living room. Curtis and Ari came and went, taking it in turns to call out to each other to hurry up  and Steve… Steve was harder to track, quieter, almost as if he was hiding.

Sleep was pulling at your eyelids, settling heavy in your bones. Your eyes fell on the silk sheets, and you let out a groan as you pushed yourself up from the floor. You walked to the dresser and found neat stacks of soft shirts and shorts, and picked the first set, slipping them on before trudging over to the bed. You pulled back the sheets and climbed in before lying down, facing the door.

You told yourself that you’d just have a rest, ten minutes, but a few hours later, the sun was setting heavy in the sky, and you awoke to the sound of the lock disengaging and the door swinging open. Your eyes slowly peeled open, and you found Jake, once again, standing in the doorway, with that wide, beaming smile and another tray of food in his hands.

“Oh! “Shit,” he cursed apologetically, “Were you sleeping?” I’m so sorry.”

He stepped further into the room, letting the door swing shut, and brought over the tray, pausing at the edge of the bed. His expression was open and friendly, which only made the whole situation feel more surreal and terrifying. He set the tray on the nightstand and looked down at you, and a grin of surprise set on his lips.

“And you’re dressed! Do you feel better? Is the bed comfy?”

Jake didn’t seem to possess the malice of the other men, or he was just more inclined to keep it well hidden. You shuffled yourself up, leaning back against the headboard as you simply stared at him, only giving a quick glance at the cup of steaming coffee on the tray. He grabbed the cup as he sat himself down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He held out the mug and gave you a small smile as you cautiously took it from him.

As you took a sip, he reached out, and you flinched back, earning a tut and a shake of his head as he ignored the action and flicked away a stray hair from your tear-stained cheek, catching the scent of citrus and expensive soap stuck to his skin as he tucked it behind your ear gently.

“You really need to eat, or Pete’s gonna come in here, and neither of us wants that, right?” Jake attempted to appeal as he leaned to pluck up the plate of pastries and place them on your lap. “I made sure they got the almond croissants; they’re stupidly good. I’d eat the whole box if Lloyd let me.”

Jake’s demeanor was an unsettling contrast to the horrors of the previous night. His eyes didn’t possess the predatory hunger of Pete’s, the manic intensity of Curtis’, or the coldness of Ari’s, but as he watched you, his gaze didn’t stop at your face. It drifted down slowly, lingering on the band in your shorts and the way the shirt clung to your frame. The kindness was there, but it was wrapped in the same possessive entitlement as the rest of the family.

“Can you stop staring before I lose my appetite, before I even get the chance to have one in the first place?”

Jake blinked, paused, and then let out a loud, delighted laugh, leaning back slightly with his hands raised.

“There she is!” He grinned. “I was wondering when some of that fire would come back. Welcome home, Sugar!”

Jake didn’t look offended, far from it. The snap of your tone acted like a spark, bringing a glimmer of genuine amusement to his expression. He didn’t rush to calm his gaze or apologize, though; instead, he looked at you with a renewed curiosity, as if you’d just performed a clever trick. It seemed as though, at least to Jake, that the more stubborn aspects of your personality, your defiance, weren’t just a boundary— it was entertainment.

“Sorry, Sugar,” he apologized sweetly, light and playful, as you reached for a pastry and inspected it. “It’s just… You’re really something. Most girls are just shaking and crying by the time they wake up here. You’ve still got a little bite to you. I really like that.”

Your head snapped up.

“Most girls?” You questioned. “As in… You’ve done this before?”

Jake’s smile didn’t waver, not even for a second, as he shrugged with a casual ease.

“Well, yeah?” He laughed. “You don’t pick up a new hobby like this overnight, right? Now, come on, you really need to eat.”

“I will— I just can’t right now.” You dropped the pastry back onto the plate and stared at his smile. “So, I’m not the first to stay here?”

“To stay?” He confirmed your questioning. “Yeah, like to actually stay, and be with us, but the girls who pissed Pete off tend to spend a night or two before whoever picks them up. Curt or Ari would give them a taste of what they’re in for, though—“

“Oh my God,” You groaned as your stomach lurched.

Jake’s admissions were delivered with a lightness that was bone-chilling. He revealed family secrets, their sordid activities, as if he were talking about nothing more than a mundane family tradition, like Sunday dinners or holiday gatherings. There wasn’t an ounce of shame in the voice, no hesitation. It seemed like, at least to him, that the cycle of bringing in women to the manor, stripping them of their lives and using them to pay off fabricated— or real— debts was simply the way the world functioned and you couldn’t help but hear Ari’s words from the night before, providing his notion about how this is how the world is was a shared delusion to all of them.

“Hey, Ari’s only following orders,” Jake attempted to fix. “He hasn’t done that in a long time, " he said. He was supposed to bring you in straight away and didn’t— Do you need me to grab the trash can?”

You shook your head and swallowed the lump in your throat before chasing it with the hot coffee.

“Why didn’t he?” You asked. “Bring me in right away?”

“Guess he liked you,” Jake replied, and you got the sense that Jake’s honesty got him in trouble a lot. “Said you were different. I just thought his head was like, all messed up from the divorce, but nope. Here you are, and he was right.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but Jake got there quicker.

“Hey, what did you say to Ari last night? He’s been in a mood all morning—“

“I want Steve,” You cut in.

“Is that what you said to him?”

“No, Jake,” You sighed as you pitched the bridge of your nose. “I want you to go and get Steve.”

“Oh,” Jake replied, sounding slightly wounded. His face fell slightly, and he nodded slowly as he got to his feet. “Yeah, sure, okay, I’ll… I’ll go do that.”

Without another word, he left. He closed the door firmly behind him, and the lock immediately engaged with a definitive click. The room fell silent again, save for the faint sounds of Jake’s retreating footsteps in the hall. You placed the plate and mug back onto the tray and smoothed down the sheets whilst staring at the door. You sat there for a while, waiting for the lock to click open again, but nothing— no one— came.

You sighed, threw back the covers, and crossed the room quickly. Your hand closed around the cold metal of the door handle. You twisted and pulled, but it still doesn’t budge. The lock held a firm, silent, unyielding reminder of your captivity.

You were well and truly sealed in. No matter how much you tried to be anything else.

You pressed your ear against the cool wood, straining to hear, but there was nothing but the heavy silence of the manor. Not footsteps, no voices, no slamming of the doors. You turned and placed your back against the wood and stared out the window, watching as the afternoon light set in. You stayed there, watching the trees and passing cars in the distance, until the sound of footsteps traveled up the hall.

The footsteps, cautious and familiar, paused just outside your door, and for a moment, you thought they’d disappear again; instead, a soft, hesitant knock followed. The sound was so surreal in a house of men that had shown in the short time you’d spent there that they’d found no need to knock. You edged away from the door, stepping back slightly as the lock clicked and the door cracked open gently.

Steve stepped into the room, eyes widening at the sight of you standing there, before what seemed like guilt settled heavily in the sea-blues of his eyes. He was dressed in simple, dark trousers and a soft grey sweater, his face etched with genuine concern, and he had shaved, which made him look years younger. His posture was slightly slumped as he closed the door and shoved his hands into his pockets, looking less like the usual predators that lurked in the doorway and more like a man who had been sent to clean up a mess he felt guilty about.

“Jake said you asked for me,” Steve said, voice soft and gentle. “I know apologies must mean nothing to you right now, but I am… I am so sorry. I tried to talk them out of it, but when Pete and Lloyd make a decision, they follow. No questions, no push back. I’m so sorry.”

Steve looked around the room, his eyes falling on the full trays.

“Have you eaten?” He asked. You shook your head, and he sighed. “You’ve had a really long night. You should try to eat something.”

He took another steady step forward, his eyes searching yours. He looked genuinely pained by your obvious fear, his brow furrowed with concern. He was a stark contrast to the brutal honesty of Ari, the upbeat chipper of Jake, and the cold calculation of Pete. He stood there, watching, waiting, his shoulders relaxing slightly as you nodded and moved towards the bed, and relief washed over his face as you took a small bite of the pastry.

Steve shifted his weight, his gaze dropping to the floor for a second before he looked back at you.

“You shaved,” You stated, really looking at him as you pulled a piece away from the pastry. “You look better without it.”

He gave a shy smile and a small nod.

“I know you hate all of us right now,” He shared quietly. “And you’ve every right in the world to, but… I want you to know that not everything here has to be a fight.”

“How can it not be?” You challenged.

Steve’s shoulders tense again, the weight of your question seeming to push down on him. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, a gesture that looked tired, almost defeated.

“What am I supposed to do? Just let you all use me?” You fired at him.

“Hey, I have no intention—“

“Would you do that? Would you just accept it? Well, I guess I have the answer to that, considering you're the ones whose finger works on that damn lock. And I'm the one stuck in the room.”

You threw the pastry back onto the plate and sat yourself down on the edge of the bed as Steve flinched, as if you’d struck him. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, unable to hold your gaze. The quiet of the manor felt louder now, pressing down on both of you. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing before he looked at you again. His voice was low and strained as he spoke.

“You think I like being the one who facilitates this? You think I enjoy this?” He gestured vaguely around the room, his hand trembling, eyes shadowed with a conflict you had seen the others possess. “I don’t like this, Sugar. I didn’t want this for you.”

“Then help me leave.”

Steve’s expression tightened, a war playing out behind his eyes. His gaze shifted between you and the locked door, his face a mask of conflicted agony, and you wondered if, and when, the kindness he showed was fragile. He shook his head, took a half step back as if physically recoiling from your plea.

“I... I owe them. Just like you. I can't just.. let you go. It's not my place to do so.” His voice was barely above a whisper, strained and heavy.

He looked down at his hands, his expression hardening further with a resolve that seemed to cost him something. “Look, Sugar,” He sighed heavily. “I know none of this is fair, but if you just… Cooperate, it’ll be easier. I'll make sure your time with me is easy; I’ll take care of you. If you wanna stay in here on Wednesdays and not see me at all, we can do that. I can offer you space, but that’s about it. At least, for right now.”

“I don't wanna be here. I didn't... Not all of that money was mine. You have to believe me,” You plead.

His face softened, giving a small nod, but it’s a sad, weary kind of softness.

“I believe you, Sugar, I do. But it doesn’t matter. If Pete believes it, then that’s the only truth that counts here. The numbers are whatever he says they are. Arguing about it will only make Pete and Lloyd dig their heels in deeper.” He stepped closer to you, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, intense and pleading. “Please, just… let me... let me try to make your time with me as painless as I can. That's the only power I have right now.”

Steve held your gaze for a long moment, and you searched his eyes for a shred of trust to hold on to; a hopeful solace in a house of horrors.

“Just give me some time to figure the rest out, okay?”

He said the last part with a grimace, as if the advice left a sour taste in his mouth. He looked down at his hands and then back at you, his face twisted with a mixture of guilt and a desperate need for you to understand the precariousness of your situation.

“Ari and Jake... they won't force you into anything you don't wanna do. Not really. Curtis and Lloyd... you're best just playing along with them. I know it'll be hard, but it'll keep you safe. And with Pete... he sighs, rubbing his temples, just grit your teeth and bear it. It'll be over quicker. It's easier to do than the others. Just get through it, the best you can.”

He looked at you with a pleading in his eyes, begging you to absorb his words, to understand that it was the only lifeline he could offer. The weight of his own powerlessness seemed to settle on him, making him appear older than his years; the youth that you had found on his face when he first came in seemed to vanish.

“Someone…” You started, hesitating for a moment. “Someone was outside my door last night. After Ari left. Was it you?”

His expression became unreadable for a moment, flickers of emotions scattering across his features until he settled into a weary resignation. The silence stretches, thick with anticipation.

“Last night?” He asked, voice low and cautious, before he shook his head. “No, Sugar, it wasn’t me. Maybe Ari felt bad—“

“It wasn’t Ari.”

“Pete, maybe,” He offered, scuffing a hand through the back of his hair and rubbing at the back of his neck. “He probably did the rounds, made sure the door was locked.”

He said the last words with a clear distaste, his jaw tightening, the muscle jumping under the skin. The admission hung heavy in the air, confirming your fears that your privacy here was simply an illusion, that you were constantly being watched.

“Definitely wasn’t Pete. No one tried the handle. They just stood there.”

“I don’t know then.” His eyes scanned your face, seeming to be choosing his next words carefully, almost weighing them. “Why don’t you—“

“I’ve been through so much shit in not even twenty-four hours. Please don’t lie to me,” You attempted to appeal.

The causal weariness dropped from his posture, replaced by a sudden sharp tension. His eyes darted from the door and then back to you before landing on the floor. You caught a flicker of alarm in his deep blues. He took in a slow breath, as if steadying himself.

The air in the room seemed to grow colder. Steve lifted his head, and his gaze had intensified; the previous softness had hardened into something more guarded. He studied you, as if reassessing you entirely. The fact that you could distinguish the footfalls of the various predators of the manor marked you as more observant, more attuned to your environment than he had perhaps presumed.

“You heard me screaming... And did nothing. And you come in here, being nice and giving me advice, and you do nothing to help me. When you had the opportunity to do so, and then you lied to me after spewing bullshit about wanting this to be painless.”

The accusation hung heavy in the air, sharp and absolute. Steve didn’t flinch, but the color drained from his face. The carefully constructed mask seemed to shatter, leaving behind the raw truth. For the first time, there’s no apology in his eyes; only a bleak, chilling acknowledgment.

His voice was flat, stripped of all pretense.

“You’re right.”

He made no attempt to justify it. He didn’t look away. He stood there, accepting the weight of your words, and the silence that followed was heavier than any that had come before, filled with the unspoken horror of what his inaction meant. He took a slight step backward, rocking slightly on his feet.

“I heard you, and I did nothing,” He admitted sullenly. “Because helping you was the one thing that could’ve gotten you hurt more… Worse, even. They wouldn’t have taken that out on me… It would’ve been you, and I won’t be the reason, I won’t give them a reason, for you to be hurt. I will not do it. You need to trust me, as hard as that will be, and trust that I want to help.”

You ponder for a moment, unable to find any more lies in his eyes. The longer you look at him, the more you wonder how a man like Steve could end up in a family like this, how a seemingly gentle soul wound up in a den of wolves. You relent, giving a small nod, needing to find something— someone— to hold on to in order to keep yourself sane, and Steve seemed to be the safest option next to Jake.

“Alright,” You agreed.

“Is there anything I can do? Get for you?”

You shook your head despite your stomach growling, protesting the lack of food in your system. It must have been loud because Steve’s eyebrow ticked up and he offered a small, knowing smile.

“I’ll grab you something light. I’ll be right back.”

You nodded, looked around the room, eyes falling on a small table by the window, and opted to take a seat, leaning back in your chair as Steve left. The afternoon light was slowly beginning to fade, casting long shadows across the carpet, the breeze outside picking up, causing the trees to sway; birds danced in the sky, and you envied their wings, and you couldn’t help but wonder if Steve envied them too.

It wasn’t long before he returned, a bowl balanced in his palm on top of a cloth, steam rising and releasing a rich, savory scent of soup. He walked over and placed the bowl carefully in front of you, revealing a simple, clear broth with a few pieces of chicken and vegetables. It looks plain, simple— honest.  He reached into his back pocket to present and offer a spoon.

“Hopefully, this will be easier on your stomach. Eat what you can, and then I’ll find you something else later— Well, if you want,” Steve offered, tone light.

He stood back, hands hiding in his pockets again, and watched you with an expression that read as a mix of guilt and a grim sense of family duty.

“Thanks.” You smiled and took the spoon, sipping a little; the soup was surprisingly comforting.

Steve pulled out the chair across from you, the very same one you had attempted to break the window with, and sat down heavily, his gaze drifting out of the window to the manicured grounds below. For a long moment, neither of you spoke; the only sound was the mixture of your breaths and the clink of the spoon against the bowl.

“Jake said Ari was married.”

Steve’s gaze snapped back from the window and fell on you, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. He seemed thrown by the sudden breaking of the silence and the shift in conversation, especially by your chosen subject. He leaned back in his chair, a conflict pulling at his brows as if he was weighing how much he wanted, or could, share.

“Yeah,” He answered, letting out a slow breath. “He was. For a few years. His wife… She left, took the kid with her.” He looked down at his hands, folded on the table. His voice was low and tinged with something that didn’t seem like sympathy, more like a general weariness with the family’s dramas. “It’s part of why he’s… Well, why is he the way he is now? Closed off. He thinks he can’t trust anyone anymore. Thinks caring about someone just gives them a weapon to use against you later. Fails to see the part he played in it all.”

Steve nodded to himself, his eyes stuck on his hands. The admission hung heavy in the air, and you couldn’t quite find the words to reply as he shared a rare moment of candidness about the family’s grip on its members; the fading light cast long shadows across his face, emphasizing the lines of tension there.

“She wanted him out,” he continued to share. “To leave this all behind, but… I guess he was in too deep. I think we probably all are.”

He finally looked up at you, his blue eyes holding yours with a stark, unvarnished honesty, showing he was just a man who acknowledged he was trapped in the same cage you were.

“So, I take it that the club and trafficking girls is only the tip of the iceberg…” You attempted to pry.

Steve’s whole body seemed to tighten as he glanced around the room, as if checking for peering eyes and perked up ears. He rubbed at the back of his neck before his voice dropped quietly.

“The clubs the public face. Almost legitimate. Everything else happens elsewhere.”

“Everything else?” You probed, scooping up another spoonful of soup.

“If you can think of it, we’re in it,” Steve answered ambiguously. “If there’s a way to make a dirty dollar, we’ve got a hand in it. Pete’s Place is just… The prettiest part of the machine. Don’t ask me anything else, and don’t you even think about asking any of them, or you’ll really end up stuck here.”

Steve looked as if he had already shared too much; his shoulders tensed as he tried to lean back as far as the chair would allow, putting distance between you both. The brief moment of shared confidence was over.

“You don’t seem the type,” You said. “To do such things.”

Steve gave a small, wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if inspecting them for stains.

“I’m not,” He said quietly. “Not really. I— I have… I have a knack for finding things. I guess. Information, mostly. People, sometimes… but, my hands tend to stay… relatively clean.”

He let out a breath, his smile fading. His eyes drifted back to the window, the gold light of the fading daylight bled into the blue.

“Were you following me?” You asked bluntly, dropping the spoon into the bowl. “Is that how they knew?”

The question hung heavy in the air, sharp and direct. Steve’s posture seemed stiffened immediately, and for a moment, it didn’t look like he was going to acknowledge your questions, but he eventually met your gaze, the blue holding something complex, kind of like relief; as if he could finally give an honest, full answer. He shook his head, voice firm as he spoke.

“No, I wasn’t following you, Sugar. I’ve been… away for a while. Dealing with my own shit. I had no need to find you; Pete had already done that. He’d had his eyes on you from the start. He let you believe you were getting away with it, he let the debt build and waited for the right moment to call it in.”

He leaned forward slightly, expression earnest, as if willing you to believe this particular truth, which you did. The confession about his absence seemed to carry its own weight, a private burden he wasn’t ready to unpack.

“Do you promise that you’ll never ask me…” You paused, struggling to find the words. “That you’ll never want me like that? Like how they do?”

The question caught Steve off guard. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the weariness in his eyes seemed to deepen. He didn’t answer straight away, perhaps weighing the truth of his own desires against the promise you were desperately asking for— hoping for. His gaze softened, but it was a sad, resigned kind of softness, as you let out a breath of relief.

“Had this been any other situation,” He started, voice sounding sincere and soft. “In a bar, or a coffee shop— Hell, even the club…. I would’ve been trying every single shitty technique in the book to get you to come home with me. But this?” He gestured vaguely to the room around you. “This? I don’t want you like this. I won’t try a single thing. I swear to you.”

You pause for a moment, searching his face, his eyes, everything about him to try and find a shred of dishonesty; there isn’t any, or at least there doesn’t seem to be any. How you got lucky to find a bear in a wolf’s den you’d never know, but how grateful you were to have done so. You knew he couldn’t be there to keep them at bay, but he could be there to undo the damage and offer you rest in a house that was determined to keep you running.

“How do I deal with Curtis? With Lloyd? I know you already said to give in, but how? How do I give in to that? I can handle Pete; I’ve been doing that for months. Jake seems… Fine? I guess, if you can call it that. Ari’s an asshole, but again, easy to deal with. You were so upset about them, I—“

“Hey, hey,” Steve cut in, hand reaching out for yours hesitantly, and despite the pull for comfort, you slid your hand back. “Lloyd won’t force you. Not physically. But, he’ll make you feel like you wish he had. It’s a game to him. He wants to see you break, to give in because you want it all to stop. Just… Don’t cry. It spurs him on.” He ran a hand over his face, the weight of the advice clearly costing him parts of his sanity. “Curt… He’s a blunt instrument. That's the best way I can put it. He doesn’t play games the way Lloyd does. Don’t fight him; it’ll only excite him. The best thing to do is to give in and let him get bored. I’ll be there at his door wanting, and I’ll help you, I’ll care for you. It’s gonna be hard, and it’s gonna suck…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if he couldn’t find the words to finish explaining. “I don’t know what else I can do or say to prepare you.”

You nodded, unable to do anything else as you let the grim advice sink in. The soup sat unfinished between you both, growing cold along with your souls. Steve checked his watch as the sun dipped lower before he reached across the table and moved the bowl away from you. His movements were careful, like he was afraid that any sudden motion could shatter the fragile truce between you.

“Is there… Is there anything I can do for you?” Steve asked. “A bath, maybe? Let you clean up before… everything starts?”

“Ari’s fucking dreaming if he thinks I’m ever sleeping with him again.”

A short laugh escaped Steve, the corner of your own mouth ticking up slightly, a sound that surprised you both. It’s devoid of any real humor, more of a release of tension that you both desperately needed. He shook his head, an almost pitying smile tugging at his lips.

“Well, to relax then.”

He glanced towards the en-suite bathroom door, then back at you; a mixture of genuine concern and the grim understanding of what’s to come. “A hot bath might help? I mean, it’s better than just sitting here… waiting, and then you could try and get some more sleep.”

You nodded, knowing he was right, and drifting in hot water didn’t sound awful.

“A bath sounds good,” You agreed.

Steve nodded and got to his feet, the chair moving softly against the carpet. He crossed the room and disappeared into the bathroom, and soon after, you heard the faucet turn on, and the sound of running water filled the room. He returned a moment later, leaning against the doorframe and drying his hands on a small hand towel. He beckoned you over with a flick of his head and a small smile.

“It’s running, I’ll give you some privacy. I can leave—“

“Can you stay? Just for a bit longer?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ll be right here. Call me if you need anything.”

You got to your feet and made your way across the room. Steve stepped aside to let you pass. You paused for a moment, staring up at him, and a sudden need for comfort clawed at your gut, but you pushed it down.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Steve replied, and stepped further into the bedroom.

You closed the bathroom door behind you with a parting smile. It was spacious, done up in the same gold and cream tones as the bedroom, with marble countertops and a deep, freestanding tub that sent over a luring scent of lavender as the bubbles inside climbed higher. The air grew warm and humid as you began to undress, realizing the smell of Ari and the sticky sickliness of the club still clung to your skin— a sordid mix of cologne, sweat, and smoke. You catch your reflection in the mirror; hair tangled and eyes wide with a mixture of fear, desolation, and the smoldering flame of your waning defiance.

You averted your gaze and stepped into the water, the heat a shocking comfort against your tense muscles. The cuts on your hands stung as they hit the water, acting as a harsh reminder that you were still here, still stuck. The steam rose around you, and for a few precious moments, the water washed away the grime of the club, the touches from Ari, and let you forget your cage. You leaned your head back against the cool porcelain, let your eyes fall closed, and allowed yourself to enjoy these last few moments of peace before the storm closed in.

You stayed submerged until the warmth had seeped deep into your bones, offering a temporary numbness. The water had begun to cool, and you reluctantly pulled yourself out; the air felt cool against your skin, making you shiver.er. You stepped out and reached for a thick, plush power and quickly dried yourself before plucking a robe hanging from the door. It swallowed you, sitting heavy on your shoulders and smelling faintly of clean linen.

As you stepped back into the bedroom, you found the space transformed. The trays of food had gone, the room was tidy, the bed neatly made up; the corner of the covers pulled back slightly to welcome you inside. Steve was perched on the window ledge, one knee drawn up; fingers clapped over his knee as he stared out at the darkening grounds. He turned as you entered, a soft smile touched his lips as he studied you.

“Feeling better?” He sought out. He nodded towards the nightstand, drawing your attention to a tall glass of water that now sat next to a small, wrapped chocolate. It was a small, almost childish gesture of care, starkly out of place. “Figured you might be thirsty.”

You nodded and grabbed the glass before sitting down on the edge of the bed. You drank the water slowly, the cool liquid a sharp contrast to the bath’s warmth. You felt Steve’s eyes on you from across the room. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable; it was the quiet of two people, both trapped in the same terrible situation, who had hoped to find a temporary peace. You heard Steve get to his feet as you placed the glass down, and you turned your head to meet his eyes as he walked around the bed's frame and came before you.ou. He offered out a hand, which you cautiously took, finding it warm and surprisingly gentle. He guided you up and led you a few steps back from the bed, his movement careful, almost reverent. He pulled back the heavy duvet and crisp sheets further.

He doesn’t say a word as he helps you into the bed, pulling up the covers as you slip underneath. He tucked the duvet around your shoulders, his touch lingering for a brief second before he pulled away.

“So?” He asked softly.

You wondered for a moment before realizing you hadn’t answered his previous question.

“Oh, um…” Your nose scrunched up as you offered an apologetic smile. “No, not really. Maybe for a moment.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, voice a soft murmur. “Get some rest. I’ll come check on you before… well, you know.”

He gave you one last, long look— pity, guilt, and something else you couldn’t quite name— before he turned and walked to the door. He paused at the threshold, hand on the handle until it clicked open, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the wood. Without turning back, he opened the door, stepped through, and pulled it shut; the sound was softer this time, almost an apology in and of itself.  

You were left alone in the vast, silent room. The only light came from the moon outside the window and the short glare from under the door. The bed's comfort felt like a mockery. You closed your eyes despite sleep feeling like a distant country; the sounds of your own breathing and the creeping dread of what was to come were your only comfort, and as much as the logical side of you warned you to be careful, a deeper need begged for Steve to return quickly.

When your eyes next opened, the room was enveloped in darkness, and you found yourself lost in the time you fell asleep; however, where there should be silence, the sound of crisp burning filled your ears. You sat up, eyes darting to the corner of the room where you found Ari standing by the open window, smoke drifting around him.

“Get out,” You bit out.

Ari huffed out a laugh, almost coughing as he exhaled the smoke from his lungs.

“S’after midnight, Sugar,” Ari informed you smugly.

“I don’t care. I told you last night. I’m not giving you anything—“

“Yeah, that’s not gonna work,” He continued, as if you didn’t speak. “Fighting, screaming, attempting to starve yourself. All you’re doing is making it worse.”

"Then let me go."

"You know I can't do that."

"You mean you won't."

Ari’s jaw tightened as he took one last drag of his cigarette and threw the stub out of the window before pulling a small key from his pocket and shutting the window and locking it shut.

"You owe Pete. You broke the rules. This is the consequence,” He tried to embed, and you wondered if he was trying to convince you or himself.

"This is kidnapping," you spat. "This is—"

"This is survival," Ari interrupted,his voice hard. "Yours and mine. You think I want to be here? You think I want to do this?" He stepped closer to the bed, and you pressed yourself back against the headboard. "But I don't have a choice. And neither do you."

"There's always a choice."

"Not for you. Not anymore." He crouched down beside the bed so he was at eye level with you. His expression was cold. "You can keep fighting. Keep refusing. Keep making this difficult. And every time you do, Lloyd will add time to your debt. Every time you scream, every time you refuse to eat, every time you make Curtis or Pete or any of us work harder to keep you in line—you stay longer."

Your chest tightened.

"Or," Ari continued, rising up slowly to his feet, "you can accept it. Play along. Do what you're told. And maybe—maybe—you get out of here in a few months instead of a few years."

"I'm not going to—"

"Yes, you are." His voice is flat, harsh, and final. "Because the alternative is worse. Trust me. Today, you're mine— Whether you like it or not. And if you keep fighting me?" He leaned down towards the bed, fists pushing into the mattress as he glared over at you, something dark in his eyes. "You'll regret it."

And for the first time, the full weight of your situation crashed down on you like it hadn’t before. It sat deep in your chest and snaked around your throat. You weren't getting out; not by fighting, not by screaming, not by pleading. They had thought of everything. Every possible play you thought you had was already meticulously mapped out.

You found Ari was right about one thing:

Then her face lit up so fast it almost startled you – like someone had turned on a lamp in a room you’d been living in half-dark.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, sweetheart.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity of her joy.

She stepped forward and pulled you into a hug before you could brace for it. Her arms wrapped around you firmly, warm and sure, and you went stiff for half a second on reflex… then slowly let yourself melt into it.

“Baby,” she murmured into your hair, voice thick. “I’m so happy.”

You pulled back slightly, confused and a little embarrassed. “You… you are?”

Your mother gave you a look like the answer had been obvious for years.

“As if I haven’t watched the two of you circle each other like planets since you were children,” she said, eyes shining. “As if I haven’t been waiting for the day you’d let yourself want something.”

Your throat tightened.

Your mother smiled, softer now, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“And Steve,” she added, almost fondly. “Steve is a good boy. He’s always been a good boy. He’ll be gentle with you.”

You didn’t know what to do with that sentence.

It was too intimate. Too real.

You looked down, fingers twisting together. “It’s just… a date.”

Your mother laughed under her breath. “Yes. And it’s your date.”

Upstairs, Wanda was waiting like she’d been assigned the task by fate itself.

She had your makeup bag open on your bed and your dress laid out like an offering.

When you stepped into your room, she looked up and immediately grinned.

“You told her,” Wanda said.

You hesitated. “How do you know?”

Wanda’s eyes flicked down the hall toward the stairs. “Your mother just made a sound that can only be described as vindicated.”

You groaned, dropping onto the edge of your bed. “Oh my God.”

Wanda shrugged. “Let her be happy. She loves you. She’s allowed.”

You stared at the dress.

Your stomach flipped.

Wanda followed your gaze, then nudged your knee lightly.

“You’re nervous,” she said, like she was naming the weather.

You nodded once, too honest to lie.

Wanda’s expression softened. She reached out and squeezed your hand.

“Okay,” she said. “Then we make you feel like yourself. Not like someone trying to be a girl you think Steve wants. Just… you. But with intention.”

You swallowed.

Wanda stood and started moving around your room with the brisk competence of someone who couldn’t stand chaos.

“Go shower,” she ordered. “Warm water. It’ll help your shoulders unclench.”

You made a face. “My shoulders aren’t clenched.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow.

You sighed. “Fine.”

By the time you came back, hair damp and skin smelling like soap, Wanda had set everything up like a ritual. Dress. Shoes. Simple jewelry. Makeup laid out in the exact order she wanted to use it.

She didn’t talk too much while she worked.

She never did, when it mattered.

She dusted powder lightly over your cheeks, drew a clean line of eyeliner that made your eyes look sharper without making you look like someone else. Mascara. Gloss.

Then she stepped back and studied you.

“You’re going to do great,” she said simply.

You looked at yourself in the mirror.

You didn’t look like a different person.

You looked like you – just… like you were finally allowing yourself to be seen.

You swallowed hard.

Wanda caught your gaze in the mirror. “Don’t overthink it,” she said. “Steve is Steve. He’s not going to mock you. He’s not going to push you. He’s going to be… earnest and awkward and sweet, and you’re going to pretend it doesn’t make you want to cry.”

You let out a small laugh, shaky.

Wanda grinned. “Exactly.”

Steve knocked on your front door at six.

Not rang. Knocked.

Like he didn’t want to startle anyone. Like he didn’t want to demand entry.

Your mother opened the door before you could even reach it.

You heard her voice – bright, too bright.

“Steve!”

You paused at the top of the stairs, heart hammering against your ribs.

When you stepped into view, Steve turned.

And he stopped breathing for a second.

You saw it happen in real time – his eyes flicking over you, the dress, your hair, your face. His mouth parted slightly, then closed again like he’d forgotten how language worked.

You felt heat rise up your neck.

Your mother, entirely unhelpful, made a small, delighted sound.

Wanda elbowed her from behind with a warning look.

Steve cleared his throat, cheeks pink.

“Hi,” he said, voice soft.

“Hi,” you answered.

He swallowed, then smiled – gentle, almost reverent.

“You look… really pretty,” he said, and the sincerity in his tone made the words land like something warm in your chest.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your dress. “Thanks.”

Steve glanced at your mother, then back at you, awkward in the cutest way.

“Is it okay if I–” He stopped. “I mean. We’re just going to a café and then the movie. I’ll bring her back right after.”

Your mother beamed like she was watching her favorite scene in a romance film.

“Of course,” she said immediately. “Have fun.”

Wanda leaned in close to you, murmuring, “If he doesn’t kiss you tonight, I’m going to haunt him.”

You hissed, “Wanda.”

Steve pretended not to hear, which meant he absolutely heard.

His blush deepened.

The café was small, warm, and filled with the smell of coffee and cinnamon.

Steve held the door for you, waited for you to step inside first, then followed like he wasn’t sure he deserved to share air with you.

You chose a table by the window.

Steve sat across from you and folded his hands carefully on the table, posture too upright. Like he was trying not to take up too much space.

You ordered hot chocolate because your stomach was too tight for coffee.

Steve ordered coffee anyway, then looked mildly betrayed when you teased him about it.

For the first ten minutes, you talked about safe things.

School. The movie. A teacher you both disliked. Wanda’s dramatic opinions. Pietro’s latest ridiculous story.

And then, slowly, something eased.

Steve relaxed enough to lean forward slightly. His eyes softened. His laugh got quieter, realer.

He kept looking at you like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

At one point, you caught him staring.

You lifted an eyebrow.

Steve blinked, startled, then smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”

You shook your head. “Don’t be.”

His gaze held yours for a second longer.

Then he looked down at his hands like he’d suddenly become shy.

When you left the café, the evening air was cool, the sky dusky and pale.

You walked side by side, not quite touching.

Your hand swung at your side, empty.

You told yourself you didn’t care.

You told yourself you didn’t want him to.

Then Steve’s fingers brushed yours – accidental, maybe.

Except his hand didn’t pull away.

He hesitated, breath shallow, like he was asking a question without using words.

You didn’t move.

You let him decide.

And then, slowly, Steve slid his fingers into yours and held on.

Your whole body went still for a second.

Not because you didn’t want it.

Because you did, so much it almost hurt.

Steve’s thumb brushed the side of your hand gently, like he was testing reality.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

You just walked to the movie theater with your hands linked, and for once, the world didn’t feel like it was pressing in.

At the ticket counter, Steve paid without letting you argue.

“You can get the snacks,” he offered quickly, like he didn’t want you to feel indebted.

You blinked at him, then nodded. “Okay.”

So he bought the tickets.

And you bought the popcorn.

It felt fair.

It felt like a little promise: we’re doing this together.

Inside the theater, the lights dimmed and the screen flickered to life.

You sat close, shoulders nearly touching.

Steve’s knee brushed yours once, and he went rigid like he’d made a mistake.

You almost laughed, but you didn’t want to embarrass him.

Halfway through the movie, Steve’s hand found yours again.

He didn’t hold it the entire time.

He took it for a while, then let go when he thought you might want space – then reached again when the scene changed, like he couldn’t help himself.

Each time he held your hand, he did it gently, like you might vanish if he squeezed too hard.

You didn’t mind.

You liked it.

More than you wanted to admit.

When the movie ended, you walked back through the cool night air, popcorn salt still on your fingers, your heart feeling strangely full.

Steve kept glancing at you as if he wanted to say something and couldn’t find the right words.

When you reached your front steps, he stopped.

The porch light cast a soft glow over his face.

He looked nervous again – worse than before.

You waited.

Steve swallowed, eyes flicking down to your mouth then back up, as if he was afraid you’d notice.

You did notice.

And instead of pulling away, you stayed still.

Steve stepped closer slowly, giving you time to stop him.

He lifted one hand, hesitated, then brushed his fingers lightly against your cheek – barely a touch.

Your breath caught.

Steve leaned in and kissed you.

It was soft.

Careful.

A question more than a claim.

His lips were warm, his breath shaky, and the gentleness of it made something inside you loosen in a way you hadn’t known was possible.

When he pulled back, he didn’t move far.

Just enough to look at you, eyes searching.

“Is that okay?” he whispered, earnest to the point it almost broke your heart.

You nodded, throat too tight for words.

Steve’s smile was small and dazzled all at once.

“Okay,” he breathed, like he’d just been handed something precious.

He didn’t try for more.

He just lingered for a second longer, forehead nearly touching yours, as if he wanted to memorize the moment.

Then he stepped back, hands dropping to his sides reluctantly.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly.

“Goodnight,” you whispered.

You watched him walk away down the sidewalk, shoulders still slightly tense like he couldn’t believe he’d done it.

When you went inside, your mother was waiting in the living room like she’d been pacing. She looked up so fast it made heat rush back into your cheeks.

Your mother opened her mouth.

You pointed at her immediately. “Don’t.”

She pressed a hand to her chest, still glowing. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

You gave her a look.

She sighed dramatically. “Fine. I was going to say everything.”

You shook your head, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your mouth.

You went upstairs, closed your bedroom door, and leaned back against it. Your fingers lifted to your lips, still warm from the kiss.

For the first time in a long time, the thought of tomorrow didn’t feel like something you had to survive. It felt like something you might actually want.

The next morning felt unreal in the quietest way.

Not like fireworks, not like some dramatic shift in the sky – just a different weight in your chest as you got ready. Like the world had tilted a fraction and you were still learning how to stand on the new angle.

Wanda wasn’t there to bang on your door and yell about being late. She had a medical appointment, her mom driving her across town before school even started. Pietro had an internship shift – something he’d been annoyingly proud of, because it meant he was already “building a résumé” while the rest of you were still arguing about algebra. And Bucky had left early, jacket on and keys in hand, muttering something about the coach wanting to see him before first period.

So it was just you.

And Steve.

You came downstairs to find him waiting by the door, hands in his hoodie pocket, backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked freshly showered, hair still slightly damp, like he’d tried harder than usual.

When he saw you, his expression softened instantly.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” you answered, trying to sound normal.

It wasn’t normal.

Not anymore.

Your mother was in the kitchen, pretending very hard not to watch the two of you like you were a live TV show. She did a terrible job of pretending.

“You kids have fun,” she said, voice too cheerful, eyes too bright.

Steve’s cheeks went pink. “Yes, ma’am.”

You shot your mother a look that said please stop.

She pressed a hand to her heart, like she couldn’t help it. “I’m just happy.”

Wanda would’ve made a comment.

Pietro would’ve made three.

But it was just your mother, smiling like she’d been waiting for this moment since you were ten.

Steve held the door for you, and the two of you stepped outside into the crisp morning air.

The street was still half-asleep – trash cans at the curb, a dog barking in the distance, the sun barely high enough to make the windows shine. Your breath fogged faintly when you exhaled.

Steve walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed.

Almost.

Your hands swung at your sides, and for the first few minutes you didn’t touch.

It wasn’t awkward exactly. Just… careful.

Like both of you were aware that one small movement could change the entire day.

You stole glances at him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

He did the same.

And when your eyes caught each other, you both looked away too quickly.

It should have made you laugh.

Instead it made your stomach flutter, soft and nervous.

You walked a block in silence, then Steve cleared his throat.

“So,” he said.

“So,” you echoed, because you didn’t know what else to do.

Steve huffed a quiet breath, a small smile pulling at his mouth like he was trying to be brave.

“I, uh… I meant what I said yesterday,” he began.

Your heart gave a sharp, startled beat. “What you said…?”

Steve’s gaze flicked to you, then back to the sidewalk. “That I wanted to.”

You swallowed.

Oh.

He stopped walking.

Not abruptly, not in a way that made you bump into him – just enough that you paused too, turning toward him.

The school was only a couple blocks away. You could already see the edges of the building between the trees, the early students milling around outside. The sound of buses and voices drifted faintly through the air.

Steve looked at you like he was choosing each word with care.

“I just… I don’t want this to be weird,” he said quietly. “Or unclear. Or something we pretend didn’t happen.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t either.”

Steve nodded, almost to himself, like your answer gave him permission.

Then he took a breath and said, “Officially…”

You blinked.

Steve’s ears went pink, but he kept going anyway, voice earnest and slightly shaky in a way that made something in your chest go soft.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

For a second, the question hung there between you like a fragile thing – simple, teenage, almost cliché.

And yet it felt enormous.

Because it wasn’t really about labels.

It was about choosing.

It was about stepping into something publicly, letting the world see you wanted it.

It was about giving yourself permission to want him and not apologize for it.

Your lips parted, and you felt the old instinct rise – fear, doubt, the reflex to make things smaller so they were safer.

But Steve was standing in front of you, eyes open, offering you steadiness instead of pressure.

So you nodded.

“Yes,” you said, voice quiet but certain. “Yeah. I want that.”

Steve’s entire face changed.

Relief, first – like he’d been holding his breath since last night.

Then something brighter: joy that looked almost disbelieving.

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, then reached for your hand.

This time there was no hesitation.

His fingers laced with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He squeezed once, gently, like he was grounding himself.

“Okay,” he murmured, smiling down at your joined hands. “Okay.”

You squeezed back.

And then you started walking again.

Toward school.

Toward everyone.

Toward being seen.

The moment you stepped onto the school grounds, you felt it.

Not a spotlight exactly – more like a shift in the air.

You and Steve walked through the entrance with your hands linked, shoulders close enough that it was obvious you were together.

And people noticed.

Of course they did.

Steve Rogers didn’t hold hands with anyone casually.

Steve Rogers didn’t walk into school looking like he’d swallowed sunlight.

Heads turned.

Whispers started.

You heard your name once, faint, like it was being tested in someone’s mouth.

You didn’t look down.

You didn’t let your grip loosen.

You kept your chin up and walked beside him.

Some girls stared openly – quick, assessing glances. Some boys smirked like they’d just won a bet. Someone near the lockers muttered, “No way,” like they couldn’t believe it.

Steve’s hand tightened around yours slightly, protective and steady.

You reached your locker row and slowed.

That was when you saw him.

Bucky.

He was there like he’d been waiting. Leaning against the lockers with that familiar posture – too casual to be casual, the kind of stance that always meant he was watching everything. His backpack hung from one shoulder. His hair was still damp from the morning, like he’d showered and left without really drying it. There was a faint bruise-yellow tint on his cheekbone that you only noticed because you noticed everything about him.

His eyes locked onto you immediately.

Then dropped. 

To your hand in Steve’s.

The change in his face wasn’t dramatic.

Bucky didn’t do dramatic when he could help it.

But you saw it anyway.

The stillness.

The tightening of his jaw.

The way something in him went sharp, like a blade being drawn slowly from its sheath.

Steve’s pace didn’t falter.

He didn’t let go.

He guided you closer, calm and steady, like he wasn’t afraid of Bucky’s mood.

Like he was choosing you on purpose.

Bucky pushed off the lockers, straightening.

His gaze lifted to your face – searching, almost accusing, like he was trying to read whether you were okay, whether you were being manipulated, whether you were making a mistake.

You met his eyes for a second.

Just a second.

Because the look in them made your stomach twist with something you couldn’t name.

Then Steve stopped beside your locker, close enough that Bucky had to come to you if he wanted to intervene.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to Steve.

Then back to you.

His voice was low when he spoke, careful in a way that felt like a warning.

“What’s this?” he asked, and his eyes cut meaningfully to your joined hands.

You felt Steve’s thumb brush gently over your knuckles – silent support.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay even.

“I’m dating Steve,” you said.

There was a fraction of a pause – so small most people wouldn’t notice it.

Bucky noticed. Steve noticed. You noticed.

Bucky’s nostrils flared.

His gaze sharpened.

“Since when?” he asked, and the question sounded too much like who said you could.

Steve answered before you could.

“Since now,” he said quietly, tone polite but firm.

Bucky’s eyes snapped to him.

Steve didn’t flinch.

For a moment, the hallway noise around you blurred – lockers slamming, laughter, distant announcements – everything fading into the tight space between the three of you.

Bucky stared at Steve like he was trying to decide which emotion to pick first.

Anger?

Betrayal?

Protectiveness?

Something else, uglier and deeper?

Then his eyes came back to you, and his voice dropped another degree.

“Did you tell Mom?” he asked.

You nodded once. “Yes.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, like he was grinding something down. His gaze flicked over your face again, checking – always checking.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and there was genuine fear under the sharpness, like he was terrified you didn’t understand what this would do to you.

You could have lied.

You could have softened it.

You could have said, I don’t know, just to keep him calm.

But you didn’t.

You lifted your chin slightly and said, “I’m sure.”

Bucky went still.

Steve’s hand tightened around yours again.

And for the first time, you saw it clearly. This wasn’t just Bucky being overprotective. This was Bucky realizing – too late – that the world could have you.

That someone else could hold your hand in public.

That you could choose someone who wasn’t him.

And Bucky Barnes had never been good at losing control of anything he cared about.

Practice that afternoon was supposed to burn the tension out of him.

That was what Bucky always did – ran until his lungs hurt, lifted until his arms trembled, hit until the anger turned into something manageable.

It didn’t work.

Not when the image of you walking through the hallway with Steve’s hand in yours kept replaying behind his eyes like a loop he couldn’t shut off.

Not when every time he blinked, he saw the way Steve had stood beside your locker like he belonged there.

Like you belonged to him.

Bucky played harder than usual. Too hard.

The first drill, he tackled like he was trying to make the ground swallow someone. He caught a warning from the coach – sharp, public – then forced himself to dial it back just enough not to get benched.

Steve, beside him, was quiet.

He wasn’t smug. He wasn’t triumphant. He didn’t act like he’d “won.”

If anything, he looked tense, jaw set, shoulders stiff in that way that meant he was bracing for something.

Bucky hated that too.

Hated that Steve had the audacity to look guilty after doing exactly what Bucky felt he’d done: taken something that wasn’t his.

By the time practice ended, sweat soaked through their shirts and the sun was already dropping low behind the bleachers.

The other guys were laughing, shoving each other, talking about the game that weekend. The normal noise of teenage boys who thought their world was mostly simple.

Bucky couldn’t hear any of it.

He watched Steve grab his water bottle, watched him take a long drink, watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his wrist.

Then Bucky said, low and sharp, “Come here.”

Steve paused.

He didn’t argue. He just set his bottle down and followed Bucky toward the far side of the field, where the equipment shed cast a long shadow and no one else could easily overhear.

Bucky stopped near the chain-link fence. His hands flexed at his sides, still vibrating with leftover adrenaline.

Steve waited, too calm.

That calm made something in Bucky’s chest tighten.

“What’s up?” Steve asked finally, voice neutral.

Bucky stared at him for a second, then let out a harsh breath.

“You serious right now?” he said.

Steve’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “About what?”

Bucky laughed – short, bitter. “Don’t play dumb.”

Steve’s jaw flexed. “Bucky–”

“No,” Bucky cut in, stepping closer. “No. You don’t get to ‘Bucky’ me like I’m the problem here.”

Steve’s shoulders went stiffer, like he was holding himself back.

Bucky’s voice dropped. “I asked you to help me protect her.”

Steve blinked once. “I remember.”

“I asked you to keep guys away from her,” Bucky continued, the words coming faster now, like if he slowed down he might choke on them. “To make sure no one tried to–  to take advantage of her, to push her, to make her uncomfortable–”

Steve’s brows knit together. “I did.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “This–” he jerked his chin, rage flashing hot and bright, “–this is what you call helping?”

Steve’s mouth opened, then closed again. He inhaled slowly.

“You think dating her is taking advantage of her?” he asked, voice low.

Bucky flinched like the phrasing hit something too close to the truth of his fear.

“That’s not what I said,” he snapped immediately.

Steve watched him. “Then what are you saying?”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.

He looked away for half a second, staring at the grass, at the scuff marks in the dirt where cleats had torn the ground up.

Then he looked back at Steve.

And the word came out like poison.

“Betrayal.”

Steve went very still.

Bucky pushed forward, because if he stopped now he’d have to admit what this was really about – and he couldn’t.

“You knew,” Bucky said, voice shaking with anger he didn’t know how to control. “You knew it would mess things up. You knew it would–” He swallowed hard. “She’s my sister.”

Steve’s eyes flashed. “She’s not your property.”

Bucky’s face hardened. “Don’t.”

Steve took one step closer, refusing to back down. “It’s not ‘don’t.’ It’s true. You don’t get to decide who she dates.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“That’s not the point,” he hissed.

Steve’s voice sharpened. “Then what’s the point?”

Bucky’s throat burned.

He forced the words out anyway, because this was the only argument he could cling to without falling apart.

“It’s not done,” he said. “You don’t date your best friend’s sister.”

Steve’s gaze didn’t waver. “You don’t get to decide what’s ‘done’ when she asked me, Buck.”

Bucky froze.

“What?” he said, and the single syllable was raw.

Steve’s expression didn’t soften, but it shifted – honest, firm, like he wasn’t going to let Bucky paint him as the villain to make this easier.

“She asked,” Steve repeated. “I didn’t corner her. I didn’t pressure her. She came to me.”

The knowledge hit Bucky like a punch to the ribs.

Because it meant you had chosen.

You had wanted this.

You had reached.

And Bucky hadn’t been able to stop it.

His breathing turned shallow.

“You should’ve said no,” Bucky said, voice quieter now, almost desperate. “You should’ve–”

Steve shook his head. “Why?”

Bucky’s mouth opened.

No answer came out.

Because the real answer was ugly.

Because the real answer wasn’t about rules or morality or “what people do”.

The real answer was because she was supposed to stay close to me.

Because if you chose Steve, it proved you didn’t need Bucky the way Bucky needed you.

Steve watched the war on Bucky’s face and exhaled slowly, trying – still trying – to keep it from becoming a fight.

“She’s happy,” Steve said softly. “I can’t believe I’m having to say this to you. She’s… she’s smiling again.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered.

That made his anger stutter.

Then his chest tightened again, because even if you were smiling, it wasn’t because of him.

He shook his head once, sharp.

“You were supposed to be the second line,” Bucky said, voice thick. “I put you there so you’d stay–” He stopped himself, swallowed, then forced the rest out. “So you’d stay in your lane.”

Steve stared at him, stunned.

“What the hell does that mean?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky’s face flushed with sudden humiliation, like he’d accidentally admitted something he’d been trying to hide even from himself.

He jerked his gaze away.

“Forget it,” he muttered.

Steve’s voice went colder. “No. I’m not forgetting it.”

Bucky’s shoulders rose and fell, fast.

He didn’t want to do this here. Not with the fence between them and the rest of the team, not with the sun dropping and the air turning cool. Not with his emotions too close to the surface.

But it was out now.

So he said it.

“You’re like her brother,” Bucky snapped. “You’ve been in our house since we were kids. You practically lived there. You–” He gestured harshly between Steve and him. “You were supposed to be safe.”

Steve’s eyes widened slightly at the word.

Safe.

As if Bucky had just accused him of committing some kind of sin.

Steve swallowed. “I am safe.”

Bucky’s laugh was ugly. “Then act like it.”

Steve’s face hardened.

“I am acting like it,” he said, voice low. “I’m respecting her. I’m listening to her. I’m not pushing her. I’m not using her. I’m doing exactly what she deserves.”

Bucky’s throat burned.

Because Steve was right.

And Bucky hated him for it.

He stepped back, as if more distance would keep him from doing something reckless.

“This is messed up,” Bucky said, voice tight.

Steve’s jaw clenched. “She’s not messed up for wanting to date someone who treats her well.”

Bucky flinched again, like the implication landed and you don’t.

He couldn’t stand that.

He turned sharply, shoulders stiff.

“Don’t talk to me,” he said, and the words were blunt enough to end anything.

Steve didn’t follow.

He didn’t call after him.

He just watched Bucky walk away like he already knew there was no point.

Bucky kept his promise.

He didn’t talk to Steve.

Not really.

Not the next day. Not the next week. Not the week after that.

He spoke when he had to – on the field, during drills, short calls and acknowledgements that were purely functional.

But outside of that, he acted like Steve didn’t exist.

Like the person he’d known half his life had become a stranger overnight.

And you… 

You ignored Bucky too.

Not out of malice.

Out of self-preservation.

Because the same day Steve asked you officially – Will you be my girlfriend? – the same day you walked into school with your hand in his… 

Bucky had waited until you were alone to punish you for it.

It happened that evening, after dinner, when your mother was in the kitchen and his father had stepped outside to take a call.

Bucky cornered you in the hallway like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Not physically. Not with hands.

With his presence.

With the way he filled the space and made you feel small again.

His eyes were bright, jaw tight, and there was something almost frantic under the anger.

“You think this is normal?” he asked, voice low.

You froze, shoulders pulling inward instinctively.

“Bucky–” you started.

He cut you off immediately.

“Steve is basically your second brother,” he snapped. “He’s been in this house since we were kids. He’s always been–” His voice shook. “He’s always been in it.”

You stared at him, heartbeat loud in your ears.

Your throat tightened. “He’s not my brother.”

Bucky scoffed, harsh. “Yeah? Then what is he? You think this is okay?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed like your certainty offended him.

“You know what it feels like?” he said, voice rising despite his attempt to keep it down. “It feels like you’re doing it because you can’t have something else.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What does that even mean?” you whispered.

Bucky’s laugh was sharp and cruel and you saw, dimly, that he was reaching for whatever would hurt because he didn’t know what else to do with his panic.

“It means,” he said, leaning closer, voice low and vicious, “that it’s like you’re dating me by proxy.”

Your breath caught.

Bucky wasn’t done.

He wanted it to land.

He wanted you to flinch.

“It’s not normal,” he hissed. “It’s messed up. It’s–” He shook his head like he couldn’t believe you. “It’s as messed up as if you were dating me.”

The hallway went silent.

The words hung there like smoke.

You went very still.

Not because you agreed.

Because something in you recognized the shape of that accusation.

Recognized the shame he was trying to paint onto you.

Like wanting someone safe was something dirty.

Like choosing Steve was proof you were broken.

Your voice came out small when you finally spoke. “Don’t.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say that,” you whispered. “Don’t make it sound like I’m doing something wrong.”

Bucky looked like he was going to say more.

Something worse.

Then Georges’ voice drifted in from outside – calling Bucky’s name, casual, asking if he wanted to see something on the phone.

The interruption snapped the moment in half.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell fast.

His eyes held yours for a second longer – sharp, warning, hurt.

Then he turned away like you weren’t even there.

Like he hadn’t just hit the exact nerve he’d sworn he would protect you from.

You stood in the hallway for a long moment after he left, hands trembling slightly at your sides.

You didn’t cry.

Not then.

You just breathed through the ache and told yourself you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

And the next morning, when he didn’t look at you at breakfast, you didn’t look at him either.

For almost a month, the house became a map of silent routes.

You and Bucky timed your movements to avoid each other in hallways. You kept your door closed. You stayed longer in the bathroom if you heard him outside. He left rooms when you entered them.

Steve noticed, of course.

He asked once, quietly, if Bucky had said something to you.

You said, “It doesn’t matter.”

Steve didn’t believe you.

But he didn’t push, because he could see the way your shoulders tensed when Bucky’s name was even mentioned.

So you moved through those weeks with Steve’s hand steady in yours – your boyfriend, now, officially, publicly - and Bucky’s absence like a bruise in the shape of someone you had loved your whole life.

Except you didn’t have words for that kind of love yet.

Not at fifteen.

Not when the only safe label you were allowed to use was sister.

So you stayed silent.

You stayed stubborn.

And you let the distance grow, even though every part of you hated it.

Because for once, you weren’t going to come back first.

Practice ended with the kind of exhausted, baked-into-the-bones heat that usually made everything feel simpler.

It didn’t.

Bucky peeled his pads off like he was stripping armor, fingers jerky with leftover adrenaline. Sweat cooled on his skin in uncomfortable patches. Someone on the team shouted something about burgers. Someone else laughed. The sound carried across the field, light and stupid, and it made Bucky’s teeth grind.

Steve moved through the noise like he didn’t belong in it.

Not because he was better than them.

Because he was… elsewhere.

Careful.

Quiet.

Like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bucky hated that.

Hated that Steve didn’t look victorious. Hated that he didn’t look smug. Hated that the one person Bucky wanted to punch in the face was acting like he didn’t want a fight either.

Steve slung his duffel over his shoulder and turned toward the locker room. Bucky watched him go, watched the line of his back, the way his shoulders stayed stiff – and something in Bucky’s chest tightened hard enough to feel like pain.

He could have kept the silence going. Could have doubled down. Could have punished Steve for existing.

But he was tired.

Tired of the house feeling like a minefield.

Tired of you flinching around corners.

Tired of waking up every morning and remembering you weren’t going to look at him.

So before Steve could disappear into the building, Bucky called out, sharp enough that it turned heads.

“Rogers.”

Steve stopped.

He didn’t sigh. He didn’t roll his eyes. He just… turned.

That calm almost made Bucky change his mind.

Almost.

Bucky jerked his chin toward the side of the field, the narrow strip behind the bleachers where the chain-link fence met the storage shed. Steve hesitated only a second before following, like he already knew this was inevitable. Like he’d been bracing for it since the day he held your hand in that hallway.

They walked in silence. The grass gave way to packed dirt. The air smelled like rubber, sweat, and late-summer sun.

Bucky stopped where the bleachers threw shade over their faces. He leaned back against the fence and crossed his arms, not because he was comfortable, but because he didn’t know what else to do with himself.

Steve stood a few feet away, duffel still on his shoulder, expression unreadable.

“You done ignoring me?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“Don’t,” he snapped automatically.

Steve’s eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed level. “Then what is this?”

Bucky stared at him for a long moment, trying to summon the anger that had carried him through the last month.

It didn’t come the same way now.

What came instead was embarrassment. Shame. That itchy, sick feeling of realizing you’d made yourself look… pathetic.

Bucky’s throat worked.

“I shouldn’t’ve… said what I said,” he forced out, the words tasting like sand.

Steve’s expression shifted. Not softened – sharpened.

“That’s it?” Steve asked.

Bucky’s nostrils flared. “What do you want me to do, Steve? Write you a poem?”

Steve’s gaze didn’t move.

“I want you to stop acting like she’s a trophy you lost,” Steve said, low and controlled. “I want you to stop punishing her for not staying where you put her.”

Bucky flinched. Like Steve had landed a hit without raising his hands.

“That’s not what I–”

“It is,” Steve cut in, and there was no cruelty in it. Just certainty. “You don’t have to call it that, but that’s what it is.”

Bucky’s hands flexed around his biceps, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. He stared down at the dirt, at the scuffed cleat marks, at a crushed bottle cap half-buried near the fence.

He swallowed.

“I didn’t mean to make it… weird,” he muttered.

Steve’s brows lifted, just slightly. “Weird?”

Bucky shot him a look. “You know what I mean.”

Steve didn’t push. He just waited, patient in the way that always made Bucky feel like a liar when he tried to lie.

Bucky exhaled hard.

“I got mad,” he admitted. “And I… I said shit I shouldn’t’ve said.”

“You accused me of taking advantage of her,” Steve said, voice flat.

Bucky’s face flushed hot.

“I didn’t–”

“You did,” Steve interrupted again, still calm, still firm. “You might not have used those words, but you implied it.”

Bucky’s throat tightened.

He hated that Steve was right.

He hated that the implication had been there – not because Bucky believed it, but because in the moment it had been the only weapon he could reach for that didn’t expose the ugly truth underneath.

So he forced himself to look Steve in the eye and say the thing that mattered.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, rougher this time. “I shouldn’t’ve put that on you. You’re not… you’re not like that.”

Steve held his gaze.

For a long beat, he said nothing.

Then he nodded once – not forgiveness, exactly. More like acknowledgment that Bucky had finally walked up to the line of accountability and stopped pretending it wasn’t there.

“Okay,” Steve said.

Bucky blinked, almost thrown by how simple it was.

“That’s it?” he asked, suspicious.

Steve’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You want me to punch you?”

Bucky scoffed, but it came out weak.

Steve’s expression sobered again.

“You need to apologize to her,” Steve said.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

Of course Steve went there. Of course he did.

Bucky shifted his weight, suddenly restless. “I know.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Do you?”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He hated this part. Hated how small it made him feel – not the apology itself, but the idea of facing you and seeing what he’d done reflected back in your eyes.

He swallowed hard.

“It’s easier with you,” he admitted, almost under his breath.

Steve didn’t gloat.

He didn’t look pleased.

He just looked… sad. For you. For both of you.

“Yeah,” Steve said quietly. “I know.”

Bucky’s chest tightened.

He stared past Steve, out toward the field where the team was dispersing, voices fading, the day moving on like nothing had happened.

“I don’t know how to do it,” Bucky muttered.

Steve’s gaze stayed steady. “Then don’t try to do it ‘right.’ Just do it honest.”

Bucky’s laugh came out sharp and self-disgusted. “That’s not exactly my strong suit.”

Steve shifted his duffel higher on his shoulder. “Start anyway.”

Bucky swallowed. The muscles in his jaw ached from clenching too hard for too long.

He nodded once.

Steve hesitated, then added, softer, “And Buck–”

Bucky looked up.

Steve’s voice stayed low. “Don’t make her comfort you.”

The words landed like a warning and a mercy at the same time.

Bucky’s throat tightened. He looked away fast, because if he held Steve’s gaze any longer he might crack in a way he couldn’t afford on a football field behind bleachers.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Okay.”

Steve nodded once more and turned, leaving without ceremony, walking back toward the locker room like he trusted Bucky to follow through.

Bucky stayed where he was for a moment after Steve disappeared.

He stared at the chain-link fence until the pattern blurred.

Then he pushed off it and started walking.

The house was quiet in that late-afternoon way – the lull between school and dinner, when sunlight fell long across the hallway and everything smelled faintly like laundry detergent and old wood.

Bucky stood at the bottom of the stairs for a full minute before moving.

He could hear your mother in the kitchen, the clink of a spoon against a pot. He could hear water running. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds.

Sounds that made him feel like a fraud for having turned this place into something tense and sharp.

Your bedroom door was closed.

His own door was closed.

Every closed door in the house felt like a statement.

Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching in it, and forced his feet to move down the hallway.

Your door was at the end, across from the bathroom. He’d known that door his whole life. He’d knocked on it as a kid when you had nightmares. He’d kicked it with his foot when he’d wanted to show you something stupid. He’d leaned against it when he’d been too restless to sit still but didn’t want to be alone.

Now it looked like a boundary.

He raised his hand.

Hesitated.

Knocked anyway.

Not loud. Not demanding. A careful knock, like he was asking permission to exist near you.

A beat.

Then your voice, muted through the door, “Yeah?”

Bucky’s chest tightened.

“It’s me,” he said, stupidly, because of course it was him.

Silence.

Then, “What?”

Not angry.

Worse. Flat. Guarded.

Bucky swallowed.

“Can you… come out for a second?” he asked.

Another pause.

He heard movement – a chair scraping lightly, footsteps, the soft click of your door unlocking. It opened just enough for you to appear in the gap.

You didn’t step into the hallway.

You stayed half behind the door like you didn’t trust him not to fill the space.

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

You looked smaller than you used to, and he hated that his brain offered that thought like proof he still mattered. Like the fact you were guarded meant he still had power.

He didn’t want that.

He just… didn’t know how to stop being what he was.

“What?” you said again, more firmly this time.

Bucky’s mouth opened.

No speech came out.

Because everything he’d rehearsed sounded wrong in his head. Too dramatic. Too soft. Too late.

He shoved his hands into his pockets like a kid about to get caught.

“I talked to Steve,” he blurted.

You didn’t react.

Your eyes stayed on his face, watchful, like you were waiting for the trap hidden inside the sentence.

Bucky shifted, uncomfortable. “I– I said sorry.”

Your expression didn’t change. “Okay.”

The word was small. Noncommittal. Not relief. Not approval.

Bucky’s throat burned.

“I’m… saying it to you too,” he forced out.

Silence.

You stared at him like you couldn’t quite believe he’d actually said that.

Bucky rushed on, because stopping would make him think, and thinking would make him panic.

“I shouldn’t’ve said those things,” he said, words tumbling over each other. “About you and Steve. About– about it being messed up.”

You didn’t blink.

Bucky’s voice went a little rougher. “That wasn’t… that wasn’t fair.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the door.

“You mean when you said it was like I was dating you,” you asked softly.

Bucky’s stomach dropped so hard it felt like falling.

Heat crept up his neck. Humiliation. Shame. The sudden awareness of how vile it sounded out loud, said plainly like that.

He swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “That.”

You held his gaze.

Bucky’s chest felt tight, like his ribs were too small for his lungs.

“I didn’t–” he started, then stopped, because the truth was he had meant it in the moment. Not as a confession, not as desire, but as a weapon – as a way to make you feel guilty for choosing something he couldn’t control.

He tried again.

“I didn’t think,” he said finally, which was a coward’s sentence, but it was the closest thing to honest he could manage at seventeen.

Your eyes flickered, just slightly. “You did think. You wanted it to hurt.”

Bucky flinched.

The words hit too close to the bone.

He looked away, jaw tight, throat working like he was trying to swallow a stone.

“…Yeah,” he said again, quieter. “I did.”

The hallway felt too narrow. The air felt too thin.

Bucky forced himself to look back at you.

His voice came out rough. “I got scared.”

You stared at him like you didn’t understand how fear could justify cruelty.

“It–” He swallowed. “It felt like… like everything was changing. And you didn’t tell me. And I–”

He cut himself off, because the next part was the part he didn’t have language for.

Because the truth wasn’t “I don’t want you dating Steve”.

The truth was I don’t know who I am if I’m not the center of your world.

He couldn’t say that.

So he reached for the only thing he could say without admitting how desperate he felt.

“I thought he’d… take you away from me,” he muttered.

The sentence hung there, raw and pathetic.

Your expression shifted – not into softness, but into something like dawning understanding. Not of his feelings, necessarily. Of the shape of them. Of how childish they were.

“You don’t get to keep me,” you said quietly.

Bucky’s throat tightened.

“I know,” he said, fast. Too fast. “I know that.”

You watched him for a long moment, and Bucky hated how much he wanted you to move first, to fix it first, to make it easier for him like you always had.

Steve’s warning echoed in his head.

Don’t make her comfort you.

So Bucky forced himself to stand there and take the silence.

Finally, you spoke again.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you said.

Bucky nodded immediately. “I know.”

“And you made it sound like I did,” you continued, voice steady. “You made me feel gross for… for wanting someone who was nice to me.”

Bucky’s chest tightened so hard it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and this time it didn’t come out like a performance. It came out like it cost him something. “I’m sorry I did that.”

You didn’t soften.

You didn’t forgive him on command.

But you didn’t shut the door either.

Bucky took a shallow breath.

“I’m not–” He stopped, grimacing. Tried again. “I’m not good at this. Talking. Whatever.”

Your mouth twitched, just slightly, like you recognized the truth of that.

Bucky’s face flushed again, frustration and sincerity tangling together.

“But I don’t want to fight with you,” he said, voice rough. “And I don’t want you… scared of me.”

Your eyes flicked up at that.

Bucky hated that he had to say it. Hated that it was real.

“I’m not scared of you,” you lied automatically – because you were stubborn, because you were proud, because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Bucky saw through it anyway.

He nodded once, like he accepted the lie for what it was: a shield.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Then… I’ll say it different.”

He swallowed hard.

“I won’t say shit like that again,” he promised, blunt and teenage and clumsy, but real.

You held his gaze, measuring him.

And after a long moment, you nodded once.

Not forgiveness.

Not yet.

Just… acknowledgment that he’d finally stepped back from the edge.

“Okay,” you said.

Bucky exhaled, shaky, like he’d been holding his breath for a month.

He hesitated, then added, quieter, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

“I’m glad you’re smiling again.”

Your expression flickered – surprise, softness, pain, all too fast to name.

Bucky panicked immediately at the tenderness of his own sentence.

He stepped back, hands still in his pockets, eyes dropping to the floor like he didn’t trust himself not to ruin it.

“Whatever,” he muttered, because he was seventeen and terrified of vulnerability. “Just… don’t– don’t stop talking to me forever.”

You didn’t answer right away.

But you didn’t close the door.

And for Bucky, that was enough to keep him from breaking apart in the hallway.

He turned to leave before he could say something stupid.

Halfway down the hall, he heard you behind him – quiet, almost reluctant.

“Bucky.”

He stopped.

Looked back.

You were still in the doorway, hand on the edge of it like you hadn’t decided whether it was a barrier or an invitation.

“For once, I’m not the one who came back first,” you said.

Bucky’s throat tightened.

He nodded once.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”

And then he walked away – not because he didn’t care, but because for the first time in weeks, he cared enough to let you have the space you asked for.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan

BUCKY taglist: @metal-armed-muse | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff | @nicobidd

You didn’t get acne the way some of the girls in your class did, the angry red kind that made them hide behind bangs and sleeves and foundation. Your skin stayed mostly clear, pale and calm like it had always been. Your periods still hurt on the first day – sharp cramps that made you want to fold in half and disappear – but after that first day, they softened, becoming something you could manage without feeling like you were losing yourself to pain.

And then you grew.

Ten centimeters, almost out of nowhere.

The change happened gradually enough that no one noticed day to day, but suddenly your jeans sat differently on your ankles, your hoodies didn’t hang quite so heavily on your shoulders. Your limbs looked less like they belonged to a child. Your posture changed too – subtly, unconsciously – because you weren’t constantly trying to shrink away from the world.

You weren’t small anymore.

Not the way you had been.

And your body changed in another way too – one that made you feel simultaneously terrified and relieved.

You had a chest now.

Not dramatic, not exaggerated. Just… undeniably there.

For the first time, your shape matched the age on paper.

For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were wearing someone else’s life.

The day it really hit you wasn’t at school.

It was in a dressing room, under unforgiving fluorescent lights, with your mother sitting patiently on the little bench outside the curtain.

She’d suggested a shopping trip like it was nothing – just a practical errand. New clothes for junior year. A couple pairs of jeans. A coat that didn’t look like it belonged to a middle schooler. Maybe something nicer too, in case you needed it for a school event.

You had agreed because you always agreed when your mother asked gently.

Because she had earned your cooperation ten times over.

The store smelled like perfume and fabric and the plastic heat of new clothes. You followed her through aisles, hands tucked into your sweater sleeves, watching her fingers skim hangers as she scanned.

Your mother didn’t force you into bright colors. She didn’t hold up things that would make you feel like you were playing dress-up. She had learned you too well for that.

Instead, she chose pieces quietly. Neutral. Clean lines. Soft fabrics. Things that looked… grown.

Then she paused.

And you knew, even before she turned, that she’d found something that wasn’t practical.

Something that was meant for feeling.

She held up a dress.

Dark – deep, elegant. Not flashy. Not childish. It had long sleeves and a high enough neckline that you didn’t feel exposed. The back was covered too. No risk of the fabric dipping low or shifting the wrong way.

It was safe.

And yet… it wasn’t something you would have worn before.

It was a dress you could walk into a room in and be seen.

Your first instinct was to say no.

Your first instinct was always no.

But your mother looked at you with that careful hope she tried so hard to hide – like she was offering you a new possibility and praying you wouldn’t reject it.

“Just try it,” she said softly. “If you hate it, we put it back.”

You swallowed.

Then nodded.

In the dressing room, you undressed quickly, movements efficient. You slid the dress over your head, tugged it down your body, smoothed the fabric over your hips and waist.

The fabric settled.

Not too tight.

Not too loose.

It held you, instead of swallowing you.

You stood in front of the mirror and stared.

For a moment, your brain did what it always did – catalogued flaws, scanned for threats, searched for the things you should hide.

Your shoulders. Your chest. Your legs. Your face.

But then… 

You tilted your head, just slightly.

And you saw something you hadn’t seen before.

You didn’t see a girl you had to apologize for.

You didn’t see someone too young, too small, too strange.

You saw… yourself.

A version of you that looked like she belonged here. Like she could exist in the world without needing to shrink.

A version of you that didn’t make your chest tighten with instinctive shame.

Your throat closed.

Not with panic.

With something dangerously close to pride.

You blinked hard, because pride felt like a luxury.

Then you pulled the curtain back.

Your mother looked up.

Her face changed instantly.

Her eyes softened, went shiny, and she pressed her lips together like she was trying not to cry.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered.

You held her gaze for a second, then looked away, suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s… fine,” you said, voice flat out of habit.

Your mother stood anyway and stepped closer, not touching you yet, waiting to see if you’d allow it.

“Can I?” she asked quietly, gesturing to your hair, the collar of the dress.

You nodded.

She adjusted a seam at your shoulder with gentle fingers, like she was afraid she might break you if she moved too quickly.

“You look beautiful,” she said, simple and sure.

Beautiful.

The word hit you like a wave.

You stared back at the mirror and tried to accept it as fact instead of danger.

You bought the dress.

You carried it home in a crisp bag that made you feel strangely like you were holding evidence of someone else’s life.

And that might have been the end of it – one quiet revelation, tucked away like everything else you weren’t ready to show.

Except Wanda noticed.

Wanda always noticed.

The next Saturday, she showed up at your house with a small makeup bag in one hand and the expression of someone about to start a mission.

“You’re sitting,” she announced.

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I said so,” Wanda replied, like she’d done when you were thirteen and bleeding and terrified in the bathroom.

She set the bag on your desk, pulled your chair out, and pointed at it.

You sat.

Wanda leaned over your shoulder and studied your face like she was painting a portrait in her head.

“No heavy foundation,” she decided immediately. “You don’t need it.”

You exhaled. “Good.”

Wanda snorted. “Of course good. You’d hate it.”

She started with powder – not much, just enough to soften the shine. She tapped it on your cheeks with quick, confident motions. Then she handed you a small mirror and tilted your chin up.

“See? Still you.”

You stared.

Still you.

That was the key.

Wanda taught you the rest like she was teaching you a skill, not a performance. A thin line of eyeliner, careful and clean. Mascara that darkened your lashes without clumping. A touch of gloss – just a sheen, not glitter, not sticky.

When she stepped back, she crossed her arms and nodded once, satisfied.

“You look like you,” she said again. “Just… like you slept.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, surprising yourself.

Wanda’s mouth twitched. “Don’t get cocky.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m incapable of cocky.”

Wanda made a face like she didn’t believe that for a second.

The first time you wore the dress was to nothing important.

Not prom. Not a dance. Not a date.

Just a small dinner at home with everyone, because your mother wanted to see it again and Wanda had decided you needed practice existing in a body that didn’t make you want to disappear.

You came downstairs and the house went quiet for half a beat.

Not dramatic. Not obvious.

But you felt it.

Pietro was at the counter, stealing grapes from the bowl. He froze mid-reach, grape between his fingers, mouth slightly open.

Steve was sitting at the table with a notebook, pencil paused. His eyes lifted and stayed lifted.

Bucky… 

Bucky was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, talking about something – probably basketball, probably something stupid – until he turned and saw you.

And it was like his brain stalled.

He went very still.

His face didn’t do anything exaggerated. He didn’t whistle. He didn’t smirk.

He just stared.

Like he was trying to reconcile two images in his head and couldn’t make them match fast enough.

You felt heat crawl up your neck.

Your first instinct was to retreat. To go back upstairs and put your hoodie back on and hide behind fabric and familiarity.

But Wanda was behind you, a steady presence, her hand briefly pressing between your shoulder blades.

Stay.

You stayed.

Pietro recovered first, because Pietro always recovered first.

“Okay,” he said slowly, dropping the grape into his mouth. “Wow.”

You blinked at him. “What.”

He grinned, wicked and proud. “Nothing. Just– wow.”

Your cheeks burned.

Steve stood up, slower than Pietro, like he didn’t want to startle you.

“You look…” He swallowed, then chose his words carefully, because Steve always did with you. “You look really nice.”

Nice.

Safe word.

You nodded once, grateful and uncomfortable at the same time. “Thanks.”

Bucky still hadn’t spoken.

His jaw worked slightly, like he was grinding his teeth without realizing it.

Your stomach tightened.

Because Bucky’s silence was never neutral.

It meant something was happening under it.

“Buck?” Pietro prompted, voice amused. “You alive?”

Bucky blinked hard, like he’d been yanked back into his body.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. She–” He stopped, swallowed, then tried again. “You look… uh.”

The words didn’t come.

Which was absurd, because Bucky Barnes always had words.

Sometimes too many.

You watched him struggle, watched his gaze flick down and then snap back up to your face like he’d touched something dangerous.

Then, finally, he cleared his throat, rough.

“You look… good,” he said, and the word came out like it cost him something.

Not because he didn’t mean it.

Because meaning it was the problem.

For half a second, no one moved.

Then Wanda stepped around you and said dryly, “See? He can be polite.”

Bucky shot her a glare that promised revenge.

Pietro laughed.

Steve’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but his eyes stayed on you – soft, steady, like he was watching to see if you would run.

You didn’t.

You exhaled slowly and stepped further into the room.

Your mother came in from the kitchen, took one look at you, and her face lit up all over again like she’d been storing joy for this moment.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, sweetheart.”

You swallowed hard, because your mother’s pride was the most dangerous kind of love – it made you want to believe you deserved it.

Dinner that night was normal and not normal at the same time.

The conversation stayed the same – school, practice, Wanda’s latest irritation with a teacher, Pietro’s ridiculous story of the week.

But under it, there was a new current.

A new awareness.

Like everyone had just realized you weren’t a kid they could tuck behind them anymore.

Like your existence had shifted from “little sister” to “girl” in their minds, and they didn’t know where to put it yet.

Pietro looked at you more often, like he was checking for cracks. Like he was proud and protective at the same time.

Steve watched you with that quiet tenderness that had always been there, but now it had edges – something thoughtful. Something newly cautious. 

Bucky didn’t look at you much.

Not directly.

But you felt him anyway.

Felt his attention like heat on the side of your face.

Felt the way he sat a little straighter when someone mentioned a boy’s name at school.

Felt the way his hand tightened around his fork once when Pietro joked about how junior year was when “everyone starts getting serious.”

You didn’t know what he was thinking.

But you knew Bucky.

You knew the way his protectiveness could turn sharp. You knew the way he claimed people without admitting he was claiming them.

And you knew – deep in your bones – that the world was about to start seeing you differently.

Which meant Bucky Barnes was about to start fighting again.

Not just the boys who teased you.

But the boys who would look at you and want you.

And the part of you that didn’t want to hide anymore…

The part of you that had looked in the mirror and not flinched…

Didn’t know yet whether that fight would feel like love…

Or like a cage tightening all over again.

After that night, Steve started looking at you differently.

Not in a way you could immediately name – not like the boys at school who looked at you like you were a new thing to evaluate, something they could talk about in the hallway with their friends. Not like the girls who suddenly decided your hair was “pretty” in the tone that meant they were surprised you could be.

Steve looked at you like he was… recalibrating.

Like he’d had you filed away in his mind under safe and young and hers, and now he didn’t know where to put you.

It was subtle at first.

A second too long when you walked into a room.

A pause in his pencil strokes when you leaned over his shoulder to ask about homework.

His eyes tracking you as you crossed the living room, then snapping away when you noticed.

But you did notice.

Of course you did.

You noticed everything.

It made you uneasy in a way you couldn’t explain.

Because Steve was Steve. Steve was steady. Steve was familiar. Steve was the kind of person you trusted so deeply you almost forgot trust was something you’d had to learn.

So when his attention changed – when it sharpened, warmed, softened – it felt like the floor shifting under your feet.

Sometimes you caught him staring while you were talking and he wouldn’t even pretend he wasn’t.

Sometimes he looked at you when you laughed, like he was surprised you could.

Sometimes he looked at you when you weren’t doing anything at all, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you in a way he hadn’t before.

You started meeting his gaze deliberately, because you couldn’t stand the uncertainty.

You’d lift an eyebrow – silent question.

What?

Steve would blink, flush faintly, then look away like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

And that was what made it worse.

Because it wasn’t wrong.

Not yet.

Not technically.

But it felt like the beginning of something that could become wrong if you let it.

Bucky noticed too.

Bucky noticed everything Steve didn’t want anyone to notice.

And Bucky’s noticing was not quiet.

It didn’t announce itself with words. It announced itself with tension – tight shoulders, clipped answers, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing something he couldn’t swallow.

At first, he pretended it wasn’t happening.

He tried to treat it like a harmless phase.

Steve looking too long. You looking back sometimes, confused, curious. Everyone adjusting to the fact that you’d… grown.

But then it kept happening.

And Bucky’s tolerance for things he couldn’t control had always been razor-thin.

It happened one afternoon after school. You were at Wanda and Pietro’s house, standing in their kitchen with Wanda, helping her cut vegetables while she complained about a teacher who “spoke like she was allergic to joy.” Pietro was sprawled on the couch in the next room, flipping through a magazine. Their house was quiet in that familiar, lived-in way, the kind of quiet that made it easy to forget, for a little while, everything else.

Steve and Bucky were at the dining table, supposedly working on something together – some math assignment Bucky didn’t understand and Steve did.

Except you weren’t sure any work was being done.

Because you could feel Steve’s eyes on you from across the room. Like warmth against your skin.

You didn’t look at him for a while. You tried to ignore it.

Then Wanda nudged you lightly with her elbow. A small, amused sound leaving her throat.

“You’ve got an audience,” she murmured.

You frowned, whispering back, “Stop.”

Wanda’s eyes flicked toward Steve. “I’m not the one doing it.”

You sighed, then finally turned your head.

Steve was watching you, pencil paused mid-air, expression unreadable.

When you caught him, you lifted one brow again.

Seriously?

Steve blinked like he’d been slapped by your attention. His cheeks went pink. He looked down at his notebook and began writing so fast it was almost comical.

You turned back to the cutting board, heart beating too quickly for something that was technically nothing.

Behind you, you heard a chair scrape.

Bucky stood abruptly, pushing back from the table so hard the legs squealed on the floor.

“I’m gonna grab a drink,” he announced.

Steve looked up, startled. “You already have–”

Bucky didn’t let him finish. He walked around the couch, past Pietro, past Wanda, and headed toward the hallway.

Then – just before he disappeared – he jerked his head at Steve.

“Come here.”

It wasn’t a request.

Steve hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to you like he didn’t want to leave you in the room without him.

The irony almost made you laugh.

Instead, you kept your hands steady on the knife.

Steve stood and followed Bucky down the hall.

The moment they disappeared, Wanda made a low sound of satisfaction.

“Finally,” she muttered.

You shot her a look. “Wanda.”

She raised her hands innocently. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

Pietro sat up a little, eyebrows lifting. “Uh-oh.”

You tried to focus on slicing carrots.

Your fingers weren’t shaking.

Your brain, however, was spinning too fast.

In the hallway, Bucky didn’t take Steve to the kitchen like he’d said.

He took him to the small alcove near the laundry room – out of sight, out of earshot from the living room unless someone was actively trying.

Bucky leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, expression hard.

Steve stopped in front of him, posture already tense.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky stared at him for a long moment. Then he scoffed, humorless.

“You tell me.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Yeah. Sure you don’t.”

Steve’s voice sharpened, defensive. “Buck–”

“Don’t,” Bucky cut in immediately. His tone was low, dangerous in the way it only became when he was trying to keep himself from doing something stupid. “Don’t ‘Buck’ me like I’m the one who’s acting weird.”

Steve blinked. “Acting weird?”

Bucky’s laugh was a short exhale. Not amusement. Disbelief.

“You’ve been staring at her,” he said flatly.

Steve’s face went still.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

Then Steve’s mouth opened slightly, closed, then opened again like he was trying to find the right sentence that wouldn’t get him punched.

“I haven’t–” he started.

Bucky leaned forward just a fraction, eyes narrowing. “Don’t lie to me.”

Steve swallowed.

His ears were pink now, and that flushed guilt made something hot twist in Bucky’s chest.

Because Steve wasn’t the kind of person who got caught and shrugged it off.

Steve was the kind of person who looked ashamed when he realized he’d crossed a line.

Which meant he knew it was a line.

“I just–” Steve said carefully. “She’s… changed.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t soften. “Yeah. She has.”

Steve exhaled, frustrated. “And it’s not like I’m– doing anything.”

Bucky stared. “You don’t think staring counts as something?”

Steve’s eyes flashed. “What do you want from me, Buck?”

Bucky didn’t answer for a second, because the truth was ugly.

What he wanted was to roll time back.

What he wanted was you in oversized hoodies and long sleeves and childhood safety, where Bucky could be your brother without the word feeling like a lie.

What he wanted was to not feel this sharp, irrational panic every time he imagined the world touching you.

But Bucky couldn’t ask for time.

So he asked for control.

“I want you to help me,” he said instead.

Steve’s brows drew together. “Help you… with what?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward the living room, like he could see through walls.

“With the guys at school,” he said, voice tightening. “The ones who are gonna try to–” He stopped, jaw clenching, because he hated even thinking the word. “The ones who are gonna think she’s… available.”

Steve looked at him with dawning understanding, and a strange flicker of relief.

“Protect her,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky nodded once. “Yeah.”

Steve’s shoulders eased slightly, because Steve had always known how to protect. Protection was his language too – just quieter, steadier than Bucky’s.

“I already do,” Steve said.

Bucky’s mouth twisted. “Not enough.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Not enough for who? Her? Or you?”

Bucky’s stare went sharp. “For her.”

Steve held his gaze for a second, then sighed. “Okay.”

Bucky’s chest loosened a fraction, like the agreement mattered more than he wanted to admit.

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer – just close enough that Steve felt the weight of him.

“I mean it,” Bucky said, low. “If some guy tries to corner her, you’re there. If some asshole says something, you shut it down. If anyone – anyone – thinks they can put hands on her–”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “I know.”

Bucky’s eyes searched Steve’s face like he was trying to confirm something.

Then, quieter – almost like an afterthought, almost like it wasn’t the real reason he’d pulled him aside even though it absolutely was – he added:

“And you don’t try anything either.”

Steve went still again.

He stared at Bucky, eyes wide with a mix of offense and something else – something guilty, because if he was truly innocent, he wouldn’t look like that.

“Buck,” Steve started, voice tight.

Bucky’s mouth curled in a hard, humorless half-smile. “You’re my best friend.”

Steve swallowed. “I know.”

“She’s my sister.”

Steve flinched, just slightly, at the word.

Bucky saw it.

His eyes narrowed. “So don’t.”

Steve’s throat worked. “I’m not–”

Bucky cut him off with a look. “Don’t make me say it again.”

The air between them hummed.

Steve held Bucky’s gaze, jaw flexing, then finally nodded once – slow.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I won’t.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

He stepped back, arms still crossed, trying to look like he wasn’t rattled.

Steve watched him for a beat. Then, carefully, he said, “You know she’s not–”

Bucky’s stare snapped up.

Steve hesitated, choosing his words like he was disarming a bomb.

“She’s not a thing you can lock away,” Steve finished softly. “She’s… her own person.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened again.

“I know,” he lied.

Steve didn’t call him on it.

Instead, Steve nodded once and turned back toward the living room.

Bucky stayed in the hallway for a second longer, staring at the wall as if he could burn the problem out of existence with sheer will.

Then he followed.

When Steve reentered the room, Wanda glanced up immediately.

Her eyes flicked over his face, over the tension in his shoulders.

Then her gaze slid to Bucky behind him.

Wanda’s mouth twitched like she knew exactly what had been said.

Pietro raised his eyebrows at Steve in silent question.

Steve shook his head slightly, like not now.

You kept cutting vegetables, pretending you hadn’t noticed any of it.

But you felt it anyway.

The shift.

The new triangle of awareness that had formed in the hallway and followed them back like an invisible thread.

Steve sat down again, quieter than before.

Bucky didn’t return to his chair. He hovered near the kitchen entrance instead, arms crossed, watching the room like he was guarding a door no one else could see.

You didn’t look at him.

Because if you looked at him, you might see the truth written all over his face.

That he wasn’t only scared of the boys at school.

He was scared of Steve.

And maybe, worse…

He was scared of what Steve seeing you like that meant about the parts of Bucky that were already too awake.

Parts he had no name for yet.

Parts he was trying to crush back into “brother”.

Parts that refused to stay quiet.

A few days after that night, you were in Pietro’s room with your legs folded under you on his bed, a history book open in front of you and absolutely none of the information entering your brain.

Pietro sat on the floor, back against his desk, scribbling something in a sketchbook he refused to admit he kept because “art is for people who don’t understand science.” The lie was ancient. The sketchbook was always there.

The window was cracked open. You could hear distant traffic, a dog barking, the low murmur of your neighborhood winding down toward evening. The house smelled like laundry detergent and whatever Wanda had decided to cook downstairs.

It was quiet enough that your thoughts had room to get loud.

You’d been trying not to think about Steve.

That was the problem.

You had been thinking about Steve.

Not in the old way. Not in the safe way.

In the way that made your stomach flip when you remembered the weight of his eyes on you across the room. In the way that made you suddenly aware of your mouth when he looked at it. Your hands. Your hair. The curve of your wrist when you tucked it into your sleeve.

It wasn’t love.

Not yet.

But it was wanting.

And wanting was a terrifying thing to admit, because wanting implied you believed you could ask for something and not be punished for it.

Pietro didn’t look up from his sketchbook when he spoke.

“You’ve been tapping your pen for ten minutes,” he said casually. “Either you’re about to solve the mysteries of the universe or you’re spiraling.”

You froze mid-tap.

“I’m not spiraling,” you lied.

Pietro’s mouth twitched. “Sure.”

You stared down at your textbook like it might rescue you. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Mm.” Pietro finally glanced up, eyes sharp in that way that made you feel like he could see behind your ribs. “About what?”

You hesitated.

Pietro didn’t push right away. He never forced you. He just waited, patient in a way that was almost annoying because it gave you nowhere to hide.

You swallowed, then said carefully, “Steve has been… looking at me.”

Pietro’s eyebrows lifted. “Looking at you how?”

You pressed your lips together. Heat crept up your neck. “You know.”

Pietro leaned his head back against the desk, considering. “I do know.”

You shot him a look. “Of course you do.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “I have eyes.”

You stared at the page again. Your heart was beating too fast for a conversation that should have been simple.

“It’s weird,” you said, voice quieter.

Pietro’s expression softened a fraction. “Weird bad or weird… new?”

You didn’t answer immediately, because the answer was the part that scared you.

If you said bad, you could dismiss it. You could shove it away. You could retreat back into safe.

If you said new…

New meant you had to do something with it.

Your fingers tightened around your pen.

“It’s not bad,” you admitted finally.

Pietro’s gaze sharpened. “Okay.”

You inhaled slowly, the way you did when you were bracing for impact.

“And I think…” You stopped, swallowed, forced the words out even though they felt too big for your mouth. “I think I like it.”

Pietro didn’t tease you.

That was how you knew this mattered.

He set his sketchbook aside, shifting his weight so he could look at you properly.

“You like being looked at,” he said gently, not judgmental. Just naming it.

You nodded once, barely.

Pietro watched you for a moment, then asked, “Do you like that it’s Steve?”

Your throat tightened.

Because if it was just attention, it would be easier. Attention could be anyone. Attention was shallow. Attention was controllable.

But it wasn’t just attention.

You could have had attention from boys for a while now. Not many, but enough. You could have said yes to the awkward movie invitations. You could have tried.

You hadn’t.

Steve was different.

Steve made you feel… seen, in a way that didn’t feel like being examined.

Seen, like you were something worth holding carefully.

You looked down at your hands.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Pietro exhaled slowly.

He didn’t look surprised.

He looked like something in his mind had clicked into place.

“You know he’s going to say yes if you ask,” Pietro said.

You jerked your head up. “What?”

Pietro shrugged. “He’s not subtle.”

You stared at him, stunned. “He is subtle.”

Pietro snorted. “Not with you.”

Your cheeks burned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Pietro gave you a look that said I know everything, unfortunately.

You hugged your book closer to your chest like it could shield you. “It’s not like– he’s not–”

Pietro tilted his head. “What are you afraid of?”

The question landed too accurately.

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because what you were afraid of wasn’t Steve.

It was the concept of reaching for something and having it ripped away.

It was the idea that if you wanted Steve, you might lose him.

It was the idea that if you wanted Steve, you might lose Bucky too.

Because wanting Steve would change the whole equation.

And you had survived your life by keeping equations stable.

Pietro watched you struggle, then said quietly, “You’re allowed to want things.”

Your eyes stung.

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to want that,” you whispered.

Pietro’s face softened fully now. He got up from the floor and sat beside you on the edge of the bed, not touching you yet, waiting for your body to decide.

Then he nudged your shoulder gently with his.

“You’re allowed,” he repeated. “And if you want him, you should tell him. Because Steve is not the kind of person who will take without being invited.”

Your throat tightened again. “And Bucky?”

Pietro’s eyes flicked toward the door as if Bucky’s name alone could summon him.

Then he looked back at you.

“Bucky is going to be a problem no matter what,” Pietro said bluntly. “You know that.”

You did.

You hated that you did.

Pietro continued, voice calmer. “But Bucky doesn’t get to decide your life.”

You stared at him, breathing shallowly.

Pietro leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was telling you a secret. “You also know something else.”

“What?” you asked, barely audible.

Pietro’s mouth twitched, sad and knowing all at once. “That Steve looking at you doesn’t hurt you.”

You swallowed.

No.

It didn’t.

It made you feel warm.

It made you feel… wanted, in the safest way possible.

That should have terrified you.

Instead, it made you brave.

You sat very still for a long moment, feeling your heartbeat in your throat.

Then you exhaled and said, “Okay.”

Pietro blinked. “Okay what?”

You straightened your spine like you were preparing for battle.

“I’m going to ask him,” you said.

Pietro’s eyes widened slightly, then he grinned – soft, proud, like he’d been waiting years for you to take up space on purpose.

“Good,” he said simply.

You didn’t do it immediately.

You couldn’t.

You spent the next day at school with your nerves stretched tight under your skin. Every time Steve looked at you, your stomach flipped. Every time he smiled, you felt like you might melt into the floor.

It was ridiculous.

You’d spoken in front of classes. You’d argued with teachers. You’d taken exams meant for older kids and passed them.

And yet asking Steve Rogers to go to the movies felt like trying to jump off a cliff.

After school, you went home and paced in your room for twenty minutes.

You changed your shirt twice.

You stared at your phone like it might bite you.

Then you made yourself stop.

You sat on the edge of your bed and took a slow breath.

You didn’t want to do this over text.

You wanted to see his face.

You wanted him to hear your voice.

So you went downstairs.

Steve was in your living room like he often was, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, sketchbook open on his knees. He was drawing something – absentminded lines forming a shape. Bucky was at the kitchen counter, arguing with your mother about whether he really needed to eat vegetables.

Wanda was sprawled in the armchair, reading.

Pietro caught your eye from the hallway.

He lifted his eyebrows once, subtle.

Now?

Your pulse hammered.

You nodded.

You crossed the room, footsteps quiet, and stopped near Steve.

He looked up.

His eyes lifted to you, and for a split second his expression went soft in a way that made your breath catch.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” you replied.

Your voice didn’t crack.

Good.

Steve closed his sketchbook slowly, like he could tell something was different.

“What’s up?” he asked, gentle.

You swallowed.

You could feel Bucky’s presence behind you, even without looking. The way he was always there, always listening.

You didn’t let it stop you.

“Can I talk to you?” you asked Steve. “Like… outside. For a minute.”

Steve’s brows rose slightly. “Sure.”

He stood immediately, because Steve always stood when you asked. Like you mattered.

You led him toward the front porch, hands clenched loosely at your sides to keep them from shaking.

The air outside was cool. The late afternoon light made the street look soft around the edges.

You turned to face him.

Steve waited, patient, eyes steady on yours.

You forced the words out before your courage could disappear.

“Do you want to go out with me?” you asked.

Steve blinked.

Just once.

Like the question didn’t compute at first.

Then his eyes widened, and color rose in his cheeks.

“You mean–” he started, voice low, uncertain. “Like… a date?”

You nodded, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Yeah. A date. Just… you and me.”

Steve stared at you for a long second, breath held.

Then he let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh – not mocking, not surprised in a cruel way.

Surprised like something he’d wanted had just been offered to him and he didn’t trust it yet.

“You’re serious,” he said, almost a whisper.

You lifted your chin. “Yes.”

Steve’s gaze flicked over your face like he was making sure you weren’t going to vanish.

Then his expression softened into something so warm it made your chest ache.

“Yes,” he said.

The word was simple.

But it hit you like relief and terror in equal measure.

“Yes,” Steve repeated, a little stronger, like he wanted you to believe it. “I want to.”

Your breath shook as you exhaled.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself feel the shape of what you wanted – without apologizing for it.

Behind you, inside the house, you could almost feel the moment Bucky realized what was happening.

Like a storm waking up.

But you didn’t turn around.

Not yet.

You stayed on the porch with Steve, holding his gaze, letting the yes settle into your bones like a new kind of truth.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan

BUCKY taglist: @metal-armed-muse | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff

You’re innocent bystander collateral damage for one of his back channel clients. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time and witnessed something you shouldn’t have.

So naturally, Andy’s client gave him a call and the location of the abandoned warehouse where you’re currently chained up.

When Andy arrives in his expensive suit, his jaw tight and his eyes steely, he doesn’t expect to find the prettiest omega he’s ever seen curled into a ball on the floor and giving him the scaredest, sweetest 🥺 face ever.

As Andy moves closer and gets a whiff of your delectable scent, and hears your voice for the first time as you tremble, “Please, I won’t say anything, I promise.” the rumbled observation is out of Andy’s mouth before he can stop it—

“Aren’t you just the sweetest thing?”

You swallow nervously as he crouches before you, his musky alpha scent immediately filling your nose and making you a little dazed.

You don’t even recoil when Andy gently pets your head, or when he brushes his fingers down your throat then pulls aside the collar of your shirt so he can see your mating gland.

His inner alpha rumbles its satisfaction when your unmarked skin is revealed, and Andy decides it would be such a waste to get rid of you.

As you tentatively lean into his touch without realizing it, his lips tilt up into an almost smile. You’re so docile, and responsive to him already, and he’s worked so hard for so long, he deserves a spoil of war.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” Andy husks.

You shiver at the deep baritone of his voice, still taken aback by how beautiful he is. “Yes, alpha,” you whisper.

Andy hums, his knuckles drawing up along the curve of your throat before his thumb is pressing against the softness of your lower lip. “I like that word on these pretty lips, especially directed at me.” His thumb trails back and forth along your lip, his electric blue eyes meeting yours. “Do you know why they sent me here, honey?”

Your eyes fill with tears as your breath catches, and your voice nearly breaks as you answer, “To hurt me?”

“To kill you,” Andy corrects, shushing you as a pitiful, terrified whine spills past your lips. “But I don’t think I need to resort to such extreme measures,” he coos. “Not with you. Because you’ll be good for me, won’t you, my sweet, obedient omega?”

And what can you do but nod and accept your fate?

“Come on,” Andy says as he rises to his feet and takes you with him. His nostrils flare when he gets a whiff of your sweet, relieved scent, a pleased purr rumbling the back of his throat as his hands fall to cup your hips. “Let’s get you home and cleaned up, sweetheart. By the end of the night, you’ll be warming my knot with my bondmark on your pretty throat.”

Despite the way your knees nearly buckle as your tears finally spill over, you know your place, and that Andy is quite literally sparing your life, so you quaver a soft, “Thank you, alpha.”

Hello, this is stalkers anonymous. A bespoke service dedicated to listening to our clients without judgement, offering an outlet to vent, tools or advice. My name is Samantha, how can I help you this evening?

Hello, this is Reverend Drew Devlin, I would like to confess my sins.

Ahh yes hello Reverend. Remember we have spoken about such negative language before. These are not sins, simply urges that you are allowed and encouraged to express.

Yes, you're right. Sorry, habit.

It's no problem sir, why don't you tell me what's going on with you?

Oh with pleasure.

I had seen you around town, always wearing skimpy little dresses. You looked lost, like a little lamb on search of her shepherd. Luckily for you I can be just that man.

It took a few weeks of me leaving flyers and business cards for the church near your home and work place, but you finally came.

You looked around nervously, not realizing that you'd already been chosen. You, my love, have been granted the finest honor. Through me you will reach divinity, through me you'll see God.

Only, you never came back. That made me mad, once people walk through those doors they generally don't leave, but you did. Why? Did my sermon not call to you? Do you not realize how lucky you are to be chosen?

I tracked you down and asked you why we hadn't seen you again and your reply...that it wasn't for you? I've never heard such horse shit in my life.

It's okay though, I convinced you to give it one more chance. Only when you turned up for service, I led you through to my living quarters, pinned you down and tied you to the bed and left you there to go preach.

When I came back you'd stopped crying but it wasn't long before those tears came back. Once you realised that I was going to help you find your way. Find your way to righteousness.

With your legs and arms splayed it was so easy to slip my cock inside your tight little pussy. It felt so good, better than anything I've ever felt. I realised right then that you would help me reach divinity too. Together we would be unstoppable.

Every thrust of my hips drove us both closer and closer to enternal bliss. The feel of your soft walls clutching me while you wept was like getting a hand job from the Lord himself.

You were too overwhelmed to cum, but that's okay, we have plenty of time. I made sure to fill you with my holy seed before releasing you and letting you walk away.

You'd be back. I'd make sure you would be. Because without me you will suffer eternal damnation. Without me you're nothing.

So you finally took the next steps, that's great!

Yes it is and yes it was.

Did you remember to cement those doubts in case she tells anyone?

Of course, I reminded her that I'm a Reverend. Why would I, a man of God, ever hurt someone?

That's just perfect sir. Just as we discussed.

I also told her that with my church preaching passion and submission, no one would believe she didn't want it.

Even better. You're doing really well Reverend and I have to admit your teachings do sound interesting.

Well you're welcome to come down to visit my congregation in Bakersfield. I think you'll find it enlightening.

Thank you Sir, I may take you up on that. Is there anything else I can help you with today?

No, no, I'm all good. I haven't seen my angel in a few days so I'm gonna go see what she's up too.

Good plan sir. Have a great evening and happy stalking.

You had been working for the Barbers for a few months now. Hired to do their cleaning and any odd jobs that Mr Barber required whilst working from home. 

There were a lot of positives that came with the job. The pay was great, the hours were good and Laurie even treated you as a friend, often inviting you to stay for a glass of wine or dinner. 

Unfortunately there were negatives for working for the Barbers too. Andy's lecherous gaze that you felt on you at all times, his wandering hands that you often found on your back or ass, the lewd comments that fell from his lips when no one else was around. 

You had taken it in your stride, ignoring him as best you could and carrying on with your tasks while Andy strode away each time and locked himself in his office. You didn't want to know what he was doing behind that door when he locked it, but he would often tell you anyway. 

You arrived at work that morning and let yourself into the house as you always did, hanging your coat and removing your shoes before you stepped into the kitchen to begin your cleaning tasks. 

Laurie had left a note on the counter with a list of extra tasks she required for the day, such as steaming her dress for the upcoming gala and setting up Jacobs new controller for when he got home. All easy enough to do. 

You could hear Andy clicking at his keyboard from his office but you always ignored his presence for as long as possible, only going to ask if he needed anything when you absolutely had to. 

The day ticked on as it should with no interruptions. You had managed to get all the usual cleaning tasks complete and had lauries dressed steamed and hung in her room before settling on you elbows at the kitchen island as you unboxed Jacobs new controller. 

You smelt Andy's powerful yet heavenly scent before you heard the footsteps come around the corner. He was a handsome specimen, there was no denying that, in his tight jeans and black sweater that looked almost custom made as it moulded to his muscular chest. 

He strode into the space confidently saying a quick hello as he made his way towards the coffee maker and got it started. 

You tried to focus on your task as he pottered around behind you, but his very presence made you nervous. 

Then you felt it, the sudden shift in the air and the subtle change in Andy's breathing behind you. 

You knew he was watching you, but you daren't turn around to look the beast in the mouth. Your hands shook as you pried the controller from the plastic casing with a pop. 

You heard Andy sigh loudly. 

"Do you realize how hard it is to be around you?" He growled. 

You swallowed harshly. This was how it always began, the lewd comments, then came a stray hand on your skin before he'd let you know he was going to jack off and lock himself away. 

"Do you realize just how hard I AM around you?" He growled again when you didn't respond. 

Your heart rate quickened as you felt warmth on your back and Andy's hands appeared on the counter beside you, caging you in. 

He placed his nose in your hair, inhaling audibly with a groan as he pressed his body against you and you tried not to whimper when you felt his cock against your ass, rock hard beneath his jeans. 

The controller was abandoned, dropping with a clatter onto the counter as you placed your palms down on the cold surface to try and keep yourself grounded. 

"I don't know how much longer I can do this." Andy sighed, "Before I'll need the real thing." 

He slipped a hand onto your waist and his hand began wandering until it landed on your breast and squeezed. 

"I'll quit." You squeaked out as he pawed at your breast. 

"No you won't." He chuffed, "We both know how badly you need this job." 

You hated that he was right, hated that you had no control over the situation, only able to just stand quietly and take the unwanted advances. 

You felt him begin to rut his cock against your ass and your eyes widened in fear. 

"Please." You whimpered as your eyes glazed over. 

"Shhhhh." Andy hushed in your ear before taking the lobe in his teeth, sucking at the flesh before releasing it with a pop. "I need this." 

His free hand left the counter top and cradled your throat, squeezing lightly as if to remind you of the power difference between you. 

With his hand on your breast and the one on your neck he pulled you against his body and his continued humping his cock against you. 

"One day." He grunted, "This won't be enough." 

You could only whimper gently as tears began trickling over your cheeks. 

"I tried getting over my obsession with you." He began as he rutted harder and faster against you, "Tried pretending my wife was you, tried imagining you while I fuck my own hand. It's not enough, it's never enough." 

"Andy please stop." You pleaded once more, even though you knew there was no point. 

"Oh baby keep begging." He panted, "I'm so close." 

You didn't, you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of something that helped his relentless desire. 

"Oh god." He panted loudly, placing his face in the crook of your neck and mumbling against your skin, "Feels so good baby. M'so close." 

He was thrusting even harder now, making your own hips bash against the counter top painfully. 

"Yes baby. That's it. Oh god." He began mumbling before biting down into your neck harshly, causing a small yelp from your lips. 

His movements slowed and then finally stilled. He released his forceful hold on you breast and placed the hand on your waist. 

He finally released your skin from between his teeth and you gasped in relief. His hand cradling your throat was then moved to join his other on your waist and he held you close. 

If it were any other situation, it might seem sweet, a gentle hug after a tryst with a lover, but this wasn't that. 

He breathed deeply into your neck as he came down from his high, chest rising and falling against your back while you silently cried. 

Finally he stepped back and you inhaled a deep breath. 

"Jacob will be home soon." He said sternly, "You might wanna finish that. I need to change." 

Then he walked away. Just strolled out like he'd just had a casual conversation with you, leaving you to crumble against the counter as the reality of what just happened sunk in. 

It was time to ask yourself a very important question, just how badly did you need this job? How far would you let him go?

The National Gymnastics Awards night, a chance for coaches and gymnasts alike from all over the country to get together and celebrate amazing achievements within the field. You'd been before as a gymnast, but 14 months ago you'd made the switch to coaching and moved a few states over to take over a local gym and now you'd been nominated for an award, 'Upcoming Coaching Star'. Considering there were only a few coaching awards you felt honoured to even be nominated. 

The large ballroom the event was taking place in, was dressed up to the nines. Fancy tablecloths draped to the floor, bows on the chairs, floral arrangements on every table and endless streamers and balloons decorated the vast space.

You were dressed in a short flared cocktail dress, sipping on champagne to steady your nerves, not because of the crowd or because of the award, but because your ex-boyfriend was also here. Lance Tucker. 

You used to train and compete under him and after you were done, you were quite literally under him.

You were absolutely smitten with the god-like adonis, but after you decided to step back and become a coach, moving away, he decided he couldn't go through with a long term relationship, so, no more Lance.

That was that. You traded texts for a month or so before it all just stopped. This was the first time you'd be in the same room in a very long time.

The awards were announced and you were completely shocked that you won your category, less shocked when Lance won 'Coach Of The Year' for his work at the latest olympics. You couldn't take your eyes off of him when he took the stage, dressed in black slacks that hugged his muscular thighs and a white shirt that moulded to every ab.

His hair was perfectly coiffed but what drew you in the most was his smile, the one you'd missed so dearly but didn't have the guts to voice. 

A while after the awards were done, the dancing and heavy drinking began. You were quickly tipsy and having a ball, when you decided to step off and take a seat to catch your breath. Of course that's when Lance chose to finally move in, after watching you from afar all evening.

"Hey beautiful, congrats on the win." He grinned, as he flopped into the seat next to you.

"Lance, you look good." You smirked.

"Right back at ya." He grinned again, placing his elbows on the table and angling himself towards you, "How have you been?"

"Good." You nodded pressing your lips together. You were very aware of how close he had gotten and the familiar smell that was just so very him, hit you like a tonne of bricks. You had to fight not to take a deep inhale and breath in the familiar scent.

"You know, we miss your round the gym." He flirted, "The girls on the roster are nowhere near as pretty as you."

"I bet it doesn't stop you bedding them." You teased back. Everyone knew Lance had a reputation, that's exactly how it began with you after all.

"You know me too well." He smiled.

"We did date for almost a year." You replied and your smile faltered for a brief second before you quickly put it back on.

"Best year of my life." Lance sighed dramatically.

"Thought that was the year you won gold." You teased, crossing your arms over your chest.

"That comes a close second." He smirked, flicking his gaze up and down over your body whilst biting his lip.

"I'm not gonna fuck you Lance." You scoffed playfully.

"I wasn't saying it for that reason." He grinned back.

"Sure." You pouted.

"I'm not!" He protested and you saw his mask slip for just a second, just enough for the tension to change in the air and the conversation to take a turn.

"So why didn't you say anything like that when we were together, why didn't you fight for us." You sighed.

"Because I'm an idiot." He grunted, beginning to drum at the table anxiously.

"Can't disagree." You replied, trying to force a smile but failing.

"You seein' anyone?" He asked curiously with a brow raised.

"Nope, free as a bird you?" You wished you didn't care, but there was still a pull in your heart that was begging not to be ignored.

"You were the only one who ever got this body to commit." He replied lowly, his mouth twitching at the corner.

"I'll consider that a win." You chuckled to ease the growing tension.

"You should." He murmured lowly, leaning in closer and flicking his gaze to your lips.

You could feel the heat prickling between you, the same heat you'd felt when you were together, like no time had ever passed.

You cleared your throat and pushed yourself back on your chair to create distance, as heat bloomed in your stomach.

"So, anyone taken your fancy tonight?" You breathed, trying to divert his attention elsewhere.

"Just you baby." He smiled, but you could see it was genuine, not a hint of playfulness or teasing beneath his expression and your eyes widened.

"Lance." You exhaled shakily.

He shuffled to the edge of his chair, leaning into your space as your face flushed.

"You know I still remember how you taste," he purred into your ear, "Nothing on this earth is as sweet as you."

The blush deepened and you were sure you could feel the heat pulsing in your pussy.

"It's been so long, maybe I could just get a little taste to tide me over." He smirked and he slipped a palm onto your bare leg beneath the table cloth.

Your body reacted immediately, as goosebumps trailed along your skin at the familiarity of his touch.

"Lance, stop, you can't." You rushed out as your gaze flickered to the other attendees around you.

"Can't what? Say what I mean? No one can hear me." He continued.

You blew a puff of air out between your lips, hating how he affected you but loving it all the same.

"I'll do it right now. I'll be quick." He grinned wickedly, before removing his hand from your leg.

"What?" You gasped, but he only grinned wider in response and you watched with part horror and part arousal as he shuffled under the table, fully concealed behind the white satin cloth.

"Wait!" You hissed, but you only heard a deep chuckle and then felt his fingers trail from your knees to your thighs. 

Your eyes were darting wildly around the room as Lance pushed your legs apart, before slipping his hands to the apex of your hips, gripping your underwear and ripping it off. You jumped in your seat with a small squeak and batted your hands aimlessly around through the material, only to be slapped away.

You felt Lance place his hands firmly back on your thighs, gripping them firmly as he began placing soft kisses and kitten licks along the flesh. 

When he reached your already wet folds and licked a stripe through them, you slammed your elbows onto the table and placed your fist in front of your lips to stop a moan from slipping out.

"Shit." You mumbled into your skin, as he began flicking his tongue over your clit and swirling it around in the way he always used too, knowing exactly how to bring you to peak at speed.

You were holding back groans deep in your throat as he worked on your pussy, switching between your clit and folds before plunging his tongue into your depths.

"Hey." Came a male voice and your eyes widened in fear, as a man named Paul that you recognised from the board, sat down next to you.

"Oh hey." You said with a flat lipped smile as Lance worked on you faster than before and you had to concentrate hard not to squirm in your seat.

"Congrats on the award." Paul smiled with a flirtatious glint in his eye, pulling his lower lip into his mouth.

You almost grunted loudly when you felt Lance suddenly thrust a finger into your core.

"Th...thank you." You mumbled back, trying to ignore the way your abdomen was tightening.

"How've you been keeping?" He continued and you could have cried as the pleasure built alongside the embarrassment, you almost begged him to leave just so you could pull Lance out and drag him to your room.

"Mmm...good.." You nodded, looking down at the table as your fingers twitched and Lance was pumping two of his own into your core, curling them against your g-spot as he licked your clit, you swore you could feel him smirking against your cunt.

"Yeah, you seeing anyone at the moment?" Paul purred and your eyes snapped to his in shock, you definitely hadn't expected that.

"No." You mumbled.

You suddenly felt a nip to your thigh and your brows rose. You swallowed a gulp at the action before trying to focus back on Paul.

"Good that's great." Paul grinned, "I was actually wondering if you wanted to go out sometime?"

You started to respond when you suddenly squeaked, feeling a harsher nip to your thigh and you quickly took the hint.

"I..uhh...sorry I don't think that's a good idea." You breathed apologetically.

"Oh right..fair enough." Paul sighed as he slumped back in the chair.

"Sorry." You said through gritted teeth as Lance resumed his previous actions with a new found fury.

"Hey no worries, save me a dance at least?" Paul smiled softly.

"Sure." You mumbled and you hissed out loud as Lance harshly bit your other thigh in protest.

Paul raised his brows in concern but you just shook your head with a smile and he immediately relaxed.

"Okay, see you in a bit then." He smiled and you breathed a sigh of relief when he finally got up and left.

Lance quickly placed his lips back over your clit and inserted another finger, sucking your clit into his mouth harshly and you quickly reached the edge. You pulled your palm to your mouth and pushed it against your lips firmly to muffle your scream as you came hard around Lance's digits.

He worked you through it slowly before finally releasing you and you sat panting heavily, slumped back on your chair.

Lance crawled out from under the table with a boyish grin and climbed to his feet. You could see the evidence of your arousal shimmering on his lips.

He placed his hand on the back of your chair and leaned in close while you still struggled to catch your breath.

"Room 204." He whispered before placing a kiss to your cheek. He stepped back with a wink and immediately left the room.

You sat there for a few minutes arguing with yourself about whether or not this was a good idea, before you finally stood and shook your head. You knew you were wasting time, you were always gonna end up in his bed one way or another, so why fight it?

Everything Tag - @late-to-the-party-81

The day had been gruelling and long, with patrons coming and going in their flocks due to the beating sun. The small, family owned arcade you worked at along the shore was rustic and had that old timey feel, yet still managed to pull in the younger crowd. You loved it, loved the job, loved the area, your colleagues, but your boss was something else entirely.

Jake Jensen had taken over for his father a few years ago, now the sole owner of the little amusement hall like his father and his father before him. A shared passion that passed down the generations and kept the small business alive. You loved how excited Jake got when a new machine or game dropped, how animated he became as he spoke about the ins and outs of different mechanics or genres.

He was gorgeous and kind and had that geeky boyish charm that you craved. The problem was, he was also completely oblivious to the way he made you feel. To the way your thighs clenched when he got too close or the way saliva pooled in your mouth when he'd lift the edge of his tee to wipe the sweat from his brow, revealing his sculptured vee that dipped down beneath his jeans.

You wanted him, more than anything and you had dropped hint after hint in an attempt to get what you wanted, but Jake remained unphased or maybe unbothered. You hoped it was just his blissful unawareness of women and not that he just wasn't interested in you, but you didn't know how much longer you could hold out before you gave up.

"Busy today huh boss?" You purred with a smirk, leaning over his desk whilst pushing your boobs together in an attempt to get his attention.

"Yeah, busier than usual." He muttered over his computer, not even glancing up from the screen as usual.

You internally huffed in annoyance, wondering just how much more obvious you needed to be.

"You want me to fill up the coin pushers tonight?" You offered, biting down on your lip as you looked over the object of your desires.

"Please that would really help." He agreed as his fingers worked over the keyboard and his brows furrowed at the screen.

"No problem." You sighed, turning on your heel and shaking your head at your own stupidity.

"Hey." He called from behind you, as you reached the door and your whole body stilled, heart hammering as you dared a glance over your shoulder to see Jake looking back at you with a smile on his gorgeous plush lips.

"Yeah?" You replied, breath hitching in anticipation.

"Did you know the first pusher was invented in 1964 in the UK?" Jake grinned, clearly enthusiastic about yet another lesser known fact.

"No that's interesting." You swallowed, stamping down the lump in your throat. God he was impossible.

"Yeah I thought so too." Jake chuckled before turning back to his computer.

The answer looked clearer now than ever before, you just weren't his type, he wasn't interested or maybe you hadn't been nearly bold enough.

You decided there and then, one more push and you'd never say anything again, you'd take the rejection and your dignity and push down the feelings for him that had been festering for months.

"Cool well...I'll get on that...." You smiled, "But if you need me to help take a load off anywhere else, or just, take a load, let me know."

With that you walked out of the office door, hearing a scrape of a chair and a muttered voice behind you.

"I will." Jake answered before his brows raised and he looked up at the empty doorway with a lump in his throat, quickly shoving himself from his chair. "Wait what?"

You approached the first of many coin pushers, tapping your left hand down on the glass as you looked down, in an attempt to assess what it needed, despite your mind reeling at the devastation of Jake not wanting you.

Your right hand slipped into your back pocket to collect your master keys when you felt a hand on your wrist stilling you and a body slowly push up against your back.

"Please," Jake rasped against your ear with a shaky voice, "Tell me I took that how you meant it."

You pressed your ass back against him, feeling him already hard against you as a low strangled growl escaped his throat.

"It feels like you did." You breathed as your own heart sped up and arousal pooled in your panties.

"Thank fuck." Jake groaned, desperately grabbing the waistband of your trousers and yanking them down along with your underwear.

You barely had time to register what was happening before his cock was buried in your cunt, hands pressed flat against the top of the machine and his nose buried in the crook of your neck while your pussy pulsed around him with need.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this." He groaned, slipping his cock from you to thrust back in to the hilt.

Your hips snapped against the harsh glass corners of the pusher, hands now pressed flat next to Jake's to keep yourself on your toes, but you didn't care, because he was finally inside you, stretching you in a way you'd never felt before, like he was always supposed to carve out his space inside you.

"I've been dropping enough hints." You moaned.

"You have?" Jake squeaked in surprise.

"Uh huh." You nodded feebly, voice raspy and broken while he pummeled himself inside you, "Almost daily for the last couple months."

"Shit I'm such a dumbass." Jake groaned, slipping his hands from the glass and sliding them under your t shirt, taking hold of your hips, "Been jerking off at home to the thought of you when I could of been having you this whole time."

"Exactly." You smirked.

"Did you think about me too?" He moaned, dragging his nose along the exposed skin of your neck, inhaling you as he finally took you.

You only groaned in response, even more aroused at the idea of him stroking his cock to the thought of you.

"Tell me?" He pleaded, again, pressing a single kiss to your neck.

"I did." You gasped.

"Oh fuck." He grunted, forehead dropping down onto your shoulder, "Not gonna be a dumbass from now on."

"Please." You begged, unsure whether it was in response to what he'd said or the fact your stomach was tightening and your body was pulsing as an orgasm built.

"Gonna keep you so full." He groaned as his hips continued slamming against your ass, "Take you out back between shifts."

"God." You groaned, eyes rolling back in pleasure.

Your head dropped back, landing against his shoulder and Jake took the opportunity to start placing rushed kisses to your neck, jaw and cheek.

"Yeah you like that idea?" He murmured against your cheek, "You wanna be mine?"

"It's all I want." You breathed.

"Well you're mine now kitten." He promised, hands tightening on your hips, "All mine."

"Yes Jake." You cried as your body began to shake in preparation for release, blood pumped to your ears and your eyes closed, ready to be taken by the bliss.

"You're so fucking perfect." Jake grunted, "Feels so good."

"Don't stop." You begged in a whisper.

"I won't. Fuck." He rasped, "Gonna make you feel so good."

His cock continued slamming into you, the sounds of skin slapping skin and hushed moans filled the empty arcade as the smell of musk and sex surrounded you both.

"Please. So close." You panted, fingers twitching against the glass, desperate for something to hold on too.

"Let go kitten, cum for me." Jake grunted, hips speeding up in excitement at your upcoming orgasm.

"Fuck." You practically yelled when you finally came. Your pussy gushed around his cock, eyes glazing and body flooding with heat.

"That's it. Shit." Jake groaned shakily as his own orgasm began to take route, "Gripping me so hard, fuck, gonna bust."

He quickly pulled out with a groan, spilling warm cum all over your ass as the pussy clenched around nothing but cold air.

Your torso collapsed over the glass, chest heaving as you panted, trying to catch your breath with a smile on your face.

"Holy shit." Jake panted, dropping his forehead between your shoulders, wet half hard cock sticking against your ass, "That was amazing."

"Yeah." You smiled.

"You mean it?" He asked shyly, sliding his palms up and down along your sides, "Are you mine now?"

"Yeah I am." You grinned.

"Thank fuck." He grunted and you let out a giggle.

Jake pressed a kiss to your back before pulling himself up behind you. You pressed your palms to the glass, pushing your body up as Jake's hands circled your waist, pulling you close to him with his chin on your shoulder.

"Oh hey, we need more prizes in here." You said, looking through the glass as your hands clasped over his arms.

"So we do." Jake smirked.

Everything tag - @late-to-the-party-81

@the-wandering-wonder @rnurse-kole @chemtrails-club @marvelgurl