lex 💆🏻‍♀️

You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.

He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.

You: Are you coming in early today?

JA ❤️: Always.

You quickly typed out another message.

You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible

The reply came almost instantly.

JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.

You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.

JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.

You: are you psychic?

JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.

Your smile widened as his reply came through.

You: thank u 🩷

JA ❤️: 👍

“What are you smiling at?”

You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.

“What?”

“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”

“Nothing.”

Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.

Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”

“What?”

“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.

“That?” Whitaker supplied.

“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”

You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.

“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”

Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”

You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”

Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”

Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."

You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.

“Never give your triggers away Santos.”

“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.

You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.

You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.

“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.

“You all good?”

“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”

“Not for a little while.”

“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”

“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”

You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”

Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”

You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”

“Apparently so.”

You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.

Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.

“Hey.”

You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.

“What?” You asked warily.

Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”

“The what?”

Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.

“Absolute smoke show.”

Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”

Your brows knitted together.

“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.

“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.

You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.

At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.

And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.

“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.

You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.

Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.

Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.

“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”

By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.

“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”

Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.

“Well I’ll be.”

That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.

“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”

Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.

“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”

“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”

“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.

He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.

"Someone has to."

Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.

“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.

"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.

“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.

“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.

Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"

Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.

"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"

"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"

"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."

McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.

"No." McKay shook her head.

"Yes."

“You don’t seriously think….” Whitaker trailed off.

“Oh I do” Santos nodded. “I really do.”

Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”

You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.

“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”

You snorted. “Please.”

“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”

You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”

He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."

He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”

You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”

“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."

"No."

"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”

“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”

"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.

“Wait let me guess.”

Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.

His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”

He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”

From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”

Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.

Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.

For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.

Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”

Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.

“I’m right."

You didn't answer.

"I am."

“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”

“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”

“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”

Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."

"He also has excellent aim."

"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."

And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.

"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.

“You’re happy?”

You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.

“I am.”

“He good to you?"

You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”

For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.

You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”

“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.

"So the usual then?"

“The usual.”

He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”

“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."

Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”

“Sloan.”

The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.

Mark's grin returned instantly.

“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.

"A lot less hair since I last saw you."

Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”

Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.

Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.

“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”

“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”

“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”

Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.

“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”

Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”

McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”

“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.

Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”

The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."

Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.

“You two know eachother?”

“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.

“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.

Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”

You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.

“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“

“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."

Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."

“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”

Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.

You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.

He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.

"Ex?"

You sighed. "...Ex."

Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”

“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”

Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.

You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.

“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.

Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.

You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.

When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.

“Don’t you dare say a word.”

She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”

You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.

For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.

By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.

“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”

You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.

“The old lady with the chest pain?”

“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.

You frowned. "That sucks."

“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.

“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."

Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”

Your eyes narrowed.

"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.

"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."

"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.

"I hate all of you."

Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"

Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.

You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.

You waited a couple minutes before moving.

The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.

A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So… that’s your ex.”

“That’s my ex.”

He nodded. "You left out a few details."

"Such as?"

His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.

“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"

Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."

Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”

“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”

“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”

“You’re not.” You insisted.

Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.

You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”

“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.

Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.

"Jack."

"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”

You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.

“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.

“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.

“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”

You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”

Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.

“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”

His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”

“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”

The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”

“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”

His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”

Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.

“Well, lucky for him it worked.”

The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.

He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.

“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”

You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”

“Yes.” He answered plainly.

You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”

Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.

“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”

You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”

Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”

Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.

“Did you eat?”

You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”

Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”

“I will.”

“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”

Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”

“Of course.”

You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”

His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.

“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.

You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”

You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.

“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”

Jack raised a brow.

“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”

“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.

“I know I am.”

“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.

You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.

Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.

you can see a little bit of jack's mostly salt than pepper hair, you can see him looking at you through the screen with a lustful gaze, you can see how his frame is almost swallowing you due to how fucking big he is compared to you. seriously, no one's grandad should look this sexy. and you. . .

you look fucking sinful. your mascara has run down your cheeks — you've been crying a lot because you're so goddamn tired but jack's been making you feel so good to beg him to stop. your lipstick has completely rubbed off of your lips. you can also see some drool and snot sticking to your skin. disgusting. but fuck, you can't deny how hot you look right now. the way your hips are winding on his cock, and how it drives the old man crazy. his head keeps tilting back, yelling and groaning up at the ceiling, eyes rolling to the back of his skull — like a man possessed.

jack hazily stares back at your eyes through the screen, the corner of his mouth lifting upwards. "a throne for a princess."

now it's your turn to cry out of pleasure, the loudness echoing off the walls.

"jesus– fuck!!" your voice was strangled, nails digging into the meat of jack's thighs.

he hissed, then he taunts you. "why? you gonna cum again?"

you didn't answer him. instead, you grumbled in a weak objection. that's a clear enough answer.

jack gets up from the bed bringing you with him. he's still balls deep inside of you when he looks at the screen to make sure he's getting the right angles. he takes hold of both of your arms and pins them behind your back before he starts to pound hard in and out of you.

are his joints not on fire? his back must be killing him too but his determination to make you come for the sixth time outweighs his own needs. 

the camera captures the recoil of your breasts from the force of jack's thrusts. you can't speak at all, you think that's what he wants — your only role in his film was to act as his personal pornstar, someone who doesn’t have to speak or think. someone who just moans and acts slutty — and fuck, you love it. 

he sneaks a hand around your body to play with your clit, you start to squirm away from him from overstimulation. he’s everywhere. his cock, his breath, his scent. . . you’re drowning in him. 

“squirt again for me, baby. squirt all over this floor until your smell is stuck in this room for days.” 

you unhinge your jaw with a silent scream as you spray your juices one. . . two. . . three. . . four times. you can not hold your entire body up by yourself, jack has to maneuver you into a bent over position by the dresser where the camera is placed. 

jack presses himself on your sweaty back, then breathes against your hairline. “what do you say, beautiful?”

it takes everything in you to moan out the words, “siiiixxxxx. . .” you sob, “thank you for making me feel good. love you, daddy.”

“love you too, baby.” you can see him smile fondly at you, there’s genuine love and adoration in his eyes — a stark difference compared to that first time he bent you over his knee, when there was only lust.

“ready for the next one? lucky number seven?” 

“. . .dunno.” you think you’re at your breaking point and you’re really tired. 

his demeanour changed into concern, “just say the word, baby. we can stop. you’re the boss here.”

you can’t stop the single tear that escaped your eye, jack swiped over it with his thumb before tilting your head to face him. he gives you a sweet kiss on the lips. 

he may be the 'daddy' or the 'papa' but you got him wrapped around your finger. he has always spoiled you but you think you should do the same to him because he deserves it as much as you. 

a wide smile breaks across your face. jack returns one of his own.

with a single nod, “i’m okay, papa. let’s do it.”

he carefully pulls out of you, takes the camera and hands it to you. you clutch it to your chest as he picks you up in a bridal carry and carries you back to the bed. 

he retrieves the object back from you and sets it on the bedside table. he makes a few adjustments on its angles and your positions. 

you are sprawled on the mattress, your limbs feeling like jelly. he pushes your legs apart then hooks them around his waist. 

you place a hand on his thigh. you softly ask, “your leg still okay?” 

he simply smiled, “i’m okay.”

you hummed with a pout, unconvinced. your expression makes him huff a laugh. “i promise.” 

jack takes hold of his still hard, heavy cock. he gives your cunt a few ‘love taps’ before he pushes in you again. he’d been inside you all this time and yet the stretch still knocks the air out of your lungs. 

he draws himself closer to you, brushing his lips against yours. he starts pounding deep and hard. this will be orgasm number seven — he has to make it so fucking good for you, you pass out. 

he’s not giving you enough time to breathe, you can’t help but to just close your eyes shut and take what he’s giving you. you also don’t realise that you’re scratching down his back, your nails are surely leaving marks deep into his skin. 

jack grunts in pain but he keeps going. he’s so close to reaching his peak. 

“give it to me. fu– fucking squeeze the fuck out of my cock.” 

you let out a high keen, “i’m cumming! aah–!” you start to convulse beneath him, still leaving marks not only on his back but on his beefy biceps as well. 

not letting you recover, he drags you to the edge of the bed and lets you drop to the floor. his hands shove you into a kneeling position. 

as if on autopilot mode, you open your mouth wide, sticking your tongue out. jack pumps his dick with quickness, “that’s a good little girl. fuck, you’re so pretty.” he moans long and loud, “staystillstaystillstaystill. take alllll of your papa’s cum. c’mon.”

some of the first spurts landed on your forehead and cheeks, you angled your head to catch the remaining spend. 

when he’s sure he squeezed out all of it, he tells you to keep his cum on your tongue and stay in place. he briskly makes his way over to the bedside table to grab the camcorder. he returns standing in front of you, pointing the lens to your face, and zooming in. 

“swallow.” 

you obey, your eyes close at the delectable taste of your old lover. 

jack sighed, in awe of you. “show off those manners, little miss.”

you giggled, “that’s seven. thank you for the gift, daddy!” you bite your lip, hoping to come off as flirtatious in the video. 

“you gonna meet up with old men you talk to on the internet at hotels again?” 

“nuh-uh.”

“that’s a good girl. . . you’re gonna be my new favourite plaything.” he caresses the side of your jaw.

recording ends.

jack carelessly chucks the camcorder on the bed. 

he runs both of his hands through his curls, wiping the dripping sweat off his face in the process. and like a switch, “i’ll run a bath for us then room service?”

you inch closer to his right kneecap to give it a gentle kiss. you rest your cheek against it, you look up at him. “then a massage?”

“deal.” as he starts to lean forward to help you up, he hisses and rubs the skin of his lower back. “maybe a full body massage?" ♡ 

You didn't mind being used, not by him, the way his ringed fingers felt on your skin and his lips left their mark on you made it anything but cheap, and you couldn't imagine ever denying him wanting you.

It was usually planned, meeting each other day or night at what usually felt like the snap of his fingers, but even if it was unexpected or last minute, you were always prepared.

Prepared, safe, and right now this was anything but.

He showed up unannounced, the roar of his bike vibrating the blood in your veins that instantly burned hot the moment you heard the familiar rumble, watching through your window as he stormed up to your door and busted right in as if it was his to do so.

Jax was feral, someone or something getting under his skin that was more than likely a result of club business that you had no business asking about, and now he was your problem.

“Fuck, darlin’, I need you,” he hissed against your neck, his teeth scraping over your thrumming pulse.

You cursed yourself for not having gone to the store when you intended to, knowing you and him had used the last condom you had only two days ago, and you swallowed hard as you readied yourself to break the news to him.

“I um, fuck– I don’t have anything,” you breathed, angling your head slightly to see his face.

The disappointment and hint of annoyance couldn’t be disguised on his features, a huff blowing out of his pink lips that were glistening from yours.

“Do you?” you hoped, your fingers gently sliding down the soft leather that covered his heaving chest.

The lift of his eyebrows creased his forehead as he gave you a look that said ‘you’re kidding’ more than speaking the words could, and when he smirked and shook his head slightly, you ached even more for him.

“Sorry,” you whispered, hating that you were letting him down and denying him the one thing he clearly needed.

You could feel his energy coiled up so tightly, practically buzzing through the layers of clothes he wore beneath his kutte, his body heat radiating onto your palms, and his eyes flashed with a hunger and primal need that ran deeper than just letting off some steam.

“Hey, don't worry about it,” he assured, his tone lighter than you expected. “We can just hang out.”

His eyes flickered down to your lips, his thumb reaching up to press against your lower one before leaning in for more, his moan pouring into your mouth that made your knees go weak.

You should've known it was bullshit the second he said it, because the next thing you knew you were naked, sprawled out on your bed where he hovered over you still fully clothed, his fingers hooked inside you where he worked you with expertise.

“Remember my rule, sweetheart,” he drawled, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed hard, your effect on him undisguisable.

When you didn't answer, Jax retreated from you, standing upright where he peered down at you with a cockiness that you loved seeing, and peeled his kutte off his large frame.

You whined, the loss of him touching you turning you pathetic, and he reveled in it.

“What's my rule?” he demanded, his words holding more bite.

“Not to come until you let me,” you breathed, smiling as you warmed at the thought.

“Good girl.”

You watched as he continued to undress, his simple nod at you giving you the go ahead to touch yourself while he did, your promise to listen to his instructions about to be ignored when the sight of his cock bouncing out of his pristinely white boxers had you wrecked already.

Wearing nothing but his rings and the branded black ink that made him who he was as much as blood and breath did, he crawled over you, his eyes holding a softness you mistook as a promise.

“I just wanna feel you against me,” he whispered, his hand smoothing over your head before capturing your lips.

The truth in that remark was severely understated, the desperation both of you showed in being as close as possible to each other without fucking unlike ever before, and you knew part of the thrill of it all was in holding back.

You’d rarely seen him like this, obsessive and indulgent, completely undone as he laid on top of you, his hair hanging in his face as he made what seemed like every part of you from your lips to your chest raw from his beard.

His cock rested against you, tempting to push through, the threat of him being bare inside your cunt an allurement like no other.

You moved your hips, taunting and teasing, making his cock glide through your wetness so much that he almost slipped inside.

He growled something that resembled a curse against the hollow of your neck, pulling himself back just enough to look down at you, his eyes reflecting the torment that plagued him.

“You’re making this fuckin’ impossible, darlin’,” he warned, flopping himself down on the mattress with a huff.

You smiled, amused by his misery brought on by you, and moved to straddle him, your hands planted on his thick chest.

You had never felt more powerful, watching as you dissolved him down to a groping, deprived mess, the satisfaction in denying him what he wanted from you giving you radiance.

Your King, brought down by the sins of your body, bent around your will so effortlessly he turned into nothing but a man under your touch. But lingering just beneath the surface you knew better than to trust this confidence.

“Is it really that bad?” you asked playfully, grinding yourself on his throbbing length until he hissed and dug his head down into the pillow.

“Fuck…” he moaned, grabbing your hips so hard there would be bruises and bucking up against you. “You’re killin’ me.”

You leaned forward, your hands cupping his cheeks as you kissed him, rolling your tongue with his as you rode on his shaft.

His hands moved to your ass, gripping your flesh and spreading your cheeks apart as you continued to use him, the feel of him rubbing through you but not pushing inside almost as good as if he was.

With a slight shift of his hips, his leaking head pressed into you, making you gasp and jolt away like you were burned, his amusement clear on his face.

He bit his bottom lip, looking at you with warning before he spoke.

“You better be careful or you’re gonna get fucked.”

His threat made you shiver, heat crawling down your spine where it coiled deep in your core, and unable to think of a way to respond, you kissed him again, hard and needy while you continued to tease yourself on him.

The thought of him filling you with nothing but himself had you aching more than ever, nothing separating you from him, the intimacy in that danger turning it into something you suddenly wanted more than anything in the world.

You’d let him have it all if he wanted, feeling like you were dangling yourself right in front of him like a sacrifice, but Jax seemed to be loving the game just as much.

He moved his hips at the same time you rolled yours back, his hands locking on you to force you still the second his tip breached your entrance, the cruelness in his laugh reverberating through you as he kept your mouths pressed together.

You fought to lift yourself off, your cunt aching and dripping from that small stretch, wanting to fully sink down onto him and never remove yourself.

Your hands clawed at the side of his face, moaning into him as you deepened your kiss, still rocking along him where every so often he would slip inside, his body instinctively finding where it belonged in yours.

“Jax…” you whined, completely stupid from lust and desperation, your inhibitions shattering the longer this went on.

Again, and only the tip, Jax pressed inside your hole, a low groan coming out of him while a smug smile played on his lips.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said like a joke, letting you pull off of him before he drove in, further this time.

You closed your eyes and sat upright, lifting off of him again, grinding on the golden smattering of pubes that trailed from his navel to where he had been made sticky from you, pretending like you were trying to rescue that last bit of resolve even though you both knew it was futile.

There was no use in denying yourselves any longer, throwing caution out the window as you finally let yourself sit fully on it, his size always a shock, but the feel of him raw inside you was what had you gasping.

Your nails dug into his chest, the half-moon indents carved into his porcelain skin to be seen for days, and you hoped the memory of being buried bare inside you would stay imprinted in his mind for longer.

Jax immediately started thrusting up into you, his pleasured sounds unashamed as he grunted and moaned loudly, his praise something you would wear as proudly as a crown.

“Jesus Christ, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he huffed, propping himself up off the bed enough to watch you move up and down on his naked cock, already knowing from the second he had you like this that he was fucked.

You basked in his worship, his gaze and his words enhancing the feeling of every detail of him being imprinted in you, his veins throbbing against your walls, his velvety skin encased in your warmth.

“Lay down,” he ordered, despite already making quick work of doing it for you, and the second you were splayed out in the sheets, he grabbed your body and flipped you onto your stomach.

Immediately sensing your loss of control in the situation, you turned your face and spoke, your words sounding more panicked than you wanted.

“Make sure you pull out, Jax.”

A wicked smile tugged at his lips, his head giving a cockier than usual nod as he shuffled in behind you on his knees, getting close enough that his cock was wedged between your cheeks.

“Don't worry, darlin’. I will,” he spoke after a huff of a laugh blew past his lips, the malice in his voice dripping off his tongue.

His hand that held the two rings that spelled out SONS spread your ass apart as he lined up, driving his cock in slowly, watching your body accept every inch of his girth and length.

Gritting his teeth together tightly, he bottomed out, loving the way your face screwed up almost in pain and your hands clawed at the bedding, your body shifting away from him as if you could escape.

He let out a cruel laugh, pulling your hips back down on him, his hands staying there to keep you on his dick.

Jax’s pace was deliberate and harsh, thrusting into you like a man possessed, everything that was pent up finally being released as he fucked you with everything he had.

He loved watching you take him on any other occasion, but seeing his unsheathed cock pumping in and out of you brought on a level of insanity he couldn’t compare to anything else. The sight of your cream coating him made his mouth water, and he knew for sure this was the best thing he’d ever laid eyes on, watching your pussy stretch to fit him while your other hole gleamed with your arousal.

Jax licked his thumb and brought it down to press against your ass, rimming it in tantalizing circles as he continued to fuck you ruthlessly, a satisfied laugh ringing out as you whined to this additional pleasure.

“Fuck, Jax,” you cried, squirming more in the sheets. “I’m getting close.”

He relished in knowing what he was doing to you, his head tipping back so his blushed face titled toward the ceiling, his hips continuing to pound against you as his thumb pressed in further.

“Fuck, baby,” he chuckled, “this pussy is the best thing I’ve ever felt.”

You heard the truth in his words, his praise making you soar and reminding you once again of your reign over him, the King, your rightful place at the throne beside him despite being at his total mercy.

You were teetering the line, feeling closer to the edge than ever and you knew if he kept up what he was doing or your thoughts worked to aid your body in getting what it needed, you would be done.

The absence of the smell of latex was making the intoxicating scent of sex more heightened to the point your mouth watered, and remembering once again that he was fucking you raw, you came hard, clenching like a vice around his dick that continued to slam into you fast and brutally.

Your spit stained the sheets, feeling it smear from your open mouth as you struggled for air, your orgasm extended as long as possible by him not letting up even for a second.

Everything was soaked under you, the sound of his hips slapping against you wetter and more obscene than before, his grunting making a shiver crawl down your spine.

“This cunt is mine,” he barked, the words greedy and vicious through his bared teeth.

His hand pushed down between your shoulder blades, pressing you into the bed more, your face smushed into your mess as his other collected both of your wrists and planted them at the small of your back, his rough grip making you wince.

There was no escaping his barrage now even if you wanted to, lifting your hips up as much as you could to give him more which allowed him to fuck you deeper, and he happily took the opportunity.

You knew he wouldn’t be far off from his climax, the thought of him waiting to the last second to pull out and wondering where he was going to aim his load making you shudder, and when he removed his hand from the center of your back and wrapped it around to your clit, you lost all control again.

You would've blacked out had you not wanted to feel every single second of it, crying out a broken scream ripped from you out of pure pleasure, the sound of Jax hammering into you to find his own release distant in your ears.

There was no way he was pulling out. Not with you like this, completely powerless to him and what he could give you. Part of him knew it was wrong but he didn’t fucking care, the grasp that greed had on him too strong to fight anymore.

He looked at you through blurred vision, hazy in his ecstasy, adoring how soft and accepting your body looked even as he treated you so disrespectfully, his heart aching in his chest as all of him succumbed to what it sought.

A slew of broken curses and guttural sounds spilled from his mouth, his hair hanging in his face as sweat dripped off his nose and landed on your back, his cock pulsing as he shot his big load deep inside your cunt.

Jax stayed there as long as he could as you both came down, loving the feel of being buried inside your full pussy, a smirk tugging at his lips as he waited for you to notice.

You whined as you shifted slightly, feeling the unmistakable warmth and thickness leaking out of you, realizing in a mix of fear and something else you couldn't place what he had done.

“Jesus, Jax,” you blurted, but even you were unsure whether you were upset or satisfied, your stomach doing a flip out of both anxiety and excitement.

Pulling out of you, he watched with pride as his milky white cum spilled out of your perfect pussy, your hole stretched and lips swollen from his cock and everything he had done to you.

The distinct smell of his cum hit you as you inhaled deeply, and you closed your eyes and took a second to savour the moment, basking in his act of possession, his selfishness quietly excused.

You rolled over, glaring at him with as much conviction as you could manage, though the way he was looking at you forced you to bite your lip to stop from smiling, and it took everything in you to disguise how much you really loved this.

“Well, what did I say?” he quipped, his expression as smug as his words, his head tilting to the side with amusement.

You sighed, about to retort when you were cut off, your witty words stolen as Jax’s two fingers swiped up his wasted load and pushed it back inside you.

You moaned and grabbed at the sheets beside you, closing your eyes as you relished in the feel of him fingering his seed in deeper, his blatant want for it to stay in you leaving no doubt of his claim over you.

“Good girl,” he drawled roughly, his cock already hard again from how accepting you were of this, the need he felt to keep you full of his cum at all times almost unbearable.

He positioned himself between your spread legs, forcing his cock back in your pussy with a hard push, watching a deranged smile dress your gorgeous lips.

“You’re dreamin’ if you think this is the last time I’m filling you up.”

---

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you had a mega watt smile on your face as you reached the table. jack tried to ignore the slack jaws that his buddies were sporting as you smacked a kiss to his lips and rubbed his chest gently. "sorry jackie, but you forgot to put on sunscreen when you left and i can't have you burning up." you pouted as you added, "you know your freckles are extra sensitive in this heat."

jack abbot, military veteran and swat physician, fought a giddy smile as you batted your lashes while worrying over the fact that he could potentially burn up on the public parks basketball black top.

one of the guys coughed a laugh and you turned your attention towards all the weathered veterans that were missing limbs and marred with scars. and just like you had done with jack, you didn't tone your bubbliness down to match whatever hypothetical grief you thought they carried, you just kept that pretty smile on your face. "hi boys! jack has told me sooo much about you all! does anyone else need sunscreen after i apply his?"

you popped off the bottle cap and squirted some onto your hands while brightly introducing yourself, then started to rub the white paste on jacks already pink cheeks to between the creases of his crows feet with a tenderness that made his chest twinge. you had them all say their names one by one and what positions they played on the court.

"back court? that sounds like a tough one, do you play that too jackie?" you asked him innocently while you covered his freckled shoulders that were exposed from his muscle tee, your tongue cutely poking out of the corner of your mouth in concentration.

one of jacks friends opened his mouth with a clearly crude intention at the ready, jack cut him off with a glare. "don't even think about it." jack raised a hand to point at him in warning, not realizing that he still gripped the pills in his hand.

your eyes snagged on the viagra bottle and your brows raised. "what's that?" jack tried to answer but it was too late, the vet with one arm and half a leg cut in swiftly, smuggly. "just a gift from us guys. from a few old timers to another, we thought abbot could benefit from some... alone time assistance." he winked at you.

you frowned in confusion. "but, jack and i have sex all the time."

jack choked on air, eyes widening instantly. "baby! you don't have to—" all the guys started to chuckle, half disbelief half pure amusement. "all the time?" someone chirped. "go on hon, tell us what you mean!"

you cocked your head to the side, truly not understanding that they were goading you. "well, he's never had to use any kind of pills if thats what you're asking. he can do it anywhere, anytime really. which we do"— jacks beet red face was not from sunburn as you started to list out examples on your fingers "—we've done it both of our cars—" his hand clutched at his chest, one guy spat out his water. "—we've done it in a few different elevators—"

the next few guys turned to gawk at jack, he felt faint all of a sudden as you just kept on talking "—oh! one time, i dropped him off thirty minutes early by accident and he was the first one here so we did it up against that tree over—"

"SWEETHEART!" everyone flinched at jack's shout. your pretty eyes simply blinked at him, innocent as a lamb, "w-what jackie?" he started to sputter, brain malfunctioning at the fact that you'd just shared more about his life to these guys than he had in the past twenty years. all the vets started to make their way to the court, patting jack on the back with congratulations and howling with laughter as they went, leaving the two of you alone.

jack exhaled when his heart rate was finally regulated, he didn't want you to know he was slightly mortified, you would've felt terrible. "just... i think they got the picture baby." he chuckled then placed a kiss to your forehead. the timbre of his voice dropped low, raising a suggestive brow as he added "you just had to add the time against the tree, huh?"

you bit your lip as you shrugged sweetly, "what? it's a personal favorite." jack shook his head as he pulled you into a deep kiss, the kind that had led to the tree rendezvous. only when you started to inappropriately paw at him did he pull back. "thanks for the sunscreen and a stroll down memory lane sweetheart." you rubbed in a stray streak of sunscreen on his stubbled chin. " 'course jackie."

Sun warmed salt water laps at your legs, your surfboard allowing a soft rock with each wave. Your heart pounds as you glance at your best friend, unsure you'd heard him correctly.

"You're trying to corral me to one of Craig's parties?" You clarify, brow raised.

Deran just shrugs at this, his own board parallel to yours in the water.

"Listen, all I'm saying is if you want to see me this weekend, that's how it's going to happen. Craig's got me on beer duty," he adds with an eye roll.

You both know this will leave Deran blowing three jobs' worth of money on alcohol. This is not your first rodeo when it comes to the Pope family, or rather, your lifelong neighbors.

Growing up in one of the richest neighborhoods in California had been daunting for you- a meek, sullen child with pointy ears and crooked teeth. You did not fit into the posh corporate world you'd been brought into, your parents both a CEO power team.

Deran had taken you in, though, on the first day of kindergarten. You'd been sniffling quietly in the corner after your nanny had dropped you off. tempted to place a thumb between your lips when a scruffy, shaggy boy lined your vision.

You'd been inseparable ever since, but as you got older, you'd chosen to stay far away from his brother's antics. Burrowing away for most of high school, you recall hearing loud whoops and pool splashes late into most weekend nights.

You also recall the times where your eyes would linger out of the window, falling on the elusive, oldest brother. When it came to him, that voice in the back of your head telling you to look away you fucking creep was utterly silenced.

Even if all you did was stand there, so small through your giant window that it wouldn't matter even if you were spotted, there was a pounding chant of guilt echoing in your mind.

He doesn't even notice you, he's in love with someone else. Get over it.

Now that you're an adult, you're thankful you didn't act on such impulses. You can only imagine the havoc a middle-aged-situationship would have wrecked on your teenage self, let alone at the hands of a Cody.

Though, you suspect that Pope's different, that he wouldn't have ever thought it. Your previous thoughts weren't wrong, either. He really didn't know who you were.

Because he's so much older, your paths rarely crossed during your time spent in the Cody house. All you'd ever had was an elusive idea of who he was, of what he's turned into.

It drove Deran crazy, too, your near-psychotic whining at moaning. All for someone who, truly, did not know you existed.

Then, he got out of prison.

Things were different after that. He was home more, just watching and lingering at first. This soon turned into some brief, light conversation.

A shiver runs down your spine just at the memories of his terse questions, his one worded replies. You can only imagine what he'd be like this weekend, loosened by alcohol and the sun's warmth. A thread of compulsion stitches itself in your chest, and you act before you can think.

"Fine, I'll be there," you seal your fate, sparing Deran a sneaky glance. Sue you if your curiosity beats logic just this once.

Confusion furrows his brows at this, shock parting his lips. The longer he looks at you, the quicker he's going to figure out

"Are you sure?" He asks, eyes darting toward an incoming wave.

It's far off, you guys have a little bit more time until it really hits, but you get a head start anyway.

You paddle with your arms, eager to get away from his knowing gaze. Nodding, you turn to look back at him over your shoulder.

"I'm positive," it's shaky, and utterly unconvincing.

He raises a brow at you, still wading behind you.

"And this has nothing to do with rekindling your old love for a certain brother of mine?" He asks, though you ignore him.

Finally, the wave is close enough for you to prop yourself on your two feet, your core acting as your built in balance beam.

"What'd you say?" You call to him, and you both know damn well you're full of shit.

A few days later, you're out of your skin, a marionette bound by tight bikini strings and pure anxiety. The bass of some shitty rock song Craig likes vibrates through the entire pool deck, tickling your feet.

Glancing around, you're eager to find Deran, the only person you know at this godforsaken party. It's lawless, and you're thoroughly shocked at the intimate details you've found at this party.

You thought you'd seen it all, spending essentially your entire life with this family. You do have to say, the angle in your window is nothing compared to the close and personal view you have of some girl's ass, perched high up in her thong bikini as she does a bump off a key Craig's lifting to her nose.

You're not stupid, you know what the deal is with this family. You knew what you were getting into when you'd accepted this invite, but this was maybe the fifth party you've ever attended, college years included.

Your eyes eventually fall on the one Cody brother you'd been most anxious to see, though you're not entirely complaining. Pope is nearly parallel to you across the deck, his hardened gaze already burning into you.

His stare is like an electric shock, an impenetrable force nestling itself deep in your chest. Lips tightening, you give him an awkward wave. You try not to focus too hard on the skip of your heart when he returns your niceties.

Averting your gaze toward the sliding glass door, you long to escape into the quieter confines of the Cody household. Though it's not empty. the crowd in there is smaller, less mimicking of sardines in the metal tin of this backyard.

The walls call to you like an old church hymn. One that's been lost to the crevices of your mind, but the realization is instant all the same.

Just as you move to stand, water droplets prick you like a million tiny icicles, piercing into your warm skin. Your jaw drops upon impact, whipping your head just in time to see Craig emerge from the water.

The waves of his cannonball ripple throughout the water, an instant giveaway- aka the physical proof you'd need to avoid his denial.

"Craig!" You squeal, cheeks burning at the heads that turned to land on you.

"Sorry, sorry, baby," he laughs, the flow of your pet name an easy stream from his lips. "Guess you have no excuse now, hm? C'mon in!"

He waves a hand, once again splashing you. You shiver at the small sprinkles he subjects you to, rubbing your hands up and down your arms.

"Not right now," you shake your head. "I was actually going to go to the kitchen. Do you want anything?" You ask, praying the idea of another beer distracts him from his prodding.

You're lucky you're you, because Craig just gives you a sad smile, eyes darting behind you, just for the briefest moment.

"Nah, I'm good," he replies. "Make sure you drink some water."

You nod, unsure of what exactly he saw to really make him back down. As much as the Cody boys love you, they love teasing you even more.

You're met with your answer, though, when you turn to see the sliding glass door propped open halfway. Pope stands over the threshold, stance wide and intimidating.

His arms cross over his chest like a bouncer, ad you almost feel like asking if you're allowed to go in.

The eye contact you share on the short journey from the edge of the pool to the door is agonizing. You exist in a weird, Pope Cody purgatory for a moment as you near.

The air is thick around you, neither of you taking the leap to speak first. You raise your empty seltzer can, silent permission to do what you so please.

He grants you this access, quite happily, if the gleam in his eye wasn't pure delusion your end. Angling his body to the side, it's just enough room to squeeze through, but not without grazing your bikini-clad chest over his bare one.

It takes everything in you to stay focused on his face, and to not drift down to the plush muscle of his pecs, his abs, illuminated by the late afternoon sun.

Once you're in, it's an immediate bee line to the kitchen, where you crack another seltzer in record speed. You're not really a drinker, and this is officially your third drink before dinner.

You're not drunk drunk, a pleasant buzz humming its way through you. The rapid speed with which you're drinking, however? This could lead to a problem.

Cracking your can, you're eager to let your eyes fall closed as you allow the fizzy drink on your taste buds, into your liver. Before you can reach such peace, though, you spot something in your peripheral. Rather, someone.

You jump, lips jerking from the can in your grasp, little bubbles spilling over the spout. Pope is there. Just standing. You're not sure how long he's been there, if he was looking at the way you'd bent over in your swimsuit to get another drink from the cooler.

"Pope!" You squeal, your fingertips a delicate graze along your bottom lip. You can't help but notice the way he follow the action. "I didn't realize you were in here!"

There were a few other party-goers roaming throughout the house, some moans echoing in a far off room. A pretty typical Saturday for this family.

"Sorry," he deadpans, yet there is a soft gleam in his eye as he takes you in. "Just wanted to make sure you're okay. You're drinking pretty fast, y'know that?"

He settles further in, resting his lower against his back, arms folding over his bare chest. His brows quirk in concern, and you have to tell yourself that it's his brotherly instinct. That even though he sees you now, that you'll never be much more than his little brother's friend.

His stupid, idiotic friend, who forgets every word in the English language the second a shirtless man flexes his biceps in front of her.

"Uhm-I- I'm not," your cheeks are burning, heart pounding in your ears as Pope leans closer.

His hand reaches out, and you're paralyzed in fear. Your breath hitches in your throat as your hands meet, all he for him to pluck the can from your fingers and pour it out in the sink.

"Hey!" You scoff, stomping a petulant foot. "I was drinking that!"

"And now you're not," he replies, matter of fact. He turns to you, walking the short distance from the sink to where you are, tucked into the corner of the counter.

He stops, a breath away from you, and looks you up and down. Your blood hums in your veins at the proximity, the warm air of his breathing enticing enough to write an entire song about it.

His hand climbs up slowly, long, thick fingers grazing over your forearm, your bicep, your shoulder. A shiver unzips your spine at the proximity, and you can't help but reach your own hand up, now hovering over his touch.

He locks in on your jaw, two fingers latching at the bone there, turning your gaze up to meet his. His eyes are piercing, though the wink of hazel peeking through is enough to turn your knees into jelly.

"You'll thank me when you're not up at 3 am, with Deran holding your hair back over the toilet," he murmurs, and then he walks out of the kitchen.

A rush of air flees your lungs, into all this newfound space. Chest heaving with deep, heavy breaths, you snap your head to watch him walk out, sliding the glass door sliding closed before you can say,

"That was just one time!"

He's gone by the time it leaves your lips, your airy defense of your behavior at Baz and Cath's wedding getting stuck in your throat. You were surprised he'd remembered you then- you'd just graduated college, and Craig had convinced you to go hard.

Of course, you both had very different definitions of what that meant.

You opt for a water bottle before sliding out, suddenly eager for the relief of the pool in this aching heat.

Setting your water down on your chaise lounge, you kick your flip flops off, happy to see Deran splashing around with your other surfer friends.

"There she is!!" Craig calls, wolf whistling to punctuate his excitement.

You roll your eyes, taking a tentative step onto the stairs. The cold is shocking at first, and you fight the urge to flip your toes out of the water, to retreat back to your solitude.

You're here now, and Craig isn't the only Cody boy burning a whole through your bikini top.

Pope is, once again, just out of your line of vision, his curls fluffing the edges of your peripheral.

Though you can confirm he's there, you think you'd be able to tell just on feeling alone. The intensity of his stare is enough to burn a hole through you.

You picture it now, his wide eyes making a laser-like icicle in your middle, where it would fall off like a wall in a cartoon movie. It's a pretty good comparison, you think, as Pope Cody has you completely hollow, empty to roam through you as he pleases.

"Stop being a baby!" Deran yells, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You give him a nervous smile, taking another sheepish step.

"God! You're so boring!" He groans, swimming over to offer you a hand.

If you hadn't known Deran your entire life, you'd be wary of accepting the hand of a Cody boy. He leads you down another step, but you don't make it very far until Craig proves your point.

"Come on you two!" He yells, reaching his own hand out to encircle yours, tugging you in before you can react.

A scream falls from your lips as you tumble into the water, the muffled whoops of other party goers echoing above you. You gasp as you breach the surface, smoothing your hair out of your face as you fight the urge to deck Craig in his stupid, smirking face.

He cocks his head to the side, not unlike a dog, a pout jutting out his bottom lip.

"Aww, come on, baby, I'm sorry," he croons, attempting to swim closer to you.

All this does is disrupt the water more, waves now bobbing up to your chin as you float.

"Don't you dare!" You hold a finger up, dodging out of his way as he closes in on you. He jumps at you a moment too late, flopping onto an empty pocket of water.

The damage is still done, though, his now third splash related offense in the past twenty minutes.

You're lucky, as you're now on the other edge of the pool, not too far from where Pope was sitting earlier. He'd be behind you, if he's still there, but you're too scared to check.

"Craig! You better get away from me, you freak!" You yelp as he nears you once again, thoroughly caged in between groups of boys drinking beers to the right, and girls on floats to the left. He's relentless, shaking his voluminous head of hair out, all over you. "Gross! You're like a wet dog!"

This elicits laughter from the parties on either side of you, the boys undoubtedly some of Craig's friends. They clap him on the back in congratulations once they realize what's going on, and the incorrect conclusion they've clearly drawn makes you feel nauseous.

"Don't act like you don't like it!" He teases, though he's dialed it up a few notches, putting on a performance for his bros.

You roll your eyes. This is classic Craig, and the entire reason why, in all your years of knowing this family, you've never fucked him. You attempt to be nonchalant as you freestyle your way to the front of the pool.

As you climb the steps, you're subjected to some more whoops, some more whistles. Your cheeks burn as you desperately attempt to ignore the spotlight you've been thrust under.

You're quick to grab a towel, wrapping it around you and settling into your chair once again. This allows you another glance at Pope, his gaze still on you, now hardened, angry.

The contrast pricks your skin like ice, suddenly very uncomfortable, upset, even, at the possibility of Pope being mad at you. What could you even had done to piss him off this much?

You recount the past 15 minutes in your mind- nothing in your little pool excursion had anything to do with him, so you give up on solving that mystery.

Allowing yourself some reprieve, you dry off in the sun, towel now splayed long behind you, catching the droplets that fall from your hair. You take in the music, a rap song now, one you vaguely recall hearing through your window many a night.

Slipping on your shoes, you pad back into the house. It's emptier now, the early evening sun warding off the extras, the people with little to no connection with the Codys.

You take advantage of this situation, making your way to the kitchen once more. A peek in the cooler proves unfruitful, so you swing open the fridge.

There's a slight arch to your back as you search on the lower shelves, gasping in delight at the sight of your favorite canned cocktail, an entire row of them, in fact.

Popping up from the fridge, you turn to return outside. Except, you can't.

The sight of Pope, just, standing there, in front of the door jolts your nervous system, shaking you from head to toe. Your adrenaline surges, if only for a brief moment, placing a hand on your heart.

"Jesus Christ, Pope!" You gasp, breathing heavy. "You scared me!"

"I'm sorry," he mutters, and your heart churns.

That's what has always gotten you about Pope- his authenticity is bare in the face of his simplicity. It's never rude, it's never fake. It's just Pope.

"I didn't mean to," he continues, and you take a few steps closer. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay, it didn't really seem like you actually wanted to go swimming."

You're a bit shocked at this, but it's a pleasant surprise more than anything. You wouldn't have guessed that's what he was scowling about, still having a bit of a hard time swallowing that pill.

"I'm fine," you smile, feeling an odd ease at his concern. "Thank you, Pope."

His eyes light up just a tad at your words, and your heart flutters.

"You're welcome," he drawls, heat blooming in your cheeks. "How many is that?"

He nods to the drink in your hand, and you glance down, jaw slack for a moment before saying,

"Oh! Three. I haven't had any more until now. Someone brought a whole pack of my favorite, so, I'm gonna have to pay them back," you joke, but he quirks a brow.

"I'm going to be drinking it all night," you explain, your words tugging the corner of his lip. "I have to compensate!"

He chuckles at that, shaking his head and taking a swig of his own beer.

"On me, don't worry about it," he shrugs, and this time, you're not sure what exactly he's implying.

"You mean, you'll pay that person back?" You prompt. He shakes his head.

"Nah, I paid Deran already. Had him get extra when he told me they were your favorite," he says, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Butterflies ricochet around your tummy, fluttery and excited and brutal and sharp.

"You got my favorite drink?" You clarify, needing that last bit of validation.

"Well, technically, Deran did," he says, and you're not sure if he can tell what the look in your eye is desperate to say. "But it was my idea, yeah. I was happy when he told me you agreed to come."

Your heart positively drops at this, your eyes going wide. Heat blooms deep in your belly, unsure what to do with all this attention.

"You were?" You choke out, absolutely dumbfounded.

"I was," he replies with ease. "Is that okay?"

His eyes are also wide as he asks this, and it's a Pope you've never seen before— vulnerable and soft, if only for a moment.

You can't help the urge to meet all of his Popes, every version of him. Even the ones that scare you.

"Ye-yeah," you stutter, cheeks on fire. "I just wasn't expecting it, I guess."

"I've been known to be full of surprises,"he deadpans, and you can't help the laugh bursting from your chest.

This gets him, too, his own chest shaking, cheeks bunched in a sweet, small smile.

"Thanks, Pope," you say one last time before finally making your way past him. You look back before you open the door, placing a delicate hand on his bicep. "I appreciate you."

With a quick squeeze, you turn, and walk out the door.

One hour and quite a few drinks later, you're a perfect tipsy, perched on your same chair. You smile, pleasantly enjoying the sloppy, makeshift dance floor a group of girls formed earlier in the night.

One of them had taken over the aux, and soon enough, echoes of Megan Thee Stallion and Sabrina Carpenter flooded the backyard. Craig wants to sleep with, virtually, all of them, so he lets it happen. He lets it happen with a shit eating smile on his face, too.

"Hey," a voice comes in from your left.

You glance over your shoulder, happy to see Deran approach. Slinging an arm over your shoulder, he asks,

"You gonna get out there? I think there's a certain someone who'd happily join you," he asks, giving you a small nudge.

"Ew," you scoff, "I'm not dancing with Craig. Nice try, though."

He chuckles, but nods his head.

"No, bug," he says. "Pope."

You whip your head to face him, eyes bugging out of your head.

"Are you kidding?" You ask. He shakes his head no.

"I'm not dancing with Pope," you whisper-yell, and Deran looks at you as if you're deranged.

"He's been looking at you all day! He's been asking if you were coming all week! He made me get those fuckin' fruity drinks you like…" he trails off, and you can't help but sink your teeth into your bottom lip.

"He was asking about me?" You ask, and Deran's head falls back.

"God!" He groans. "This is so gross, you don't even know," you giggle, and he continues with a reluctant smile. "But, yeah. He was so excited to see you."

"Good to know," you muse, returning your attention to the dance floor. A truly underrated way to people watch, you think.

"So…" he prompts, and you raise a brow. "Are you gonna get up there?" He points, and you shake your head once again.

"Still no, sorry, bub," you smile at his annoyed expression.

"Come on!" He eggs. "I'll go queue up your favorite song!"

"I didn't realize you cared this much," you tease.

He rolls his eyes, pressing his lips together.

"I don't," he barks, and you give him a look. "Fine, I do. But only because Pope won't shut the fuck up about you, and it's getting to be embarrassing, almost."

You light up from the inside out, sitting up a bit straighter.

"Really?" You coo, and he backs away from you, holding a finger out in front of him.

"Okay," he resigns, "you're making me do this. Don't say you didn't make me."

"Do what?" You shout after him, but he's gone.

You smile as you watch your friend maneuver the crowd, very natural in such a social element. You're a bit envious, as you'd never been one to take to this so easily. It's not that you can't, but it's the ease with which Deran's able to woo that you long for.

Maybe if you were, you might actually have a boyfriend here with you, instead of longing for the same man since high school. You afford yourself the smallest glance, and the sight of him is like propane to your heart's open flame.

He's still looking at you, nothing different now except that Craig's joined him, happily taking in the large group of bikini-clad girls dance in his yard.

You can't help but let the eye contact wash over you, consuming you like a warm balm, slow and melting and soft, nothing like almost disciplinary look in his eye.

God, are you fucked up?

The thought sparks a flicker of shame, and you dart your gaze back to Deran, very familiar, poppy chords reverberating through the backyard.

Your eyes are wide, and he beckons you up there. You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or the day in the sun, or just, Pope, but you go.

You're on your feet, light, flowy steps over to Deran, eager to cling to him in this strange environment.

He holds his hand out, helps you find comfort and rhythm in your favorite song. You have to admit, it helps, and soon you're loose, not entirely sure where Deran is, but you know he's near.

Spinning through the dance floor, you feel the last little bits of your insecurity fly away. Your body sways to the beat, natural and effortless.

You feel the stares from the party goers, and it's scary at first, different. Though your vision is a bit hazy, you can spot the heads swiveled in your direction.

It's mostly guys, and you're not too worried about that. Of course they're looking, you're a girl dancing drunk in a bikini. It's not terribly unexpected.

What is, though, is the large figure that settles in behind you. You fight the urge for panic to take over, body rigid until you recognize the hand gripping your hip.

"Pope!" You breathe, relaxing into him upon realization. "You can't keep scaring me like this!" You tease, and if you're not mistaken, there's a small hint of a blush on his cheeks.

"Sorry, baby," he mutters into your neck, swaying with you. "Is this okay?"

You nod, and he pinches your bare hip.

"Words," he demands, and it's embarrassing how fast you obey.

"Yes," you breathe. "It's okay."

He takes this as permission, your word to feel more of you, fingers trailing from the small strings of your bathing suit to the bare skin of your hips, your thighs, your ass.

He's a torch to your flame, his hands sensual and sweet all at the same time. The sway of his hips against yours makes you dizzy, your head falling back on his shoulder.

Your arm comes up to cup his jaw, fondling the sharp bone as he leans down, peppering kisses all along your neck. It's slow, sloppy, almost, his lips wide and wet and wanting.

"Pope-" you choke out, and a growl cuts you off.

Heat pools in your lower belly as something hard pokes against your ass, your own slick coating your bikini bottoms.

"Too many guys were looking at you, baby," he mutters in your ear. "Couldn't stand it. Was the most horrible thing I've had to see all night. Worse than when Craig caged you in the pool. Wanted to fucking kill him."

His words are breathy, your own catching in your throat.

"Pope-" you whisper, squeezing your legs together in a sad attempt to quell the rising heat.

"I know, honey," he whispers, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek. "Let's do this for a little longer, hm? Listen to the rest of your song and then I'll fuck you. Don't worry, baby, just let go. Have fun."

A strangled moan wrestles from your chest at his words, and you listen. You obey, because what else would you be doing for Pope Cody?

The rest of the song truly could have been a master class in sexual tension, grinding and touching and just barely kissing. It was damn near pornographic, and by the time the final beat played out, you were jelly.

There's no words as he escorts you into the house, his body bracketing yours the entire journey to his room. The quiet settles over you, then, as does the seriousness of what you're about to do.

"Hey," he says, getting you to look at him. "Are you super drunk?" He asks, and you shake your head no. He raises a brow, and you justify.

"I'm a little tipsy, but it's nothing crazy. I can say the alphabet backwards, if you'd like," you smile, and this gets his own going.

"Maybe another time, baby," he sits down on the bed, patting his knee for you to sit. "You sure you wanna do this?" His voice is low, smooth.

"Yes," you mutter, pressing your forehead against his. "Want this so bad, Popey."

He squeezes his eyes shut, a groan escaping through gritted teeth.

"Fuck, you can't call me that, baby," he laughs despite himself.

You smile, your arms looping around his shoulders. He seizes the opportunity to rest his own hands on your waist, thumb running over the skin there.

"Any time you want to stop, you tell me, got it?" He asks, and you nod.

"Words," he orders, again. You obey, again.

"Got it," you smile, leaning in to kiss him.

The feeling of his lips on yours is indescribable, sweet and sultry and sloppy. His lips immediately slot open, his tongue darting into your mouth to explore as much of you as he can.

"Taste so good baby," he mutters, and you turn your body to straddle him.

He pulls back, letting you work, very clearly enjoying the show you've put on in his lap.

"So fucking pretty…"he trails off, hands once again resting on your waist.

"You too, Popey," you murmur, and you feel him twitch in his swim shorts.

"Dammit," he exhales, pressing his forehead to your tummy. "Do I need to prep you, baby? Or can I just fuck you?" He asks, and you're a bit taken aback,

"You ca-"

"Don't fuckin' lie to me," it's a quiet demand, though his grip on your jaw was anything but. "You gonna fuckin' lie to me or do I need to stretch your pussy out?"

"Just fuck me," you manage through squished cheeks and a big pout. He brings your lips to his, a sloppy desperate kiss before he flips you. "I need you, Popey, needed you all day. Needed you since you got home from prison."

This got him, an eager tug at your top exposing your tits. He groans at this, a wet, desperate, 'fuck', pressing his head into the valley between them.

"Please, Pope," you whisper, grinding your hips up into him. "These, too, gotta feel how wet you got me out there."

He's nearly in tears as he uses both hands to reveal your pussy to him. You're pretty sure a tear actually falls at this sight, a soft laugh shaking your chest as he presses slow, sensual kissers there.

"You're so fucking beautiful, fuck!" He exclaims, desperate and whiny, almost.

You're leaking— from his special attention, to his drinks, to his dancing, to this. Pope Cody just feels that fucking good.

While he has his moment, you tug at the waistband of his swimsuit, tugging the rest of the way after he gives you the ok.

Cock springing free, your jaw goes slack. It's…big. The red, angry tip curves upward, nearly hitting his belly button. A sweet hand reaches down to touch it, and he jerks at the contact.

"Y'sure I don't need to stretch you, baby?" He whispers, and you scoff.

"I want your fingers even less, now, actually," you remark, and are rewarded with a little bead of pre-cum.

You rub your thumb over the slit, collecting the clear liquid and bringing it to your lips. You close your eyes, sighing around your digit.

"So yummy, Popey," you cradle his face in your hands as you tell him. "Can't wait to taste it next time."

He absolutely crumbles at this, repeating it as a mantra to himself as he lines up his cock with your entrance.

"Next time, next time, next time, next ti- FUCK!" He shouts, cutting himself off as his tip breaches your entrance.

Your own jaw goes slack at the intrusion, head falling back onto the pillow. He adds another inch, and you shiver, a stark contrast to the fire brewing deep in your belly.

He licks his lips as he gazes down at you. He gives you one more inch.

"Pope!" You squeal, gripping his bicep and kicking your legs.

"Almost there, baby, you got it," he coos, smoothing your hair back with his big palm.

"That's not all?!" You wail, wide eyed and shaky.

He has the audacity to laugh at this, and you let out a long whine.

"Stop bein' a brat," he quips, adding another inch. "Told you to not fuckin' lie to me."

You whine, tears pricking the back of your lids at your earlier decision. Pouting your lip, you give him wide eyes. It's these that earn you his entire length, sinking into you the second he sees them.

"Oh, baby," he coos. "Don't cry, don't wanna cum yet."

You whine, clenching around him at his words. He stays there for a moment, forehead pressed against your shoulder while you both catch your breath.

"Pope," you whisper. "Move, please."

He listens, giving his hips a short rock back and forth, back and forth.

Each thrust punches a cute squeak from you, a sound that soon gets him addicted. He grips your hips, pulling them up to meet his as his thrusts grow longer, deeper.

He's throbbing inside you, his own breath shaky with each pulse. You dig your nails into his shoulders, reveling in the hiss as you bring your lips to ghost over his ear.

"You can go harder, Popey," you suggest, nipping the shell of his ear. "Not gonna break, y'know."

He lets out a near feral groan at this, pulling all the way out and teasing you with his tip, all to slide it back in with a brutal force.

He repeats this, then again, then again, until he's built a rhythm that has you shaking, whining for more.

And you do. You whine, you thrash, you clutch his biceps. He loves that, you've found, it's a sweet spot for him.

"Just like that, Pope, 's perfect," you whisper, raking your nails through his hair.

A strangled moan escapes him, and he manages to go even faster, even deeper at your words.

"Am I doing good?" He asks, face buried in your neck.

You continue to dance your fingers along his scalp, eager to provide some desperately needed comfort.

"So good, honey," you tell him, bringing his face to yours. "You're so good, making me feel incredible."

"Fuck-" he grunts, balls slapping your ass in quick, wet plaps. "I'm gonna cum, honey," he says, shoving his hand between you to find your clit. "Say you're there with me, yeah?"

The over-stimulation is instant, your eyes rolling in the back of your head at the feeling.

You nod, at a loss for words. You know who you're dealing with, though, and you scramble to find them anyway.

"Yeeess…" you trail off, jaw slack with the pleasure. "Fuck yes, keep doing that and you're gonna make me cum, Pope."

Your tongue lolls out of your mouth, eagerly chasing his mouth in a sloppy kiss as you both chase your release.

"All for me, baby?" He asks, desperate and sweet. "You're gonna cum for me?"

You grip his cheeks at this, forcing him to look at you for what feels like the hundredth time today.

"All for you, Andrew," you say, and he just, breaks.

The groan that wrangles itself from his chest is almost angry, violent as he twitches inside you, spurring your own release around him.

It's intense, a blinding, white hot light that bursts all around you. Back arching off the bed, you moan as your core squeezes, retaining all the pleasure for you before releasing. Small waves still ripple over you, shaky and sweet.

His gasps are raspy as you work each other out, his thumb not slowing until you fall limp on his bed, hand tapping his out of the way.

He collapses on top of you, desperate breaths wracking through him as you both come down. He can't stop pressing kisses over your body, small, quiet, 'thank you's echoing against your skin.

"Don't have to thank me, baby," you reassure him, scratching his scalp once again. This causes him to jerk his hips inside you, eliciting more moans from the pair of you. "Just have to let me do that again."

He lifts his head up, finally, a large smile on his face. He leans down, and plants a kiss on you. A real one, this time. Not a lustful kiss, not a 'get-me-to-orgasm' kiss, but a real kiss. You could kiss him for a lifetime.

You head down the stairs, rolling your eyes at the persistence and interruption to your relaxing night, ready to give him a piece of your mind for being so impatient.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

When you peer through the magic eye, however, it's not some psycho you see standing outside your house.

It's Andrew Cody.

Your brother's best friend.

And the deplorable state he's in prompts you into quick action; unlatching the lock, turning the key around and throwing the door open so you can stare at the older man in bewilderment. When the barrier between you two is no more, you take in his appearance better. There's a purpling bruise blooming on his right cheekbone and two cuts just above his left eyebrow. His lip is split and cracked, gathering dried blood flakes near the cut, and his curls sit unruly on top of his head. He's also not wearing a shirt.

His torso isn't in better state.

Ugly, dark bruises litter the expanse of his shoulders and chest, with some decorating his abdomen too, painting solid muscle a myriad of purples, blues and faint reds. There's a cut on his chest and one on his right bicep coated in dry blood the colour of furnace brown.

You're no stranger to Andrew Cody and the illegal business he gets up to. Your brother is cut from the same cloth, and you're aware it's how they got to know each other in the first place. So, the bruising and injuries aren't exactly what's shocking — it's more so that somehow, Andrew got hurt. You often find yourself suspending your disbelief that the man can get hurt. More often than not, he stands strong in the face of any and all adversities.

He does a better job at it than your brother, that's for sure.

For a moment, you two just stare at each other, two people who weren't expecting to see one another processing their new shared reality. Pope doesn't even seem phased by the state he's in.

"I need to talk to—" he begins, quiet as usual, cold, but you cut him off.

"Andrew! What the hell happened to you?!"

Your delicate, manicured hands hover over his shoulders before you move around him and gently shove him inside. He huffs, but doesn't dig his heels in. If there's anyone Andrew allows to touch him without protest, it's you.

Always you.

And it's become a habit of yours to seek him out for physical contact, sometimes before you even realise it.

"Nothing," is the dry response you receive to your question, to which you scoff.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

He steps inside your house properly, allowing you to close the door and lock it again.

"Where's Gus?"

Your brother's not home, evidently. It's two AM on a Saturday. He left earlier for a party and didn't tell you when he'd be back.

"He went out, he's probably getting sloshed somewhere— doesn't matter. What happened to you?"

Hardened hazel eyes scan the interior of a house he's familiar with instead of meeting your gaze.

"I should go, then."

You let out an incredulous noise, cross your arms across your chest and shake your head. In that state you're not letting Andrew go anywhere.

'What? Andrew, look at you. No. Let me clean you up and take care of you.'

You make your way to the stairs, gesturing for him to follow, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach and your accelerated heartbeats. You're alone at home with the man you've been yearning for, and all Andrew does is stare at you.

He does that a lot — staring and cataloguing information in a way only Andrew Cody does, as if he can dismantle you entirely and figure out what makes you tick like you're a piece of machinery. You don't mind it.

But this is a different type of staring.

There's a delicate, fragile glimmer in his irises, prompting a question he won't dare voice. He's silently questioning you; wondering why you've decided you're going to help. He's wondering why you aren't brushing off his injuries like a mere inconvenience and sending him on his way to lick his wounds. Why are you offering him kindness instead of a reprimand.

You've noticed over the years that this is just how he operates.

Always the sacrificial lamb, loyal to a fault, immolating himself so that anyone close to him can walk away unscathed.

Nothing but an afterthought.

You've seen him injured before; bleeding, beaten and bruised after business with your brother neither men want you to have any part in. Every time you asked your brother if Andrew was going to be okay, all you received back was a 'Oh, yeah, sure. He's a big boy. He can handle himself.' It's never been enough of an answer to quell your concerns and ease the disquiet, nauseating pit inside your stomach.

'You don't have to,' he finally murmurs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

You offer him a soft, welcoming smile with closed lips.

'I want to. So… c'mon, Andrew.'

There's a beat of silence before he nods and follows you upstairs.

You want to tug your pajama shorts down because they're a little too short and leave the edges of your ass on display, but when you glance behind, you notice Andrew pointedly looking down at his feet.

You can't decide between being disappointed or endeared.

The two of you pass by your brother's bedroom. When you reach yours, you head inside, motioning for Andrew to follow and shut the door behind him. It closes with a soft click.

It's strange to see Pope like this — such an oddly casual sight, looking around your room with curiosity but deliberately keeping his hands to himself behind his back, his shoulders tucked, his footsteps calm and easy, trying not to occupy too much space because it's your room and he doesn't want to intrude. It's a sight you could get used to.

You've pictured it many times before: what would happen if you decided to be bold enough to make a move on him and ask him out, how often he'd be around your room, sprawled over on your bed or sat by your windowsill with a book in hand. Domesticity and romance bundled into one like you've always dreamt of when it comes to Andrew Cody.

You lead him to your wardrobe and offer him a sly little smile when he tilts his head at you in silent confusion.

'There's a little secret here. Old house and all, we have doors in weird places,' you explain as you twist the handle and pull it open.

It reveals a small, narrow corridor that leads into an ensuite bathroom, hidden behind the wardrobe like a passage to Narnia.

'Oh.' Pope breathes out. 'Let me go first.'

You don't question him. There's no one inside your bathroom, but instincts are instincts, and a man like Pope can never shake his off. Between prison and the life he leads, it's only natural. You don't know details of said life. You're not stupid; you're well aware the money your brother makes isn't gifted to him by some divine grace or the kindness of a stranger,

'Alright. Take a seat inside.'

He dips his head and walks in, checking behind your shower curtain and even inside the sink cabinet before nodding at you to follow.

When you do, he's already taken a seat on the toilet lid. His eyes never leave your figure as you move around, grabbing a bowl, a soft cotton towel, antiseptic and gauze. You fill the bowl with warm water, wet the towel and step in front of him, settled between his legs, finally meeting his relentless gaze with your own.

Those hazel eyes hide an infinitude of words he doesn't speak, and you wish you could hear every single one of them.

You gently begin to dab at the cut above his brow, cleaning up the dried blood gathered there. He doesn't flinch.

'Are you gonna tell me how you got beat up?' The question is said in an easy tone, without any underlying accusations what exactly he gets up to in his free time. It's patient, but concerned.

Andrew stays quiet long enough that you think he's going to ignore you again. When he speaks, you've cleaned up the cuts on his handsome face and have moved down to his chest.

'Cage fight,' he murmurs. 'Boxing.'

You let out a surprised noise.

'Boxing? For fun?'

Andrew shrugs. His gaze remains on you, but his hues glaze over. He grows distant as his mind wanders elsewhere.

'No,' he shakes his head gently. 'Not fun, no. Skating's for fun. Boxing's for money… and to let it all out.'

Your countenance remains open, holding that same patience and tenderness it always does when it comes to Andrew. You believe one of the reasons you two get along is that you don't ever judge him for what he does or for who he is.

To you, he's not Pope; he's Andrew, your brother's close friend who picks you up from college after you lost track of time studying at the library and your brother can't come, who always brings you your favourite chocolate when he comes over and asks about the movies you've been seeing, your college classes and your current reads, who loves skating and cleans everything in successive motions of three or five until he's satisfied and can stop counting under his breath.

Andrew is sweet and considerate.

It doesn't matter what Pope gets up to.

'Let it all out?' You hum, continuing to dab away at the scabbed blood in fear he'll stop speaking entirely if this moment between you two truly settles in.

'The rage. The noise in my head.'

He inhales shakily while you nod, setting the cloth aside and reaching for the antiseptic and some gauze next.

You want to lie to yourself and say you're not taking the opportunity to admire how the water and sweat give his pecs an alluring shine, but you're still human. Of course you're looking.

He's clearly bracing himself for a certain reaction out of you, but you remain steadfast.

'That makes sense,' you murmur, 'but isn't there a way to let out your rage that doesn't involve you getting all hurt like this? It breaks my heart to see you in this state, Andy.'

His breath hitches audibly enough that you falter. You worry you've said the wrong thing when he turns his full attention back to you.

'You… worry? About me?' Andrew questions, befuddled.

Your heart breaks just a little more.

You take his chin into one of your hands softly, tilting his head up at you.

'Yes, Andy. I worry very much. Now close your eyes. This'll sting a bit.'

You let go of his chin so you can use your hand as a makeshift shield, and you spray antiseptic on the cut on his brow. Andrew doesn't even hiss.

'Didn't know you worried about me…' he mumbles.

Strong, broad hands come up to rest at the back of your thighs.

For a second, your breath catches in your throat.

You're so very aware of those warm, heavy hands on your skin, calloused thumbs moving up and down in a caress. It's something that's so domestic and sweet that it makes butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Then, you resume your task, trying to calm your radpily beating heart.

'I always do, Andy…' you coo, moving down to spray his cheek next, always careful of his eyes.

'Why?'

The question hangs in the air between you two, heavy, important. If it wasn't important, Andrew wouldn't have asked. Those beautiful sharp eyes find yours and for once, there's no shield keeping the feelings and thoughts at bay. For once, Andrew's fragility and vulnerability is right there on display for you to do as you please, be it break the remainder of his heart or sew it back with your caring hands and tender words.

You lean in without even realising, drawing your face towards his until your breaths mingle and your noses brush. His hands tighten at the back of your thighs just as he lets out a stuttering exhale. Then and there, there's nothing and no one else; not your brother nor Andrew's family. Not the world outside and its responsibilities, not your college nor Andrew's cage fights. There's just the two of you and the weight of his unanswered question.

What you say next could change everything.

But you choose not to speak.

Instead, you lean in and press your lips to his, and the world stops spinning.

He stiffens up for a few seconds, unmoving against your lips for long enough that you take it as a rejection, but before you can pull away, Andrew finally kisses you back.

And though his lips are chapped and split from the fight, and you can taste iron and salt in his mouth, you've never experienced joy like this until now.

His mouth presses against yours more confidently, tongue darting out to lick at the seam of your lips and get you to open up for him, which you gladly do. He's ferverent, yanking you closer until you fall right onto his lap, straddling him. His tongue hungrily presses against yours, claiming you as his, swallowing down your soft moans and emitting little whimpers of his own. He licks into your mouth with abandon, taking everything he hasn't been able to since the moment you two first laid eyes on each other, and you just keep on giving and giving.

Your fingers run over strong forearms, solid biceps and broad shoulders, tracing his trapezius reverently before drifting up into his curls and tangling your digits in his soft hair. When you yank softly, the noise Andrew makes into your kiss is nothing short of desperate. Famished, wounded, needy and grateful all at once, it denounces how unaccostumed to the gentler side of human touch he is — Andrew is always on the receiving end of punches, and you know it, you've seen it; to be allowed to provide him with mutual desire and a touch that is meant to heal instead of injure tugs at your heartstrings.

When he hauls you up to stand with him, your arms promptly wrap around his neck and your ankles lock around his waist, trusting that he won't let you fall. You've always trusted him to be careful with you.

'Fuck—' He pants against your lips, barely allowing space to settle between the two of you before he's kissing you again. 'Mmph—'

He walks the two of you backward, taking his time to press you against the walls of your faux-closet and grinding his erection against your leaking core. The pressure on your clit has slick gathering at your entrance, soaking through your underwear.

'Andy—' you murmur between kisses, 'need you. Need you so bad.'

Your words prompt another wounded, desperate noise to tear from his throat.

'Yeah?' He rasps just as his lips find your pulse point, wrapping around it, tongue flattening against it until you keen.

'Yeah— ohhh— that's it, honey. Want you to make me yours.'

He growls against your throat and brings his mouth to another section of your skin and clamping down with force, leaving a hickey that will stay put for days at minimum. The delicious mixture of pain and pleasure sends electricity directly down to your clit, prompts you to roll your hips into his until the head of his cock bumps against your sensitive, clothed cunt.

'Please…' He whimpers into your neck, shaking his head.

You patiently card your fingers through his curls, scratching at his scalp with manicured nails, letting him take his time.

'Please what, honey?' You coo.

Andrew takes a stuttering breath in.

'Please don't—' he cuts himself off, takes another moment, and you press your lips to his cheek from this angle, prompting another wounded little cry from him.

'Please don't say shit like that if you're not gonna be mine— if you're gonna end up fuckin' off when you see how ugly I get.'

Your heart's acquired several little cracks over the last few months from observing Andrew and how the world interacts with him, but hearing his voice break with anticipated grief and fear of being left yet again is what shatters you.

You shake your head and bring your hands to his face, forcing him to look up at you, and you meet his glossy gaze with your own, full of affection for him.

And him alone.

It's always been Andrew.

Since your brother started bringing him around, you'd lost any semblance of interest in other people, focused solely on this mysterious man and his beautiful curls, craving to spend time around him and hear his voice.

'Andrew, I know exactly who you are. What you do. What you're capable of. It's never changed how I feel about you.'

You hear him inhale sharply. The fingers he's sinking into the flesh of your thigh and ass tighten harsh enough to bruise as he processes your words. It makes you squirm, needy.

'You can't—' Andrew cuts himself off with another sharp inhale. You can almost see the cogs in his head turning, working overdrive to find a reason to push you away. 'You can't say that— can't like me like that, baby, fuck. It's not right.'

You're not having any of it.

You crash your lips together in an urgent, passionate kiss, dismantling the walls he's trying to build between you two with each drag of your tongue against his. He moans into it, squeezes your ass harder, ruts his cock against your clothed cunt until you're both breathless. Your underwear clings to your skin, sticky with how soaked with slick you've already become.

'It is right, Andrew. You are right for me. Okay?' You murmur against his mouth before pecking his lips again. 'I want you— every part of you, including your past, your anger, your jealousy, the shit you don't talk about, I want it all. So don't try to push me away. It's not gonna work.'

Andrew stares at you through wet eyes, carrying enough grief and affection in his gaze to swallow down the world in his pain. His internal conflict lasts a mere moment.

He kisses you again, and time becomes nothing more than a suggestion, fading around you as you focus solely on Andrew and his lips on yours, your hands on his skin, his teeth on your neck and collarbone. Somewhere along the way to your bed, both of your clothes have beem haphazardly discarded, littering the floor, but you don't care because he presses you down onto your mattress and lets the weight of his body encompass yours.

His hard, heavy cock leaks onto your thigh, a tangible demonstration of the effect you have on him. As he marks down your body with hickeys, mouth descending towards your chest, Andrew slots his knee between your thighs, and you cry out when your throbbing clit grazes his hot skin.

'Oh my God— Andrew—'

You rock your hips upward, unabashedly dragging your drooling pussy along his thigh. He growls lowly before bringing his mouth to one of your breasts. His teeth scrape the areola, and pulls a gasp from your lungs. Next, a pink tongue darts out to flick rapidly over your already hardened nipple in a steady sequence of up, down, up, down, left, down, before it swirls around the nub. Electrifying pleasure shoots from your breast down your abdomen, straight to your core.

'Andy—' you whine, desperate and pliant underneath him. 'Just like that—'

Andrew growls against your neck.

'Yeah? Like having your tits played with, sweetheart?' He rasps.

His mouth closes around your breast, locking in to suck on your nipple, while one of his broad hands drift up your belly until it closes around your neglected breast, kneading, index and thumb pinching the stiff bud until you're arching your back and rutting against his thigh with abandon. Each movement tightens that familiar knot in your core, threatening to spill you over the edge.

'Yeah, fuuuck! You're gonna make me come like this—' you pant, and he responds by flexing his thigh against your cunt.

'Mmm, that's it…' he whispers. 'Want you to, honey. I'm doing this for you. So you feel good.'

But you shake your head between your sweet little moans and pleas. You don't want to come like this for the first time with him, no.

You have something else in mind.

'Nonono, I need you inside me, please! Need to come around your cock.'

Your words make him growl into your chest and pull away, climbing his way back up your body so he can properly hold your gaze. There's this animalistic, dangerous glimmer in his eyes, just barely restrained by what's left of his self control, and you want nothing more than to push his buttons until he sets it free.

'I don't got a condom, baby, fuck—' Andrew pushes the words out his mouth, his tone strangled.

It turns you on so much.

To know the risk you're about to take, of letting the man you've been pining for fuck you raw and put a baby inside you, to know you're ovulating and the chances of his seed making home in your womb. To think about putting more of Andrew out in the world in the shape of a little human for you both to cherish and love together.

You want it all.

'Even better—' you tell him, wrapping your arms around his neck, trying to pull him closer, 'what if we make a baby together, Andy? Mmm? You and me. You can slide that fat cock in me and come inside… and in less than a year we'll have a little angel of our own. Doesn't that sound good to you?'

He leans in for a kiss and makes a sound against your mouth, needy and sweet, and nods frantically at your words.

'I want that more than anything… but are you sure?' Andrew croaks through tears that gather at his long lashes and threaten to cascade down his cheeks.

You lean in to kiss his tears away, tasting the salt and sorrow in them.

'I'm sure, my love…' you coo, cupping his cheeks and making a trail of kisses down to his lips. 'I want a baby with you, Andrew. So, give it to me.'

He seals your lips together in an urgent, passionate kiss. Broad, calloused hands move to grab a pillow and lift you, tucking it underneath your hips. When the fat head of his cock nudges at your clit, you gasp and part your legs wider for him, inviting him in.

'Ohhh fuck—' you moan, rocking your hips into his, savouring the way his erection presses up right to the centre of your twitching, swollen, red clit.

You look down to watch precum bead at his slit and trickle down onto your puffy pussy, marking you as his.

'You're so perfect…' Andrew murmurs, panting. 'Got the prettiest pussy I've ever seen, sweetheart.'

He wraps a fist around his thick length and guides the leaking head to your entrance at the same time as he kisses you again.

'If it hurts, you tell me, yeah?'

'Yeah—' you aquiesce, nodding. 'Keep your eyes on me? Please?'

He pulls away just slightly, enough to be able to maintain eye contact while your breaths still mingle together in the small, compact space between the two of you. You gaze right into the interminable forest of his eyes as he breaches your entranceslowly. When the head pops inside, you moan softly and wrap your arms around his neck. You take in the way his eyebrows knit together and his forehead creases.

'Fuck, angel, you're so goddamn tight,' he breathes out, voice strained.

'And you're so fucking big,' you retort, laughing breathlessly.

Gradually and with patience, Andrew eases his whole length inside you, centimetre by centimetre until you're so full that your belly distends under the wright of his girthy cock. There's tears climbing down the sides of your face from how deliciously overwhelming it feels to be completely full.

'Andy—' you whine as your slick walls clench around him, sucking him in deeper.

'Fuckfuckfuck—' The older man rasps, letting his forehead lean against yours. 'So tight and so goddamn wet, baby— fuck. You're perfect.'

You lock your ankles around his waist and yank him closer, pressing him deeper inside you, rocking your hips impatiently.

'Then fuck me, please. I need it now— need you now, Andrew.'

Andrew doesn't need more encouragement than that.

He keeps you exactly as you are, your breathing and soft moans mingling together, and slowly bottoms out, sliding himself back in. As he slides back into your cunt, your body makes a lewd, sopping wet noise that makes him curse.

'Mmm-—' you moan softly. 'Harder, Andy, c'mon.'

He bottoms out almost all the way before shifting his hips and slamming his cock back in, finding that sweet spot inside of you that makes you see stars. Immediately, your back arches, breasts pressing to his chest, pebbled nipples dragging deliciously against your skin.

'Right there, baby?' Andrew purrs at you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you even closer, pulling out nearly all the way before thrusting back inside.

Your eyes roll behind your head as euphoria and warmth gathers in your core.

'Right there— keep going, please—'

He does.

He sets a steady rhythm inside you, pulling out and finding his way back with powerful, focused thrusts that hit your g-spot each time. At times, he alternates the thrusts with rolls of his hips that press his cockhead right to your most sensitive nub, making your slick walls seize around him and try to milk him dry.

The bedroom gets overtaken with the sounds of both of your moans and pants and his groans, along with the lewd noises of your wet cunt being fucked relentlessly, his balls slapping against your ass and the headboard of your bed slamming against the wall.

You've felt pleasure before, of course — often with yourself, occasionally with other people whose names you've erased from your mind by now — but it's never been anything remotely close to this. The way Andrew fucks you incinerates you from the inside you, starting at the epicentre of the matter that makes up your soul and spreading through your spirit until it reaches your body, coursing fire through your veins that gathers straight in your pussy, overwhelming you entirely.

You completely lose sight of yourself, existing solely for Andrew in that moment.

That familiar knot deep in your belly tightens in a way you've never experienced before, catapulting you towards an orgasm unlike any other. Your cunt clenches around his erection, leaking onto his shaft more and more each time he hits your g-spot.

'Ngnn— Andy— Oh, fuck, Andy, m' close—'

Your words only encourage him more.

'Yeah, doll? Me too, shit— m' so fuckin' close, honey— m' gonna put a baby in you soon, yeah? You want that? You wanna be mine forever?'

You nod frantically, pulling him down for a messy kiss that's mostly just sloppy tongue action.

'I do, Andy, I do! I wanna be yours and only yours! Don't stop, please—'

Just when you think it can't get better, Andrew finds a way to fuck you even harder, delivering sharp thrusts that make you see stars.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, seizeing your legs around him, making your cunt squeeze him so tightly he can hardly move for a moment. You cry out his name as you gush onto his cock, his stomach, his thighs, the sheets, everywhere, making a complete mess out of you two, and he fucks you through it.

'Fuck, baby, you squirted— oh God, I'm coming—'

He buries his nose into the crook of your neck and bites down as he lets out a broken moan into your skin. His thick, warm seed spills into you in steady ropes that he pushes further into your womb with each buckof his hips.

The two of you ride it out together until your bodies collapse together, tangled in a heap of limbs.

And then, you guide Andrew's lips to yours in a kiss, slow, deep and tender, sighing into each other's mouths.

'If this didn't make it clear, I need you to know I'm in love with you, Andy.' You rasp, offering him a soft little smile.

Andrew whimpers and kisses you with a passionate devotion that leaves you swooning.

'Just— stay with me forever. Please. Don't leave. I won't be able to…' he takes a deep breath. 'Won't be able to bear it if you do.'

You lift your pinky and take his hand, guiding him to link his pinky with yours.

'I'm never leaving, Andy. I promise you.'

It's a promise you'll do anything keep.

In the morning, your brother walks into your bedroom to tell you he's brought breakfast only to find you wrapped up in Andrew Cody's arms, asleep and undressed, while he keeps watch over you like a guard hound. And as much as he wants to beat the shit out of Pope for hooking up with his sister, something in those sharp eyes makes him pause and leave you two be.

Andrew Cody is serious about you. And your brother isn't crazy enough to fight Pope over something he holds to his chest like it's the most valuable thing he's ever touched.

It's not a battle he's ready to fight.

It's not one he can win.

please reblog if you enjoyed my work! :)

TRAVEL&co kiosk, between gates 31/32 & gates 33/34.

An overwhelm of options can paralyse choice.

Bursting from the metal confines of the display stand, a rainbow of pamphlets cry out for your attention, each more desperate than the last to be picked off the shelf and purchased. Titles in bold, italics, underlined; every old trick in the book, intended to capture the eye, stands before you.

Top 20 Tourist Stops in East Asia.

DOs & DONTs of Hostel Living.

HIDDEN GEMS: a Guide to Rural Sight-Seeing.

Trust your gut, you can practically hear your mother’s voice in your head, guiding you to put your faith in something arbitrary. While her motherly advice is typically welcome, this time the thought leaves an acidic taste in your mouth that lingers, souring your expression and becoming the root of your furrowing brows.

Your gut has unfortunately been a source of misery as of late, leading you down the regretful path of trusting a man, putting all your patience and hope in his ability to change, eventually, for you. What a selfishly naive belief, to think you could change fate, scrub the mould off a man’s heart and bring him back to the land of the feeling. No affection that requires you to humiliate yourself is ever worth it, and god have you learn it the ugly way: tears dripping onto the carpet beneath your knees, chest heaving for breaths, and his lame-ass excuses, I’m just not ready for commitment, baby.

More the fool you for believing a man pushing thirty, incapable of holding down a job, and still riding the high of his days as the high school quarterback could ever face something as challenging as putting a label on the months of ‘messing around’ you both had been partaking in. Now here you stand, suitcase checked in and a one-way boarding pass in hand, frozen before the overwhelming display of travel books one of the airport’s many kiosks has to offer, and hellbent on placing as much distance as possible between you and that man.

A last minute decision, filling the neglected well of spontaneity in your life. Your parents had thought you mad, your friends had insisted on keeping you company. With both groups of protesting figures in your life, you put your foot down and demanded the solitude you craved. After all, you can’t exactly embark on a solo-trip around the planet with someone by your side — even if that someone is your mother or closest friend.

But maybe loneliness is not all it’s cut-out to be. You’d give up everything just about now to have someone to help pluck out the right pamphlet, something sure to serve you not just your first stop but for the entirety of your travels.

“You’re looking at stand like it owes you a debt.”

At first, you think you’re hearing things, brain so desperate for validation it’s taken to imagining company. Then something moves in your peripheral and you’re struck with a sight that feels like something the universe has sent directly to mock your battered and bruised heart: a man.

Not just any run-of-the-mill man, but a man made of blue eyes, sharp cheeks, and a smile so pearly-white you feel you’re staring into the mouth of a predator, inches away from sinking it’s canines into your delicate skin and devouring you whole… But no beast looks like this, enchanting and handsome in a manner that has you questioning where this stranger has been hiding from you all along — until, of course, you remember you’re in an airport and it’s likely this man is merely passing through your city, a temporary stop on his journey to who-knows-where.

Is it too late to change your flight?

“And now it seems the debt is mine,” the stranger lets out a chuckle at his words, wolfish smile stretching wider along his cheeks and making you painfully aware of the creases that mark the skin around his eyes — evidence of a life well-lived, the wrinkles of happiness. They only serve to make him all the more enticing to stare at, a deer caught in the glow of a very beautiful headlight. “Any chance I can pay it off with a little advice?”

Why has it taken you so long to realise the man is talking to you?

A scramble for breath, for words, for something that won’t deepen the embarrassment already scorching your cheeks, you muster a sophisticated, “Huh?”

… and instantly wish the linoleum flooring would spontaneously drop to reveal a sinkhole big enough to swallow you.

“Here, let’s go with,” the man drags out his word, bending at the waist as he leans forward, arm reaching down to pluck something from the stand. You barely have time to admire the way he fills out his trousers, jeans clad skin tight against the swell of his ass, before his spine has straightened and he’s waving a booklet in your face. “This sounds pretty useful, don’cha agree?”

The tiniest twang of an accent kisses your eardrum, scratching an itch you hadn’t even been aware of until now. You almost feign mishearing, just for a chance to hear the stranger repeat himself. But your eyes are drawn downwards, towards the title in his palm, and all hope of feigning ignorance flies out the door.

The Wise Traveller: navigating safety as a solo-travelling woman.

Hackles rise, an old reflex from the days you payed your gut any mind. Your mouth dries, and your eyes widen slightly, and you’re suddenly reminded of the fact this stranger is a man, mankind’s greatest predator.

“How do you know I’m travelling alone?” The question is a bite, one you deliver before sense can tell you better.

By the way the man’s smile falters, a minuscule tremble in the corners of his mouth, your hostility was unexpected. Nevertheless, the man makes no attempt to impose his presence on you, shoulders slouching in on themselves and dampening the height he holds over you.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” his words are sheepish, almost, a twinge of embarrassment painting a rosy streak over his cheeks. A hand winds its way up to the back of his neck, a self-soothing method you know far too well, fingers rubbing over skin. “You just… have the look. I’m really sorry miss, I didn’t mean to make you uncomforta-”

“It’s fine,” a mixture of shame and guilt has you cutting him off, eyes shooting back to the display and making a hasty decision to pick up the first guide they land on. “Thanks for the advice, but I’m all caught up on safety. This is what I was looking for.”

An Idiot’s Guide to Germany. It sits pretty in your hold, thin enough to read before the plane descends back onto solid ground, and completely useless to you.

But the man in front of you doesn’t need to know Germany is far from your destination.

So you scurry off, ready to put the embarrassing interaction in your rear-view mirror and re-vowing to yourself to put an end to interactions with men that make you want to claw out your skin — whether the fault be theirs or your own — and shoot off in search of the till. But something halts you on your way, turning on your ankle to face the beautiful stranger once more. He’s watching you with an endearment in his eye that makes your guts tangle in knots, sickly butterflies flying the nest and spreading through your body.

Men can be so unfairly pretty sometimes, especially when built like the model-esque figure before your eyes.

“Have a safe flight!” And with this final and only attempt at politeness, a last-ditch effort to salvage a conversation your own paranoia has already butchered, you shoot off to pay for a travel guide that will soon make a home for itself at the bottom of your bag, never to be kissed by the light of day again.

Paying for your unwanted good and stuffing it into your purse, your pursuit of escaping as swiftly as possible is hindered by the sudden tap of a finger on your shoulder, coaxing you to glance over your shoulder and find the same beautiful stranger, smile still plastered across his million-dollar face and sporting a plastic bag in his grasp, extended out to you and awaiting your acceptance.

“Please,” the blue-eyed man presses, plastic rustling in his grasp. “I’m sure you’re a smart girl, and that you’re more than capable of keeping yourself safe. But I have a little sister and- Well, it just wouldn’t sit right on my conscience to not do my part in keeping a woman safe.”

You accept his offering, fingers looping through the holes of the bag, because it feels cruel to deny him, to send him off with his tail tucked between his legs and his well intentions stomped all over the floor.

The man excuses himself, rushing off who knows where as you begin your own journey towards your assigned departure gate. Only as you settle in to the exhausted queue of antsy passengers, desperate to start their holidays or return to their families at last, do you take a peak into the plastic bag.

There it sits, just as you expect, The Wise Traveller.

Before you can think better of accidentally advertising to your fellow travellers your vulnerable state of solitude, the booklets is in your grasp and you’re flicking through the opening pages. Blue ink, smudged by the press of pages, catches your eye; an inscription from your handsome stranger.

There’s no such thing as being too careful. Stay safe, be wise, & enjoy your trip. - Bucky

Dragon Crest Mountain, Thailand.

The view from the top of the world is beautifully depressing.

Beautiful because the horizon stretches below you, curves and edges of green treetops and mountainous terrain. An infinite expanse of mother nature’s art painted shamelessly over the canvas of the Earth, unmarred by the hands of man nor the wheels of machines.

Depressing because, despite the view, your mind is elsewhere; enthralled by visions of tangled sheets, and bruising touches, and tear-filled tissues.

With the fellow hikers that surround you moved to silence by the ethereal view, no chattering mouths can muffle your ears from the buzz coming from your bag. A familiar pattern of three, buzz buzz buzz, you can easily picture the screen lighting up with his name, treacherously innocent for a man who masks the Devil behind his shy smile and his careful caresses.

You groan, louder than intended, and surrender with an apologetic smile towards the group of elderly women shooting daggers in your direction. Your frustration cannot be helped, really. It is utterly and entirely justifiable, given the texts staring back at you from the screen in your hand, freshly fished out your bag and clasped within your sweat-dampened grip.

DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:48 you'll never guess who i ran into today, honey.

DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:48your mother, she said your flight landed safely!

DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:49 i'm glad but i can’t help wishing you were here. my bed isn’t the same without you.

Psychological warfare.

That is what this is, the manipulative moves of a man who knows all the right words to say at the worst of times. How can he speak of missing you, when he couldn’t even appreciate you when you were right in front of him, nothing short of begging him to need you as much as you needed him?

Still, your ex-situationship’s messages worm themselves into your mind, planting seeds of doubt into your dignity and sanity. Your thumb swipes up on the screen before you can think better of it, the lingering muscle memory of a lovesick fool who at last has felt the exhilarating rush of hearing from the man who makes your usually rock solid heart feel like it is made out of glass.

It wouldn’t hurt to reply, surely. It would be the polite thing to do. After all, you and him are friends. Good friends, with years of history outside of the sultry looks exchanged atop mattresses. And he just wants to know you’re okay, right? A perfectly human reaction to having the person you spend nearly every day beside suddenly up and leave, bags packed with a one-way ticket and a declaration that you are going to see what else the world has to offer, both the good and bad.

Just as you type the opening letters to a calculatedly casual reply, another message enters the chat, lighting a fire in your chest and flooding your mouth with the bitter taste of anger.

DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:53 but it’s okay. take your time. i’d rather you work through your little hissy fit first.

Scoffing before you can help it, you hastily switch off the phone and shove it back into your bag, eyes rolling and mouth curling with a snarl as you mutter, “Rich coming from a man who cries every time his shitty team loses.”

The remedy to the ugly feelings swirling up a storm in your chest lays ahead, dragging your eyes back out to the view of the world at your feet, a vastness that manages to make yourself, and consequently your troubles, feel minuscule and unimportant. You can cry a thousand times about a man who will never change his ways nor mature beyond the mindset of a frat-boy, and the Sun will still do her job regardless of your pain: rising, falling, and blessing the lands with her warmth.

And so, ultimately, no matter the heartbreak locked behind your phone screen, you are truly a girl who is going to be okay. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or in any recent days that follow. But at some point, as you jet from country to country, checking off box after box on your bucket list, and nourishing your well of experience, you will feel your phone buzz with a notification and the last thing on your mind will be the hopeful dread of it being from Tony.

Something flashes in the corner of your eye.

Startled, your shoulders jump as you turn, just in time to be blinded by the obnoxious flash of a camera, shutter snapping shut as the camera’s owner takes a picture. Sight still blurred by the blinding white light, you faintly make out the shape of a dark haired man, camera still raised at shoulder height.

“Oh, sorry,” you stumble over the apology, too busy trying to shuffle out of the lens’ way. “Let me just- I can move, so you can get the full-”

The cameraman chuckles and the sound runs right through you, a visceral reaction stirring within as you feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise and your palms grow sweaty. It’s like you know that laugh, the deep chortle that has an uptick in pitch at the end, itching at a particular spot in your ear.

“No, no, it’s fine- Don’t move!” The man, amidst his laughing, exclaims with a panic that manages to freeze your fleeing feet. Camera back to his face, he points it unmistakably at you and clicks capture, flash firing in your eyes again. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just- Wow.”

Doing your best to not show your confusion — though a part of you is painfully aware of the awe in the stranger’s tone, and the Tour Guide name tag dangling from his lanyard, and the curious American twang voice — you settle on a tightlipped smile, polite enough to gift a stranger yet not void of the utter confusion coursing through your veins.

“Sorry, gosh… You must think I’m some kind of creep,” the man continues his spew of apologies, shaking his head as he lowers the camera and let’s it drop, strap tightening around his neck and halting the device from crashing to the floor. “I normally ask before I, you know, take pictures of the tour guests. But the sunset was hitting you perfectly, and you looked so candidly peaceful, and I didn’t want to ruin the picture by making you… Aware. People get awkward when they know a camera is watching them.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s-” whatever words awaited at the end of your sentence are lost to space and time, as the cloudiness finally drifts, no longer obstructing your line of sight, and you find yourself face to face with eyes so blue, you would have to be an idiot to forget them. “Bucky!?”

Taking on the role of confused bystander, the blue-eyed man is now the one shooting you a tightlipped smile, a questioning gaze skimming over the length of you. You swear you can almost see the cogs turning in his brain, like he is actively trying to replay any memory that features your face.

When it hits him, it is a visible recollection, one that sends his mouth stretching into a full-blown smile and has you embarrassingly aware of how white his teeth are, canines glinting under the shine of a lowering sun.

“Hey, I remember you!” Connection established, he takes a step closer to you, lowering his voice in an attempt to not interfere with the quiet solace the rest of the hikers are seeking. The dampening of volume is not enough to deafen the excited recollection in his voice. “Kiosk Girl! Wow, this is- How was Germany?”

“What?” Mouth moving quicker than mind, you let your confusion rule over your sense before you are struck over the head with the rest of the scene that unfolded at the kiosk stand. The staring at pamphlets, the interruption of a handsome stranger, the offer of a survival guide. Your defensive denial, the awkward reach for a booklet all about a country you weren’t even travelling to, the gift of the survival guide, inscribed with the handsome stranger’s name. “Germany, right. Yeah, uh, it was great. Bit cold but-”

“Cold, in June? Strange,” Bucky, now even closer than moments before, is staring down at the camera, back in his hands and flicking through a series of photos. Photos of you, bated in hues of orange and purple, staring out to a blanket of greenery, sundress trapped in motion by the rustling of a warm breeze. “I always heard the weather was good there this time of year.”

Like a glass of cold water splashing over your face, the man’s words are enough to leave you shaken, the ice-cold embarrassment that soon melts into the shame of lying — and lying badly, of all things — to someone with a smile as earnest as his.

Too deep now to back out, you nod and commit to your deceit, praying you live long enough to someday forget this interaction ever happened, “Yeah, they- Well, the locals said it was a fluke. Global-warming, you know, changing the natural order of the world.”

If there is a higher being watching over your interactions, it is made of cruelty and spite, for only a creature made of all things not-nice would thrust you into a position where you embarrass yourself in front of a beautiful stranger not once, but twice — the same stranger, too. Incidents weeks apart, yet the burning sensation of bile biting at the back of your throat is just the same as the one you felt in the airport, rushing away to pay for the neglected German guide you had shamefully abandoned on the plane.

Bucky, the stranger who has unknowingly become the agent behind your most embarrassing moments in recent times, is none-the-wiser to your internal panic, nodding in acceptance of your explanation and shifting focus over to the camera in his hand.

“I’m sorry, again, for taking this without asking. I didn’t mean to scare you,” is it fair for a man to look so effortlessly good, one hand reaching up to push a set of overgrown brown curls from his forehead, hooking one particular long strand behind his ear? Rarely a fan of long locks on a man, there is something about the way he wears his head of hair, dishevelled yet, strangely, not a hair seems out of place, falling perfectly in a way that frames his sharp features. His voice fills your ears again, pulling focus down to his rosebud lips. “But, uh… If you don’t hate the pictures, I can pass them along to you.”

“If I don’t like them? Are you kidding?” Overcompensating for your frazzled nerves, your enthusiastic display as you glance down at the photograph burnt into the camera’s screen is hopefully enough to atone for your earlier sin of lying. “These are- Wow! I mean, are you a professional photographer? You should be photographing models, not working here as a tour guide-”

And now you are just overdoing it.

Because, truth be told, the picture is not even that good. You are barely in focus, the background is more pixelated than one would hope, and there is an intruding figure in the corner, the sandal-clad foot of a man who had been standing off to the side.

“You really think so?” Bucky drinks in your praise, cheeks glowing a rosy hue as he basks in your eager praise. Men really are so simple at their core, happy to believe they are overqualified in a skill they barely have at the slightest of celebration. “I was just messing with the lens, didn’t think I’d even do that good… Oh, but, actually-”

He pauses, hesitation on his face as he mulls over a thought.

You encourage him to speak his mind, eyebrows furrowing as you question him with your gaze.

“It’s just, I completely forgot, we’d have to exchange phone numbers if you’re wanting me to pass the photos on. Which I totally understand if you’re not comfortable with! I mean, I’m a man, and I’m a stranger, and-” Like he is aware of his own mouth racing off ahead of him, Bucky draws his tongue back in and tries to settle a little composure into himself, straightening his shoulder and clearing his throat. “Or we could meet somewhere in a few days, if you want a printed copy of it. Would Wednesday work for you?”

The shake of your head comes swiftly, shooting his offer down, “Sorry, I leave for Tokyo on Tuesday. But I don’t mind! Exchanging numbers, I mean.”

To the outside, you must sound like a pair of mumbling, stumbling fools. Sentences barely cohesive and rarely uninterrupted by a hum or a haw, thoughts actively unravelling as you both speak them into existence.

But a part of you can’t help feeling a certain wave of charm roll over you, an endearment that clutches at your heart and has you wondering how a man with a face like that could ever sound unsure of himself.

“Oh, in that case…” and Bucky has already taken to digging through his back-pocket, slipping a black phone into his grasp. You watch him press the power button, only to be met with the familiar sign of a dead battery: black screen, white charger symbol. “Shit, sorry. Do you mind if I type my number into your phone? Mine’s dead as a dodo right now.”

It would be rude to say no. And, really, what other choice do you have? Other than, of course, to suddenly change your mind and decide you don’t want the mediocre picture, but then that would require you to be rude. Besides, it’s not like you weren’t going to end up having his number anyway, what difference does it make if he types it in?

Your hands are scouring through your bag, searching for the familiar green of phone case well-past its sell-by date — with more bumps and scratches along its surface than a reckless teen’s first car — when you feel the violation of his stare wandering into the contents of your bag.

It doesn’t take long for you to both zero in on a familiar booklet, tucked neatly into an inner-pocket and seemingly sporting a few dog-ears.

“You kept it,” he notes, gaze still glued to The Wise Traveller, and the comment almost makes you hurl — because it’s like he knows you abandoned the other guide you purchased that day.

“Uh, yeah,” your reply comes a little more breathless than you would like, as you try not to think too hard about the engraving along the inside of the pages, the very place you had first learnt his name. “Figured you were right, back in the airport. Can’t be too careful these days.”

Then it hits you.

You’ve not even told this stranger- Bucky your name.

Here you are, a fool fumbling over words at the sight of his pretty face, freely handing over your phone for him to pluck into his own grasp and begin swiping over the screen, and you’ve yet to once offer him the appropriate politeness of sharing your name.

Only, as you finally give it up and introduce yourself, you’re met with a reply that from any man less attractive would have had you running for the hills: “Oh, I know!”

As though he can feel your wide eyes, watching him with a measured caution, Bucky is quick to fire into a chuckle and shake your phone in your direction, screen opened on your contacts and brandishing your name along the top.

“It says it right here. Cute name, by the way. Makes sense for a pretty girl like you,” thumbs swipe across your phone, numbers punched into a new contact. Meanwhile, Bucky continues to make small talk, with a smile on his face you have quickly decided comes far too easily to him — surely no one is that happy, all the time? You’re almost certain if you peel back the complex layers of reasoning behind his grin, you’d find customer service at the root of it all. “Is it any good?”

Too focused on studying his more-than-good looks, it takes you a moment and one too many slow blinks to realise he’s back on the topic of the safety guide, “Oh, uh, Yeah. It’s great. Very… safe, you know?”

Here you go again, lying for the sake avoiding the awkward conversation where you tell the very stranger — very kind stranger, mind you, who has extended you nothing but a show of good faith, a man so used to playing the role of big brother that he could not stop himself from instilling some level of safety into a lonesome woman — that you had not opened the book he had gifted you beyond that pages of his footnote. All those apparent dog-ears? Wrinkles in the book’s corners, a result of shoving the poor thing and crushing it amongst the other contents of your bag.

“Can’t be that good, surely,” guilt coats the back of your throat. You swallow it down and keep your focus on Bucky, who has finished inserting his contact details and now balances your phone between two fingers, awaiting your eventual acceptance of it back into your grasp. “Pretty sure you just broke rule number one.”

“I- What rule?”

Like a wind-up toy, Bucky clears his throat and recites with practised ease, “Never tell a stranger your travel plans.”

Your whole world goes still.

A heart that no longer beats. Lungs that no longer inflate. Hands that run cold with a nervous sweat.

Birds chirp in the distance, the noise louder than ever before. Voices, muffled as though you are submerged in water, swirl around you in an unidentifiable cluster — men, women, children; every one more monotone than the last.

It’s his laugh that pierces through the threatening haze of quiet, throaty and inviting, tickling at your own humour despite the fact you can’t seem to pinpoint what exactly is so funny about this situation.

Maybe this Bucky guy is just a little awkward, the type to fall back on laughter when he feels stifled by silence.

You don’t get the chance to investigate your sudden theory any further, for the duties of a tour guide seem to catch up to him at last. The flock of older women have swarmed him like vultures, each trying to get him to help them focus the binoculars that dangle from their necks. Before they can fully sweep him away, the handsome stranger offers you one last grin and some parting words.

“Have fun in Tokyo!”

Bondi Beach, Australia.

Like any true, modern day feminist, the last thing you enjoy doing is agreeing with a man… But Anakin Skywalker certainly made some good points against sand.

It is coarse, it is rough, it is irritating, and it does get everywhere.

Right now, it’s wedged between your hallux and index toe, irritating the skin with each step you take, grinding against the toe post of a sandal and driving the bothersome granules deeper into you. So, it’s safe to say you dive at the first sight of respite, just about throwing yourself into an empty bar stool.

Pearl Waves Beach Club is certainly a sight to behold.

A beacon of white, with floor to ceiling length windows that look out towards golden sun and aqua waters, and an overwhelming aura of wealth and excess that makes you feel less than adequate, wandering through the air-conned space clad in a burgundy two-piece bathing suit, a hastily tied shawl around your waist, and shoes that announce your every move with a harsh slap against marble flooring that echoes out into the tranquility of the beach club.

None of that matters now that you’re nestled in a seat, the lingering dampness from the ocean that still clings to your bikini bottoms now wetting the dark leather beneath it. The sticky residue of suncream has mixed with your sweat, creating an uncomfortable film atop your body, and salt has embedded itself into your scalp, doing its best into coercing you to scratch at and relieve the pinch in your skin. Despite all that, you feel nothing short of blessed, covered in the tell-tale stains of someone who has spent the better half of their day strewn upon a sandy beach and basking in the sun’s radiance, like if you lay there long enough, you will eventually evolve and gain the skill of photosynthesis.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Barely believing the vision unravelling before your very eyes, you blink twice before making a show out of rubbing your knuckles against closed eyelids. Sight readjusting to the brightness of the beach club, you find your eyes have far from deceived you: there, making his way up the length of the bar, with a dishtowel tossed over one shoulder and a pearly-white grin plastered along a clean-shaven face, is none other than your handsome stranger.

“Oh my-” Cutting yourself off before you can fully form the words, you gape at him in shock, pointer finger aimed at his direction as though you are accusing him of something — like the crime of running into you for a third time on your trip around the globe, or the more unforgivable sin of daring to look better with each run-in. Even now, the luscious locks you had admired back in Thailand chopped and traded in for a far shorter, more polished slick of dark hair, held in place by a lick of hair gel, he looks better than ever. There’s only one issue- “James?”

That is what sits engraved into his golden name tag, clipped to a black button up that sits stretched a little too tightly around his forearms.

Following your line of sight, chin near pressed to his sternum as he looks down at his chest, Bucky — or James, or whatever his name is — is flooded with a wave of red, embarrassment burning at the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“Afraid my name’s not actually as cool as something like Bucky,” his hands plant themselves on the bar, as the man positions himself directly across from you over the counter top.

Try as you might, you can’t resist the invisible magnet that draws your attention down to his arms, bare in a way they never have been before. While you want to follow the trail of veins that dance up the length of each forearm, you instead find yourself staring where politeness says you shouldn’t.

Because where you expect to find skin as golden as the one along his right arm, you find a story of pain instead. Splotches of pink paint the otherwise white skin with colour, with a shine that does not match the typical look of flesh. Where some spots appear unnaturally smooth, other flecks of tissue appear sunken in, visual marks of trauma along his left arm.

Catching yourself as you blatantly stare, regret making impact with your chest, you force yourself to meet those aqua eyes of his, watching you with the patience of someone who is beyond used to the rude — even if well intentioned— stares.

“I don’t know if cool is the right word for Bucky,” opting for diffusing with humour, you tease your handsome stranger. Though, really, maybe he is no longer a stranger. With how often fate seems to be driving you together, maybe it’s time you consider him an acquaintance. “Sounds like the stage name for one of those horses, you know? Make some noise, folks, for Bucky the Bucking Bronco!”

Mouth contradicts hand, as James struggles to contain his amusement, pouring out of him in melodies of laughter. All the while he grasps at something dramatic with his palm, colliding over where his heart sits beneath layers of cotton and flesh and bone, clutching as though you have freshly driven a dagger into him.

“Harsh! Call me a loser next time, why don’cha?” There it is again, that lilt of an accent, curving over the man’s words as he feigns offence. Palms up in defeat, Bucky shakes a chuckle out himself before pinning you under his intense stare, “Go on, tell old Loser McGee over here wha’cha want, before they kick you out for harassing an innocent bartender.”

A familiar overwhelm befalls you, leaving your stomach feeling like a led balloon as you fix your attention on the boards behind Bucky, where options upon options, upon options lay scribbled in chalk. Brands of liquor, strains of beer, every cocktail under the sun; they all sit compiled in a list so overflowing with choice, it paralyses you once again.

“I,” you drag out the sound, mouth paused and agape while you try to pick something, anything to drink… Before ultimately confessing, “Have no idea. There’s too much to choose from.”

“You’ve got a real problem making decisions, you know that?” You are almost taken aback by Bucky’s brash declaration. No matter how true it may be, you never expected the man made up of bashful smiles and shaky words to just come right out and say it like that, no tact in his choice of words that could soften the blow of reality. “Between here and that kiosk, I’m starting to worry about how you’ve been getting by without me on the rest of your trip.”

While you might have tuned your gut out nearly two months ago, she has a nasty habit of screaming her way back into the forefront of your mind. And right now, she’s screaming a tale of seduction, one where she is trying her best to convince your sharper senses that there is a flirtatious undertone behind the way Bucky cocks his head and tilts one side of his mouth up into a smirk, just waiting on your response to his teasing.

A bad habit that doesn’t die at all, apparently, you give in to the noise of your gut and try reach a place of equal footing, arms crossing over your chest and subtly squeezing your nylon clad breasts closer together, deepening the line of your cleavage.

“You don’t have to worry, James,” elbows kiss the cold of the bar counter as you shuffle closer and lean against it, ignoring the bolt of electric heat that shoots down your spine as you notice blue eyes lower from your face and fall right into your cross-armed trap. “The world’s full of handsome strangers eager to help a girl like me decide.”

“Is that so?” There’s a tick in his jaw, which you swear you witness him clench, only for him to distract you with the sight of his back muscles, straining as he turns and begins reaching for various colourful bottles you barely recognise. “Then let me be the one to decide for you today, hmm?”

An unmeasured amount of time pases with his back turned on you and your eyes attempting to peak over his shoulders, catching glimpses of how he chops at fruits, and measures liquids, and grabs at ice. Everything culminates in a grand finale of his hands grasping at two metal cups, one jammed into the other as he begins to shake, and shake, and shake.

Bucky is nothing short of peacocking, dazzling you with easy flips and twirls of the shaker, each toss more riskier than the last. Braced for breath, you half expect him to fail any moment now, make a fool of himself and send the contents of the cups spilling all down the front of him.

Surprisingly, this does not end up being the case.

Instead, you watch him turn with a smug, satisfied grin and lay a colourful concoction in front of you, decorated with a handful of fruit and a sprinkle of mint leaves.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t ask, just drink,” Bucky encourages you, two fingers pinched around the neck of the straw and guiding it to your waiting mouth. Just as you wrap your lips around the plastic, an angry yell breaks out from the opposite end of the bar, where you spot a red-faced, uniform-clad man glaring daggers at your handsome stranger- No, acquaintance's* direction. “Oh, shoot… I’ve gotta go, that’s my manager. Enjoy!”

Before disappointment at the sight of him racing off down the bar can solidify itself in your chest, you feel a rush of relief as you witness him come face-to-face with his manager — who you almost swear you witness rip Bucky’s name tag clean off his shirt — for the moment you take a sip of his cocktail, something in your stomach turns…

It might just be the most disgusting thing you’ve ever tasted.

Therme București, Romania.

“I have a new nickname for you,” your declaration is half-slurred, on account of your face being nose deep in the headrest of a massage table. “Buck-Of-All-Trades.”

A laugh you’ve grown too familiar with echoes over the zen playlist that has been filtering out of a speaker for the past thirty minutes. Incense burns in one corner, while a glass door that has long ago steamed up with the heat of the room sits on the opposite side. Melting into PVC leather, you are naked with nothing but a thin, pristine white towel to cover your most delicate areas. And, with knees that squeeze into your waist with every smooth roll of his hands along your oil-slicked back, is your handsome acquaintance.

Weeks and miles away from the events upon the Australian beach, you had walked into your much anticipated massage with one thing in mind, an apology given by a staff member after a forty minute wait: “The original masseuse you booked with has fallen sick, so we have matched you up with one of our newer experts. Thank you for your patience!”

Had you admittedly been a little frustrated? Well, yes!

Had that very same frustration evaporated the moment you watched Bucky step into the room, hair a little fluffier than before and sporting a five o’clock shadow? Well… Yes!

“Hmm, how so?” Like he is trying to torture you, there is a certain strain of exertion in James’ voice, a sound that pairs with the relaxing roll of his palms up the length of your back as perfectly as red wine goes with steak.

“Because,” half the word collapses into a breathy sigh as you feel the tips of his fingers press into a knot. One third of the way down your spine, burrowed beneath the point of your right shoulder blade, he sniffs it out like a police dog sent to find drugs. “Every time I see you, you have a new job.”

You leave out the part where this is the first one you’ve witnessed him be good at.

In a way, you’ve grown fond of that less-than-perfect photograph he captured of you on Dragon Crest. With a view so ethereal, it would be selfish to think anything as cheap and measly as a camera could dare capture it in all it’s glory.

And his cocktail, though far from drinkable, had certainly looked beautiful, brandished all over your Instagram story and paired with the perfect caption: Custom cocktail from a handsome bartender <3

Tony definitely had not reacted well.

You happily left his messages on read, his demands for your return abandoned to the void of your chat.

“That’s not a very nice nicknames though, doll,” a tut comes from behind you, and it takes just about every inch of will you own inside your body to not raise your head and glance back. The fear of not surviving the sight of Bucky, thick thighs spread and arm muscles rippling under his repeated touching along your naked back, is what really holds you in place. “Ain’t the rest of that sayin’ meant to imply I have no real skills? Master of none?”

With a dismissive wave of your hand and a relaxed shh, you sink deeper — if that is even possible — into the massage table, swallowing back a pleasured moan as his thumbs begin working at the knot.

“You men are all the same,” you mumble before you can think better of it, sighing as you close your eyes and visualise a montage of Tony and all his nagging words. “Can’t just take a damn compliment, always gotta turn it into an argument.”

“‘S that so?”

“Yes, that is so.”

Like he feels your breath hitch at a particular pressure, he reinforces it, thumb pressing right where you need him to, “You’re speaking from experience, I take it.”

A groan fires out of you, half because you are frustrated under the reminders of Tony that swirl around in your mind and half because there is an embarrassing rush of blood shooting straight for your core with every roll of his fingers, a slow pulse making itself known between your legs that practically begs you to grind down into the hardened leather. But you don’t, because you can’t.

Because that would be wrong.

Because that would violate Bucky’s trust and safety as a professional.

Because he would feel it the moment you even dare try, his own groin all but resting against your lower half.

“Too much experience,” you manage a response, finally. “My ex-boyfriend… Actually, I can’t even call him that. But anyway, he was the worst.”

“Oh yeah?” He passively replies with the very words you want to chant as his fingers skim and find another knot to undo, unknowingly undoing other parts of you too.

“Y-yeah,” you sigh, shoulders rolling back as you squirm and try to get comfortable, despite the slick forming between your thighs. “He used to argue with me, all the time. And he wasn’t afraid to get mean with it.”

“What a jerk.”

“Yeah, he is a jerk,” much like your body needed the physical therapy of steady hands loosening all your muscles, your mind is basking in the healing nature of finally trashing a man who had made you feel so inadequate, you had to run halfway across the earth just to escape your scorned heart. “Do you know-” a rhetorical question, for poor Bucky has absolutely no idea who you are talking about, “He couldn’t even drive 10 minutes to come pick me up once? My clutch broke and I had no way to get to work, and he complained when I asked him for a favour. He literally works down the street from me!”

“Jesus, darling,” he follows it up with a low whistle, just in time to cover up the faintest huff of a moan pushed from your mouth. “No wonder you’re so tense, dealin’ with boys like that.”

As good as the validation feels, to have a voice outside of your head paying testament to your woes and sympathising with your troubles, you are still plighted by the cruel torture of thinking too much about Tony at once. And, so, you cut the conversation short, drag it someplace else.

“What’s your story, then?”

Hands pause along your back, mapping over the skin like Bucky is searching for the next tweak to undo in your spine. Finding one quicker than you expect, he sinks his touch back into you and matches your question with his own, “Who says I have a story?”

“Oh, come on,” the effect the massage is having on you grows harder to suppress with each passing moment. “You don’t travel the world, working every job under the sun, and not have a story!”

Mask slipping a little too far, a moan crawls its way from out your chest. It is nothing dramatic, a simple hum of affirmation, a noise that says yes, keep going without you needing to part your lips.

“Okay, okay, I’ll give you my story,” Bucky is likely paying you some kindness, refusing to acknowledge the noise that just left you.

Never have you been more relieved to be in his presence. Then again, the more you think about it, his presence tends to be accompanied by relief: saving you from choosing at the kiosk, sparing you from the silence of the mountain, rescuing you from the threat of dehydration at the bar.

You catch the next hum before it can make too much noise, a subtle squeeze of your thighs relieving the burn between your thighs if only for a moment.

“I was a smart kid but I never really had any direction in life. No big burning passion, you know?” You nod into the headrest, then nearly laugh as you imagine what you must look like from his point of view right now. “So when my friend Steve showed up one day and told me he was enlisting in the military, it was like the universe handed me a task. I mean, when I say this kid was scrawny, I mean he looked one gust of wind away from being swept away to the land of Oz.”

Laughing is a mistake that only leads to a broken moan, his thumbs once again pressing just right.

“Stop that,” Bucky scolds softly, reinforcing the pressure behind his touch like he is trying to coax you into letting the noise fully form, let your pleasure perforate the calm room. “‘S just you, me, and the incense in here. I promise no one’s gonna judge you, so sing your little heart out. Let’s me know I’m doing a good job.”

Latch unlocked, permission granted; it’s embarrassing how quick you are to obey. Hypnotised by his words, you find your lips parting with permanence, throat relenting and becoming a vehicle for your pleasure, the zen playlist quickly becoming a backing track to your gentle moans.

“There we go. Isn’t that nice? Lettin’ loose, letting yourself feel good?” When had his hands reached so low, fingertips dancing along the hem of the white towel strewn along your lower back? “I quickly learned I liked the military. I was good at it. The routine, the demanding physicality, the yes, sir, yes and all the other stupid things they make you chant.”

It damn near gives you whiplash how easily James slips back into relaying his story to you, voice void of a previous layer of sultriness and now coated by something more careful, something practised. The monotony of a story told one too many times and perfected to hit all the right story beats to keep his listener engaged.

“But then there was an accident,” for the first time since he planted himself atop your back, the hitch in your breath is caused by something other than his tender touch. Memories of his left arm, scar tissues wrapped around him like vine, suddenly hits you. “I pissed some guys off, got one too many push ups handed to them by pointing out their misdemeanours to our superiors. I don’t remember how the prank was actually meant to play out but, next thing I know, I’m waking up to my bed sheets on fire and the feeling of death clawing up my arm. And that was that. A month in hospital, many more months in physical therapy. I quit the military, so did Steve.”

It feels selfish to moan right then, but Bucky only seems to light up at the sound, massaging deeper into the tissue of your back, relishing in your vocal praises.

“Then,” his pause is for dramatic effect. “I just sat and felt sorry for myself. For months. It was more excruciating than the pain, that boredom. It felt like I lost my life, even though I was still alive and fully intact, save for the scars left behind by the fire. And… I don’t know. There’s really only so long you can do that before you have to get up and go. Do something again. I just decided to do everything. Everywhere I want to go, I go. Every job I want to try, I apply. What’s the worst thing that can happen? I get rejected? I guarantee that’s less pain that what’s going on in my arm.”

Though your reasons are far smaller, far less visible, the scarring along your heart feels seen by Bucky’s words.

The massage finishes far sooner than you would like.

Bucky at last gets a chance to dismiss himself from you without some outside source dragging him away, giving you just enough time to suspect there’s hesitation in his voice, as he draws out his goodbye before exiting the massage room and leaving you to re-dress.

Bones turned to jelly, heart a little lighter too, you’re too blissed out to care that your underwear has gone missing, no longer stuffed neatly into the pocket of your trousers.

Nonno Gio’s Cooking Class, Italy.

You realise too little too late that you’ve fallen for a tourist trap.

Because Nonno Gio, who you expect to embody the essence of Italy, turns out to be a middle-aged American man who seemingly has watched one too many episodes of The Sopranos. A golden chunk of chain sits clasped around his bright red neck, and his accent is plucked right out of New Jersey.

It’s a little too hard to lament the loss of a few hundred euros, however, while watching your cooking partner whisk away at a selection of dry and wet ingredients… Particularly because the cooking partner in question is your handsome friend — yes, he has received an upgrade in titles — Bucky.

“We seriously need to stop meeting like this,” had been his version of a greeting, shoulders shaking and mouth laughing with disbelief as he watched you saunter up to the very cooking station he had been assigned. “It’s starting to get creepy.”

“Creepy?” You echoed, throwing an apron over your head, at last standing by his side. “If me stalking you all across the globe is creepy then, sure James, I’m creepy!”

Taking charge, Bucky leaves you to laugh at your own silly joke while his hands grasp at the strings of your apron. Pulling the fabric flush against your front, guarding the pretty pale yellow of your sundress from any dusting of flour or splashes of liquid, he threads the strings into a tight bow and punctuates the action by smoothing his hands over your hips, undoing a ruffle that has formed along your waist.

The entire class is a practice in patience, a way to prove to yourself just how good your ability to endure has become.

Because Bucky is an example of visual torture.

Floppy hair that falls over his eyes as he concentrates on chopping onions, a single tear slipping down his cheek. You take a deep breath and force your hands to focus on your own task, instead of brushing the locks from his face.

Muscles that ripple beneath the confines of a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and light cotton sitting loose around his bicep, just see-through enough to grant you the view how toned they are. He kneads at the pizza dough, meanwhile you need three stabilising breaths to calm your less than kitchen-friendly thoughts.

Sharp cheekbones, one side sporting the delicate swipe of flour staining his tanned skin, right where he foolishly wiped away an invisible bit of lint without fully washing his hands. You want to laugh at the sight, or to lick the pad of your thumb and swipe the powder away, but you are too busy reeling from those same flour-covered fingers grasping at your chin, tilting your eyes up to meet his blue ones, and smudging your own cheek with flour.

“There,” he mutters, cool as a cucumber and nowhere near as affected as you. “We’re matching, Now we look like a real team.”

It’s after you both ship off your pizza into the specialised oven, with Bucky insisting you both grasp at the peel and feed your wonky masterpiece, possessing a shape closer to a square than a circle, in together, that you finally feel yourself lose the ability to trap your tongue, mouth flying off to speak your thoughts before you can swallow the words back down.

“This might sound insane, so feel free to call me crazy,” is always a promising, stable way of starting a sentence. It is truly a miracle the handsome man entertains your wording with an endeared smile. “But I feel like there is a reason behind why we keep running into each other. Like… Like the universe is pushing me in your direction, you know? I mean, what are the chances?”

Silence.

The other members of the cooking class chatter around you both, but you don’t hear them, too focused on the fragile bubble that surrounds you and Bucky.

“You’re crazy,” straight to the point, monotone voice and deadpanned stare. It’s safe to say James does not give you the answer you were expecting… At least not immediately. But then the tension on the surface of his face cracks and he breaks out into an easy smile, something similar to relief swimming in the pools of his eyes. “But I’m glad you said it, ‘cause I’ve been thinking the same thing. For a while now.”

Despite the hazard lights flashing from within your gut, screaming warnings at you to not repeat previous mistakes, to not hand a man the ability to make a fool out of you, you take a leap of faith and pray this time you don’t wind up weeping with your knees pressed into the floor — there’s not even a carpet to soften the blow this time.

“I leave for France tomorrow,” this time, you share your plans knowing full well it is the number one rule in The Wise Traveller not to. You justify this violation of safety with the fact Bucky is no longer a stranger. He is your friend, right? “I’ll be in Bordeaux. You know, in case you’re struggling to pick where you’re going next. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Thankfully, Bucky is better at cooking than he is at mixology, and when the pair of you tuck into your less-than-authentic Italian pizza, you’re suddenly thankful you fell for Nonno Gio’s tourist trap.

How else would you have (possibly, maybe) scored a friendly date in Bordeaux?

The nightclub’s name is far from an exaggeration: you can feel the bass infiltrating your heartbeat.

Or maybe it’s not the bass, but adrenaline; kicking in and raising your heart rate.

The straps of your heels dig painfully into the skin around your ankles, rubbing them raw and no doubt drawing blood to the blistered surface. Every hurried step forces you to tug down the hem of your dress, riding up under the force of your strides. Sweat stings at your eyes and bodies swarm all around you, swaying out of tune to a DJ who loves his job a little too much, despite the fact he can barely succeed at a simple cross-fade into the next track.

At the very least, you suppose, the DJ is playing the club classics, the records that never fail to get a crowd screaming out the lyrics at the top of their lungs. It’s his only saving grace.

Safety lays ahead, a beacon of light shinning from where the exit to the club sits, new bodies spilling into the venue while all you want to do is escape.

A hand around your wrist halts you, drags you back with a squeal before you can dive out the doors.

You don’t have to turn to know it’s him, the very same stranger who has been harassing you for the past half hour, unwilling to take the hint of your side-eyes and disapproving glares as he attempted, time and time again, to grind up against you on the dance floor. While at first you had tried to flee subtly, it quickly became obvious that rejection was not something the bull-headed man took well.

The moment your footsteps had sped up across the floor, he began pursuing after you.

And now he’s caught you, a wriggling fish trapped in the painful hook of his hand. He wastes no time, another set of fingers reaching to roughly grab at your face, tilt your face up to his, and-

A scuffle ensues, one that you seem to be trapped in the middle of; a tug of war where one hand is dragging you towards your pursuer and another two, more careful, are prying you backwards.

Two trumps one, without a doubt, but not without the aid of a third set of hands, this time clamping down around the assailant’s wrist in a painful grip and ripping the unwanted hand off of you, arm twisting unnaturally as your third defender pins the stranger’s hand behind his back. Through the shock of it all, you barely register the other four hands dropping their grasp from you, nor the pair of security that grapple with the man responsible for your shaky hands and jackhammer heart.

You manage to concentrate enough to notice him, however, relinquishing his hold of the stranger to his fellow bouncers and approaching you with the caution of a scared lamb, blue eyes wider than ever before as they frantically search over your body for signs of injury.

“Are you okay? Does anywhere hurt?” Bucky — like every time before — looks better than the last time you saw him. Beard fuller, hair softer, worried face a reflection for the swirling neon lights around you both. Dressed from head to toe in black, a splash of white sits across his chest in the bold shape of SECURITY. “See, doll? This is why you need to be more careful, hmm. Where’s that guide I bought you?”

Tuning out the condescension, filtering it through a part of your brain that registers his words as only the worried rambling of someone concerned about their friend, you take to answering his first questions instead.

“I’m fine,” your voice sounds miles away to you, lost in the crowd along with the rest of the drunken fools. The buzz of alcohol has long simmered away within you, nothing but a static flatline remaining that leaves you tasting bile and wanting your bed — not the bed in your hostel, your bed, back home, where the sheets still smell like Tony. “Just my wrist hurts.”

That is enough to kick Bucky into gear, and the next thing you know, you’re sat outside the club atop a plastic chair, ice pack pressed to your skin, a jacket wrapped around your shoulders, and Bucky crouching by your feet.

A soft crack rings out into the Grecian night as he twists the lid off a bottle of water, offering it up to your lips and gifting an approving nod as he watches your throat bob, swallowing down a few sips.

“Your taxi should be here in ten minutes,” Bucky keeps his voice to barely a whisper, afraid to startle you. If you weren’t still so shaken, or stewing in a frustration towards him you thought you had got over weeks ago, you would laugh and point out the still very audible thump of Greece’s shittiest DJ entertaining the masses back inside the club. “I’m sorry… About that man. He’s been- Dealt with. Banned for life, no doubt, that’s what usually happens with-”

“Why didn’t you come?” Your question seems to hurt him more than the pain in your wrist, eyebrows furrowing and gentle smile slipping into an almost pout. “I waited. I thought I would hear from you. But you never came, and I explored Bordeaux alone.”

Knees kissing the dirtied ground, Bucky leans closer and perches his hands on your naked thighs, inches from where your dress rests around your legs, “Did you want me to come?”

“I told you I would be there.”

“That’s not the same as asking me to go,” he kisses those pearly teeth with a hiss, adjusting his grip on your legs and glancing over his shoulder, like he’s waiting for a taxi to finally pull up to the club’s entrance. Is he that desperate to see you leave? “I know you’re used to snapping your fingers and getting what you want, but I’m not that easy. Gotta use your words, baby. I can’t read minds, can only do as much as you ask of me.”

Intoxicated by his cologne, by the alcohol in your veins, by the sudden waft of cigarette smoke blown your way from bystanders to the left, there is suddenly only one question on your mind for Bucky… What a shame you speak it out loud.

“Would you kiss me?”

No further questioning is needed.

Bucky moves lazily, hand reaching up to grasp at your cheek. A thumb swipes over the swell of it, before steady fingers press your head to tilt it down to give him easier access to your mouth, pushing up from the ground to take possession of you.

His lips are soft, pressing carefully against your own. Bucky lets you take the lead, moving at whatever pace you set. At first slow, tentative, memorising the shape of his mouth against yours. And then desperate, lips widening with each smack and tongues reaching to taste each other.

Car horns blare, strangers chatter, and the bass continues to thump obnoxiously under the command of the DJ, but none of that matters right now. All that matters is Bucky, kissing you with equal fervour, groaning into your mouth as you sigh against him. The taste of mint hits your tongue, remnants of gum he had long ago chewed.

Your own wandering hands ruin the fun, gliding down the stretch of his black top and hooking two fingers beneath his belt, dragging him closer as you mutter, “There’s a spare bed back at my hostel.”

Disappointed does not even begin to cover what you are feeling when Bucky pulls back, head shaking and hands grasping at your wrists, prying your touch from off of him. Before you can feel the shame of rejection, though, he’s pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek and offering you an apology.

“I’m not the kind of guy who sleeps with a girl in your state, doll,” his hands take to tightening his jacket around your shoulders, a sudden gust of wind filling the night with a chill that runs right through you. You shiver for a whole other reason, however, when Bucky’s breath hits the shell of your ear as he mumbles into it, “Besides, I want you remembering every second of our first night together, not some drunken blur.”

Your taxi arrives quicker than you would like.

Bucky walks you over to it, holding the door open for you all the while he spills out directions in Greek to the driver. Only as he goes to slam the door shut do you remember the weight of his jacket around your shoulders, hand shooting out to pause the door.

“Wait! Here, your jacket,” you drunkenly exclaim, trying to unwind yourself from the warmth of him around you.

But Bucky is already shaking his head, hands insisting on tightening the fabric back around you, “Where are you going next, after Greece?”

You answer without hesitation, because Bucky is not a stranger.

He’s not even a friend.

He’s a man you almost just dragged to bed.

“Portugal.”

“Okay then. Give it back to me in Portugal,” with a slap of his hand atop the roof of the car, Bucky throws you one last grin before shutting the door on you, a single promise kissing your eardrums and setting your heart aflame the rest of the drive back to your hostel: “I’ll call you!”

Prisioneiro do Mar Hotel, Portugal

Bucky keeps his promise.

Calls you the next morning, arranges to meet with you in Portugal, wishes you a safe flight and even tells you that you looked beautiful the night before, even if deep-down you know you looked a mess after your run-in with the handsy stranger.

It is you who messes up this time.

“Bucky, I’m so, so sorry,” your apologies are almost as frantic as your hands, riffling through another suitcase and dumping piles upon piles of your clothing onto the hotel room floor.

The entire room is a mess, clothes strewn across just about every surface imaginable and every cupboard has been pried apart — even the safe lays with it’s door wide open, showing off your collection of jewellery to any wandering eyes.

How fortunate that the only other eyes in the room are Bucky’s, who stands by the foot of the bed and is trying his best to soothe your panic.

He’s not doing a very good job.

“I swear to you, I packed it. I remember packing it!” You, admittedly, are not the most sound of mind in this moment. A weight sits on your chest, heavy heart making every breath feel harder. Sweat gathers at the base of your neck, dampening the licks of hair at the back of your head. And, no matter how hard you try not to think about, memories of Tony are running on repeat in your mind. “God! I’m such a fucking idiot- I… How do you even lose a jacket?!”

Tearing through another bag, you’re none the wiser to Bucky as he inches closer to you, weaving his boot clad feet through empty spaces in the floor that don’t possess your clothing, unwilling to stain your pretty dresses with his footprint.

Your cheeks are overrun by tears in the blink of an eye. Angry, rotten little things that track rivers down your skin and drip all over the open bag you are kneeling over. Soft hands meet your shoulders, cradling them just as they begin to shake under the violent sobs that rack through your chest.

More than anything, you are embarrassed to be causing such a scene, especially when Bucky seems so unaffected by the loss of his jacket.

“Hey, hey,” his voice is practically a gentle coo, while his hands are dragging your body upright off the floor and forcing you to face him. “No need to cry, doll.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” this apology comes with a fresh wave of tears. At the very least you’re able to laugh, even if only a little, at your mess of a state, painfully aware that your understanding of his words does not pair well with the tears tracking down your cheeks. “I just- I can’t help it- Can’t stop them from falling. Think it’s some- Trauma response, or something.”

Breathing becomes a struggle as your chest pulls tight, lungs squeezing out every drop of air you attempt to feed them with. All the while, Bucky watches you with caring eyes, a pout nearly overcoming his pretty lips while he tries help you syncopate your breathing with his, hand pressing your own to his chest and forcing you to feel every strong inhale and easy exhale he makes.

“It’s just Tony. I remember it, this one time,” you speak in fragments, stretches of sentences huffed out with each breath, a little less shaky than the last under Bucky’s guidance. “I lost one of his shirts… Or he left it at someone else’s apartment, one of his other fuck buddies. Anyway, he didn’t react well. He was screaming at me, for hours, calling me useless, and stupid, and- God. Sorry, this just-”

“Stop apologising,” Bucky wipes away a tear before it can even fall, lets it stain his finger while he continues to soothe it over your cheek, big blue eyes commanding you to relax under their stare. Far away from Tony, he wants you to remember where you are: in a hotel room, in Portugal, with him. “Don’t have to worry, doll. ‘M not gonna yell at you.”

You thank him softly, let yourself lean forward and collapse into his arms, emotional exhaustion taking grip of your soul as your forehead meets his shoulder.

Bucky holds you like you are made of porcelain, hands barely daring to fully cup at your body as you press yourself against him.

When he hums, you feel it run right through you.

“‘Cause I know you’ll make it up to me, won’t you? I can trust you to make it right, can’t I?”

Nodding a little too frantically, nervous energy still coursing through your veins, you pull back just enough to look him in his darkening eyes, “Of course! There’s a mall not far from here, we can go and find a replacement for the jacket.”

But you’re not even finished talking when Bucky starts to shake his head, one hand flattening itself atop your shoulder and applying pressure. You’re already halfway to the floor when you realise the man is guiding you onto your knees, heartbeat beginning to pick up for a whole other reason than some stupid, misplaced jacket.

“That jacket was one of a kind, baby,” his statement confuses you. You could have sworn it carried a label from H&M on the inside. Or had you misread it, mistaken a luxury brand for something a little more familiar to you? “You don’t seriously think some small town mall’s gonna have anything worth apologising with, do you?” You shake your head without even realising, too busy watching the way his spare hand has fallen over his belt. “No, exactly. ‘S better you put your money where your mouth is instead, give me a proper apology.”

The entire act of his fingers undoing his belt, while the others slip from your shoulder and travel up to flatten themselves atop your scalp, bitten fingernails scrapping over the roots of your hair, it feels like the antithesis to everything you’ve ever enjoyed before.

With Tony, things were fast-paced yet fairly vanilla. He never wanted to draw out the experience, make his movements linger until you find yourself on the very precipice of needy, mouth watering at just the sight of a happy trail.

Which is exactly the state you’re in now, watching with anticipation as the man towering over you unthreads his belt and loosens the button of his jeans. The sound of a zip being undone fills the hotel room, reverberating off the walls of your skull and having a Pavlovian effect over you, thighs involuntarily squeezing in search of friction at the thought of what Bucky hides beneath his quickly-disappearing layers.

As it turns out, he’s hiding a lot. More than you expect.

You’re no expert in size, guesstimating that he’s definitely an inch or two over what most men possess. The tip of his cock is an angry red, crowned by a bead of pre-cum dripping from the slit and slipping over the curve of a mushroomed head. While you’ve never been a great aficionado of the male genitalia, something in you feels entranced, suddenly more than willing to sit here all day and just study the shape of Bucky.

Unfortunately, you are barely granted a few seconds to admire before the hand on your head is pulling you forward, closer, until you have no choice but to part your lips and make space for him.

“There we go,” Bucky, eyes more overblown by pupil than the pretty blue you have grown accustomed to, sighs out with guttural relief, head falling back as his hips give the smallest of juts forward into your mouth, feeding himself deeper. “God, don’t you just look gorgeous, huh? Pretty lips stretched round my cock, shit. Gonna need to relax your jaw.”

Caught under his spell, you’re left with no autonomy to stop yourself from obeying his every command, jaw falling lax and tongue flattening itself beneath the weight of his dick as he gives another roll of his hips, this one a little deeper and teasing at your gag reflex. This seems to delight the man, eyes lighting up momentarily as you choke on the beginning of a gag.

“Now, you want to make it up to me, don’t you?” Your attempt to nod just makes him laugh, biting back a groan as he feels your tongue drag over the underside of his length. “Then what I need you to for me is just sit there, keep your mouth open, and let me use your throat. Can you do that for me, doll?”

This time, you don’t try to nod. Instead, you hum affirmatively around his tip, relishing in the slight wave of power you feel as his eyes roll back and he instinctively thrusts into your mouth.

He starts with careful movements, barely-there rolls and ruts that press his cock a little heavier against your tongue with every one he makes. Tears still drying into your skin, it’s hard to tell if the slight salty tang invading your tongue is from you or him, precum mixing in with your excess of saliva.

The wetter your mouth grows under the invasion of him, your cunt rushes to match, slick turning your panties sticky and uncomfortable as you shift weight from one thigh to the other. A friction that Bucky cruelly cuts off, a disapproving tut coming moments before he nudges one foot between your legs and forces them apart, leaving nothing but the cool air of the hotel room to kiss your soaked underwear, a feeling so uncomfortable, it has you wishing you could peel them off.

“Uh-uh, no,” Bucky protests at the way your eyes squeeze shut, a pleasured pain shooting through your throat as he slowly begins to fuck deeper into your mouth. With deeper, faster is always soon to follow, until barely a moment or two seems to pass between the gargled sounds of his head hitting the back of your throat, forcing spit to slip past the corners of your lips and to drip down your chin, spilling all over the pretty colours of your blouse. “Want you watching me, doll. Want those pretty eyes on me when I fill this-ngh. This fucking tight throat.”

Bucky does as Bucky says, hot ropes of salty, thick cum spurting out to coat the back of your throat, tainting your mouth in a pearly whiteness that mixes with your spit, a messy string of fluids connecting your lips to his cock even as he pulls it free from your lips.

Before you can think too long, notice how he’s not even softened after spilling his seed all over your tongue, you’re busy being pulled back onto your feet and forced to welcome Bucky back into your mouth, this time his own tongue meeting yours. He hums in approval, swallowing back the flavour of himself all over your mouth, physical evidence of how easily he has claimed you as his.

So easily, you’ve barely even realised.

“Keep your mouth open,” Bucky mutters, thumb swiping over your lower lip and invading your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as you watch Bucky feed a string of his own spit onto your taste buds. Thumb retreating and pushing up against your chin, forcing your teeth to knock together, his instruction is simple, “Swallow.”

How you get from the messy floor to the messy bed, you’re not sure.

You’re even less sure how you wind up naked in the blink of an eye, panties tugged off by Bucky with an almost disapproving look, like the sight of them offended him.

Planted directly across from the bed stands a full length mirror, angled perfectly for you to watch as Bucky, his large frame engulfing you from behind, guides your thighs to part and puts your soaked cunt on display both of you to watch in the reflective glass, chest heaving so hard your breasts bounce with each breath.

Never have you felt so desperate, so warm, so in need of someone to put you out of your misery and give you the satisfaction of their touch. And Bucky seems to be aware of this, for he is torturing you, dragging lazy fingers down the stretch of your thighs and laughing in a way that is nothing short of mocking as a shiver runs through you and you squirm.

“Knew you’d be like this,” he’s talking more to himself than you, thumb ghosting over your clit and quickly evading as you attempt to grind down on the feeling. “Such a needy, desperate little thing. Perfect for me, aren’t you?”

You’re mid-nod when you’re forced into a pathetic yelp of, “Yes!” as Bucky’s palm slaps down against your cunt, nerve-tingling pain than soon melts into pleasure.

“When I ask, you answer, okay?” Three fingers rub at the raw skin of your cunt, two more slaps having preceded his warning. “Verbally, properly. You understand?”

You almost nod, until you think better of it, “Yes, Bucky.”

“Good girl,” his simple praise should not send your heart into arrest. But then maybe there is a lot about this situation that should not be playing out the way it is. “Now, eyes on the mirror, doll. Want you watch as I spread you open on my cock.”

Eyesight trained forward, you see the brief flash of his fingers lining his dick up against your wet hole, before he thrusts right in to the hilt and steals the air right out your lungs. One hand by your hips, the other wraps around the front to grasp at one of your tits, large hand staking claim over the entire swell of it and giving a teasing squeeze. It is hardly comfortable, pressing against the breast tissue, yet you find yourself enjoying it all the same, back arching into his touch.

Between your legs, visual sin is on display, a repeated back-and-forth motion of Bucky dragging his cock out of you a little further each time, light catching on the way your arousal clings to him in a wet sheen, before he buries himself back inside. At the base of your abdomen, right where your untrustworthy gut should sit, a shadow lingers beneath your skin, the faintest shape of him pushing up against your flesh.

“Look at us, doll,” ditching your breast, his hand grasps at your chin, stabilising your attention back on the mirror after you let yourself tilt your head back against his shoulder. “Do you like what you see? I’m everywhere, taking over you. Aww that’s it, cry all pretty for me again.”

Tears are slipping down your cheeks, overwhelm overcoming you at his words, his touch, his stare. Bucky really is everywhere, consuming you and grounding you all at once, a steady figure at your back that the universe sent you, no doubt an apology for whatever the hell Tony was.

“Bucky,” his name has never sounded so pathetic, falling from your lips in the shape of a whine, toes curling against his calves as he deepens the angle of his thrusts. Once again, the deeper it goes, the faster it grows, the soft echo of skin slapping against skin beginning to play out in the room.

“I know, baby, I know. We look so pretty, don’t we? Here,” you almost whine when one of his hands abandons you, but he silences you with the other diving between your legs, thumb effortlessly finding your clit and gifting it some much needed attention. “Take some pictures, doll. Told you I want our first time to be memorable, so go on and give us something to look back on.”

Your first thought isn’t that his phone is no longer black like you remember, this one red and sporting scratches along the back.

People change phones all the time, right?

Besides, who has time to notice silly details, when Bucky is back to touching you all over, both hands claiming parts of your skin?

Screen already unlocked, you try your best to steady your shaky thumb, guiding it up to the Recent Apps tab and attempting to press the camera icon… But Bucky just so happens to deliver a particularly spine-arching thrust, tip budging right against the spongy spot inside you that has you seeing stars, and your thumb presses on a familiar purple square before you can stop it.

And then your heart stops.

Bucky stops too, physically coming to a halt as he registers what exactly you’re staring at on his phone screen, “Well, shit.”

There, on his screen, sit two profile icons hovering over the same spot on a Life360 map: your picture, and Bucky’s.

And, try as you might to convince yourself, you know you never granted him permission to your location, never even got a notification of him attempting to befriend you on the app.

Bile stings at your throat. Your stomach drops to your knees. And, much to your own disappointment, your cunt pulses around his stilled member, buried inside you.

“There, that’s the solo-traveller look you asked me about,” Bucky somehow seems unshaken by your discovery, chuckling with near satisfaction as he watches your eyes focus back on the mirror ahead of you, stare wide and mouth paralysed with… “Fear, like you don’t know what to do with yourself.”

“James, what the hell is-”

“Shh,” he hushes you with both his mouth and his hips, grinding the head of his cock against you. Despite the situation at hand, you cannot deny the way your body physically reacts to him, walls squeezing around his cock and a moan slipping through the cracks of your frowning lips. “Thought we weren’t going to yell at each other, doll.”

“That was before I found out you’ve been stalking me!”

“Stalking is a little harsh. Watching over you sounds nicer, don’t you think?” He asks, like the wording drastically changes the result of his actions. Both hands are on your hips now, tilting them as he continues earlier ministrations, a slow roll of his own that are meant to distract you from the gut-wrenching revelation. “You were so eager to hand over your phone in Thailand, remember? You were practically begging me to add you on Life360. Bet you just wanted that comfort of knowing someone responsible was watching over you, huh?”

Did you beg? Had you mentioned the app to him at any point?

Months past, so many things happening between then and now, you are struggling to remember. Maybe Bucky is telling a version of the truth you’ve simply forgotten.

“We both know how bad you are at asking for what you want, baby. Was it so wrong of me to help you?” Warmth pooling in your spine, you barely even register the way you begin to wind back against him, bodies moving in perfect, effortless harmony as he begins fucking you properly again. “Could see it, how badly you wanted me but you just wouldn’t dare ask. Was it so wrong of me to give us a little man-made fate?”

That word almost pulls you out his trance, memories of how vulnerable you had felt confessing it back to him Italy flooding back in. And all along it had just been him, not the universe, following in your footsteps and manipulating your encounters.

Like he can feel the shadow of doubt creeping back over you, Bucky reinforces his sweet talking, mouth momentarily latching onto your earlobe and delivering a gentle scrape of teeth that forces you to listen.

“I mean, think of everything I’ve done just to have you, doll. Think of how far I was willing to travel, just for the chance to see you,” the worst thing is, it’s working. You can feel your resolve slipping, will giving into him the closer you’re moved towards the crescendo of your orgasm. “Meanwhile, Tony couldn’t even drive 10 minutes down the street for you. Is that what you think you deserve, baby? Someone who puts no effort into being yours?”

You give a nod, or a shake, or a something of your head, teeth clamping down on your lower lip as finally the first waves of your orgasm roll over you. Thighs shaking, yet he holds you steady against him.

Could you be steady, with him? Is that something Bucky can bring you?

No more crying on carpeted flooring, no more questioning where you stand in someone’s life, no more waking up to find your late night companion already gone.

“When I ask, I expect answers.”

You swallow back the ball in your throat, force away the doubt and the fear and the panic, and give into the warmth of his hands.

The same hands that orchestrated your fate, placed you in one another’s path. Isn’t that what you had been waiting for all along, to be chosen by someone?

“No,” the moment the two letter word leaves you, you feel him spill into your womb, groaning loud and proud into your ear. “I think I deserve you, Bucky.”

Bodies move languidly, collapsing into one another atop the bed, clothing strewn all around you from your earlier worries.

Your head meets Bucky’s chest, where a heart beats rapidly beneath the confines of flesh and bone.

His left arm curls around your naked body, dragging you impossibly closer. You cringe ever so slightly as you feel his cum spill out onto your inner thigh, all the while Bucky’s hand soothes the top of your head, lulling you to let yourself relax into him and let your eyes slip shut, accepting the way he cages you in.

“You do, baby. Deserve all of me. And you can have that, if you let me have all of you.”

+ extra hyde!

· guys i'm being so fr, do not do anything the reader did in this fic. y'all are too precious to wind up being the subject of a netflix documentary. · and before anyone comments that the reader has no self respect... well, yes! that is the plot. subject is very much aware <3 · no but why did any of my friends encourage me to write this silly fic??

“Very forties of you.” “You keep saying that like it’s an insult.” “It’s not.” Your mouth curved. “Not always.” Steve smiled and waited while you gathered the skirt of your dress just enough to sit without twisting the fabric. The movement should not have been as distracting as it was. He looked away out of self-preservation and closed the door carefully once you were settled. The drive itself was quiet at first, but not heavy. You looked out the window with the peonies’ scent still faintly clinging to the air around you, your hands resting in your lap, one thumb idly brushing over the small clutch you had brought. Steve kept one hand on the wheel, the other loose near the console, and tried not to glance at you every time the city lights slid over your bare shoulder. He failed more than once. You noticed more than once. At a red light, you turned your head toward him. “You’re going to cause an accident.” “I’m looking at the road.” “You’re looking at the road between looking at me.” “That’s different.” “That’s worse.” He laughed under his breath and faced forward again with exaggerated discipline.

At the restaurant, he parked nearby and got out first. He rounded the car before you could open your door and did it for you again. This time you did not tease him immediately. You only looked up at him from the passenger seat, one hand sliding into his when he offered it.

The heels made you taller when you stood, closer to his face than usual. Not enough to erase the height difference, but enough that when you stepped onto the curb and turned toward him, your mouth was suddenly much nearer than his self-control appreciated.

“Thank you,” you said softly. Steve’s hand stayed around yours. “You’re welcome.” For one moment, neither of you moved. Then a taxi honked somewhere behind them, the city reasserted itself, and you smiled as if you knew exactly how much damage you were doing. You walked for fifteen minutes before dinner. Not more. Steve had planned it that way. He knew the neighborhood well enough to choose a route with good sidewalks, warm lights, and no unnecessary hills. The West Village had a softness to it at that hour, all narrow streets and old brick, restaurant windows glowing amber, people gathered outside cafés with wine glasses and cigarettes and easy laughter. It felt intimate without being hidden. Public enough to be safe from the intensity of the Tower, quiet enough to let the evening belong to you both.

Your hand rested through the crook of his arm at first. Then your fingers slid down and found his. Steve let the change happen without comment, though his thumb moved once over your knuckles. “You planned the walk too,” you said after a few minutes. He glanced at you. “I planned dinner.” “You planned the walk.” “I thought you might like the neighborhood.” “You thought my shoes wouldn’t survive more than fifteen minutes.” Steve gave no answer. You laughed quietly. “See? You’re learning.” “I’m observant.” “You’re cautious.” “With you? Yes.” That made your face soften, and for a second the teasing fell away. Then you squeezed his hand. “Good answer.” They passed a small bookshop with fairy lights in the window, a bakery that smelled like butter and sugar, and a wine bar spilling low conversation onto the sidewalk. Twice, people looked at Steve as if they recognized him but could not quite decide whether to interrupt. No one did. Maybe the jacket helped. Maybe your hand in his did. Maybe the universe had finally decided to be merciful for one evening. By the time they reached the restaurant, Steve could tell your feet were beginning to protest even if you would rather have died than admit it. Your steps remained graceful, but slightly more deliberate. He opened the door. Warmth, garlic, wine, and low music wrapped around them at once.

The host greeted Steve by name and led them through the restaurant, past candlelit tables and dark wood and walls lined with framed black-and-white photographs. The place was not ostentatious. No marble pillars. No impossible tasting menu. No foam. Just polished glasses, soft light, and the rich comforting smell of food made by people who cared. Your table waited in a small alcove near the back. Steve had requested privacy. He had not expected the restaurant to take it quite so seriously. The alcove held one curved booth, one small round table, and a narrow pendant light that cast everything in a warm glow. From there, the rest of the restaurant became a quiet blur of motion and sound beyond the archway. Present, but distant. Intimate without feeling like a stage. You slid into the booth, looked around, and then looked back at him. “Steve.” He sat across from you, suddenly a little unsure. “Too much?” “No.” Your eyes moved over the candles, the alcove, the wine glasses, then back to him. “It’s really nice.” The relief that moved through him was embarrassingly strong. “Good.” You caught it. Of course you caught it. But this time you did not tease him. The waiter arrived with menus and water. Steve reached for the wine list automatically, intending to offer it to you, but you took it before he could. “We’re getting a bottle.” His brows rose. “Are we?” “Yes.” “You know it won’t do much for me.” “That doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate a good wine, Steve.” He leaned back, amused. “You sound very sure of that.” “I am.” You opened the list with the solemnity of someone handling a legal document. “Also, if you order sparkling water and stare nobly at my glass all evening, I’ll feel judged.” “I wouldn’t stare nobly.” “You absolutely would.” Steve looked at the menu and surrendered. “Red?” “Depends what you recommend for dinner.” The answer pleased him more than it should have. He suggested the wine with the same care he had given everything else that evening – something not too heavy, Italian, warm enough to suit pasta and rich sauces without overpowering the food. When the waiter returned, you let Steve order the bottle, then looked almost smug when he asked for two glasses. “You see?” you said after the waiter left. “Civilized.” Steve smiled. “I’ve been called that before.”

“By whom?”

“People with low standards.”

You laughed, and the sound settled into the alcove like another candle being lit.

Ordering food became its own small negotiation. You studied the menu seriously, then finally looked up and said, “What’s good?”

Steve told you what he remembered. The short rib ragu. The mushroom ravioli. The burrata if you wanted a starter. The tiramisu if they still had it.

You followed his recommendations without much argument, though you insisted on sharing the burrata and added roasted vegetables because, as you put it, “we need something green so we can pretend we’re responsible adults.”

When the wine came, Steve watched you lift your glass first.

Not drinking yet. Just looking at him over the rim.

“To what?” he asked.

You considered.

Not too long. Not deeply enough to drag the shadows back in.

“To first dates,” you said.

Steve’s chest warmed.

He lifted his glass. “To first dates.”

The wine tasted dark and smooth, with something bright at the edge. Steve knew enough to appreciate it, though he lacked Tony’s vocabulary for acting insufferable about it. You watched him taste it with visible expectation.

“Well?”

“It’s good.”

“That’s all?”

He looked at the glass. “It tastes like cherries and old wood.”

You blinked.

Then you smiled, slow and delighted. “That’s actually not bad.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“That remains under review.”

Dinner unfolded gently after that.

For once, the conversation did not circle disaster. Not directly. There were no clinics, no rings, no broken mugs, no training rooms. Instead, you talked about the neighborhood, the food, the strange habits of Tower life, the fact that Wanda had apparently taken “girl stuff” very seriously and had vetoed two other dresses before approving this one with alarming authority.

Steve nearly choked on his wine when you described Wanda’s expression as “softly judgmental in the Sokovian tradition.”

“She has traditions for judgment?”

“She invented them.”

“That sounds right.”

The burrata came with charred bread and tomatoes sweet enough that you closed your eyes on the first bite. Steve tried very hard not to stare. He failed again.

“You’re doing it again,” you said without opening your eyes.

“Doing what?”

“Looking.”

“You closed your eyes.”

“I can feel it.”

He smiled into his wine. “That sounds like a useful skill.”

“It is. Mostly for catching you.”

When the main courses arrived, you took Steve’s recommendation and ordered the mushroom ravioli. He had the ragu. Within three minutes, both plates had migrated to the center of the table so you could try each other’s food without formally admitting that sharing was now inevitable.

Steve liked that too.

The ease of it. The casual theft of his fork. The way you lifted a bite from his plate, considered it, then nodded with professional approval.

“Okay. Yours is better.”

“I did recommend it.”

“You recommended both.”

“Then I can’t lose.”

“You’re very pleased with yourself.”

“A little.”

You smiled at him across the candlelight, and for a second the entire restaurant seemed to fall farther away.

Later, the conversation drifted toward music.

It began when a song played faintly overhead and you tilted your head to listen, then made a face.

“Not a fan?” Steve asked.

“It’s fine.”

“That means no.”

“It means I probably wouldn’t choose it.”

“What do you choose?”

You pushed one piece of ravioli through sauce thoughtfully. “Depends.”

“You said that like the answer’s embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing.”

“It is now.”

You gave him a look. “I don’t listen to that much recent music.”

Steve paused, surprised enough to set his glass down.

“No?”

“Not really.”

“I thought you would.”

“Because I’m younger than you?”

“Yes.”

“Low blow.”

“It was honest.”

You laughed softly. “I have playlists. I know current songs. I’m not living under a rock. I just… I don’t know. Older music sticks better sometimes.”

That interested him.

“What kind of older?”

“Jazz. Blues. Some soul. A lot of sixties and seventies stuff. A little eighties when I’m cleaning and want to feel dramatic.”

Steve’s smile widened. “That I can imagine.”

“You haven’t lived until you’ve cleaned a bathroom to Pat Benatar.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You should.”

He studied you for a moment. “Favorite song?”

You groaned lightly. “That’s an impossible question.”

“Answer anyway.”

You looked down at your plate, then back up at him with an expression that had gone oddly shy around the edges.

“Cry Me a River.”

Steve blinked. “Julie London?”

Your brows lifted. “You know it?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course you do.”

“Why of course?”

You leaned back a little. “Because you’re secretly ninety.”

“I’m not secretly anything.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughed.

But his mind had already gone to the song – smoky, bitter, slow as a drawn blade. Julie London’s voice had that soft, devastating coolness to it, grief sharpened into elegance. Not rage exactly. Not pleading. Something worse: a woman who had been hurt and had decided to make dignity sound lethal.

He looked at you more carefully.

“That’s your favorite?”

You shrugged, but the movement was smaller than usual. “It changes. But I always come back to that one.”

“Why?”

You took a sip of wine before answering.

“Because it’s beautiful and mean.”

Steve laughed, startled.

You smiled, but your eyes stayed thoughtful. “No, really. It’s not loud. It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t scream. It just sits there with all that hurt and turns it into something sharp.” You paused. “I like songs that sound like they’re wearing silk while holding a knife.”

Steve stared at you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s not.” His voice softened. “It just sounds like you.”

The words landed quietly.

You looked down at your wine glass.

For a moment, you did not answer, and the candlelight caught the warmth rising faintly in your face.

Then you murmured, “Smooth.”

He smiled. “You keep saying that.”

“You keep earning it.”

The conversation might have become too tender then if you had let it, so naturally you shifted direction.

“What about you?”

“Favorite song?”

“Yes.”

Steve took a breath. “That’s harder than it sounds.”

“Because you’re going to give me something incredibly earnest.”

“I might.”

“Go on.”

He thought about it. About old dance halls and radio static, about songs half remembered through time, about music that belonged to decades he had lost and decades he was still learning. In the end, he did not give you a single answer. He told you instead about the songs his mother liked. About the ones that played in cheap bars when he was too young to be there. About the swing numbers Bucky knew how to dance to better than Steve did back then, though Steve kept that part brief, softened by history rather than grief. About the first modern song he remembered actually liking after waking up – not because it was his favorite, but because it was the first one that made him think maybe the world had not become entirely foreign.

You listened like you always did: with your whole attention.

By dessert, you had split the tiramisu and somehow ended up with more of it than he had. Steve suspected strategy. You denied everything.

Then, while drawing the edge of your spoon through the last dusting of cocoa, you asked, “Do you still draw?”

The question stopped him in a way he did not expect.

He looked at you.

You seemed casual enough, but not careless. You had asked because you wanted to know. Not because it was trivia. Not because it was one more safe topic among many. There was something intimate about it, more so than he would have predicted.

“I do,” he said after a moment.

Your eyes warmed. “Yeah?”

“Not as much as I used to.”

“Why?”

Steve glanced down at the table, at his wine glass, at the candle flickering near your hand.

The easy answer would have been time. Missions. Too much work. Not enough quiet.

None of that was untrue.

But it was not the whole answer.

“I think for a while I didn’t know what to draw,” he said.

You stayed still.

He continued, slowly.

“Before, I drew everything because the world felt like something I might not get to keep. Streets, people, corners of rooms. Faces. Anything.” His thumb moved once along the stem of his glass. “After I woke up, everything felt too big. Too fast. Too much. Drawing meant looking closely, and I wasn’t always sure I wanted to.”

Your expression softened.

Not with pity.

Never that.

With understanding.

“What changed?”

Steve looked at you.

He could have said time. He could have said practice. He could have said therapy, though he suspected you would have appreciated the honesty.

Instead, because the date had already become a place for truths spoken gently, he said, “People.”

Your gaze held his.

“Sam,” he said. “Nat. The team. Little things. Stuff that felt worth paying attention to again.”

A tiny smile touched your mouth. “Do you draw us?”

Steve’s ears warmed slightly.

That was answer enough.

Your smile grew.

“Oh.”

“Don’t.”

“You do.”

“Sometimes.”

“Steve.”

He sighed and looked away, which only made you look more delighted.

“Not in a strange way.”

“I didn’t say it was strange.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking it was sweet.”

That made him look back at you.

You were not teasing now.

Not much, anyway.

He sat with that for a moment. “I have sketchbooks in my room.”

“I know.”

His brows lifted.

You lifted one shoulder. “I’ve seen it. Not inside,” you added quickly. “Just once, on your desk.”

He believed you.

“Maybe I’ll show you sometime,” he said.

Your face changed subtly, like the offer meant more than he had intended to reveal.

“I’d like that.”

Steve nodded once.

For a few seconds, the conversation went quiet again.

Not empty. Full.

Then you leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on one hand.

“Have you drawn me?”

Steve froze.

Your smile turned wicked at once.

“You have.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You did with your face.”

“You are abusing your training.”

“I’m using it responsibly.”

Steve took a sip of wine because he needed something to do.

You waited.

He set the glass down.

“Yes,” he said.

The word came quietly.

Your teasing softened into something else.

“Recently?”

He considered lying for roughly half a second.

Then rejected it.

“Yes.”

Your eyes shone suddenly.

Not with tears, not fully, but close enough that Steve almost regretted saying it in a restaurant.

Then you reached across the table and took his hand.

He turned his palm up for you at once.

“You’re really dangerous when you’re honest,” you said softly.

He smiled, but his voice stayed low. “So are you.”

You held his hand over the table for a long moment.

The waiter passed by once, saw the plates empty and the silence intimate enough not to interrupt, and wisely kept walking.

Outside the alcove, the restaurant continued around you – glasses chiming, voices rising and falling, plates carried past in warm fragrant waves. Inside it, the evening drew closer around the two of you until Steve felt, with startling certainty, that the date had become exactly what he hoped it would be.

Not perfect.

Not untouched by everything outside.

But real.

Chosen.

And when you finally lifted your glass again and looked at him over the rim, there was something in your smile he knew he would try to draw later, whether he admitted it to you or not.

You let Steve pay the bill exactly as promised.

That did not stop you from watching him do it with visible amusement, one elbow propped on the table, chin resting lightly on your hand while he took the leather check folder from the waiter.

Steve glanced up at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing my line.”

“I’m admiring.”

He paused with his card halfway out of his wallet. “Admiring?”

“Your commitment to the real-date structure.” Your mouth curved. “You opened doors. You brought peonies. You picked a restaurant with actual portions. And now you’re paying the bill.”

Steve looked down, trying not to smile too much. “You told me I could.”

“I did.”

“So this is me following instructions.”

“Very obedient of you.”

That made him laugh under his breath.

The sound still felt strange to him in the best way. Not because laughter itself was new, but because this kind of laughter was – easy, warm, unguarded, pulled out of him by you rather than by some attempt to reassure a room that everything was fine. The evening had not erased the rest of the world. It had not erased Bucky, or the ring, or the fight, or the ache that still sat under his jaw whenever he moved his mouth too much.

But the date had created its own small world anyway.

A table in an alcove. Candlelight. Peonies waiting back in your room. Your hand brushing his over dessert. Julie London and sketchbooks and the small, astonishing confession that you would like to see how he drew the world.

Steve signed the receipt and handed it back to the waiter.

When the man left, you leaned back in the booth and said, “So.”

Steve looked at you, already suspicious. “So?”

“We still have time before you dramatically escort me back to the car.”

“Dramatically?”

“You know exactly how you walk when you’re trying to be gentlemanly.”

“I walk normally.”

“You do not.”

He shook his head, smiling. “What are we doing with the time, then?”

You tilted your head, considering him over the last sip of wine in your glass. “We guess things.”

“Things?”

“Details.” You gestured between the two of you. “About each other. Favorite this, first that, secret opinion, irrational hatred. That kind of thing.”

Steve’s smile softened.

It was such a simple game. Almost childish. Almost too easy. And still, it struck him quietly how much he wanted to play.

Because so much of what had happened between you had been intense. Survival-level intimacy. The kind that came from crying in someone’s arms, from panic, from desire, from confessions dragged out too soon. This was different. This was not emergency truth. This was chosen curiosity. The slow, ordinary work of learning someone because you wanted the details, not because pain had forced them into the open.

“I can do that,” he said.

You smiled. “Good. You start.”

Steve studied you across the table.

The candle between you lit the curve of your cheek, the dark line of your dress at one shoulder, the faint gleam of your earrings. Your expression looked almost smug already, as if you expected him to fail and looked forward to the entertainment.

He narrowed his eyes in thought.

“Favorite book.”

Your brows lifted. “Ambitious.”

“I have a guess.”

“Oh, this I need to hear.”

Steve leaned back slightly, pretending solemn consideration even though the answer had already formed.

“Pride and Prejudice.”

For one second, your face went blank.

Then your mouth opened around a small incredulous laugh.

“Pride and Prejudice?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Steve said, with complete seriousness, “you’re an incurable romantic.”

You stared at him.

Then you laughed properly, the sound low and delighted enough that Steve felt absurdly rewarded by being wrong.

“I’m an incurable romantic?”

“Yes.”

“You say that like you’re presenting evidence in court.”

“I could.”

“Please do. I want to hear this.”

Steve folded his hands on the table, leaning into the game now. “You picked a movie about choosing who to spend eternity with.”

“That was strategy. It had no superheroes or haunted children.”

“You like Monet.”

“Liking water lilies is not a confession of romantic degeneracy.”

“You kept glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling.”

“Sentimental, maybe. Not romantic.”

“You have a favorite Julie London song because it sounds like silk holding a knife.”

You pointed at him. “That is not romantic. That is taste.”

Steve smiled. “You asked me to bring flowers without asking.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You threatened to mock roses. That’s guidance.”

“It was preventive.”

“And you wanted a real date.”

That one quieted you for half a second.

Not because it hurt. Because it landed somewhere softer.

Steve saw it and knew, immediately, that he had moved from teasing into something true.

Then your smile returned, smaller this time.

“Fine,” you said. “Maybe I contain one or two romantic tendencies.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“But my favorite book is not Pride and Prejudice.”

“No?”

“No.” You rested your elbow on the table again, eyes bright now. “Les Fleurs du Mal.”

Steve blinked.

“Baudelaire?”

You looked pleased. “You know it?”

“I know of it.” He paused. “I wouldn’t say I’ve read it properly.”

“You should.”

“I’m guessing it isn’t exactly Austen.”

Your smile sharpened. “Not exactly.”

Steve sat with the answer for a moment and found, quickly, that he liked being wrong.

Pride and Prejudice would have made sense in an obvious way – wit, pride, suppressed longing, people misunderstanding each other until the emotional truth had no choice but to surface. But Les Fleurs du Mal made a different kind of sense. A deeper one, maybe. Beauty and rot. Desire and shame. Elegance wrapped around something decayed. Flowers rising from mud.

He thought of the song you had given him earlier. Cry Me a River. Silk and knife.

Then he looked at you.

“Actually,” he said slowly, “that fits better.”

Your eyes softened with curiosity. “Why?”

“Because you like beautiful things more when they have teeth.”

For once, you did not answer immediately.

The candle flickered between you. The restaurant moved in blurred warmth beyond the alcove.

Then you looked down at the table with a faint, almost shy smile. “That’s annoyingly perceptive.”

“I’m learning.”

“You’re getting dangerous.”

“Good.”

You laughed softly and shook your head.

Then your expression shifted, brightening with new purpose.

“My turn.”

Steve braced himself. “All right.”

“Favorite dish.”

He raised his brows. “That’s what you’re guessing?”

“Yes.”

“Not my favorite book?”

“No. I’m starting with food. It reveals character.”

“That sounds like something you made up.”

“It absolutely is.” You pointed your spoon at him, though the tiramisu was long gone. “Now be quiet and let me profile you.”

Steve leaned back, amused enough to obey.

You studied him with exaggerated seriousness, but there was real attention underneath it too. Your gaze moved over his face, his posture, the way his hand rested near his wine glass, the split near his lip he knew you still hadn’t fully forgiven.

“First guess,” you said. “Apple pie.”

Steve stared.

You broke into a smile immediately.

He gave you a flat look. “That was lazy.”

“That was branding.”

“I’m not a billboard.”

“You were literally on posters.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

“That is unfair.”

“That is historically accurate.”

He laughed despite himself. “Apple pie is not a dish.”

“It counts emotionally.”

“No.”

“Fine.” You tapped one finger thoughtfully against the table. “Steak.”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You look like a man people assume orders steak.”

“People assume a lot.”

“Mm.” You looked pleased by the complication. “Okay. Something old-fashioned, but not fancy. Comfort food. Probably the kind of thing someone made properly once and now no restaurant ever gets right.”

Steve went still.

Only slightly.

But you caught it.

Your teasing eased at the edges, not disappearing, just making room.

“Oh,” you said softly. “I’m close.”

Steve looked at you for a moment.

He could have brushed it off. Made a joke about hamburgers or diner food or the army rations he never wanted to see again in any century. But the evening had earned better from him than deflection.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re close.”

You lowered your spoon.

“Is it something your mother made?”

The question was careful.

Not timid. Just respectful.

Steve felt the old ache answer before the words did.

“Yes.”

Your eyes warmed, and you did not push. You simply waited.

He looked down at the table for a second, then back up at you. “Irish stew.”

Your mouth softened.

“My mom made it when she could,” he said. “Not often with good meat. Sometimes barely any meat at all. Mostly potatoes, onions, carrots if she had them. Whatever she could stretch.” His smile came small and crooked. “I’m not sure it would impress anyone.”

“It impressed you.”

“Yeah.”

“Then it counts.”

Steve’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

The restaurant noise seemed to fade a little.

He had not talked about his mother’s cooking in a long time. Not like this. Not as a favorite. Usually, if Sarah came up, it was in larger, sadder shapes – her work, her death, the way she raised him, the things she taught him. But this was smaller. More domestic. The kitchen. Steam on the window. Cheap ingredients made warm. Being hungry and sick and stubborn and loved anyway.

“It wasn’t really about the taste,” he admitted.

You nodded. “It never is.”

He looked at you.

You understood that too.

Of course you did.

“It was about her,” you said.

Steve’s hand moved before he thought too much about it, reaching across the table. You met him halfway. Your fingers slid into his, gentle over the healing knuckles.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It was.”

You held his hand for a few seconds, thumb brushing once over his.

Then, because you seemed to know exactly when tenderness needed a little air before it became too heavy, you said, “For the record, that was a much better answer than apple pie.”

Steve laughed softly.

“Glad you approve.”

“I do. Very emotionally complex. Strong character development.”

“Is that my profile?”

“So far? Formerly tiny menace with soup-based nostalgia.”

Steve stared at you.

Then he laughed fully enough that the ache near his lip pulled.

He winced.

You immediately pointed at him. “Careful. I’m still mad at your face.”

“My face?”

“At what you did to it.”

“I didn’t do that much.”

“You picked a fight with another super soldier before a date.”

“He picked some of it back.”

“That is not the defense you think it is.”

Steve smiled, even though the movement tugged again at the split near his mouth. “Noted.”

The waiter returned to ask if they wanted anything else. Steve looked at you. You looked at the empty dessert plate with a moment of genuine calculation, then shook your head.

“We’re good,” you said.

The waiter left again.

But neither of you moved immediately.

The game continued in softer fragments, no longer as formally structured but somehow better for it.

Steve guessed you hated pears because you looked personally betrayed when the dessert menu had mentioned poached ones.

You admitted that the texture offended you.

You guessed he secretly liked terrible diner coffee because it reminded him of before.

He admitted he did, but only if it came in a thick mug and tasted vaguely burned.

Steve guessed your first serious childhood ambition had been “detective,” because no one developed your level of suspicious attention by accident.

You corrected him: for two years, you had wanted to be an archaeologist, mostly because you liked the idea of uncovering buried things and telling everyone they had been wrong about the past.

Steve said that was somehow even more accurate.

You guessed he disliked overly modern furniture.

He admitted that chairs designed like moral tests did not appeal to him.

You nearly choked on your water laughing.

And through all of it, Steve kept feeling the same quiet astonishment: that learning you like this felt as intimate as anything you had done in the dark. Not more. Not less. Just intimate in a different language.

Your favorite book.

His mother’s stew.

Your hatred of pears.

His fondness for bad coffee.

These were not dramatic revelations. No one would rewrite a life over them. But they mattered because they were freely given. No crisis had forced them out. No wound had demanded them. You were offering him pieces of yourself simply because the evening had made room.

Steve wanted all of them.

Greedily, almost.

He wanted every small answer. Every contradiction. Every strange preference. Every memory you had not yet thought to share. He wanted to know what you ate when you were sad, what weather made you restless, what song you pretended not to like, what book you reread when you needed the world to be cruel in a familiar way.

The wanting of those things scared him a little.

Not enough to stop.

Eventually, you glanced toward the restaurant beyond the alcove and then back at him.

“We should probably free the table.”

Steve looked around. “They haven’t asked us to.”

“That’s because you’re Captain America.”

“I don’t think that’s why.”

“It’s absolutely why.”

He stood anyway and offered you his hand.

You took it.

When you rose from the booth, the dress moved with you in a way that Steve chose, heroically, not to comment on. Your heels clicked softly against the floor as you stepped out of the alcove, and he rested his hand lightly at the small of your back as he guided you through the restaurant.

Outside, the evening air was cooler.

You drew in a breath and looked up at the slice of sky between buildings. The city lights reflected faintly in your eyes.

Steve stood beside you and thought of the game.

One more detail.

One more guess.

“You like dates better when they don’t end right away,” he said.

You turned to look at him, amused. “Is that a guess?”

“Yes.”

Your smile softened.

“Correct.”

Steve’s hand found yours.

“Good,” he said. “Because I wasn’t planning on taking you home yet.”

You went back to the car because Steve had already decided he was not going to make you walk half of Manhattan in those heels.

You did not protest.

That told him more than any admission would have.

You let him open the passenger door again, and this time, when you got in, you gave him a look that was only half teasing.

“You’re very committed to this door thing.”

Steve rested one hand on the top of the door and leaned slightly down toward you. “Yes.”

“Just yes?”

“Yes.”

You smiled. “Old-fashioned.”

He smiled back. “You keep saying that.”

“And yet it keeps being true.”

He closed the door carefully before you could make him smile any more than he already was.

The drive uptown was calm. The city passed in streaks of gold and white through the windshield, taxis slipping between lanes, pedestrians gathered at corners, restaurant windows glowing behind glass. You looked out at all of it with your shoes angled slightly to the side, legs crossed at the ankle, one hand resting in your lap and the other occasionally brushing his when he shifted gears or turned the wheel.

Steve liked that you seemed more relaxed now.

Not untouched. Never that. There were still moments when your gaze went distant without warning, when your mouth softened into something thoughtful and sad before you caught yourself and returned to him. But the evening had given you room. Dinner had done what he hoped it would: it had built a small bridge away from the day’s damage and toward something that belonged only to the two of you.

When he pulled up near Central Park, you looked at him with immediate suspicion.

“Steve.”

“What?”

“Why are we at Central Park?”

He cut the engine and glanced over. “You’ll see.”

Your eyes narrowed. “If you planned a carriage ride, I’m warning you right now, the rating of this date is going to drop dramatically.”

Steve laughed.

He could not help it. The laugh came out warm and surprised, and he felt the last of the dinner tension loosen in his chest.

“No carriage ride.”

“Good.”

“You have very strong opinions.”

“I have standards.”

He got out and came around to open your door. You took his hand and stepped carefully onto the sidewalk, one heel finding the pavement before the other. The air had cooled enough that the warmth of the restaurant still seemed to cling to you, and the black of your dress looked even darker under the streetlights.

Steve offered his arm.

You took it.

“You’re enjoying the mystery,” he said as the two of you started toward the park.

“I’m evaluating the mystery.”

“Of course.”

“Very different.”

Central Park at night had its own kind of hush. Not silence – New York never gave anyone that – but a layered quiet where the city softened at the edges. Lamps lit the paths in pools of gold. Trees stood black against the deep blue sky. Gravel shifted faintly underfoot. Somewhere farther off, someone laughed; somewhere else, a bike bell chimed once and disappeared into the dark.

Steve kept the pace slow because of your shoes and because he wanted the walk to last just enough.

Not too long.

Not too little.

You noticed that too.

“You planned this around the shoes.”

“I planned this around you.”

That shut you up for almost three full seconds.

He counted that as a victory.

Then you looked up at him, trying and failing not to smile. “Dangerous line, Rogers.”

“I meant it.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

The path curved ahead, and the sound reached you before the sight did.

Jazz.

Soft brass first, then piano, then a brushed rhythm that slipped between the trees like something older than the evening. The music carried lightly through the park, warm and alive, and Steve felt you slow beside him.

You looked ahead.

A gazebo stood in a clearing under the lamps, lit from within by strings of small warm bulbs wrapped around the posts. A little group of musicians had taken one side of it – a trumpet, a saxophone, upright bass, piano, and drums with brushes moving like whispers. They were not playing for a formal event, not exactly. No stage, no announcements, no performance barrier. Just music offered to the night.

And people had gathered.

A few stood nearby listening. Some sat along benches or low stone edges. But several couples had already taken to the open space around the gazebo, moving slowly in the lamplight. Older couples who clearly knew what they were doing. Younger ones laughing when they missed steps. One pair that looked like they had probably danced together for forty years and still found delight in turning under one another’s hands.

You stopped walking.

For once, your sarcasm arrived a little late.

Your brow lifted instead, impressed before you could hide it.

Steve saw it and felt absurdly proud.

“You found jazz in Central Park,” you said.

“I had help.”

“Natasha?”

“Wanda.”

That seemed to surprise you.

“She said you’d like something with music,” Steve added. “And not too many people.”

Your expression softened. “Of course she did.”

Steve turned toward you and held out his hand.

You looked from his hand to his face.

“Is this the part where you reveal that you can dance?”

“I can manage.”

“Manage?”

“I’m trying not to oversell it.”

You took his hand. “Smart.”

He drew you gently toward the edge of the gathering, not into the center yet. The music shifted into something slower, easy enough for conversation and close enough for intimacy. Steve placed one hand carefully at your waist – not too low, not too possessive, still learning how public touch felt between the two of you when it was not crisis or comfort. Your hand settled on his shoulder, and he held your other hand lightly in his.

Then he turned you once, slowly and delicately, letting the skirt of the dress move with you.

You followed the turn with surprising ease.

When you faced him again, your eyes were bright. “Not bad.”

“High praise.”

“Don’t get arrogant.”

“Too late.”

He started with the simplest rhythm, giving you time to adjust to the music, the shoes, the uneven ground. You stepped with him, at first cautious, then more smoothly as your body found the pattern. Steve watched your face while you listened for the beat. He saw the concentration give way to pleasure little by little, saw your shoulders relax, saw the faint smile return to the corner of your mouth.

That was worth every minute he had spent arranging the evening.

Then you tilted your head.

“So,” you said, “Natasha taught you to dance, then?”

Steve blinked.

The question was so unexpected that he almost missed a step.

Almost.

He recovered quickly enough that only the smallest shift in your balance betrayed it.

“Yes,” he said. “How did you know?”

You gave him a look, one brow lifting.

“Your last exchange with Peggy stayed in history.”

Steve’s smile froze.

Not completely.

Just enough.

Enough that you noticed at once.

Of course you did.

Your expression changed immediately, amusement falling away.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” Steve shook his head before the apology could root. “No, please don’t apologize.”

Your hand tightened slightly on his shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to–”

“I know.”

He kept you moving, though the dance slowed a fraction. It helped, somehow. The small steps. The music. The fact that he did not have to stand still with the old grief suddenly in his hands.

“You can say her name,” he said quietly.

You looked at him carefully.

The trumpet carried a soft line over the piano, melancholy but not sad enough to hurt. Couples moved around you in slow circles, their faces blurred by lamplight and shadow.

Steve took a breath.

“It just catches me sometimes.”

You nodded once.

Not pushing.

Waiting.

He looked past your shoulder for a second, toward the gazebo lights. For years, people had treated Peggy as part of the story. Captain America and the girl on the radio. The missed dance. The last promise before the ice. A tragic line in a history book. Something romantic enough to be repeated without thinking too much about the person who had lived it.

But you had not meant it like that.

He knew that.

Maybe that was why he could answer.

“Natasha taught me after I woke up,” he said. “Not right away. Later.”

Your expression softened. “How did that happen?”

A faint smile returned to him, though it carried a different weight now.

“She got tired of watching me avoid every charity event dance floor like it was enemy territory.”

“That sounds exactly like Natasha.”

“She said if I was going to keep being dragged to formal things, I could at least stop looking like I’d rather be under fire.”

You laughed softly.

Good.

The sound eased something in him.

“She made you practice?”

“Relentlessly.”

“I can imagine.”

“She said I had the posture of a soldier and the timing of a man overthinking a bomb defusal.”

You laughed more fully this time, and Steve smiled despite the ache of the memory still lingering.

“That also sounds exactly like Natasha.”

“She wasn’t wrong.”

“No?”

“No. I kept thinking about where my feet were supposed to go.”

“And now?”

He looked down briefly at the space between them, at your feet moving with his, careful but confident.

“Now I try to pay attention to my partner.”

Your eyes lifted to his.

The words had come out softer than he intended.

You heard it.

For a few steps, neither of you spoke.

Then you said, “I really am sorry. I wasn’t trying to turn the date into a memorial.”

Steve’s hand at your waist tightened slightly.

“You didn’t.”

Your face remained uncertain.

He knew why.

The parallels were too obvious not to exist somewhere in the air between you. Old love. New love. Grief that did not vanish just because time moved on. A heart that could hold history and still make another choice. He had just told you he loved you yesterday, in front of the man you had loved and still, in some complicated wounded way, had feelings for. Now here you both were, dancing under warm lights with Peggy’s ghost briefly near the edge of the music.

Maybe another man would have avoided that.

Steve found he did not want to.

Not with you.

“Peggy is part of my life,” he said. “Part of who I am. That doesn’t mean she’s standing between us.”

Your eyes searched his.

He thought of what he had told you in the hallway the day before. That he knew you could not say the words back yet. That he knew Bucky did not vanish from your heart in three days. That he was not waiting for some cleaned-up version of you to become easy to love.

He owed you the same truth in reverse.

“I loved her,” Steve said. “That’s true. It doesn’t stop being true because I’m here with you.”

Your face shifted.

Not hurt.

Not jealousy.

Something deeper. Recognition, maybe. Relief.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“And I’m here with you,” he repeated.

This time, the sentence mattered more than the one before it.

You understood that too.

Your hand slid a little farther from his shoulder toward the back of his neck. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough that the touch became more intimate, more anchoring.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to erase things before me,” you said.

Steve looked at you.

The fact that you said it after everything almost hurt.

“I don’t want that for you either.”

Your mouth trembled faintly at the corner, not quite a smile and not tears.

“Fair.”

“Fair.”

The music changed then, the bass moving into something warmer, the brushwork picking up just enough to invite a little more motion. Steve took the opportunity to turn you again, careful of your heels and the uneven ground. This time, when you came back to him, you were smiling.

Not brightly. Not with the whole weight of the conversation gone.

But smiling.

“That was smooth,” you said.

“Natasha was thorough.”

“She’ll be unbearable if she ever finds out.”

“She probably already knows somehow.”

You considered that. “True.”

Steve guided you through another slow turn, then drew you back closer – not too close for public, close enough for your dress to brush his trousers and your breath to warm the space between you when you laughed softly.

“So,” you said, “Natasha taught you. Peggy inspired the need. What else should I know about your dance history?”

“That’s most of it.”

“No embarrassing USO choreography?”

Steve’s face went still.

Your smile became wicked.

“Oh, there was.”

“Absolutely not.”

“There was.”

“I’m not discussing this.”

“Steve.”

“No.”

“You wore tights onstage and punched actors dressed as Hitler.”

Steve closed his eyes briefly. “I regret ever becoming historically significant.”

You laughed so hard you missed half a step.

Steve caught you at once, his arm firm at your waist, and you ended up closer than before, laughing into his chest while the band moved through the next few bars.

“There it is,” he murmured.

“What?”

He looked down at you.

“You.”

Your laughter softened.

The moment stretched.

Then you shook your head lightly, as if the tenderness had startled you and needed to be escaped before it caught you too fully.

“You’re good at this.”

“Dancing?”

“Dates.”

Steve’s breath caught slightly.

He tried not to let it show.

“I had incentive.”

You glanced down, then back up.

“Peonies, doors, dinner, jazz,” you listed. “No carriage ride. No foam. Good wine. Emotional maturity in public.”

“Emotional maturity in public was an accident.”

You smiled. “Still counting it.”

The compliment – because that was what it was, in your way – settled warmly through him.

Around you, people kept dancing. The gazebo lights glowed brighter as the sky darkened. The music wrapped itself around the clearing, turning the park into a small world made of brass and rhythm and bodies moving in time.

Steve let himself relax into it.

Not fully. He never fully relaxed in public, not anywhere. But enough. Enough to enjoy the weight of your hand in his, the way you followed his lead when you wanted to and subtly corrected him when he underestimated your balance, the way the dress moved, the way your eyes occasionally drifted to the musicians with clear appreciation.

At the end of one song, the crowd applauded lightly.

You did too, still in his arms.

Steve leaned down and asked, “Feet okay?”

You looked offended. “My feet are heroic.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“They’re fine.”

He did not believe you.

You knew he did not believe you.

After a beat, you sighed. “They’re beginning to have opinions.”

“I thought so.”

“But,” you said quickly, “not enough to leave yet.”

Steve studied you for a moment.

Then nodded. “One more?”

Your face softened immediately.

“One more.”

The next song began slower.

Closer.

Steve adjusted his hold, and you came nearer without being asked. Your cheek almost rested against his shoulder now, not quite. Your fingers at the back of his neck moved absently once, and Steve felt the touch everywhere.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

It was enough to move together.

Enough to let Peggy’s name pass through and not break anything.

Enough for Steve to understand, with a quiet clarity that took him by surprise, that loving you did not require a clean past from either of you. It required presence. Honesty. Patience. The willingness to dance carefully around old grief without pretending the floor had no cracks.

Your voice came soft near his collar.

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

He rested his cheek briefly against your hair.

“Thank you for saying yes.”

You laughed under your breath. “You’re still pleased with that.”

“Yes.”

“As you should be.”

Steve smiled into the dark.

When the song ended, he kept holding you for one extra second before letting the world return.

And when you stepped back, your eyes were brighter than before, but not with tears this time.

With something quieter.

Something that looked, dangerously, like hope.

“Steve?”

He looked down at you at once. “Yeah?”

The last notes of the song still moved through the park, soft brass dissolving into the night air. Couples around you clapped for the musicians, some laughing, some already stepping back into each other’s arms as the band shifted instruments and prepared for the next piece.

You did not look at the gazebo.

You looked only at him.

“We’re going back to the Tower now,” you said.

Steve blinked once.

Then your expression changed – subtle, deliberate, dangerous.

“And I don’t expect you to behave like a charming man from the forties.”

His breath caught.

You stepped closer.

Even in heels, you had to rise onto your toes to reach his ear, and Steve’s entire body went still when your mouth brushed close enough that your breath warmed his skin.

“I expect you to take me to your room.”

His hand tightened at your waist.

Then you whispered the rest.

“Once we’re there, I’ll explain how to take off my dress, and I fully expect you to make love to me for a good part of the night.”

Steve swallowed.

It was not graceful.

It was not subtle.

Your face, when you leaned back, held the kind of soft, wicked certainty that made every thought in his head scatter.

“Okay?” you asked.

Steve nodded too fast.

“Okay.” His voice came rough. He cleared his throat, then tried again with slightly more dignity. “Okay.”

Your smile deepened.

“Oh, you’re easy.”

Steve let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though his pulse had climbed so sharply he felt it in his throat. “Not the word I’d use.”

“No?”

“No.”

You slid your hand down from the back of his neck, over his shoulder, and rested it against his chest. “What word would you use?”

He looked at you for a long second.

The park lights glowed behind you. The music started again somewhere nearby. The black dress fit you like temptation had learned tailoring. And Steve, who had fought gods, soldiers, monsters, and his own worst instincts more times than he cared to count, could only think that you had absolutely no idea how much power you held over him.

Or worse.

You knew exactly.

“Devoted,” he said quietly.

The teasing flickered in your face.

Not gone. Just touched by something softer.

Steve did not wait for you to answer. If he did, he might kiss you right there in the middle of Central Park with half the band watching and no clear plan for stopping.

Instead he took your hand.

“Come on.”

You went willingly, though you laughed under your breath when he shortened his stride again for your shoes.

“Still cautious.”

“Your feet have opinions.”

“My feet are willing to suffer for fashion.”

“I’m not.”

“That is not your choice.”

“It is when I’m the one taking you back to the car.”

You glanced at him sideways. “You’re bossy when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“Steve.”

He did not look at you.

That made your laugh worse.

Or better.

He was not sure anymore.

The walk back to the car felt longer than it had any right to be. Every step seemed designed to test him. Your hand in his. Your shoulder brushing his arm. The faint click of your heels on the path. The way you occasionally looked at him like you were enjoying every second of his restraint.

By the time they reached the car, Steve opened your door with the focus of a man disarming a bomb.

You paused before getting in.

“Careful,” you said. “You’re acting very forties again.”

He leaned down just enough that his voice stayed between the two of you. “I’m trying very hard not to act like anything else in public.”

That shut you up.

For one beautiful second.

Then your eyes darkened slightly, and you slid into the passenger seat with a smile that told him the sentence had landed exactly where he meant it to.

Steve closed the door.

He walked around the car, took one steadying breath, and got behind the wheel.

The drive back to the Tower required more concentration than any mission report he had ever written.

Not because the route was difficult.

Because you sat beside him looking like that and saying nothing.

That was somehow worse.

You did not tease him openly now. You did not need to. You only rested back against the seat, turned slightly toward him, your dress catching the city lights whenever they passed under streetlamps. Once, at a red light, your fingers drifted over the back of his hand where it rested near the gearshift.

Steve inhaled slowly.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Yes.”

At least you admitted it.

He looked at the road as the light changed. “You realize I still have to drive.”

“I have faith in your reflexes.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s a little the point.”

He glanced at you quickly, and the look on your face almost made him miss the next turn.

Almost.

You laughed softly.

Steve shook his head, but he smiled despite himself.

The Tower came into view much too slowly and all at once. The garage swallowed them in clean white light and polished concrete. Steve parked the car, cut the engine, and for one second neither of you moved.

The sudden silence inside the car felt charged.

Different from the restaurant.

Different from the park.

Closer.

You turned your head toward him. “Still okay?”

The question stripped some of the heat from the moment and replaced it with something better.

Trust.

Steve looked at you, at the softness beneath the boldness, and felt his chest tighten.

“Yes,” he said. “Are you?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He believed you.

Then he got out, rounded the car, and opened your door.

You took his hand when you stood. This time, when you rose from the passenger seat, you stepped close enough that your body brushed his. Steve’s free hand went to your waist automatically, steadying you.

Your eyes lifted to his.

“Elevator?” you asked.

“Elevator.”

“Your room?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very obedient tonight.”

Steve bent slightly, his mouth near your ear this time. “Don’t push your luck in the garage.”

Your fingers tightened in his.

When he pulled back, your smile had gone a little breathless.

Good, he thought.

Finally.

You both crossed the garage quickly, though Steve still kept his pace mindful of your heels. The Tower felt unusually quiet at this hour. No one passed them on the way to the elevator. No voices echoed from the lower levels. No Tony appearing from a side door with catastrophic timing. No Sam with commentary. No Natasha’s knowing eyes.

For once, the universe behaved.

The elevator doors slid shut around them.

The reflected walls showed you both back to yourselves: you in the black one-sleeved dress, him in his jacket with the fading evidence of the fight still at his mouth and jaw. Steve looked at the reflection for half a second and then at you.

You were already watching him.

The elevator began to rise.

Steve lasted three floors.

Then he reached for you.

Not roughly. Not carelessly. But with enough intent that your breath caught before his mouth found yours. He kissed you once, deep and brief, his hand at your waist and yours immediately at the lapel of his jacket. You leaned into him, and the soft sound you made nearly destroyed every responsible thought he had left.

He pulled back first.

Barely.

Your lips remained close to his. “That was not very patient.”

“No.”

“Good.”

The elevator chimed.

Steve stepped back half an inch just before the doors opened, though his hand stayed at your back.

The hallway was empty.

Thank God.

You walked together toward his room. Every step seemed louder than it should have been. Steve knew the corridor. He had walked it hundreds of times without thinking. Tonight, it felt unfamiliar, every door and light and turn transformed by the fact that he was bringing you there.

Not to a safehouse.

Not to your room.

His.

That realization hit him harder than the invitation itself.

His room had never mattered much to him. It was where he slept, changed, left mission gear, failed to write reports, and kept sketchbooks he did not show people. It was spare because he had never known how to make it otherwise. A place to land, not a place to live.

Now you were going to see it.

Really see it.

At his door, he paused just long enough for the thought to show.

You noticed.

“What?”

He opened the door. “Nothing.”

You gave him a look.

He sighed. “It’s not much.”

Your expression softened in a way that made him wish he had not said it.

“Steve.”

“I mean it. It’s–” He looked into the room as the lights came on low. “It’s plain.”

You stepped past him inside.

The room was exactly what he feared it was. Clean, ordered, restrained to the point of severity. Bed made too neatly. Desk organized. A few books. A framed photo tucked near the shelf. A sketchbook on the desk. No clutter. No softness except the worn leather chair by the window and the old blanket folded at the foot of the bed.

You stood in the middle of it and looked around.

Steve braced himself.

Then you turned back to him.

“It feels like you.”

He blinked.

You smiled faintly. “Quiet. Responsible. Slightly repressed.”

That broke the tension.

Steve laughed and shut the door behind him.

“Slightly?”

“I was being generous.”

He crossed to you slowly. “That’s not what you came here to discuss.”

“No,” you said. “It really isn’t.”

The laughter faded from his face.

Not into seriousness exactly.

Into attention.

You placed your clutch on his desk, then turned so your back faced him. Your hair shifted over one shoulder, leaving the fastening of the dress visible along the side and upper back, clever and discreet and apparently designed to make a man regret every button ever invented.

You glanced over your shoulder.

“There’s a hidden clasp first,” you said softly. “Then the zipper.”

Steve stepped closer.

His hands hovered for one breath before touching you.

That made you smile.

“Still asking without asking?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He let his fingers find the clasp.

The dress fabric felt smooth beneath his knuckles. His breath came slower now, not because the wanting had faded, but because the act had become too intimate to rush. You stood very still while he worked at the clasp, except for the small rise and fall of your breathing. When it came undone, you exhaled faintly, and Steve had to close his eyes for one second.

Then the zipper.

He drew it down slowly.

Not to tease.

To give the moment its due.

The dress loosened by degrees. One inch. Then another. Your shoulder shifted. Your head tipped slightly forward. Steve leaned in and pressed a kiss just below the place where your neck met your shoulder.

You drew a quiet breath.

“Steve.”

He kissed you again, lower this time, where the dress had begun to give way.

“You said you’d explain,” he murmured.

“I did.”

“You’re doing very well.”

A breath of laughter left you. “Don’t make me laugh right now.”

“No?”

“No.”

He turned you gently to face him before the dress could fall too far, because he wanted your eyes.

Always your eyes.

You looked up at him, flushed already, but steady. Sure.

Steve touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Tell me if anything changes.”

Your gaze softened. “I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

You lifted your hands to his jacket and pushed it from his shoulders. He let it fall onto the chair behind him without looking. Then your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, slower than your voice had been in the park, more careful now that the room had wrapped around you both.

There was no rush after that.

Not really.

The fever from the car still lived under everything, but inside his room, with the door shut and the world finally held outside, it changed shape. It became quieter. More focused. You undressed each other in the low light with the kind of attention that made Steve’s throat tight. He learned how the dress released from your body. You learned where his breath caught when your hands moved over him. He kissed you between each step until neither of you knew whether you were undressing to touch or touching to undress.

Then Steve picked you up, your legs coming around his waist.

“What are you doing?” You asked breathlessly between two kisses.

“You said next time, you wanted to do it against the window.”

“I was joking about that,” you murmured, but you didn't push him away, instead pulling him closer for another kiss.

“I know,” he whispered.

When he reached the window, he kept holding you, not letting your feet touch the floor. Your body arched back slightly, your head resting against the cool glass, the entire city lights glowing around you. For a second, Steve forgot to breathe. You, against the window, with New York as your backdrop.

He leaned forward and kissed you again, one arm firmly around your waist, the other splayed against the window near your head.

Your hands were in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. The window was cool against your skin, but Steve's body was warm against yours, the contrast making every nerve ending feel like it was on fire. The city outside was a blur of lights, a silent movie playing out while the real action was happening in this room.

“Steve,” you said, your voice hoarse, a plea and a command all at once.

He answered by pressing himself against you, the thin fabric of his briefs doing little to hide the extent of his desire. You responded in kind, arching against him, a gasp escaping your lips as he bit down gently on your neck.

He held you there for a moment, your bodies pressed together, the window at your back, the city at your feet. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated power. He was Captain America, a symbol of strength and justice, but in this room, with you, he was just a man, deeply in love, overwhelmed by the sheer force of his own desire.

Then he lowered you slowly, your feet finally touching the floor.

Your hands moved to the waistband of his briefs, and you looked up at him, your eyes dark with desire. “Now,” you said.

He didn't need any more encouragement. He quickly shed the last piece of clothing separating you, and you got your first real look of the night at him.

He was… magnificent. Sculpted. The result of a lifetime of training, a gift from science. But it wasn't just the physical perfection that held you captive. It was the vulnerability in his eyes, the quiet plea for acceptance. This was Steve, offering himself to you, body and soul.

You reached out and touched him, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, the scarred skin, the proof of a life lived. He shuddered under your touch, a raw, visceral reaction that sent a wave of heat through you.

You leaned in and kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that promised everything.

He responded in kind, his hands moving over your body, relearning every curve, every hollow. He lifted you again, and this time, there was no hesitation.

He entered you in one smooth, powerful thrust, and you cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure that was so intense it bordered on the spiritual. The city lights swam in a dizzying kaleidoscope behind your eyelids.

He stilled, giving you a moment to adjust, to breathe. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice strained.

You could only nod, your words failing you.

Then he began to move.

Slowly at first, a gentle rocking motion that built a fire deep inside you. The cool glass at your back, the warm, solid body at your front, the lights of the city a silent witness to your union. It was too much. It was not enough.

You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, urging him on. He understood, his movements becoming faster, deeper. Each thrust was a statement, a declaration of a love that had survived war, ice, and heartbreak.

The pleasure built, a rising tide that threatened to pull you under. You dug your nails into his shoulders, holding on, anchoring yourself to him as the world dissolved around you. You could feel the tension in his body, the coiled energy, the control he was fighting to maintain.

“Let go, Steve,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear. “Let go.”

He did.

With a final, powerful thrust, he shattered, a raw, primal cry tearing from his throat as he found his release. You followed him over the edge, a wave of ecstasy so intense it stole your breath, leaving you trembling and spent in his arms.

He held you for a long time, your bodies still joined, your breathing ragged, your hearts beating in a frantic, unsteady rhythm against each other. The city lights had become a soft, gentle glow, a silent testament to the storm that had just passed.

Then he carried you to the bed.

He laid you down gently, as if you were something precious, something fragile. He covered you with a blanket, then slid in beside you, pulling you into his arms.

You lay there, tangled together, the city lights a distant, indifferent observer.

You turned to face him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the split still visible, a reminder of the world that existed outside this room.

“You're beautiful,” you whispered.

He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face. “So are you.”

You leaned in and kissed him, a soft, gentle kiss that held none of the frantic urgency of before, but all of the love. It was a kiss that spoke of promises, of a future, of a second chance.

He deepened the kiss, his hands tangling in your hair. The storm was over, but the embers still glowed, a promise of a new fire, a new beginning. And as you lay there, in the quiet of the night, you knew that this was where you were meant to be. In his arms, in this room, with the city at your feet.

You made love again, slower this time, a deliberate exploration of bodies and souls. You learned the map of his scars, and he learned the rhythm of your heartbeat. When it was over, you lay tangled together, your breathing a soft, shared rhythm in the quiet room.

Steve's fingers traced patterns on your back, a slow, hypnotic movement that made you drowsy. But before sleep could claim you, he shifted, his gaze turning serious.

“I love you,” he said, the words a quiet certainty in the dim light.

You looked at him, at the raw vulnerability in his eyes, and felt a wave of something so intense it was almost painful. You couldn't say the words back. Not yet. But you could show him.

You leaned in and kissed him, a slow, deep kiss that poured all your unspoken emotions into a single, shared breath. When you pulled back, his eyes were dark, a mix of understanding and a flicker of something else.

He kissed you again, then moved, his mouth trailing a path of fire down your body. He paused at your breasts, his tongue teasing your nipples until they were hard, pebbled points. He moved lower, his breath hot against your stomach.

You arched against him, a silent plea.

He settled between your legs, his shoulders pushing them wider. You were still sensitive, still swollen from your previous orgasms. He seemed to know it, to savor it.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with a need that mirrored your own. “I want to taste you,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

You could only nod, your words failing you.

Then his mouth was on you, and the world dissolved into a haze of pure sensation. His tongue was a masterful instrument, playing your body like a well-loved violin. He explored you with a patient, deliberate intensity that left you breathless. He found the sensitive bundle of nerves at your core, circling it with a slow, teasing pressure that made you squirm.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, a silent plea for more. He obliged, his tongue moving faster, the pressure increasing until you were a writhing mess of need.

But it was when he slid a finger inside you, then another, that you truly lost control. He curled them upwards, finding a spot inside you that sent a jolt of electricity through your entire body. It was a pleasure so intense it was almost painful, a white-hot heat that threatened to consume you whole.

The pleasure built, a rising tide that threatened to pull you under. You could feel the tension in your body, the coiled energy, the control you were fighting to maintain.

“Steve,” you gasped, your voice a hoarse, desperate plea.

He understood. His movements became faster, deeper, more demanding. The pressure inside you built to an almost unbearable level. You felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation, a deep, internal pressure that was different from anything you had ever experienced before.

It was a release, but not the one you knew. This was something more, something deeper, a profound shattering of self that left you breathless and trembling.

You cried out, a raw, primal sound that was torn from your throat as the pleasure crested, a wave of ecstasy so intense it stole your breath. You felt a sudden rush of warmth, a flood of liquid that you couldn't control, a testament to the force of your orgasm.

You collapsed against the bed, your body a limp, quivering mass of nerves and bone. Steve held you through it, his arms a steady, reassuring presence in the aftermath of the storm.

When you finally came back to yourself, you looked down to see him watching you, his eyes dark with a mix of awe and a fierce, possessive pride.

You looked at him, then at the evidence of your pleasure on the sheets, a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck.

He seemed to sense your discomfort. He leaned in and kissed you, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of you and him and a love that was too big for words.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, his voice a low, concerned murmur.

You shook your head, your words still failing you.

“Good,” he said, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. “Because that was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

He laid you down gently, as if you were something precious, something fragile. He covered you with a blanket, then slid in beside you, pulling you into his arms.

You lay there, tangled together, the city lights a distant, indifferent observer.

You turned to face him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the split still visible, a reminder of the world that existed outside this room.

But his room no longer felt plain.

Not with you in it.

Not with your dress lying dark over the chair, your heels set near his boots, your laughter caught once against his mouth, your hands warm at his neck. The space changed simply because you occupied it, because you had chosen to come here, because what happened now belonged not to panic or proof or urgency, but to desire freely spoken and answered.

He made love to you again, slowly at first.

Because he remembered the tears from the first time.

Because he remembered the panic from before that.

Because no matter how bold your words in the park had been, care still mattered.

Then you whispered his name in the dark and asked him, very clearly, not to be quite so careful.

Steve made a sound against your mouth that made you smile.

After that, the night lost its sharp edges.

It became warmth, and breath, and the soft creak of the bed, and your voice near his ear, and his hands learning you again in a room that had never known anything this intimate. It became laughter once, when he knocked a pillow onto the floor without meaning to. It became silence later, the kind too full for words. It became pauses where he kissed your shoulder, your cheek, your temple, and you touched his jaw carefully where the bruise still ached.

At some point, the date ended.

The night did not.

And much later, when the room finally went quiet and you lay tangled against him in his bed, Steve looked toward the desk where his sketchbook rested in the dark.

For the first time in a long while, his room felt lived in.

Not because anything had changed.

Because you had.

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Pope burst through the door moments later, also sweating and out of breath “I’ve just seen something and —“

“You have a kid?” Deran asked

“Apparently fucking so!” Pope yelled. “He looks just like me!” 

“Damn bro” Deran said, “which girl was it?”

“I didn’t see her” Pope tutted, “we need to go find them.”

Deran interrupted, “I don’t think that’s a good idea…”  

“Let’s go!” Craig grabbed a beer and rushed out of the bar.

—

“What are they doing?” Atlas pointed at a guy surfing.

“That’s called surfing” Jack said, “they have to stand on a board and ride a wave”

“Cooool! Can I try?”

“Maybe not today buddy,” you said, “let’s just go for a swim instead?”

“Dad are you coming?”  

“No kiddo but I’ll be here watching you two.”

Atlas took off running down the beach, but Jack immediately called after him. "Sunscreen!"

He pulled a face before running off into the distance. 

“He has your attitude” you said.

Jack snorted. “And he… does the same face that you do.”

“Like this?” You pouted and leaned into him.

“Goddammit get away from me,” Jack whispered, “you’re wearing like the tiniest bikini”

“We’re on a beach holiday Jack, what did you expect I was going to wear?” You said as you walked away.

“Sunscreen!”

You made the same face as Atlas before walking away. 

“Mom can I ask them if I can play?” He pointed at the surfers.

“Baby they’re not playing, they’re practicing”

“Pleaseeee!”

“You’re six years old and you want to get on that?” 

“Pleasee please”

“Okay, we can ask someone nicely,” you said as you walked along the beach with him, “let’s just wait for them to—“

“Excuse me!” Atlas yelled at a surfer passing by, “hi!”

The guy smiled and waved back. 

“Can we play? with that?” Atlas said excitedly, pointing at the surfboard.

You let out a laugh, “sorry about him, he’s never been to the beach before and apparently he likes surfing”

“Hey no worries” the guy said, “what’s your name little guy?”

“I’m Atlas” he put his hand out for a handshake.

You quietly snorted; he could have only picked up this habit from one person.

“I’m Adrian, nice to meet you” he shook Atlas’ hand. “Want me to show you?”

“Yes please!”

You followed Atlas and Adrian into the shallow water, and Adrian helped lift him onto the board. Atlas wobbled at first, and certainly took a tumble or two.

It was heartwarming seeing how much he was enjoying it. And all those swimming lessons certainly paid off.

“Can we come here tomorrow?” Atlas asked, but you weren’t paying attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw someone familiar in the distance.

"Mom?"

“Yes buddy… uh let’s talk to dad okay?” You couldn’t stop looking at the guy in the distance. He was staring back at you too. “Thank you, Adrian. It’s very kind of you.”

Adrian glanced over his shoulder, following your line of sight. When he turned back, he was also frowning.

“You’re welcome, might see you tomorrow buddy!”

Atlas waved him goodbye as you two walked back to Jack who was fast asleep in his beach chair.

You stood over him, letting cold water drip on him. As he opened your eyes and was met by your boobs hovering over him. He grabbed your waist and pulled you down onto him. You giggled as he kissed you, the splash of water adding to the fun.

“Ewwww” Atlas said covering his eyes.

“Jack stop!” You said shyly, “everyone’s watching.”

“I can’t show my wife how much I love her?”

“Are you jealous?” You whispered against his lips. 

Jack stayed quiet. 

“Oh my God you’re jealous!” You squealed. “The guy was definitely gay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he didn’t look at my boobs not once.”

“I don’t know how to feel about this….”

“I have eyes for one person only, and that person is you” you leaned in and kissed him. But as you pulled back, you saw the same guy you thought you knew, passing by. This time, two other guys were walking next to him.

He looked the spitting image of Jack only younger.

And you didn’t know how to explain the feeling in your chest.

—

“Fuck me pope how did you get with her!” Craig smacked his arm.

“I don’t fucking remember her” pope said quietly, “I’d remember her trust me.”

“Did you see her boobs?” Craig said excitedly, “you’d remember them right?”

Pope sat on the barstool and opened a beer. “Yeah you’d think so…”

Deran walked in behind them. “She was talking with Adrian, maybe I can talk to him.”

“And say what?” Pope said. “That I slept with a woman that I don’t remember and I have a child?”

Deran shrugged, “well yeah…”

“Are you fucking stupid!” Pope snapped.

Craig cut in, “maybe I’ll speak with her.”

Both of them yelled at the same time, “no!”

“You’re only gonna try and sleep with her” Pope said, “and I won’t let you”

“You won’t let me…?” Craig teased.

“And imagine you… reproduce. That’s just fucked up.”

“Reproduce? That’s a big word for you Pope.”

Pope pushed off the chair and went for Craig. 

“Boys!” Deran interrupted, "we have a guest".

You walked in.

—

“Dad” Atlas said sitting next to Jack in bed, “can you surf?”

“No I can’t” Jack said quietly.

“Is it because of your leg?” 

The question didn’t take Jack by surprise. Atlas was incredibly bright for his age, and he indeed asked Jack a lot of questions. “No buddy, it’s because I’ve never done it before.”

“I saw someone at the beach today who looked like you. He was on a surfboard too”

“Oh yeah? Was he handsome?” Jack joked.

Atlas shrugged. “He was looking at mom”

“Huh” Jack nodded slowly. “Right buddy go to sleep. We’ll be downstairs. Love you.”

“Love you too. Good night!” Atlas said cheerfully.

“Don’t let the bed bugs bite” Jack gave him a kiss before walking back downstairs.

You were in the kitchen of your rented villa making a snack plate for you and Jack.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack said as he walked in, “you caught the sun. Fuck me”

You smirked as you took a bite of your food. “Do you like the tan?”

Jack wrapped his arms around you. “I love the tan. Do you have tan lines?”

“In places not everyone can see”

Jack whimpered in your ear. “I will try and be good but I can’t promise I can last.”

You laughed at him and shook your head. 

“Atlas said someone was checking you out at the beach today.” Jack whispered in your ear, “and I want to know who it was so I can chop their dick off.”

“Okay cowboy” you teased, “you have a hot wife of course people are gonna check her out.”

“I don’t like it though” Jack said softly as he kissed your sun-kissed shoulder.

“Maybe next time choose Banff as a holiday destination? That way I’ll be covered in snow and multiple layers.”

“Dammit” Jack teased. “Is it too late to leave?”

“You have one more day of this, you can last”

“One more day…” he kissed your neck, “of you in a small bikini… sounds like heaven.”

—

“Hi” you said as you walked into the bar. “I uh… was told I can find Adrian here?” 

Your heart hammered as you looked at the men, eyes landing on a guy dressed in black. The same guy at the beach who looked like Jack. The resemblance was uncanny — except this guy was younger.

You thought you imagined it. You thought you had heat stroke when you saw him in the distance.

But no. It was Jack's doppelgänger staring back at you.

The men all had a confused look on their faces, matching your exact emotions.

“He’s not here” the blonde guy said, “I can take a message?”

You felt their eyes on you and couldn’t help but blush. “It’s okay, never mind. Just tell him Atlas’ mum said thank you.”

“Who’s Atlas?” The guy dressed in black asked you.

“My kid,” you said quietly, immediately regretting saying it. “He made friends with Adrian today.”

“How old is he?” The same guy spoke again.

The blonde guy smacked his arm.

“I best go,” you said, walking backwards to the door, feeling the awkwardness of this interaction, “see you later.”

You rushed out of the door, thoughts rushing in your head on why the spitting image of Jack’s was sitting in a bar. And why does Atlas look exactly like him.

You walked back to the beach, grabbing some snacks and drinks on the way back. 

Jack and Atlas were sitting in the sand building a castle. 

You didn’t say a word to Jack about the interaction.

You couldn’t exactly explain why there were two of him — and why the guy was the opposite of Jack yet somehow had the same look in his eyes.

And why you just met a younger version, same age as you, possibly, of the man you loved and you felt things.

—

“Oh my fuck!”  Craig smacked his hands on the bar, “how the fuck did you get with her!”

Pope stayed quiet; he in fact had no clue if he knew you or not. His memory was questionable a few years ago.

“Pope say something” Deran said.

“Say what!” He spat, “she didn’t recognise me.”

“She did! did you not see the look in her eyes?”

Pope saw that exact look — the look of I know you from somewhere. 

“Let’s just… find Adrian. Okay?” Deran said. “Maybe he can speak with her tomorrow.”

“Or we can go up to her and ask her!” Craig said smiling.

“No!” They both said. 

“Let’s speak with Adrian” Pope said quietly. 

—

“Jack stop!” You whispered to Jack who was getting under the cover, “the door has no lock!”

“I’ll be quick” he smirked before disappearing.

“We can’t do—“ he quickly shut you up as his tongue touched your clit. You slapped one hand over your mouth, silencing yourself. Six years of trying to master staying quiet, but six years of Jack doing everything in his power to not keep you quiet. 

He stuck to his words, he was quick. And efficient. 

“Maybe next holiday we leave Atlas with Dana?” He muttered as he trailed kisses all over your body until he reached your lips.

“You’re abandoning our child so you can make me scream?” You tilted your head playfully. 

He pretended to be offended but that quickly turned into a smirk. “Maybe one night... he’ll be fine!” 

You smacked his arm, “absolutely not.”

He leaned in and kissed your neck, sucking slowly while one hand touched your breast.

“Okay maybe one night” you whimpered.

“That’s my girl” he smirked.

“Morning!” Atlas yelled excitedly as he opened the door. 

And luckily for the two of you, you were decent.

He jumped up on bed and lay between the two of you, “Are we going surfing today?”

“You surf now?” you asked softly, raising an eyebrow.

“I want to see my friend!” he said eagerly.

“Yes it’ll be nice to go to the beach today” Jack said, “but you can’t speak to strangers when me or mom are not there.”

Atlas started bouncing on the bed with excitement, yelling, “I’m going surfing!” 

Soon, you were packing up the rented car and heading for the beach. Atlas of course didn’t wait for anyone as he ran off in the distance looking at all the surfers. 

“Are you sure you don’t mind just sitting here watching us swim?”

Jack smiled keeping one eye on Atlas, “I’m sure.”

“What if…. Someone flirts with me?”

Jacks jaw tightened. “Do not put that idea in my head.” 

You grabbed your beach chairs and headed down, finding a nice spot where you can watch Atlas.  You took off your dress, dropping it in the sand. 

Jack walked over and without asking, picked you up, putting both hands on your ass. “Now everyone knows you’re mine.”

You arched your back then leaned into him, then said teasingly “you could make it more obvious?” 

Jack’s voice dropped low and rough, “trust me, I will.”

You giggled as he put you back down, and you ran off in the distance, following Atlas. Jack was holding the sunscreen bottle and mouthing what the fuck?

Atlas dove into the waves with reckless joy, completely unafraid. You couldn’t help but smile because there was no mistaking where he got that from.

—

“She’s back” Deran nudged Craig pointing at you in the water with Atlas.

“Shit” Craig said, “She’s so fucking hot.”

“Where the hell is Pope?”

“Over… there” Craig said slowly, “smart fucking move.”

Pope was walking down the beach with Lena in one hand, surf board in another.

“I don’t know why I need to learn how to surf…” Lena said quietly. 

“Because Lena, it’s important you learn all skills.” Pope said. “You see that little kid over there? He’s also learning how to surf.”

“Okay….” 

“Smart move” Craig said.

Pope shot back, “don’t act too surprised?” 

“Right, Adrian's heading over there now.” Deran said, “Pope, your move” 

—

“Adrian!” Atlas yelled.

“Hey buddy” he waved back ass he approached you and Atlas, “Hey, how is it going?”

“It’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah, you two. Are you having another go on the board?”

Atlas looked at you. “If it’s not too much trouble? He's been talking about it nonstop”

“Can we join you?” A voice said from behind you. 

You turned around, and Jack’s lookalike was standing there, with a young girl next to him. You instantly felt your throat dry up and your stomach twist as you looked at Adrian, then back at the man.

“I’m Andrew.” He put his hand out to shake yours. "This is Lena."

You managed a nod and shook his hand — too stunned to say anything.

It was unbelievably weird to think it, but even his touch felt the same as Jack’s. Except his body was covered in a lot more scars. 

Atlas frowned at the man, but he quickly walked up to the girl and started speaking with her.

You stood awkwardly next to Andrew and couldn’t even attempt to start a conversation. And whenever you glanced over at him, he was staring. He didn't even blink.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

Even his voice was the same as Jack’s, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t think so…” you said softly. “Do I look familiar?”

“I just thought maybe we might have met.”

“I don’t believe we have.” you said. “How old is your daughter?”

“Seven. Yours?”

“Six”

“Where were you six years ago?” Andrew asked. 

“Uh…” The question took you by surprise and the conversation was weirding you out. “Not… here.”

“You’ve never been here before?”

“To Oceanside? Never.”

Andrew nodded. 

Atlas tumbled off the board and took a bad fall into the water, and you immediately swam up to him.

“It’s okay,” you said softly, pulling him into your arms and carrying him out of the water. “You didn’t get hurt, alright? You just fell.”

"Is he alright?" Adrian said.

"All good, don't worry" you smiled.

“Atlas!” Lena called, “are you leaving?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, I think we’re going to take a break,” you replied gently.

She nodded quietly. “Okay.”

Andrew stepped forward then, a little awkwardly. “Maybe… we could arrange a playdate?”

Your lips parted, and you hesitantly said, "Actually, we leave tomorrow. We don’t live anywhere near here.”

Lena walked up to Atlas and gave him a small hug before stepping back.

“See you… later,” you said softly before walking away.

You looked over your shoulder at Andrew, and for a brief moment, you saw Jack and only Jack. 

You felt butterflies in your chest as you smiled at him. He gave you a small wave goodbye.

“I hate surfing, and I never want to come here again,” Atlas muttered under his breath, sniffing back tears.

You took one last look at Andrew in the distance, feeling a confusing mix of emotions.

Two diagnosis were switched up so a poor old man thought he was dying a lot sooner than he was. Jack smoothed that one out.

And a man with heart palpations just couldn't leave his cat so had to bring him in and Gloria just had to come down at that same time.

So you were ready to crash when there was a knock on the door.

Something you learnt living in Robby's space was the lack of visitors he had. You'd bumped into Mrs Hathaway who lived two doors down and had a bad habit of smoking a pack a day and carried the smell with her and explained that Robby was away so you were looking after his one house plant and bringing in his male.

But Mrs Hathaway never came around.

You wondered if you'd been so tired you'd called yourself a take-away and forgot as you looked through the peep hole.

Long grey hair and stormy eyes looked back at you. A denim vest and tattoos standing out against the canvas of skin. Before you wouldn't have known the guy; would've debated crashing Robby's peace to ask who this guy was but now he was a frequent flyer at PTMC.

“Hey, Duke,” you greeted, holding the door open.

Duke grinned and went in for a hug. “Hey.”

He smelt like bike oil and leather but you patted his back. You didn't know if he was deep down an affectionate guy or if it was the diagnosis but every time he visited the hospital for check ups or meds for his pain who was asking for particular nurses and buying up their time with idle chatter.

Nobody seemed to mind.

“Robby's still not back,” you said, pulling away and following him into Robby's place.

“Oh yeah, I know, just needed to pick up some tools I left here,” he said.

You watched him move around, flicking on lights as he went that you hadn't had the chance to turn on yet. He moved around Robby's place like he knew every nook and cranny. Maybe he did. Slowly, you were learning Robby had a life outside of the Pitt.

“So, how's the bachelor pad treating you?” Duke called as he wondered around the space.

“It's nice, it's good,” you said, following behind a pace or two and just hoping the tools weren't in Robby's room. Then he might see your bag you'd slowly let spill out over the place and a coffee mug you'd left from this morning. He might see the rumpled sheets and thrown over cover and realise you were sleeping in your bosses bed and not the provided spare room.

The guest room bed hadn't been made and you'd been so tired coming back that you'd just crashed in his bed, for one night. You were going to clean the sheets but then his bed was so comfortable you struggled even getting up in the morning.

It felt like an embrace from him.

“The wi-fi playing up or anything?” he asked, searching through kitchen cupboards.

“No, it's been fine.”

“Been eating? Punk has a good kitchen.”

“Did Robby ask you to check on me, or something?” you asked, hoping Robby didn't think he'd made a mistake in asking you to house sit. His one plant was very well cared for and mail organised by what you think required his upmost attention first. You'd even kept a pile of junk mail just in case he was particular in the sort he got rid of.

“No,” Duke chuckled. “I just know I'll get bonus points if I check in on you.”

Before you could ask what he meant by that there was a triumphant cheer as he started to pull out so many tools and a tool box you wondered if he was robbing Robby.

“Did Robby tell you he has a parking spot reserved out front? Parking can be a bitch here.”

“Oh, I don't drive I catch the bus.”

“He tell you about the camera's.”

The sleep that had been invading your every sense ebbed away. “Cameras?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Around the place. Installed them a couple months back.”

Cameras. All around the place.

You searched high around in places you'd never thought to scrutinise before. There, looming like a bird of prey in the corner of the kitchen was what could be assumed a camera. It was just a black dot to you with the high ceilings but when you glanced over at the living area there was a better view of the camera sat in the corner, aimed right where you stood at the kitchen island.

Cameras. About the place. The place you'd been living for weeks.

You'd been sleeping in Robby's bed, you'd been flaunting around in your shirt and nothing else. You had Trinity around to eat pizza and drink wine in your bras. You'd looked through Robby's stuff, you'd-

You'd done un-speakable things to yourself in that bed.

Were they a security measure? Did the tapes end up anywhere? And if they did, could you find them and burn them.

“The camera's,” said Duke, standing with tool box full in hand. “He mentioned them right.”

No. Robby hadn't mentioned anything of the sort. Hadn't even let onto the fact you might want to be on your guard. He'd welcomed you into his place, told you to treat it like yours while he was gone.

“Oh, yeah, cameras. He-he told me about the camera's,” you lied, gulping down the truth.

What if you said no he hadn't and it was written all over your face that you were guilty of.... of something. What if Duke thought it was Robby's fault? He was probably just tired, or forgot they were even there.

“Yeah, took us ages to get up. We were no good at it, you know, old men and technology,” he said, heading toward the door already.

“Yeah, yeah... totally.”

“Okay, see ya soon, doc!”

“You too, Duke.” As distracted as you were, Duke let himself out. The door closed and you were left alone with the cameras.

Maybe they weren't working all the time. Maybe, since Robby knew it was just you and he could trust you he'd turned off the cameras. Maybe he really had just forgot they were there and no longer used them.

Maybe's chased you into Robby's ensuite, sat you down on the of the counter. You scanned the corners subtly in case you were being watched but found only clean tiles and sterile walls. Safe.

As for the rest of the place, you dreaded to think.

You had almost forgot all about the cameras again. The first night you slept stiff, still un-able to drag yourself from the comfort of Robby's bed but you found the camera, tucked away in a corner. You'd watched for a flashing light but found none, so did that not mean it was off?

You thought about texting Robby, asking him about the cameras but you looked back at the last texts. He'd sent you a picture of a lake he was at, said it was peaceful, said he was enjoying his time. You didn't want to freak him out or accuse him of anything.

You knew the kind of guy Robby was. If he remembered the cameras, he'd tell you.

Moving on from that catastrophe was easy when you worked in the ED. Disasters came in and managed your time. You'd thought about asking Jack when you saw him at hand off but smiled him off.

Days later you were forgetting all about it.

“I mean, I've heard some pretty crazy stories before but a carrot, up the butt,” Trinity chuckled down the phone.

“Is it bad it's not even the first I've seen,” you said. “I had someone with a cucumber up there once.”

Santos hummed on the other end of the phone. “I get it, longer, smoother.”

You had been chopping up a carrot to make a ragu and thought different of it, putting it aside and forging any vegetable that could be seen as phallic. “You're disgusting.”

“Say that to the patient with half a carrot stuck up there.”

A quick sear of pain made you jump as beads of blood found its way down to Robby's chopping board and the onion you'd been slicing.

“Oh shit-”

“What happened? Found Robby's Viagra?” she said down the other line.

“Hilarious,” you grit out. Without thinking you grabbed the tea towel and wrapped it around your hand, holding it up high. You cursed quietly again when you realised you'd just ruined one of his. “I just, er, dropped one of Robby's glasses, I gotta go, I'll call you back.”

You wedged your wrapped up hand into your chest and ended the call.

Being a doctor yourself you knew you could handle a cut, blood, a gash. Peeling it away and dabbing at the edges you found the wound, a clean cut, not too deep. Stitches, maybe.

If you kept it wrapped up you could just leave it till the morning for your shift-

Your phone rang again and you answered without looking. Most calls logged in your phone were Trinity anyway. “No, I have not seen a banana in a vagina.”

“Well hello to you too,” said a striking and familiar deep rumble of a voice.

“Robby. Hey, sorry I-I thought you were Santos.”

He chuckled but it was curt. “Exciting day in work?”

“Yeah-yeah, you could say that,” you put down your phone on speaker and re-wrapped your hand. “So what's up? What's with the call?”

“I just wanted to... check in, it's been a while.”

You squeezed your hand, trying to stop the bleeding. “Everything's fine. All fine. Place is still standing.”

“Yeah, yeah, that's good, that's good,” he said with hesitation. “How are you? Staying safe, no-no accidents around the place I hope. Sometimes that place is a death trap. Door can stick... and- and my knives can be... sharp.”

Suddenly you realised.

The camera's.

Robby hadn't called you while he'd been away. He'd text only oddly to see how things were or send pictures of where he was- that was a new development.

He'd texted you about the temp playing up in his shower after you made one too hot and had to lie bare on is bed with his fan on you.

He'd texted that he had extra blankets if you were cold when you were wrapped up in his dressing gown.

He knew about the camera's.

Robby had seen. Everything.

“Still there?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry just- funny you should bring up the knives, I just had a little accident.”

“Are you okay? Did you cut yourself?”

You tried not to eye the camera's. “Just a small cut.”

“You wouldn't lie to me would you?” he asked, a dark tint to his voice.

You didn't know what worried you more. The fact he was watching you close enough to see and call you, or the fact the thought didn't creep you out as you supposed it should. “How would you feel if I bloodied one of your tea towels.”

“Relieved, as long as you get your cut looked at.”

“And if I got blood on a chopping board.”

“Chopping board- bit of wood, I can get some more wood up here.”

“And how is your trip?”

Robby chuckled. “Oh no, no, no you're not distracting me from this. Got to the ER.”

“It's not that deep.”

“It loo-”

For a moment you were both silent, knowing what he was going to say. It looks bad. You felt burning in the back of your skull as you felt the camera's around you like his own gaze when he was watching your procedures in the ED.

“Better safe than sorry,” he said with a clear of his throat.

“I'll be fine.”

“Yeah, well, I've already texted Jack letting him know you're on your way in so you don't want to disappoint him do you. Or me. Do you, huh?”

You hoped the camera's didn't pick up on the blush rising to your cheeks. “No, I do not, Doctor Robby.”

He hummed. “Good girl.”

Your breath caught in your throat and the sudden thump of pain in your hand moved somewhere lower. Was it normal to feel aroused by the idea of being watched, with a cut bloody hand and your boss down the line.

“I guess I better get going, I don't want to disappoint.”

“No you don't.”

“So, I should go.”

“You should.”

He did not hang up and neither did you. At least you had the excuse of doing it all one handed.

“Okay, bye then,” you said, biting down on your lip to hide your smile.

“Bye.”

“Speak soon?”

“Yeah, I'll call you.”

Finally you pulled the phone back and declined. You wondered if you could hide away in the bathroom but the camera...

How much time did he spend watching you? Did he just so happen to check in at the same time the knife sliced your palm? Was he watching and had been watching since he left?

Had he watched when you plunged your fingers into your own pussy, spreading your need around... and called his name?

What kind of person did it make you if you wanted him to see that?

You got your hand sorted, stropping into the ED like you were a petulant child. Jack had only laughed at you, all but waiting in a swivel stool and turning around like a James Bond villain just to say: “I've been expecting you.”

However, your hand did need stitches and as the slice was along your palm it made trauma procedures difficult. You were stuck ordering around Ogilvie which was about as fun as it sounded and charting.

There was only small reliefs.

Practically as soon as you got back to Robby's he was dropping you a text or calling you. Usually it was under the pretence of checking on your hand or that he was waiting on an important letter but you knew it wasn't that. He knew exactly when you were home, whether it was overtime or not.

The camera's became hard to ignore but you tried to. You didn't want to freak Robby out by telling him you know about them. You didn't want to scare him off from watching you. Shouldn't it have been the other way around? Shouldn't he know that what he was doing was wrong on so many levels? Borderline, stalker-ish.

Still, one night, one lonely night you were in his bed unable to sleep. You were too busy thinking about Robby and the cameras.

It was hard being single and lonely. You had your own devices but toys were back at yours (Trinity brought you them as a joke birthday present and it turned into an even bigger joke when you opened them up in front of Denis) and you didn't want to bring toys into Robby's room.

Porn videos could get you going. Maybe a smutty book.

But knowing the camera's were there made it all the more easier to slide your fingers in your panties and find your arousal pooling.

Maybe Robby wasn't watching. Maybe he could tell this was a private moment and he shouldn't have been watching. The thought had your fingers stilling over your clit, your mind racing ahead of you. Maybe he didn't look at the camera's... maybe this was you over thinking it all...

Your phone rang on the bedside table and you reached over to get it.

There was a flash of Robby's name so familiar to you know it was like your own phone background.

Your other hand was still down your panties when you answered.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” his voice was gruff, low in his throat like he'd just woken up. “What are you up to?”

So, he was watching.

You smirked to yourself, trying desperately not to look at the camera. “Whyyyy are you asking?”

You heard him shuffle around on the other end. “Dunno, was just bored. Was thinking about you.”

“Oh, really?” trying not to sound too delighted was not your specialty.

“Yeah... seem to be doing that a lot these days.”

“You must miss me, huh?”

“Yeah. I must,” he hummed. “You know, I think you'd like it up here. Heck, I actually think I could've used the company, too.”

You slid a finger through your entrance. You were wet before just thinking about him, his voice low and gruff, the way it fell when talking through a serious procedure made it so you were clenching with every rise and fall of his voice. “If I was there with you who'd look after your place?”

“Hmm, you make a good point,” he said, a small tick to his words. “Speaking of my place, which bed you sleeping in?”

You felt your cheeks tint red as you pushed in another finger, pushing in and out slowly. Did he want to hear you were in his bed, even though he could see that you were? You toyed with him a little. It seemed only fair. “Why? Didn't you say I could pick either?”

“I'm just curious. Tell me.”

You closed your eyes and inhaled the smell of him that still lingered around his bed, clouding the edges of your mind in desire. “Yours.”

He chuckled. “Mine, huh?”

“Yeah. It's got the ensuite. It's bigger. It's comfy,” you said. You moved your fingers around your clit, drawing small circles and stretching your legs wider. You had some decency, let it be known, you were under the covers with an old and tattered T-shirt but you were sure it wasn't hard to tell what you were getting up to under there.

“Comfy, you think so?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Smells like you too.”

A breath caught down the line. “Do you like that it smells like me?”

You nodded, growing wetter as your eyes closed. “I do. I can wash it before you get back so it doesn't smell like me.”

“No,” he said, an un-mistakable sound of a zipper being pulled down sat behind his words. “Don't wash them. Don't.”

You smirked to yourself, the circles you were drawing over your nerves growing lazy. “What are you doing, Robby?”

“Nothing,” he said, a teasing lift to his voice and a rustle of clothes. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you said, sliding your fingers into yourself and out, spreading your arousal as your hole clenched around nothing. You shuffled, getting your shirt to ride higher, but not enough for him to tell.

“Are you doing nothing in my bed?”

“Do you want me to be?”

There was a small but shark intake of breath on the other end. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

You pictured Robby spread out on a sofa in a log cabin somewhere far away. His legs would be spread wide, jeans and boxers pulled down till his cock, hard, was against his stomach. His laptop out at the coffee table, phone to his ear. You wondered if he took things slow? You'd always pictured him the hot and heavy type. His fist wrapped around his cock and pumping, tickling the dark hairs you imagined lived at the base of him.

Your hips jutted up as you pictured him. Hot and heavy. You imagined him next to you in his bed, his coarse hand tracing up your body, finger pinching your nipple.

“What have you been doing... at my place?” he asked, a sudden breathless tone to him. “In my bed.”

You bit back your lip. “Sleeping,” you teased.

Robby groaned, almost a growl. “What-what else?”

“Is there supposed to be something else?”

“Fuck, yes.”

Fuck yes. You pictured him spreading your legs, rubbing his mouth against you with the burn of his beard. Fuck yes. You imagined his cock heavy on your tongue, needy and groaning. Fuck yes. You pumped your fingers in and out and circled your clit imagining the plumpness of his fingers.

“Whatever- whatever you want me to be doing in your bed.” It was a dangerous sort of game you were playing, balancing over the line you weren't crossing with the cameras like it was a tightrope.

“Well... you know what a lonely, old man like me does in that bed, huh?” he said. “You wanna know?”

You nodded and without asking for words he started to tell you, because of course he didn't have to hear your confirmation to see you it.

“After long and hard days, just come home, put the tv on low, maybe some music... drink a beer,” he listed as you impatiently waited for him to get to the exciting parts. Still, his voice was enough to have your legs stretched open, your fingers working yourself open. “Sometimes it's tough to stop thinking about my pretty resident...”

“Hope you're not talking about Whitaker,” you joked.

“You know I'm not, baby,” said Robby with a shaky exhale. “You know I go home... get so hard thinking about you...”

You moaned out a gasp.

“You like me thinking about you?” he asked.

You thought of him spitting down on his cock, slowly rubbing it up and down. Or maybe he had pre-cum enough to lubricate it for him. “I do, I do.”

There was a puff of air on the other side. “You ever think about me?”

Your back arched off the bed as you curled your fingers inside of you. “Yes.”

“You ever think about me in that big lonely bed, my cock hard for you. God, can you picture me and my hands running all over you. Would start at the bottom. Would you be wet for me, babygirl?”

“Yes, Robby, yes, I am,” you gasped out.

There was a light chuckle.

“Oh, you are?” he said with a seethe. Was he teasing the tip of himself? squeezing and thinking about your hand there instead? “You thinking about me, baby?”

“You know I am.”

Robby laughed, the sort one laughed when they knew something you didn't. It was cruel. It was mean. But was it worse you knew and liked it? “Yeahhh, I know you are.”

You tilted your head into his pillow, shifting till you could breathe him in and careful not to drool. “Thinking about- about your tongue,” you said, rubbing your clit with hard pressure, trembling with need.

“My tongue, huh?” he said, a jangle of a belt. Was he pushing away his jeans and spreading his legs further? Were you framed on the counter, between his legs how he wanted you to be? “Are you thinking about my tongue in your needy pussy? Is it making you wet?”

“Yes, yes, Robby. I really want you.”

“Spread your legs for me.”

“They are.”

He grunted. “Wider.”

Almost irritated that he wasn't here, you pushed the cover down till you knew the camera could see all of you. Still clothed. Still clad. But Robby would be able to see your hand down your black panties and how far your legs fell open.

He pretended like he heard the covers move instead of saw it happen. “Fuck... yes, baby.”

“I wish you were here,” you said, eyes kept close to imagine him and to not give the camera a devilish wink. “Wish I- your cock-”

“What about my cock?” he asked, voice strained. “You want it? You want my cock? How'd you want it?”

You circled your fingers around you, jerking at every touch, desperate to come but even more desperate to keep it going. “Want to taste it. Lick it. I- I want to know what you taste like.”

Robby shuddered. It was like you could feel it through the phone and through you. “Shit, you-you can't say things like that, baby.”

“But really want it,” you moaned. “Always wanted it down my throat.”

“Oh fuck, always huh?”

“Always.”

“Well... you've been such a good girl looking after my place for me, haven't you?” he teased. Listening closely, you thought you could hear the sound of skin on skin, the slick squelch of it. His hand working himself, maybe he was even sweating with desire. “Sleeping in my bed, just like I wanted. Living in my space. Bathing in my shower. Maybe I should thank you...”

“Please, please Robby.”

“Ah, oh god,” he strained. “Would lay you out on my bed, clean up all your mess with my tongue. Think you'd have to suck on my fingers to stop all the moaning, I have neighbours, baby-”

You didn't care as you moaned out at that.

“- god I want to fuck you. Oh, I want to fuck you so bad.”

You put your phone on speaker, set it aside and worked your hand under your shirt to grope your breast, moving from one to the other.

“Keep playing with yourself, baby, keep playing with yourself,” he groaned.

“Robby, are you- are you close?” you asked. Every circle of your clit had you closer and closer to the edge, had your legs trembling and heart pounding. You could hear Robby mumbling to himself.

“Shit- god- you're always so beautiful. Spread out, god I can picture you. Your skin so smooth, pussy so sweet. Want to bury myself in there, yeah, fuck, baby-”

“Robby-”

“-Yes baby! I'm close- I'm close, I wont last.”

“Wanna hear you come,” you whined.

“You first,” he said. “Think of me there. Press you into my bed, have you on your stomach, press allll of me into you. Cock just- just buried inside you there. Could just watch your ass go, shit, get it red.... you know how. Oh my god baby, please come for me.”

You pressed down with circles on your clit and came around your fingers, whining, moaning and you heard Robby over the phone groaning, heard his small exclamations as he came around his hand.

“Oh baby, you did so good for me, so good,” he uttered as the both of you caught your breath.

You took your phone off speakerphone and placed it back to your ear. It was small but you felt closer to him with his voice deep down your ear.

“Now clean yourself up on my bed. When I come back, wanna smell yourself there with me.”

The Pitt swallowed you up the rest of the days that followed. As if it knew you had something to go home to, as if it knew you wanted to do nothing more than talk to Robby, think about Robby, dream about Robby, it kept you so busy with late nights and six am wake up calls you had little time to live in this new found lust.

Robby didn't push. You didn't speak about that night because you didn't have to. He still texted with regular check ups when you got home. Still send random pictures of lakes or trees but he knew the demands of work and he didn't prod.

“Have we got labs back on our guy in seven?” you asked Dana.

“Not yet, want me to chase them up?” she asked.

“Please. I'm already behind on discharging two patients,” you muttered to her as Al-Hishimi walked by, head held high as she over saw the place. “But all caught up on my charting!” you said loudly to assure her.

You got a nod back and that was enough for you.

“How's Robby?”

You looked back to Dana, lips pursed, brows raised in question. “What?”

“You heard from him? I guess you had, you stayin' in his place and all,” she said, looking at you through her glasses.

You checked down to your tablet and the patients in three and twelve you needed to discharge, hoping the glow of the screen wouldn't blow up your blush. “Er, yeah, he's doing good, I-I think. We don't talk... all the time.”

“Yeah?” Dana smirked.

You glanced back up at her, catching the knowing glint in her eyes. You looked back down. “Yeah.”

“Okay then.”

Dana moved around you from the counter, patting your hand lovingly before she stopped in her tracks. “Oh. Looks like I can ask him myself.”

“What?”

There were already crowding voices, people calling out his name and nurses going in for fist bumps and high fives. There were questions about what he was doing back earlier than he said, if he'd brought back any gifts. You even heard Garcia who was passing about that promised butchers knife.

Robby stood in the middle of the group like he was some celebrity but his eyes found yours over all of them.

“He returns!” cheered Dana, bringing her arms around him.

One of Robby's own arms snuck around her back. “And in one piece.”

She pulled away and slapped him in the chest. “Hey, don't joke about that.”

Slowly, with Dana's coaching everyone moved back, got back to their jobs and their life. And slowly, Robby sauntered over to you.

You tried to look busy. Tried to wet your mouth that had run dry at the sight of him. A hip bumped into yours as Santos- an all too giddy Santos- slid up next to you.

“Looks like we're back to being room-mates, roomie,” she teased with a grin.

“If I didn't know any better I'd say you'd missed me?”

Santos tried to brush it off but you saw the way she shifted her weight from foot to foot in discomfort. She usually only got so discomforted when emotions like love was involved. “Please. Just want to out-weigh Denis with gender again.”

You smelt Robby before you heard him. He said Santo's name, then yours.

Trinity welcomed him back before she left just as quick as she'd arrived.

Robby let on the counter next to you. He was in jeans and the same coat he'd left it, his bag slung on his back with a helmet dangling off the side. He wasn't working, but he'd came by anyway.

“You're back early,” you said, flicking between patient charts.

“Surprised?”

“Very,” you said, realising you weren't as confident as you'd been nights ago. “I can get my stuff out tonight.”

“I don't want you out,” he said, dropping his voice low. “You know why I came here early, don't go shy on me now.”

“I'm not going shy,” you said, though you were.

“Are you blushing?” he teased, the graze of his knuckle brushing your neck and sending tingels over your body.

“No.”

“You are.”

You batted him away and turned to consider him. “Why'd you come back early?”

Robby wet his lips, eyes casting over you. “Because I had something to come back for.”

You eyes averted to his hands, reverting back to thinking of the coarse skin and imagining him dragging his fingers over you. “I don't get off my shift for another two hours.”

“I can wait.”

Waited he did and the two of you barley made it past his front door before he was grasping you and kissing you. There was no hesitation in his hands or your lips. He gripped and squeezed your hips as the door slammed shut behind you. Robby didn't waste a second in pulling off his jacket and grabbing you again, as if scared you'd disappear in the wind.

He didn't even glance around his place. The only thing he was honed in on was you.

Your lips worked against his furiously, hands gripping his shoulders. “How was your trip?” you were breathless, pulling away to un-button his shirt.

Robby chased your lips, eyes closed, lips curling up into a drunken smile. “Fine.” He kissed you again, mint on his tongue. His hands were warm as they traced up your scrub top, un-tucking your vest from your pants.

His rough hands on your skin woke something else in you. A need you thought you'd made friends with but clearly didn't even know. He kneaded the skin at your hips, working hard to leave red marks.

“Dreamt about you,” he said, lips trailing down your jaw to your neck, nose nudging a path. “Every night.”

“Every night?” you gasped as he bit and licked up your neck.

“Mornings. Afternoons. All the time.”

Your smiled to yourself, pushing off his shirt. “It was supposed to be a relaxing break.”

“It wasn't.”

The two of you had stumbled to his room and pulled off clothes. The both of you knew the way well. By the time you'd pushed the door open Robby's belt was discarded as well as your shirt.

With firm hands Robby turned you around till you were facing the headboard, till his hips flushed against your ass and the rough denim of his jeans rubbed against your ass.

Your head lulled back onto his shoulder and he licked up your skin.

“This where you slept?” he muttered, nipping at your ear. “This where you touched yourself, thinking 'bout me?”

“Y-yes.”

You felt the scratch of his beard as he turned his head. You noticed, from the corner of his eyes that he looked up to the corner where the camera sat. He was delighting in this.

“Show me,” he demanded.

You wriggled against him, trying to turn and set yourself on the bed.

His hands gripped your hips. “No, show me here... now.”

All you could do was shuffle down your scrub pants and panties while Robby un-clasped your bra, messaging your breasts. You groaned at the feel of him working at you while you slid a finger over your folds.

“There we go, that's my girl,” he encouraged, chin resting on your shoulder and watching. “Another finger, another finger.”

You slid two in just as you had the other night, imagining his weight on you, his hands. You thought you were wet then but now your need spread down you.

Robby made out with the skin of your neck, stretching his arm out to hold yours that worked inside of you. “God, you're so beautiful. Could watch you like this all night.”

You whined, tilting your head back to give him more access. “Robby.” You thrust your ass back into his crotch and you could feel the hard outline of his cock.

“You come in this bed, huh?” he uttered.

“Y-yes.”

He hummed into your skin. “More than once I bet.”

“Yes, Robby!”

His hand snaked down to yours, helping move your fingers in and out of you. “God, you're so wet, so wet for me.”

Your hand flew up, grasping the back of his neck. “Robby, please... can I have your fingers inside of me?”

Robby smiled against you. “You asked so nicely. Such a good girl,” he said. His fingers wrapped around your wrist and brought out your fingers, leading your hand up to his mouth. “Bet you're not always though, huh?”

Two of his thick fingers pushed into your easily and he moaned.

“Fuck baby, you're warm... tight-”

You groaned at the feel of his fingers working inside of you and his tongue licking up the mess of your on his fingers. He brought your fingers into his mouth, groaning.

In moments you were withering, a moaning mess and grinding down on his hand while his tongue swirled around your fingers, sucking and nipping at your finger pads while his beard scraped your hand.

If those cameras kept a log somewhere, you were dying to see Robby. The feel of his hips rocking into you, him moaning around your fingers.

“Can you come on my fingers?” he asked, voice muffled by where he wouldn't release you in his mouth.

You shook your head in defiance. “I want- I want more.”

“You can have more, you can have more,” he said, finally taking your fingers from his mouth and licking up them. “But you have to come first.”

His thumb pressed down on your clit in small circles and your caved into his body, coming over his hand. Robby helped you ride against his hand.

Only when your body stopped moving and your chest calmed its heaving did Robby pull away from you.

He pushed you down on the bed, ass up and dropped to his knees, shoving his face between your folds.

You cried out at the feel of his tongue splitting your fold and soaking up your arousal and orgasm. His hands spread your thighs, pulling at the skin till you were spread, till his nose ran up and down. “Oh fuck, Robby!”

“Hold onto the sheets, baby,” he said, muffled inside of you.

There was little anything else for you to do. Your hands curled around the sheets, pulling. You thrust your ass up into his face but Robby welcomed it, chuckling into you. His beard scratched between your legs, deliciously.

He slurped once before pulling back, crowding over you till all of him was pressed against you. “Kiss me.”

And you did. You tasted yourself on his tongue, on his lips. He turned you down over onto your back and you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into you till his weight was crushing you.

It could have been hours of breathing in each other, of licking into each others mouths, of sucking on each others bottom lips, of feeling each other up and mapping what made each other tingle and shake.

Robby stepped back and made a slow show of popping the button on his jeans and pushing them down slow with his boxers.

You crawled over the bed till you were at the edge, staring at his cock. There was dark hair over his chest, leading down to himself where he curved, hard up to his stomach.

Robby stared down at you, staring at him. “You want it? You want my cock?”

“Yeah... please...”

Robby stroked back your hair. “Did you think about my cock, in my bed?”

You looked up to him and smirked. “All the time.”

You took him into your mouth, slow and watched as Robby threw his head back. You could feel him tense before letting go, shoulders sagging, body melting as you slowly worked up and down his length, savouring the taste of him.

Robby kept on hand stroking back your hair tenderly but didn't push you down to his cock. He let you set the pace. “Oh my god,” he groaned as you licked the tip, circling it.

You learnt every tell of him. The tick of his jaw when you licked over him, the small pressure from his finger tips, his groans about how good you were doing that all went straight down to your core.

Whatever you'd imagined, this was better than any dream.

“Deeper... deeper.... there we go, baby, there we go... take me so good.”

You moaned around him and Robby chocked on a moan before pulling you off.

You knelt on the bed, hands running over the plumpness of his stomach. You peppered kisses along his chest as his hands pushed back your hair.

You glanced up at him, something wicked curling in your stomach as you saw him eye the camera again. “Robby...”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Were you ever gonna tell me about the cameras?”

He froze. You felt his heart pound under your hand, his eyes levelled on you. “You knew?”

“Duke told me.”

Robby scoffed, leaving you to figure Duke's visit did not capture Robby's attention over the camera's. “Duke.”

“He didn't mean to tell me... like you didn't.”

His breath stuttered, eyes peering at you like he was trying to read you. “I forgot.”

“Forgot?” your fingers curled around his cock.

He seethed in a breath. “You set the fire alarm off, fuck I saw you. Couldn't stop, but you knew didn't you?”

Your hand may have been wrapped around his cock but you didn't have the upper hand. He looked down at you with a knowing glint, his hand cupping your chin and forcing you to look up at him as you slowly stroked him.

“You got yourself off on it, put on a show for me,” he said, his fingers slowly stroking your chin. “Wanted this dirty old man to watch, didn't you?”

You swiped your thumb over the tip of his cock.

Robby seethed. “Yeah you did.”

A couple strokes later and Robby was moving away from you, leaving you to watch with wide eyes.

You watched as he pulled his phone out and set it in front of you before he climbed up on his bed behind you. Steadying himself on his arms he braced and slowly sank on top of you, the tip of himself rubbing between your folds.

The app.

The screen lit up with a HD video of you lying on the bed, Robby's body curving over you. You could see himself lowering himself into your folds.

“Fuck,” you moaned, eyeing the camera.

Robby kissed down your neck, bruises forming there. “You wanna watch yourself? You wanna watch yourself come on my cock, baby?”

You looked back at his phone. “Yes.”

“Dirty girl.”

Slowly, Robby pushed himself. He pushed in and pushed in and pushed in till he was groaning and his hips flushed yours. In the camera, you had become one.

“Ro-Robby,” you mewled.

His head comes down to your shoulder, kissing it gently as he looked down at the camera too. “Look at us, baby, look at us.”

Slowly Robby started to rock his hips, enough to set a tortuous pace.

“I watched you moan my name, while you pumped your fingers inside of you, you wanted me, didn't you?”

“Y-yes!”

Your body slowly moved with his thrusts, his arms tensing at your sides as he tried, desperately, to not give in. To not bite down on your shoulder and thrust harder. To not have his bedroom echoing with the thump of the bed and skin on skin.

“Please, please go harder,” you begged, reaching around to claw at his ass.

“Can't,” he grunted.

“Please!”

Robby's hand was firm around your neck as he leant over you. “I'll come baby, I'll come.” He thrust in deep, till you could feel the slap of his balls against your ass.

“Fuck!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he moaned, drawing the camera in closer. “You're so tight baby, taking it so well... just like I wanted you to.”

His thrusts grew faster, harder, his body plopping on yours leaving you a moaning mess. His hands couldn't settle, running over your hips, gripping and spreading the skin of your ass. He grunted and groaned and the two of you started to bounce on his bed.

“Tell me you liked me watching you,” he moaned.

“I- I liked you watching me come.”

“I heard you moan for me, in my bed.... breathing me in... you wanted me so bad.”

“Y-yes, Robby, so bad- so bad!”

Robby groaned and slid out of you, leaving you empty. He spared a minute to licking up the mess from the both of your arousal between your thighs before he turned you over, lying you flat and chucking his phone aside. He guided himself back into you and gripped your hips hard as he thrusted in.

He kept his lips close to you, brushing your lips against yours, taking your tongue as his.

“Thought of you every day,” he said, nose nudging yours. “I missed you so much.”

“I-I missed you too,” you moaned, holding his shoulders.

Your walls clamped around him.

“Arg, baby-baby-baby,” he babbled, lying his mouth flat open on yours, his tongue tasting yours and swapping spit.

A hand trailed between your bodies and ran over your clit.

“S'too-too much,” you cried.

“No it's not.”

“I can't, I can't,” you moaned, your walls tighter around him. “I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come-”

Robby bit down on the sweet spot around your ear and you released around him, back arching into him and leaving him moaning into your neck. “There we go, there we go- squeeze me, squeeze me!”

In one powerful thrust you felt his release shooting up your walls, painting you in him. His body sagged with stuttering thrusts as he spent himself.

Only once the both of you had calmed down did you catch your breath, sweaty skin on sweaty skin and lips swollen and red, bruises littering your neck.

Still inside of you, Robby reaches over and tilts your head back, the two of you grinning like love sick idiots.

“Smile for the camera, baby.”