Ya Girl

“Darling,” Titus’s voice comes through the bathroom door. “Are you okay in there?”

You check yourself in the mirror, adjust your boobs in your bra, smooth your dress, and wipe away the mascara under your eye. 

When you open the door, Titus is standing in front of it, facing away, like he’s guarding you. 

“I’m good, just needed a minute,” you put on your best smile and loop your arm through his.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he drops a kiss to your cheek. 

“I’m right here,” you smile.

Titus searches your eyes for a moment, like he knows that something is off. Something in your voice, your eyes, the way your nose wrinkles slightly. 

He makes the decision not to push. Not to ask. Not right now. And you’re grateful.

“We are invited to dinner next week,” he says when you enter the study together. “It’s one of my business associates.”

“Culty or non-culty?” you ask, rounding the large, cushy chair near the bookshelf. 

Titus looks at you flatly, then rolls his eyes, giving in to your question, “Non-culty…”

He starts digging through the mail left on his desk, and one envelope in particular seems to catch his eye. 

“Oh shit,” Titus mumbles under his breath, ripping it open.

You stand and join his side, looking at the envelope, and what was inside. On the off-white cardstock reads calligraphy in raised, gold ink. 

Cecilia Danforth and Markus Nolan Invite You.

“Cecilia?” you look up at him.

“Cousin,” he says.

“You seem to have a lot of those,” you grumble.

Titus gives an apathetic shrug and tosses the invitation onto the table. 

“It’s next month. We have to go, don’t we?” you ask, getting a better look at the invite. 

“Yes,” he replies. “As head of the family, I have to attend all weddings.”

The part he’s not saying hangs in the air. It’s dense and oppressive, a hand around your throat.

Titus looks at you. You look at Titus, letting out a deep sigh.

You both know what this means.

There is a chance that the Danforths are going to have to hunt.

That night, you start spotting. The small red stains in your underwear are a reminder of the last thing you want to think about right now.

You were beginning to think you were broken. Pregnancy is supposed to come naturally to women. Maybe it’s punishment for all of the lives you’ve taken, all the blood you’ve spilled. You aren’t worthy of bringing new life into the world, when you’ve snuffed so many out.

Which is silly, because you still aren’t sure that you even want a baby. All you want is a life. Your life. With Titus. But now that it may not even be an option, you’re not so sure. Now that the choice may be made for you, like so many other major aspects of your life. Who you married, where you live. Sure, you love your life now, but they weren’t your decisions to make, were they?

Titus doesn’t know how many tests you’ve taken, how many pregnancy blog posts you’ve read, or how many Reddit forums you’ve fallen down trying to figure out what it takes for it to fucking catch. If you told him, all he would do is worry about you. More than he already does.

“Sweetheart,” Titus says behind you, pulling you out of your own head.

He’s sitting in bed, back up against the headboard with a book in hand. Another one of your recommendations that he can’t put down.

It’s quiet. Just enough for you to hear the hum of the crickets to come through the window, and the bustle of staff finishing up for the night. Putting out candles, locking up.

You finish rubbing the lotion into your hands. “Yes?”

“What’s on your mind?” Titus puts the book down on the nightstand and sets his readers on top.

“Nothing,” you smile at him. 

Titus glowers at you. It’s not intimidating. It’s I’m-not-stupid-don’t-you-dare-lie-to-me.

“Titus, I’m fine,” you snap.

Titus stills at your tone. He blinks. It’s not anger, more surprise.

You squeeze your eyes shut. The words are sharper than you meant for them to be. Titus didn’t deserve that. Something inside you has worn thin, more than you realized.

The mattress shifts as Titus rises from the bed. 

“You’ve been rubbing lotion into your hands for fifteen minutes,” he says, resting his hands on your shoulders. His thumbs press gently into the muscles by your neck. 

“I’m making sure I’m sufficiently moisturized,” you reply. 

“Trust me, I don’t think your hands could be any softer.”

Titus gently gathers your hair, and moves it to the side, over your shoulder. 

“Honey,” he lowers his mouth to your neck. You sigh and drop your head back, leaning against him.

“Darling,” another kiss right below your jaw. His voice is low and soothing. 

“My angel,” right behind your ear. A whisper. So soft and tender.

“Don’t go getting sweet on me now, Mr. Danforth,” you tilt your head back to look at him. 

“I’m always sweet on you, Mrs. Danforth,” he murmurs against your skin.

“I have bite marks that say otherwise,” you tease.

Titus lowers his mouth to your ear. “So do I,” he whispers. 

He coaxes you from the vanity chair and pulls you to the edge of the bed. When he sits down, he moves you to stand between his legs. His hands rest right above your hips, where the waistband of your soft satin sleep pants meets the matching tank top. 

“Talk to me,” Titus says gently. 

His sad hazel eyes search yours, and for a moment you think he can really see right through you. Like he may already know.

You settle your hands on his shoulders, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. You’re not stalling, just trying to figure out a way to say this without immediately rambling. Definitely not stalling.

“I just,” you sigh. It takes a moment for you to find the right words. Titus waits patiently, rubbing his thumbs over your hips. 

“It’s been months,” you try again, “I thought surely I would have…”

Your voice trails off. The words fail, you’re not even sure you can say it out loud. 

“I thought I’d be pregnant by now,” you wrinkle your nose, hating the way the words sound coming out of your mouth. They feel pathetic, weak, and desperate. “I mean, I don’t know what I have been hoping for, it’s not like we’ve been actively trying-”

“I’m sorry,” Titus shakes his head. His mouth quirks up, “you call what we’ve been doing not trying? We have sex what, three times a week? At least?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh, “we never talk about taking tests together afterwards. I just assumed that if it happened, it happened. And if it didn’t, no biggie.”

“And now?” Titus asks. 

“Biggie.” You frown.

You let out a frustrated breath and run your hands over your hair. Titus pulls your hands away and over over his shoulders again, linking you to him. Constant contact. A tether. Grounding.

“I never put a lot of thought into kids,” you continue. “I just kind of assumed it would happen when it happened. And now that it’s actively not happening…”

“You’re fixating on it more,” Titus supplies. 

“I guess.”

“How long have you been feeling like this?” Titus asks. 

“Don’t chastise me for not saying anything sooner, Titus,” you groan.

“I’m not,” he replies.

“You want to,” you narrow your eyes.

“I wish you had,” he shrugs, “I think I’m allowed that.”

“And what would you have done? Hm? You would have booked doctors appointments and sought out specialists and had me take tests and worried over me constantly, looking for a solution,” you say.

Realization dawns on Titus. His shoulders drop and his mouth flattens into a line. “And that would have just made you focus on it more.”

“Exactly,” you nod.

Titus takes a moment. His fingers spread out across your back, holding you tighter.

“Do you want to visit a doctor?” he asks gently, almost like he’s afraid to put the words out there.

“I don’t think so,” you sigh, shoulders dropping. “Not yet.”

“You’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself,” he says softly. 

“It kind of is a lot of pressure, Ti,” you say. “You need an heir and-”

“Fuck the heir, darling,” Titus cuts in. “I don’t give a fuck what happens to the Danforths once we’re dead.”

“You don’t mean that,” you say. 

“I do,” he says, gaze and voice steady. “I would love nothing more than to knock you up,” Titus continues.

“Gross,” you groan. “Are you fifteen?”

“But,” he continues, looking at you pointedly. “I’m not in a hurry.”

You bite your lip.

“Don’t say it,” Titus closes his eyes, just for a moment.

“Say what?” you ask.

“I’m also not getting too old,” he says. 

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

Titus raises an unconvinced eyebrow. “Don’t worry about me, my dove. Don’t worry about the family, and what you think they want.”

“I just,” you chew on the inside of your cheek, willing the emotions in your chest to wash away. “I just wish I knew what to do. I wish I knew what I was doing wrong.”

A tear falls down your cheek. Titus sees it before you can wipe it away. His face drops, concern mounting. “Darling,” he sighs, pulling you fully into his lap. 

Sitting with Titus like this, his arms wrapped completely around you, makes you feel safe. You close your eyes and breathe him in.

“What if it never happens for us?” you say quietly.

“Then it’ll be me and you for all eternity. Just us. Like we planned.”

And the dam breaks. Something in your chest snaps loose. Your fingers close around Titus’s shirt, face still pressed against his shoulder. What was silent and stoic unwinds into a cathartic release. 

And maybe it’s because he doesn’t know what else to do, or he knows it’s exactly what you need, but Titus doesn’t say anything. He just holds you, and lets you wipe your tears on his shirt.

And he carries you, placing you gently under the covers. 

And he holds you tightly in his arms while you cry yourself to sleep. 

All the while, fighting back his own tears. Because he can’t stand to see his love so sad, so broken.

-

The Danforth Resort has been cleared out. A space on the golf course set up for a grand, expensive wedding. Large floral arrangements, a white satin aisle runner. An ornate archway, completely covered in pink roses. 

If you were a less cynical woman, like you may have once been, you’d think it was beautiful. 

Titus slides a hand over your thigh. You look down at it, then up at him. 

“You’re nervous,” he says. “Your leg. It’s jittery.”

“I guess I’m just really anticipating this after party,” you say.

“I would tell you to relax,” he looks at you, squeezing your thigh, “but I know that won’t do much.”

“Smart man,” you kiss his cheek.

The music starts, and it sends a jolt up your spine. You flinch. Titus quietly moves from your thigh to take your hand in his. He doesn’t make a show of it, he’s not even looking at you when he does it. He just knows.  

You turn along with the rest of the audience and watch the procession begin. 

The groom looks oddly…smug. It’s a strange facial expression that you wouldn’t have expected on the biggest day of someone’s relationship. Then again, Titus looked like he was going to eat you as you walked down the aisle. So the bar isn’t very high.

The audience rises as Cecilia makes her debut. She looks beautiful, wearing a classic ballgown with ornate beading on the bodice. It looks expensive. And all you can think is how terrible it would be to run for your life in.

“That man has one of the most punchable faces I’ve ever seen,” Titus whispers to you.

You laugh a little too loudly. Not enough to disrupt the wedding, but enough that the people seated in your vicinity look at you with aggravated expressions.

“You know I’m right,” Titus continues, clearly finding encouragement, in your changed expression. “Where did she find this guy?”

“It’s tough out there,” you whisper back. “Not all women can be stolen away by a hot billionaire.”

“I’m choosing to focus on the fact that you think I’m hot, and not the fact that you think I’m only a billionaire,” Titus smirks as you take your seats again.

By the time the wedding has concluded, you’ve calmed down marginally. You remind yourself that the chances he’ll pull the bad card are slim to none. How many cards are even in that deck? How many options are there? Markus will probably pull fucking Uno before he pulls Hide n Seek. 

Chances are slim. It’s not going to happen.

After the ceremony, there are family photos. You pose with Titus and Cecilia, the Danforth seal of approval on the marriage. Oddly, you feel slightly overdressed next to some of the other Danforths, wearing a vintage Versace dress, featuring an open back, intricate beading all down the body of the dress, and a slit over your leg.

It’s a high status wedding, you wanted to look like a high status guest. Initially, you were worried about the open back, the appropriateness of it at a wedding and the fact that you could see the softness of your back plain as day. But Titus, as he does best, made you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, and insisted you wear it.

He also said that he hoped it would make his Aunt Eunice die of a heart attack. 

No such luck yet.

“Hey, cousin,” Markus beams at you and brings you in for a hug. 

Your eyes go wide, hands pressed against your chest between you.

“Don’t touch her,” Titus says firmly.

Markus stills and releases you. “My bad,” his laugh is awkward and dry. “Sick dress.”

“Thank you,” you give a placating smile.

“Anyway. I’m ready to partayyyyy,” he says, pumping his fist in the air. He moves away from you and takes Cecilia in his arms, dipping her dramatically.

“You were right,” you lean into Titus’s side. “Very punchable.”

It’s almost easy to enjoy the reception. The finger foods. The awful conversation with the extended Danforth family. You slow dance with Titus under the gazebo and the starry night sky. He holds you close and whispers completely inappropriate things in your ear.

The final song plays. Guests start filing out. And your heart rate slowly rises again. You know what’s next. 

The family gathers in the drawing room in the lodge. The deck is presented to the groom. Cecilia squeezes his hand as he pulls.

Markus’s face lights up. He lets out a laugh.

You close your eyes. 

Please let it be Uno.

“Ah, Hide n Seek!” he says, flipping the card around. Your eyes flash open, and land on the fated words in his fingers. “This will be fun. What do I get when you catch me, dear?” 

Markus presses a sloppy kiss to his bride’s cheek, but she isn’t moving. Her smile is frozen, eyes already filled with panic.

Your heart stills. It’s like you’re watching a movie play out. A sick, twisted movie about your life, right before your eyes. But someone else is playing your part.

You recognize the delight in Markus’s eyes as the attitude you had when you pulled the card. You were confused, even giddy, just like he is now. Not realizing what it meant. How your life was going to change forever.

You want to slap some sense into him, tell him to take this seriously. More than that, you want to revive Mr. Le Bail just so you can kill him yourself.

Titus’s hand finds yours. He laces your fingers together and gives you a reassuring squeeze. 

No one speaks at first. They let it hang in the air for a moment. Exchange glances. Some shocked, some wild eyed. 

“Alright, well,” Titus clears his throat. He kisses the back of your hand and peels away to explain the rules of the game to the room. 

Markus gets a few minutes of a head start. 

The family will look for him. 

He’ll hide until he is found, or until dawn. Whichever comes first.

And that’s all Markus knows. That’s all he is sent off with.

You never thought you would be on the other side of this. And now you’re here. Watching Titus and his level head and his family of hyenas. Your family. 

Markus throws up two peace signs and blows a kiss to his bride before leaving the room. 

“God, what a frat boy,” someone says in the corner. 

Cecilia sighs, sinking her face onto the table, defeated.

Titus takes you off to the side while the rest of the family opens up the arsenal of weapons behind the bookcase. They exchange words of encouragement and excitement.

“Mr. Le Bail is a sick fuck,” you hiss, trying to keep your voice low. “I thought this card was hardly ever pulled.”

“It really doesn’t happen often,” Titus keeps his voice low with yours. “He does seem to have higher standards for the Danforth line.”

“Okay, well,” you wring your hands. “I’ll just go with you, then.”

“No,” Titus shakes his head. He starts unbuttoning his suit jacket, sliding it down his shoulders. “Not happening.”

“Fine, I’ll go off by myself, damn,” you frown, almost offended.

“Also no.”

“I’m not letting you do this without me,” you argue, trying to keep your voice down.

“And I’m not letting you out there. Don’t think I haven’t noticed what this fucking family is doing to you,” he says. “It’s eating away at you. All of this.”

“Titus, you can’t pretend like you have nothing to do with that,” you can feel your words and their edge. You hope they land correctly, because right now, you can’t control your tone.

“I know,” he says, eyes flickering between yours. “And I don’t know how to make it better. How to reverse a centuries worth of a cursed lineage.”

You realize that Titus isn’t angry. He’s not punishing you. He’s desperate. It makes your chest ache.

“But if we are going to grow the family, I need to protect you better than anyone protected my mother. I’m not letting you lose yourself. You will keep your balance. The darkness cannot snuff out your light. That’s all I can promise. Our children can’t grow up with two cold hearts for parents.”

Before you can argue further, Titus takes you gently by the elbow to the rest of the family.

“Dear,” Titus says a little louder for the room to hear, “Why don’t you stay here with Cecilia. Make sure she doesn’t try to leave the room.”

That’s not the real reason. But this is the reason that the Danforth family will accept. 

“Okay,” you say, your voice small.

“Just, don’t drag it out,” Cecilia says as the tools are passed around. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll try to make it painless,” an uncle says as he’s handed a very large hunting knife. He looks borderline gleeful.

You swallow hard, mind racing.

“Titus, look at me,” you take his face in your hands and bring him to you. He looks down at you, the concern growing. 

“Please, don’t argue with me, not this time,” he says.

“No,” you shake your head, “I know. I just.”

You bring Titus in for a long kiss, savoring the taste of him, the heat of his skin. He brings his arms around you, hands warm at your exposed back.

“You’re good at this,” you can feel your eyes getting misty. You try to blink away the tears, but there’s a rock in your stomach, threatening full waterworks. “I know you are. Just. Come back to me? Okay?”

“I will,” he says, his voice even.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Titus pulls you in and kisses your forehead.

“Besides,” he whispers, “I don’t think Markus is going to be much of a challenge for me.” He winks before moving his attention to the rest of the family.

You look up at the ceiling, trying not to smile at his general smugness. It does crack through your anxieties, though.

“Alright,” he says, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He looks around the room at the rest of the Danforth line and hikes his pick axe over his shoulder. “Let’s go hunting.”

There’s a familiar glint in his eye. One you haven’t seen in a long time. 

Titus isn’t eager. He’s not excited. He’s hungry. 

You take a settling breath, watching as the family members file out of the room, weapons in hand. Titus gives you one last lingering glance before closing the door.

A few minutes pass before you even let yourself move from the spot Titus left you.

“God,” Cecelia groans, “these are so boring when you’re the one trapped in here.”

With your mind so locked on Titus, you almost forgot she was even in the room with you. That Cecilia was the reason you were there.

Cecilia flops onto the couch and digs up the remote, turning on the large tv above the fireplace to show the security camera footage.

You blink at her. 

“Aren’t you like, I don’t know,” you move closer, tone incredulous, “worried about your husband?”

She rolls her head towards you, face flat. “No.” 

You pull your lips into a flat line and nod, “Right.” 

“I knew he was dead the second he pulled the card,” Cecelia sighs. “I wasn’t marrying Markus for his brains. Or his problem-solving skills. I put on a brave face. But that is a dead man walking.”

She gestures to the security cameras where her dear husband struggles to make it out across the green. He’s panting, running pathetically and whimpering. Clearly he didn’t pick a very good hiding spot if he was already being chased.

“Fuck, I just got the ick,” she winces. “You want a drink?”

“No,” you shake your head. Your hands flex at your sides. 

“I’m going to have a drink,” Cecelia gathers her dress in her arms and makes her way to the bar. After foregoing the glass and simply taking the bottle of whiskey, she raises it into the air. “To being single for the rest of my life.”

She smiles humorlessly and takes a long gulp, wincing a little as the liquor moves down her throat. 

“Fuck, you look more nervous than me,” she nods at you. “What do you think is going to happen? You think Markus is going to kill someone or something?”

You freeze and glare at her. 

“Oh, right,” she says sheepishly, giving a wry laugh, “I guess that’s how it went for you. Both times.”

“So you’ve heard,” your words are clipped.

“Everyone has heard,” she says. “You wiped out multiple bloodlines.”

“You know, some of those deaths weren’t even my fault,” you hiss. “Things happen. These people tend to get awful trigger-happy.”

It’s quiet between you for a moment. Cecilia awkwardly looks around and meanders back to the couch.

Some of the deaths weren’t your fault. But some were. And you regret none of it.

“Are you sure you don’t want some?” she waves the bottle at you. 

You groan, and snatch it from her, welcoming the burn. It immediately starts to calm your nerves.

In the same moment, you see movement out of the corner of your eye on the monitor. Markus has made his way to the casino. 

A small part of you is actually rooting for Markus. Maybe he can do what you couldn’t. Maybe he can be the one to take down the Danforth family, and dismantle the whole thing. Maybe you deserve whatever is coming to you for partaking in any of this. 

But then you see him fall to his knees and openly weep, shouting to the gods that he wishes he never met Cecilia, and that thought dies quickly. There is no way this pitiful man is as remotely as strong as you are, even in your weakest moments. 

You find yourself somewhere between disappointed in him and proud of yourself.

But mostly just irritated.

“In this life and the next?” Cecilia huffs her recent vows, taking another swig. “I fucking hope not.”

“Can you shut up for like, any period of time?” you rub your temples. 

“Hey,” she snaps, “this is my wedding night getting ruined. Okay? I’ll cope with this how I want.”

“Fair point,” you mutter

Another hour goes by of grueling cat and mouse. You find yourself not even watching for Markus anymore, but Titus. Every time you see him stalk through the halls on the monitor, your heart skips a beat. 

At one point, Titus has Markus cornered in the lobby of the resort. A few punches were exchanged- more like Titus kicking Markus to the ground and making sure he stayed down, while Markus flailed his arms around. 

Pickaxe in hand, Titus ready to claim his kill. Your heart is racing, and you realize it’s not from fear, not anymore, it’s excitement. Rooting for Titus to be the one to take Markus’s life. For a brief moment, you’re repulsed with yourself. You were in Markus’s shoes, with Titus glowering at you exactly like this. The fear that surged through you that day was unlike anything you’ve ever felt. 

But you know him now. It’s different. Instead of terror you feel, well, fucking hot. Titus has stripped his vest, leaving only his button down, and has clearly been running after Markus. He’s panting, his eyes are dark. The way he stretches his neck and flexes his hands as he stalks over Markus makes you weak at the knees.

You take the bottle of whiskey back from Cecilia and take a long swig, trying to settle your thoughts. And the fact that you want to fuck your husband right as he’s about to kill somebody.

Titus is ready to take aim when a gunshot rings out. Without thinking, you reach out for Cecilia’s hand, and she holds onto you. Titus’s attention snaps behind him, and Markus takes the chance to run.

It’s one of the Aunts, her rifle, and her terrible aim. Instead of Markus, she nearly took Titus’s head off. They share a few heated words before heading off into the same direction as Markus. You’re so filled with irritation and rage, seething when you look over to Cecilia.

“See what I mean? Trigger happy idiots,” you spit.

You run a tired hand through your hair. This confirms your concerns that Titus may not make it back, and through no fault of his own. If you could somehow tell him to come back where it’s safe, with you. 

But you know he won’t give up until Markus is dead. And suddenly that doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

A door slams in the distance. There’s movement on the monitor.

Cecilia’s back straightens. Yours does, too.

Markus has made it back into the lodge.

You both go still, just listening. The cameras let you track his movements through the halls. Markus stumbles around, knocking into furniture and cursing. He calls for Cecilia, then calls her a bitch.

“I probably deserve that,” she’s looking at the monitor, but her stare is distant.

The door handle to the drawing room rattles. You both stare at it, not moving. You think you stop breathing for a moment. Or maybe longer.

Markus bursts through the door, eyes wild. He looks sweaty and worn out, bruises blooming on his face and blood coming from god knows where, surely from when Titus got some hits in. You and Cecilia both spring to your feet.

“Oh my god, Cecilia,” his eyes land on his bride. He takes a staggering step towards her, and she takes half a step back. 

Cecilia looks at you, terrified and uncertain. “I can’t,” she whispers, voice trembling. “I can’t do it.”

And it hits you. Has the family even realized that he’s in the lodge? There is no one else. No one chasing Markus. No one running through the doors after him. It’s just you.

Your mind flashes back to all those times you were cornered back in the Le Domas mansion. The only thing on your mind was wondering how these people could be so okay with killing you. It’s starting to click. 

This self-righteous, deeply annoying prick is the only thing standing between you and living the rest of your life out with Titus. With your family. There’s no way that, after everything you’ve already done to get here, you’re willing to throw in the towel now. You’ve already killed to stay alive, what’s the point in growing a conscience now?

You move your hand to the slit on your dress. Markus’s eyes drop down, watching your movement. His eyes flicker in confusion, then soften. His mouth pulls into a sideways smirk that makes your stomach turn.

“Now’s not the time to-”

The words die in his throat when the throwing blade cuts through the air, hitting him right in the stomach. Markus’s hands find the wound immediately, blood flowing through his fingers. He collapses on the ground, writhing in pain.

The rest of the blades stay strapped to the holster on your thigh, right above the slit in the vintage Versace dress. Fashion and function.

The very first thing you feel is loss, and a little guilt.

But that lasts only a second. It’s quickly replaced with relief. Peace. Victory.

The first time you killed it was to protect yourself. And the second time, too. This time, it’s to protect your future. The family that you’ve worked so hard to build and keep together. No one is taking that from you, least of all fucking Markus.

So now, you’ve claimed your first kill as a Danforth.

“Well,” Cecilia’s voice is small. “I guess that’s it.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. It’s hollow. You know it won’t do much. But it’s all you have at the moment.

“Yeah,” she says, a single tear spilling over her cheek. Her face is completely blank.

Pernilla enters the drawing room, hands folded behind her back. 

“I’ve alerted the family,” she says.

“Thank you, Pernilla,” you nod. You don’t even go back to retrieve your blade. It’s better off in Markus’s stomach, keeping him from bleeding out entirely. Keeping him just alive enough to complete the ritual.

“I’m going to get changed, I think,” Cecilia rises and gathers her dress in her hands. She walks towards the door, stepping over Markus on her way out, not sparing him a second glance. 

It takes just minutes before family members start to arrive. They’re all so excited, congratulating you on your first kill. You supply a strained smile, trying to stay calm. Where is Titus?

The commotion comes to an abrupt halt when he finally enters the room. He’s out of breath, like he ran all the way back to the lodge. Probably did.

Titus’s eyes find you immediately, and he makes long strides to cross the room, holding his arms out for you.

“Darling,” he breathes as soon as you collapse into his hold.

“I’m fine,” you look up at him. “He didn’t touch me. I didn’t give him the chance.”

You hold your chin up high.

“You shouldn’t have had to do that,” he shakes his head. “I should have gotten him sooner, there shouldn’t have even been a remote possibility of-”

“Titus, hey,” you hold his face in your hands and bring him in close, touching your forehead to his. “I’m okay. I did what I had to do.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m proud of you, I am. And I would want it to be him lying on the ground in every scenario. But you shouldn’t have had to do that.”

Your lips quirk, and you try to hide a completely inappropriate smile. It’s not the right time. Titus is upset. He’s not in a good mood.

But he’s also looking at you with such concern and intense possession. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, showing off every vein in his forearms. A few rogue curls have fallen down to his forehead. He’s still sweating, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. 

Whatever you were feeling watching him on the screen, it’s multiplied now that he’s right in front of you. There’s no logical explanation for how you feel about your husband at this moment.

“I thought you liked it when I made men bleed?” you press against him, biting your lip.

Titus lets out a breath and a half smile at you using his words against him. He’s trying to hide it, but his eyes are bright. 

“Don’t tell me that you’re not at least a little turned on,” you whisper, lips just grazing his cheek.

“What?” he says, lifting one eyebrow. “No. That would be insane. That would be,” he swallows hard. “That would be inappropriate. A man is about to die here.”

“Uh-huh,” you smile.

“And I told you, I didn’t want you involved,” he continues. “And I meant it. So, that would really conflict with my-uhm- morals.”

“Right, your morals,” you nod, “Because you have morals.”

“I do,” he nods. When your lips just barely graze his, he leans in, just slightly. You pull back, satisfied. You’ve got him right where you want him.

“So if I told you to take me upstairs when the ritual is over,” you start, fingers finding his biceps. 

Titus freezes. His smile falters, and he clears his throat. 

“Alright, everyone,” he calls to the family, ceasing conversation, “enough talk, let’s finish this.”

And you’ve never seen him walk down those stone basement steps so fast. It’s truly a brisk pace.

Titus is all business during the ritual sacrifice. Or, trying to be. Stealing glances at you, fighting the grin that pulls at the corner of his mouth when you make eye contact. You have to keep your legs pressed together to keep yourself in check.

It’s inappropriate. There’s a dead man sprawled out on the table in front of you, your knife still sticking out of his stomach. But he doesn’t matter to you at all. You didn’t want to kill him. But you did. Add him to the fucking list.

There’s blood spilled. Wine shared. Hail Satan and blah blah blah.

All you can think about is Titus’s voice as he speaks over the room. The way his throat moves when he drinks the wine. How his arm muscles flex when he slits Markus’s throat.

It’s about finding the good within the bad, really.

When the ritual is over, you expect to be spent. But you’ve never been on the other side of this before. A human sacrifice feels different than the goat sacrifices. If anything, you feel stronger, more powerful. 

But not quite satiated.

Titus says fuck-all to the family after the ritual. They’re all drunk on blood, wine, and power, and you don’t care what they do at this point. Stay, leave, whatever. It’s the middle of the night, and you’re dragging Titus back up to your room in the lodge.

You barely make it inside before he’s on you, his mouth nearly devouring you. There’s a feverish energy in the room. Your body is burning, and Titus can’t get close enough to you.

Teeth scraping, tongues sliding together. It’s not sloppy, but it is messy.

“So sexy,” Titus grumbles. His grip is tight over your body. You can feel his thigh pressed right between your legs, just barely grazing your cunt. You let out a broken, needy gasp.

You smooth your hands over Titus’s shoulders, only for Titus to take them in his grip, and guide them above your head, holding your wrists in place with one hand. 

“Let me reward you,” he whispers.

You arch into him, trying hard not to wriggle in his grip too much, but needing some release from the heat in your belly. 

He picks your leg up, fingers right behind your knee, to guide you around his hip. 

“Careful,” you smile, nipping at his bottom lip, “I’m armed.”

Titus’s eyes drop down to where his hand has almost grazed the sheathed blades still strapped to your thigh. 

“We’ll have to take care of that, then,” he smiles and presses a kiss to your lips again.

You stumble through the room with him, neither one of you wanting to be too far from the other, limbs tangled and mouths hungry.

Titus stops you by the vanity. He pulls your leg up, through the slit, the fabric falling away, and sets your foot on the vanity chair. One kiss to your calf. Higher, by your knee. Another to your thigh, just below the holster strapped there with the remaining blades.

When Titus’s fingers graze your thigh, you suck in a sharp breath. He carefully releases the strap and lets the material fall away in his hands, setting the weapons down on your vanity table. 

He stays down by your feet, moving his hands up to slide your soaked panties down your legs. He’s taking you apart slowly, piece by piece, until you’re made of nothing but your love and desire for him.

“My beautiful wife,” he says, gently moving your legs further apart. “You’ve been through a lot tonight. I’ll make you feel so good.”

“Wait,” you say, drawing Titus’s attention. “This dress. It’s vintage.”

Understanding, Titus rises to his feet and helps you peel the fabric away from your skin. With your underwear already gone, you’re completely naked in front of him. His mouth is on you again, tasting you, savoring you.

One hand moves down your belly, just between your legs.

“Fucking hell, you’re soaked,” Titus teases a finger over your clit. 

“Who’s fault is that?” you tilt your head, mouth open just barely in a silent moan. 

“You tell me,” he says, dropping back down to his knees. 

The smart ass quip you were about to come back with dies on your tongue when Titus slips two fingers inside. You feel them curl just right, hitting the spot that he knows will make you melt. 

You nearly collapse backwards, ass hitting the edge of the vanity table abruptly. A broken noise slips out, your hips moving towards his hand.

“You were saying?” Titus looks up at you, pleased with himself.

With one hand braced on the table behind you, the other finds its way into Titus’s hair, pulling him back between your legs. 

“Titus,” you breathe.

He slides his free hand over your low belly, fingers spread, holding you still against the vanity. You shift slightly, seating yourself fully on the tabletop.

It doesn’t take long for him to coax an orgasm from you tonight. You were already halfway there before you even entered the room. As soon as his tongue slips around your sensitive clit, you’re gone, crying out his name and pulsing around his fingers. 

With your mouth hung open slightly, Titus slips his soaked fingers past your lips. You take them eagerly, sliding your tongue over and around. You must look completely blissed out, because Titus’s pupils are blown just watching you.

Titus slots himself between your legs, pressing his body against you. His lips are slick and kiss bitten, and you pull him in to take even more. You feel needy, and you’re going to get everything you want from him tonight.

Titus groans against your mouth, his own desire mounting. His hands are warm against your skin, and you get frustrated with how many clothes he’s still wearing.

“Titus I need you to fuck me,” your fingers fumble at the buttons of his shirt. “Right now. You’re going to get me pregnant, right now.” 

Titus wraps his fingers around your wrists, pulling your hands away. Not hard, but firm. You keep your eyes low, focused on the skin right below his collar, where a small bruise is blooming. Something changed. You realize what you’ve said. This is no longer a passionate post-hunt fuck. There’s more weight to it. 

“Slow down,” he says. His voice is low, but strong. “Look at me.”

You lift your gaze to him, breath still ragged. 

“Are you sure?” Titus asks.

You nod.

“Words. Talk to me, sweetheart,” he squeezes your wrists gently, just light pressure. “Tell me what you want.”

You lean towards him, wrists still tight in his grasp. 

“I want,” you start, watching Titus’s tongue dart out over his lips, “I want you to fuck a baby into me.” 

Titus’s grip tightens, no longer firm, but bruising. He closes his eyes for a moment, like you saying that snapped something in him.

His lips graze yours. When you try to kiss him, he leans back, just far enough away. 

“You’re sure? You want to keep trying?” Titus pushes. He needs this as much for him. He gently lowers your hands down by your sides, releasing them.

You reach out and pull on Titus’s belt buckle, slotting him right between your legs. 

“I’m sure,” you say softly, kiss-bitten lips hovering over Titus’s. “I’m positive. This is what I want. With you.”

Something changes in the way Titus looks at you. He’s a breath away.

“Tell me that’s what you want, too,” it comes out like a soft plea. 

“Of course I do,” Titus says. 

You close your eyes for a moment and take a breath. When you open them again, Titus’s gaze is still locked on you. You want to rile him up. Get him out of his head and on top of you. 

“Then I swear to Satan, if you don’t touch me right now I’m going to crawl out of my skin.”

Titus grins, like he expected nothing less. “That’s my girl.”

He kisses you again, finding that fire that pushed you two in the room in the first place. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging lightly. 

You reach out for Titus’s waistband again, knuckles brushing his sensitive bulge, and Titus groans. He’s so achingly hard for you, it’s all for you.

It only takes a moment for Titus’s clothes to be discarded on the floor- unlike your dress, which was lovingly draped over the dresser. 

You push Titus back onto the bed and follow after, sliding your legs on either side of his hips. Titus’s hands fall onto your ass, fingers spread and digging in slightly, just enough to take hold. He pulls you close, dragging your pussy over his cock.

Each whimper is swallowed by his kiss. Each swipe through your sensitive pussy lips sends electricity through you. Your hips start moving on their own, chasing the friction against your clit. You’re trying to relax, since you know what you’re asking for, you want to be able to take him all in.

One of Titus’s hands roams your body, landing on the skin between your breasts. He cups one firmly, moving his fingers around your nipple and pinching.

“Ahh,” you gasp. You think you say his name, but with your eyes closed and head slowly tilting back, it really could have been anything. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Titus groans, kissing your chest with a wet, open mouth. “You’re going to look so beautiful pregnant, just glowing. Going to make the most beautiful babies.”

“That beauty will be 50% yours, you know.” You lean in and kiss him, your hands settling on his shoulders.

Titus helps you line up with his dick, holding onto you as you slowly sink down, taking him inch by inch. Your mouth hangs open in a silent whine, face twisted in pain and pleasure. 

“Don’t stop now, baby,” he huffs, “you’re doing so good.”

You settle down with a soft whimper. 

Titus lets out a broken, affected noise. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, “that’s my good girl. Taking me so good.”

You brace your hands on the headboard and start to move, unable to stop the moans that slip out every time your hips drop back down.

As good as this feels, it’s not right. This isn’t scratching at the itch. On any other night, this would be perfect. The intimacy, Titus letting you move at your pace. But this isn’t any other night. You need to let out the energy that was still thrumming under your skin. You need the version of Titus that wants you more than air. The version that will give you exactly what you need.

And he seems to be on the same page.

“Titus,” you mewl, lashes low.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I can’t.” Titus lets out a low, gruff sound and wraps his arms completely around you, pressing your chest against his. He shifts on the bed, pushing you back without pulling out. 

You’re sprawled out under him, a cock drunk grin already on your face. Titus adjusts himself over you, hands right under your knees, pushing them up to your chest. 

“If I’m going to fuck you pregnant,” he pants, drawing his cock out, “I need to fuck you right.”

He slams back inside of you, deep and desperate. That smile is wiped from your face, your eyes roll back, because he is definitely kissing your cervix. Titus holds your legs up higher, watching your pussy as he slides in and out. 

“Shit, Titus,” you white knuckle the bedsheets. “S’good. It feels so good.”

“Yes, honey,” he smiles, “I know what my wife likes. I know how you like to be treated. How you like to be fucked. Isn’t that right?”

When you don’t answer- too focused on how he’s literally splitting you in half- Titus pulls out dramatically. 

“Isn’t that right?” he repeats. 

Normally, you would put up a fight, instigate, be a smart ass brat. But you’ll do anything right now to get Titus to fuck you stupid.

“Yes- fuck Ti- yes that’s right,” you mewl.

Titus gives a cocky, self- satisfied smile before sinking back into you slowly. 

“Good,” he says.

He picks his pace up, hitting that spot deep inside that makes you squirm. You can feel the pressure building inside of you, and it crests when Titus rests your leg on his shoulder, dropping a hand to your cunt.

Your pussy twitches around him.

“I’m- oh fuck- Titus,” your toes curl, and your breathing quickens, eyes squeezed shut.

“Look at me, baby,” he says, finger teasing your clit. 

You whine and open your eyes. Titus, the way he’s touching you, the way he’s looking at you. You’re overwhelmed, but you want more. You want it all.

“Yes,” your voice barely makes it out before you come undone, vision blurring. You clench around Titus, pulling him in deeper- if that’s even possible. 

Titus lets out a bitten off noise, a desperate groan. He fucks you through your orgasm, pace slowing as he becomes affected by you. He drops your legs down next to him, bending over you.

“That’s it,” he grips the side of your head, thumb swiping the corner of your mouth. “Come back to me.”

You reach out for Titus, desperate and needy. He starts moving deeper. His hands around you, your hands dragging down his back, almost every part of you is connected to Titus. This is what you needed.

“Titus, I want it,” you whisper into his ear. “Please, come inside me.”

And Titus has never been able to hold out very long for you.

“I want you to feel this,” he says, face hovering just above yours. “I want you to feel every drop.”

You hold onto his shoulders, nails digging in. Titus finds his own release inside of you with a groan, filling you up so much that a white ring forms around his dick. 

“Titus,” you sigh, spent. Elated. Almost floating. 

He keeps moving in very small thrusts, making sure that nothing is wasted, and everything gets taken by you.

For a moment, Titus just lays there on top of you, arms wrapped around your waist. His entire body acts like a weighted blanket. He’s not hard anymore, but you don’t really want him to pull out either. You drape one hand over his shoulder, while the other drags over his head, nails grazing his scalp. Back and forth. 

After all of the emotional turmoil of the night, you now find the quiet to be a balm to your heart. You didn’t realize how much you were putting off actually feeling anything. The anxiety, the terror, the relief. So much comes crashing back to you as you stare at the ceiling, holding your heavy-ass husband in your arms. 

Eventually, Titus does roll off of you. He presses a kiss to your forehead and insists you not move a muscle. He returns with water and a stack of hot steamed towels to clean every inch of you by hand, taking extra care between your legs. 

One ankle in his hand, he drags the towel up the length of your leg slowly. 

“You know,” he says idly, “when they said that Mrs. Danforth ended the game, I was terrified.”

You don’t say anything, just watch as he pays attention to you and your body.

“I thought something happened to you. That Markus did something, or one of my stupid family members shot the wrong person-”

Titus cuts himself off before he can get too riled up.

“But when I made it back, and I saw you there, totally calm.” He pauses and takes a moment, folding the towel and sitting back on the bed. “I realized that I have nothing to worry about.”

“Because I won’t hesitate to stab a man?” you say.

“Because you’re stronger than I give you credit for,” he’s completely serious. You bite your smile back, something softer blooming in your chest. 

“I think I forgot what you did to get here. I was so focused on protecting you, that I didn’t consider that you can handle yourself.”

“I’m offended,” you say, “you’re telling me that you forgot how I kicked your ass?”

Titus rolls his eyes. “You caught me off guard.”

“I don’t know, you looked pretty on guard when I slammed that tree branch into your stomach,” you smirk.

“I think we remember that day differently,” he shrugs, rising from the bed to discard the towels.

“I think someone is embarrassed,” you grumble.

Titus throws a fresh towel, hitting you square in the face.

You try to fall asleep in Titus’s arms. But your brain still hasn’t caught up to the fact that your body is exhausted.

The moonlight casts streaks along the walls. Titus’s breathing is steady, you’re sure he’s completely asleep by now.

“Mr. Le Bail,” you whisper to no one, “I’ve almost died for you. I’ve now killed in your name. Please help me.”

You look back at Titus. 

You felt like an idiot for letting your father make you feel this way. For giving him so much leverage over your outlook on life. The people around you thought you loved wholeheartedly because you’d learned it from someone else, but the reality was far more complicated than that.

You loved the way you did not because of someone you knew, but someone you wanted to. Someone who loved like the word had no limits, like the way you did.

Your father was incapable of such treatment. When you left Boston for Pittsburgh years prior, he barely bat an eye. Just wished you well and asked you come back for the holidays, but never complained when you didn’t. Never cared that you didn’t. The man hardly cared about you, period.

And so he calls sometimes. Tries to be a father. Tells you he’s thinking of you, but it always feels like you’re a check on a to-do list. An afterthought. Like talking to you is an obligation, a thing he does because he has to, not because he wants to.

He’d called you in the breakroom the minute you got the door closed. You’d forgotten about the juice you were about to indulge in before answering the phone, wondering what he wanted. The man had promptly asked for help with the bills, and you being the angel you were, unable to ignore someone in need, no matter how salty, sent it without complaints. He hadn’t even told you he loved you when he hung up. Just told you this is what your responsibility was as a daughter now. He’d taken care of you, nurtured you after your mother had left. So you should be thanking him.

Man, you thought. Your old man had a twisted sense of family.

That call had you questioning your own validity. What had you done to deserve the loneliness you’d accumulated? To have a father who used you like an ATM? Friends who knew you but didn’t see you? It felt like the world was on your shoulders, too heavy for one person to carry, especially for someone so young. 

The last place you wanted to be carrying all these feelings was the PTMC. But life didn’t stop just because you were having a go at it. So neither could you.

You all but sprinted to Trauma 2, not ready to get back to work, but at least able. Eleven in the morning was early for a fall out of a treehouse, and you’d hate to be the little girl who’d taken the damage, so you made quick work of your feet, willing them ahead until you arrived.

At the bedside were Doctors Santos and Garcia, as well as Langdon, Javadi, and your attending, Doctor Robby. Behind Santos and Garcia were the parents of the children who were in inconsolable tears, being comforted to no avail by Doctor Javadi.

“Still no consciousness,” said Santos with her lip between her teeth, her hands working quickly at the bleeding gash across the little girl’s forehead.

“How high’s this fucking treehouse?” said Garcia, ever the blunt one. You shook your head.

“Garcia,” you chided, because that was often your role. Keeping the flow of empathy in a room at any given time alive. Especially when that room contained people in dire need of it.

“Am I happy to see you,” said Robby. He excused himself from the bedside while the other doctors worked, handing you a chart. “Talk to the family before you jump on. Girl’s named Hailey, mom and dad are Janet and Carl Atkins. You know the drill, yeah?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, Robby,” you said with a nod. You tapped your fingers against the cardboard of the chart as you read its contents, like that’d somehow snap you back into doctor mode.

It’s the thought that counts, right?

“You’re an angel,” Robby said.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Atkins,” you said when you approached the parents, introducing yourself. “Why don’t we take a step outside?”

“We’re not leaving our daughter,” said Mrs. Atkins, who was still in tears.

“I understand your pain, Mrs. Atkins, but these doctors are doing everything to care for your little girl. Soon, that’ll mean lots of blood and sights you won’t want to remember of her. I promise you can come back in as soon as they’re finished.”

Mrs. Atkins, Janet, looked at her husband with teary eyes. He nodded and turned to you. You took that as your cue to lead them out of the room. Robby nodded as you made your exit with the parents.

“What happened this morning?” you asked gently, keeping any accusation out of your voice. You knew from experience that families of patients never responded well to that.

“H- Hailey wanted to play outside. It was beautiful out. We went into our backyard after breakfast, a- and Carl and I were having a bit of coffee after helping her into her treehouse. She’s a smart girl, so I thought—“ Janet stopped her sentence short to heave a sob. Carl rubbed her back.

“You thought you could trust her, like all parents do,” you finished. “She’s six. Still small, but she’s learning about the world in her own way, and you want to let her. There isn’t anything wrong with that. Then, what?”

“We didn’t even see her get out. Usually she stays inside and calls for one of us when she’s ready to come down. But this time, I guess she thought she could do it on her own,” Carl said. “She’d just hit the ground when we ran over. And we called 911.”

“I see. It’s to my understanding that Hailey’s very lucky,” you said after taking a good look at the chart. “No noticeable fractures, minimal chance of long-term brain damage. The worst she should walk away with is a concussion and a sprained ankle, but apart from that and her visible wounds, she should be back to health in no time,” you said.

“Then why is she not waking up?” said Janet.

“Her age and nature of the impact are likely to blame for her unconsciousness. Falling hard on your back is generally more dangerous, especially for teenagers and children. That doesn’t mean her injuries are severe,” you said calmly. “Hailey’s your only child?”

Janet nodded. “She’s the best little girl in the world. She was everything we prayed for.”

“Your love for her is palpable. You’re first time parents who are navigating the ups and downs of what it takes to raise a child. Mistakes don’t negate your progress. There’s no benefit in being hard on yourselves,” you said. “This wasn’t your fault. Children are naturally curious and occasionally unpredictable. That doesn’t mean you’re to blame for what happened today. The most you can do now is be there for Hailey. That’s all you can do.”

Janet sniffled, moved by your words. That was just the effect you had on people. 

Most people, anyway. 

It was your job at the PTMC to provide comfort to families in time of need, as well as finding balance in being a good doctor all the same. But it occurred to you more often than not that you had yet to acquire that same balance in your personal life. 

As per usual, that wasn’t the matter at hand right now.

The other woman took your hand in hers and squeezed. You squeezed back.

“Thank you. You’re a great doctor,” she said.

You smiled. “No, thank you. Now, why don’t you two take a seat over here? I’ll come back out with any updates on Hailey.”

After the parents sat on a bench outside Trauma 2, you braced yourself and went back in. Robby eyed you as you returned.

“Worked your magic out there, kiddo?”

You gave that same fabricated smile you’d offered Dina not too long prior and nodded, grabbing a pair of sterile gloves. “Sure did.”

He didn’t have to know that was just more of your magic.

After half an hour or so, Garcia finally threw her hands up, exhaling a sigh of relief. “My services are no longer required.”

You’d been helping keep the Hailey stabilized beside Robby, while Santos had been next to Garcia. Javadi and Langdon had since left to handle another case. You checked the monitor to view the girl’s heart rate and blood pressure and nodded your agreement.

“All set. Thanks for your help,” you saod.

“Sure thing. Call if you need the jazz hands again,” Garcia said before heading off.

“Good work, you two. Couple hours and she should be waking up,” said Robby.

“Great. I’ll give the parents the good news,” you said.

You discarded your gloves and put some hand sanitizer on before turning to face the parents who were still seated outside Trauma 2. They both stood up with urgency, looking frantic at your return.

“How is she?” said Janet.

You smiled. “Little Hailey’s going to pull through. She’s still unconscious, but we’ve completely stabilized her and she should incur no lasting brain damage from this incident. She’ll wake in a few hours.”

Janet threw her arms around you, and you responded with a little “Oh!” before reciprocating the hug.

“Thank you so much,” Janet said.

“Can we see her?” said Carl.

“Of course. Right this way.”

You led the way back into the room, where Robby was still standing opposite Santos. The latter backed away to allow the parents room to see their child.

“Thank you, Dr. Robby,” said Carl.

“You’re very welcome,” said Robby.

The two of them sat at their daughter’s bedside. Carl instantly grabbed Hailey’s hand, squeezing gently.

“We’re so sorry, honey,” Janet whispered in a quiet sob.

“Daddy loves you so much, Hailey,” Carl sniffled beside his wife. “We’ll never let anything like this happen again. I promise.”

I promise.

At the little declaration, you felt your throat tighten with a weird feeling. It felt like plain sadness at first, salt on the wound after your interaction with your own father. But it was more than that. Deeper.

It felt like fucking jealousy.

Tears filled your eyes and threatened to spill at the scene as Carl whispered all the ways he loved his daughter. The promises to take care of her. The dedication to doing better. All things you wish your father could do for you.

It was too much.

“Um, if you’ll excuse me,” you said with your fake smile, though you weren’t sure how convincing it was now that it was paired with teary eyes and a broken voice. You practically sprinted out of there and didn’t stop until you reached the breakroom.

You slammed the door closed behind you and went for the sink. Everybody was busy with their own cases—it was just one of those kinds of shifts—so there was no one around to see you break down for a second time that shift. While it didn’t necessarily feel good to be alone, you weren’t sure you wanted anyone to see you like this.

Splashing water on your face was futile for your nerves. The sobs you heaved that came from the innermost parts of you were so much more than tears. It felt like all the things your father had said to you since he created you, the words or lack thereof that you’d tried and now failed to suppress, were bubbling to the goddamn surface.

You were in the middle of pressing your thumb to your palm, a trick for anxiety you’d heard from Dr. Collins, when the sound of the break room door opening snapped you out of your thoughts. You took a large breath and didn’t immediately turn around, because you couldn’t give yourself away, couldn’t be vulnerable. Not on a day like this. Maybe not fucking ever.

You thought so, anyway, until the sound of Robby softly saying your name made your resolve crack in two.

“Y- Yeah?” you said without facing him.

“You alright? You kind of ran out of there,” he said. You could hear him coming closer.

“Oh, yeah, j- just needed a glass of water. Dehydrated,” you lied.

“Hydration is important,” he humored you. Yet his tone of voice gave way to the fact that you were a terrible liar. “But I’m not convinced that’s what this is.”

Fuck.

Tears spilled from your eyes. You still didn’t turn around, but when you felt your throat constricting again, your breath picking up speed, you realized it didn’t matter if Robby could see you or not. Your body language was going to betray you.

“I just need a m- minute,” you said, and that did him in. Your body started to shake with a familiar force, one nobody knew you dealt with on a daily basis.

A panic attack.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” Robby said as your legs started to fail you. He didn’t say anything about the mascara that was probably coming down your cheeks, or the blatant redness in your eyes when you finally turned around. Instead, he sat you down in one of the chairs in the breakroom, rubbing your back. “Head between your legs.”

You did as told. This tactic did sometimes work for you. But it wasn’t enough to stop your heaving sobs or uncontrollable breathing.

“Come on, s’okay, in through your nose, out through your mouth,” Robby said. “It’s not forever. S’all temporary, s’all temporary. Come on, kiddo, breathe with me.”

Robby’s words felt like honey. But even the sweetest of candies can’t overpower the taste of salt.

It wasn’t Robby’s fault. Robby didn’t know. He didn’t know much about your life beyond the city you’d come from or who you are now. No one did. 

But that was just the thing. Even without truly, truly knowing you, Robby still wanted to help. That was more than your own father could ever say.

“It’s going to be okay,” Robby said finally. “Breathe with me.”

Every word had your nervous system slowly regulating again, and you tried to listen to the sound of his voice. After a few minutes of crying and shaky breaths, the world started to come back into focus.

“That’s a girl, just breathe. Breathe with me,” Robby hummed. “Let me get you some water.”

You felt the aftermath of your panic attack starting to hit the moment Robby returned with a glass of water. You drank it down in one quick gulp as your breath finally slowed back to normal pace.

“I’m. . .sorry you had to see that, I—“

“Don’t apologize. It happens to the best of us,” Robby said. You’d never seen the older man look so concerned. His eyebrows were wrinkled with worry, and there was a frown pasted on his lips.

After a beat, Robby spoke up again. “Did you. . .wanna talk about it?”

You shrugged, looking away. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry.”

You shook your head and let out a bitter laugh. You’d tell anyone else the same thing, but you felt stupid for feeling the way you did about a man you’d known for a long time would never change. The stupid thing was holding out hope that he would.

“My dad called me. Just before I hopped on that case,” you said shakily. “He didn’t even ask how I was or what I was doing. He. . .he needed money f- for his bills. So I just sent it without thinking twice. He didn’t even tell me he loved me or anything before he hung up. Just told me this was my responsibility now. So that little girl. . .her father caring so much,” you sniffled. “Just felt like salt to the wound.”

You looked away from Robby completely now, turning your head to the side. “It’s dumb, right? I’m in my mid twenties and I’m still getting hurt by the man when he’s always been this way. Anyone else would have given up by now, but not me.”

“Now, that’s not entirely true,” Robby said sharply. “You need your father today as much as you did when you were born. Your age doesn’t have anything to do with it, kid. And if he can’t show up like he’s supposed to, that’s on him.”

Robby tilted your face to meet his and caught your eyes. “He has no idea what he’s missing.”

You sniffled at the sweet reassurance, leaning your cheek into his palm.

“You’re sure you’re fit to stay?” Robby asked, stroking your cheek.

You almost thought you’d misheard him. There was a loudly spoken rule about all hands on deck at this hospital. Confusedly, you returned,  “It’s been crazy in here today. Don’t you guys need me?”

Robby shrugged. “We have the staff, for once. If you’re not 100%, we’ll be okay if you need to leave. Seems like you need to relax, and this place is definitely not helping with that.”

You giggled at that. “Yeah, probably not,” you agreed. Your smile then faded. “But it’s alright. I took the bus here and with midday traffic, who knows how long I’ll be waiting, anyway,” you sniffled.

“That’s true. And you can stay if you want,” Robby said as he stood up. “Or I can bring you home.”

You looked up at him confusedly. “Bring me home? But, Robby, you—“

“—Jack wanted to come in early,” Robby said. “S’no problem.”

The offer made your heart ache. “You’re sure?”

Robby gave you a small smile. “Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

That’s what wound you in the passenger seat of Robby’s truck the second Jack walked into the ER. He opened the door for you and buckled you in before getting into the driver’s side, putting the keys into the ignition.

“I’m sorry I’m making you do this,” you said with a small voice, leaning your head against the window. Even after his reassurance, you still felt guilty for pulling him away from work. “You have a job to do.”

“You’re not making me do anything. And Jack’s a good doctor. He’s got it under control,” Robby said. “How far are you?”

“I’m a little far. It’s about a half hour commute,” you replied. “You really don’t have to bring me, Robby.”

“How about we go to my place instead? It’s closer. You’ll want to decompress sooner rather than later, I imagine.”

You nod. “Okay,” you replied. Robby did the same and began to drive.

Your hands were still restless from the aftermath of your attacks. You leaned your head back against the leather seat, closing your eyes while shaky breaths left your lips. Robby didn’t say anything until he heard you hiccup another sob. He’d stopped at a red light and turned to look at you.

“Sweetheart? You okay?”

You cringed at the whimper that left your lips. “I don’t know.”

“Hey,” Robby said. He reached over and looped his fingers through yours, squeezing your hand to reassure you. “Don’t think about him. It’s not doing you any good. Put the window down, kiddo. That’ll help.”

You did as told, putting the window down ever so slightly. You used Robby’s hand like a lifeline while he drove, and not once did he let go.

Leaving the Pitt made you realize instantly how drastically it was affecting you. You had your anxiety under control most days, but it was easy for anybody to snap in a place like that. Now that you were here, you didn’t feel so frenzied. How Robby could run the show on a daily basis like he did, you had no idea.

The drive was mostly silent, save for the wind from your window and the low hum of the radio. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, not with Robby’s hand in your lap and intertwined with your own, grounding you throughout the trip.

He pulled up to a family home about fifteen minutes later. It was a beautiful place with flowers out front and two stories. Robby opened your door for you as you got out, and smiled when you immediately slotted your hand through his again.

“Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you inside,” Robby said.

You followed behind him and watched him unlock the door, letting you inside before following. You took the place in, shockingly neat for your sarcastic attending, while he slipped his shoes off at the door.

“You can shower upstairs if you want. I can give you some clothes to change into,” Robby said. “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t think I’m ready to eat yet. But thank you, Robby. A shower would be nice,” you said.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come on, you can have your pick of my closet.”

You followed Robby upstairs, taking in the various picture frames that lined the walls of the staircase. Most were with Jack or your other coworkers in group pictures. You were even in some of these.

Robby opened the door to his large room, his bed messy with strewn pillows and scattered books on the nightstand. There were some clothes on the floor and Robby grimaced as he retrieved them.

“Sorry about the mess. Don’t ever have company,” Robby said. “You can look through my dresser.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you said as you approached it. You went through his drawers and picked out an old band tee and baggy sweatpants. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll get you a towel.”

After Robby did so, you took the shower you’d been in desperate need of, hoping the cold water would cleanse your nerves. They still felt incredibly frayed even after leaving work, and part of you was still in panic mode. 

Most of it was just plain sadness.

When you came out of the bathroom, Robby was sitting on the edge of the bed, which was now neatly made. He perked up when he saw you, standing up and pulling the covers back. “You didn’t like the sweatpants?”

You shook your head. The tee was long enough to cover the bareness underneath it, and your body temperature wasn’t regulated enough for pants yet. “No. I’m hot,” you said, folding the pants neatly back into the dresser.

“I see,” Robby said. “Feeling better?”

You shrugged, approaching the bed and settling in. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” you said meekly.

“I don’t. But I want to,” Robby said. He tucked you in and turned the TV in the room on, handing you the remote. “I’ve got a few streaming platforms. Watch whatever you’d like. Let me know when you’re ready to eat.”

With that, Robby turned to leave the room, evidently wanting to give you your space, but before he could, you sat back up in bed. “Robby?”

Robby turned to look at you with a foot out of the door. “Yeah, kiddo?”

“Stay? Please, don’t. . .don’t go.”

Robby looked slightly startled by the request, but his expression shifted back into a smile just as quickly. He closed the door and joined you in bed, laying down over the covers. “Whatever you need.”

You turned the TV on and pretended to be interested in the channels, but even entertainment couldn’t do its part in distracting you. You flipped a random movie on before turning to Robby, laying on your side.

Robby rubbed your forehead, then stroked your hair with such care that you thought you might cry all over again. Maybe you would. “Comfortable, kiddo?” he asked.

You nuzzled into his touch, scooting closer. “Mhm. Thank you, Robby.”

“You’re welcome,” Robby said. “You let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

That simple comment worked you right up again, tears brimming in your eyes. All this sweetness from your somewhat gruff attending, the one who’d tucked you in after taking you home and giving you his clothes, no less, had you wondering how hard it really was for your father to do the same.

“Oh, honey,” Robby said as you broke down all over again. “Come here, baby.”

You followed the instruction of Robby patting his lap, sitting up and settling into it. You buried your face into his neck while he held you, cradling you like you were a baby. The gesture made you sob harder as he soothed you, rubbing your back tenderly while he shushed away your tears.

“Your father doesn’t deserve you. You’re too sweet to feel so neglected by him,” Robby said.

“Wh- What’s wrong with me? I just want him to care and somehow I feel like an asshole, because all I do is beg for the man to love me.”

“That doesn’t make you an asshole. It’s normal to want your father. Even more normal when he’s mostly absent.”

“I just want to be enough.”

“You are enough. More than enough,” Robby reassured you.

You pulled back to look at Robby, tears swimming in your eyes. “You’d. . .you’d take care of me, right?” you said without thinking. “If I was your daughter? You wouldn’t let me go?”

Robby smoothed his thumb over your cheek. “No, baby. I wouldn't ever let you go.”

You moved impossibly closer to Robby at the reassurance, now sitting up with your thighs on either side of his legs. He had a hand on your waist, the other coming up to cradle your cheek as he watched you stare.

“What is it, kiddo?” he said softly.

“I. . .I want. . .” you whimpered, bottom lip between your teeth. You of all people knew how unprofessional this position alone was, with your attending, no less, but you were craving more. Comfort. Touch. Love. All things Robby was willing to give you. All things your father never had.

Before you could overthink it, and before your brain could even process what you were doing, for that matter, you leaned slightly forward in Robby’s lap so that your lips ghosted over his. You pressed your hands to his chest in a silent plea, hitting him with those sweet eyes he’d known and admired since you joined PTMC.

But it was different now.

“Please?” you whispered.

“Sweetheart,” Robby huffed. He held his hand on the small of your back and left it there, making no effort to pull you closer or push you away. “We shouldn’t. Hell, I shouldn’t. Shouldn’t even be holding you like this.”

“I know, Robby, but. . .please, I won’t say anything. No one will ever know, I just. . .” you trailed off. 

Too late to back out now.

“Make me forget. Forget him, forget everything,” you said. Your fingers dug into his shirt, another wordless beg for more. “Please.”

Robby stared at you for a few long seconds, the silence louder than the sobs you’d heaved earlier in the breakroom. Your head was spinning from said tears, and it occurred to you that you should go home, lay in bed, pretend this never happened—

Until Robby cupped your cheek with a gentleness you’d hardly known he possessed, and pulled you in for a kiss.

The kiss was electric despite its initial slowness. He was soft with you like he was afraid to break you, as if you needed to be handled with fragility. Except when aggression is all you know, it’s natural to exert—which is why you push your tongue past his lips and wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.

Robby understands instantly and settles a hand on your hip, the other finding its way to your neck. He holds but doesn’t squeeze, again, like you’re too soft to be handled in such a fashion, and works his lips against yours ravenously. You can already feel the hardness of his cock below you and it has you embarrassingly soaked.

“That what you needed, baby?” Robby said with a small smile, cupping your face as he said it. You shook your head, to which he replied, “Oh, no? Then, what?”

You let your hand drift downwards before you could think twice about it, rubbing the aching bulge in his pants with shaking fingers.

“Fuck, honey,” Robby groaned. “Big girl words.”

“I. . .I want your cock, Robby,” you whined.

“That right?”

“M- Mhm, please,” you managed through a few more rubs. Then, the cherry on top to completely seal the deal—

“Please, Daddy.”

He’d said to use your words, right?

“Shit,” was all Robby said. His pupils were completely blown at the name, but the disgust you half expected to see when you looked at him wasn’t there. No, when you looked at him, he held a different expression entirely.

And it looked a lot like lust.

“Y’want me to be your daddy, huh? Guess you really meant you wanted to forget,” Robby hummed like it was a normal Tuesday, and you hadn’t just asked your attending of all the people to play the part. Luckily, for you, Robby was happy to oblige—evidently so, as he yanked you closer by the waist, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth.

“S’okay, sweetheart. I can be his replacement.”

With that, Robby flipped you onto your back and pinned you underneath him with his body, using a hand to prop himself up. You continued to rub at the bulge in his scrubs, only now, you’d begun to tug them down, already ready for more.

Robby followed your lead and released his hardened cock from his jeans, the tip aching and bright. You tried not to think too hard about how the hell that’d fit inside you as you started to stroke him carefully.

“Let me take care of you, Daddy,” you said. “After everything you did today.”

“You’re such a sweet girl, honey,” Robby said through a grunt. “But I’m afraid that’s your Daddy’s job, now, isn’t it?”

The sentiment made your cheeks flare, and you simply nodded.

“Good girl,” Robby cooed. He slowly tucked his dick back into his pants. Confusion filled your face until he started to lift your shirt—his shirt—up so that your skin was exposed to him. He smirked at the sight of you without panties on.

“Someone was ready,” he teased. He tucked his dick back into his pants and pressed featherlight pecks to your belly, then started his descent down your body, starting with your inner thighs. He kissed and sucked at the skin there which had you squirming instantaneously, watching your every move to gauge how you were feeling.

“This okay?” he asked. You nodded.

Robby did the same and continued his ministrations. When he finally locked eyes with your pussy, a little sigh left his lips at the sight of your wetness. “Fuck, honey. You’re soaked.”

“Couldn’t h- help it, Robby. Need you.”

“Ah-ah, that’s not my name,” Robby chided with a sharp bite to your inner thigh. “You wanna try again?”

“I need you, Daddy,” you corrected.

“Much better, sweetheart,” Robby said. With that, he finally licked his first stripe up your pussy, groaning at the taste of you. He started slowly to watch your reactions, tonguing your puffy clit in steady circles while his fingers joined the ministrations, entering your aching hole.

Robby alternated between licking your clit and diving between your folds, but whether that was more for you or him was unclear. He was completely drunk on your pussy, and paired with the sound of your pleasured noises, he was eating you up like a man starved.

“Fuck, babygirl, your pussy’s perfect. You’re perfect,” Robby grunted, driving his fingers inside you. You arched back with a particularly loud moan, the new nickname making you dizzy.

“F- Feels so g- good, Daddy,” you moaned. Robby smirked.

“Yeah? S’your Daddy making you feel good, kiddo?” he grunted between your folds, though it felt like he was talking more to your pussy then to you. “You deserve it, honey. My girl deserves to feel so good.”

He lifted your legs above his shoulders so he could dive deeper into your cunt, and you gasped at the change in position, his face almost completely blocked by your own body.

“D- Daddy, can you even breathe like that?” you asked worriedly.

Robby chuckled against your cunt, the sound vibrating between your legs. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. Just focus on feeling good.”

With that, he started to eat you out again, only this time, it felt completely different. This time, with his hands wrapped around your thighs and your knees hooked over his shoulders, there was no limit to what Robby could do to you. His tongue entered your hole this time while his big nose rubbed against your clit, and you were convinced you were seeing stars.

“Fuck, D- Daddy, m’gonna—!” you moaned loudly, bucking your hips into the heat of his mouth. You were grinding against his face shamelessly now. Thankfully for you, Robby didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go, Daddy’s got you,” Robby cooed before flicking his tongue against your clit, and not letting up until you were practically exploding against his face, coming with a loud cry.

Robby eased you through your orgasm with small licks against your sensitive clit. When the feeling became overstimulating, he switched gears and pressed kisses to your inner thighs, peppering them in a gentle path up your abdomen soon afterwards. He continued until he was hovering you again, and you took the opportunity to press your lips against his.

You tasted yourself on his mouth and felt your wetness from his beard, both facts working you up even so soon after your last orgasm. You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he immediately caught on.

“Needy little girl. So eager to cum again, huh?” Robby said, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You nodded, to which Robby chided, “None of that, babygirl. You tell Daddy what you want.”

“Want you inside me, Daddy. Want your cock,” you managed through shaky breaths, bucking your hips against his for emphasis. “Please.”

“You sound so sweet when you use your words, honey,” Robby cooed. For the second time, he freed himself, only this time he was visibly more hard. The tip of his cock was an angry red and dribbling bouts of pre-cum, and, fuck, did he look so much fuller than before. You gasped as he ran his head between your folds.

“You’re sure you want this, sweetheart? Absolutely positive?”

“Yes, Daddy, m’sure. I want you so bad. Please.”

Robby didn’t need another word before he was thrusting inside you completely, filling you to the brim.

You’d thought he was big before, but this stretch was completely different. There was a visible bulge where your bodies were conjoined which became more prominent with every little thrust into your pussy. Robby watched, utterly transfixed, at the sight of his large cock causing such an imprint on your skin.

“Y’okay?” Robby grunted. He had one hand on your belly and the other next to your head.

“M- Mhm. You’re so big,” you huffed.

Robby chuckled. “Hope that’s a good thing, sweetheart.”

“I- It is, I—oh!” you were cut off by the feeling of Robby’s hips snapping against yours, trying to find his pace. His stamina isn’t exactly what it used to be, but he’ll be damned if he leaves this room without making you feel good.

“Too much, kiddo?”

“N- No, not at all.”

“Good,” Robby said. He kept a steady albeit rough pace, reaching the deepest parts of you. It wasn’t your first time having sex, but it was with a man who was set on really taking care of you and not chasing his own pleasure. The thought made it feel all the more better.

You pulled Robby in for a kiss he answered gladly. As your tongues pushed against each other, his hips rocked even harder, driving his thick cock into your spongy walls. He was starting to hit the part of you that made you see stars, and you weren’t doing a good job of hiding it.

“That’s it, babygirl. That feel good?” Robby grunted against your lips.

“M- Mhm, y- you’re s- so good, Robby. Feel so good,” you said.

Robby chuckled and decided to let the use of his name slide, deciding you were probably too fucked-out to even remember your own right now. “You feel good, too, sweetheart. You’re so pretty like this,” he praised.

It was only a few minutes before Robby’s steady pace was replaced with a stronger one, as much faster as it was rougher. At the blown look of your pupils, he figured as much that this was what you wanted, what you needed, and he was right.

His cock was driving so far into you that it felt like he was in your throat. Every push had your back arching off the bed, unable to make any noise beyond a few broken whimpers and moans.

“That’s it, sweet girl. I got you, I got you,” Robby said gently, a stark contrast to the way his dick was bullying into your pussy.

“You—fuck—you promise, Daddy?” 

“I promise, honey. M’never letting you go, alright? Never,” Robby assured. Despite the pace, his words had your heart lurching, and you almost got emotional all over again.

“Robby,” you gasped. “I’m g- getting there again. Close.”

“S’okay, kiddo. Your Daddy wants you to feel good,” he groaned. He wasn’t so much looking for his pleasure as he was trying to give you yours. “What do you need?”

Easy. 

“Just don’t stop,” you said.

And Robby didn’t. He pressed kisses down your neck and sucked hickeys into your skin while he fucked you hard and fast, setting an absolutely lethal pace. The same pressure from earlier when you’d cum in his mouth was starting to return, and you were seconds away from your second orgasm.

“Cum with me, Daddy, please, please, I wanna feel you,” you begged, framing his cheeks with your hands. Robby had his on either side of your head while he smirked down at you.

“Yeah, you want my cum, baby? Want me filling your pretty pussy with my load?”

You nodded quickly, pulling him in for another kiss. “Yes, please. S’all I want.”

“That’s what you’ll get,” Robby said.

He didn’t stop until you were right on the edge, and when you were, he kissed you through it, rocking his hips into your pelvis and driving his dick hard into your cunt while your second orgasm crashed over you. You clenched hard around his cock as he spilled into you, securing your legs even tighter around his waist so that every drop stayed inside.

Robby got the message and gave a few last thrusts that stirred his cum deep inside you. When he pulled out, small ropes of white dribbled out of your hole and stained the bed, while the rest of it remained nestled within you.

“Who knew my little girl could be so dirty?” Robby teased, kissing your cheek.

You giggled. “It takes two, you know.”

“Fair enough,” Robby chuckled. “I’m going to get a towel, honey. Get you cleaned up.”

As he made his move to leave, however, you tugged his arm. Robby was at the edge of the bed. “Robby, w- wait.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Did you. . .mean it? When you said you’d. . .never let me go?” you asked. “That you’d be his replacement?”

Robby smiled at you and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, nodding. “Yeah, sweetheart. I meant every word.”

It shouldn’t have turned her on. None of it should have. In fact, she should have been terrified. And she was. But it had also turned her on. Chester Hardwick had tricked them, they were trapped in a cell with a serial killer more vicious than most. And for a moment she’s frozen in a way she never was. But then he speaks, his voice low, threatening. Angry.

“Unfortunately for you I’m not a five-foot tall, hundred-pound girl.” She hears him say and her head whips around to watch Aaron as he takes his jacket off, followed by his tie. It shouldn’t turn her on, but it does.

For the first time in her life she finds herself unable to react. She knows why he’s doing it, why he’s making Hardwick focus on himself and not her. He’s protecting her, like he always protected his team. She watches with her heart pounding in her chest as Hardwick squares his shoulders and Aaron does the same. And then, moments before she knows he’s about to pounce on Aaron, it seems like her brain finally works again. She speaks, and it seems to throw both men off, Aaron’s anger palpable but simmering, Hardwick too focused on himself to actually attack either of them. That’s the thing with narcissists.

The following minutes goes by in a blur, she isn’t completely sure how she manages to talk Chester down, how she lies through her teeth as she tells him that she knows why he became a killer. By the time the guards come rushing in and she sees the way Hardwick realizes that his plan has failed she breathes a sigh of relief and watches as he’s being led away. Aaron doesn’t bother to put his tie back on, he only gives her a look of recognition and then they leave.

The car ride is filled with unresolved tension. His anger and her arousal mixing into whatever was going on between them. Not that anything had happened. He was still married, although separated, she was still his subordinate. But that didn’t change the fact that there was something palpable in the air every time they were alone together, the tension that had started out as hostile dislike morphing into… something else.

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.” Aaron’s knuckles are white from the way he’s gripping the steering wheel. When she turns her head to look at him she can see the way his jaw clenches.

“You shouldn’t have.” She agrees easily and his fingers flex in irritation. She didn’t back down, it both angered and intrigued him. It had from the start.

“Why can’t you just accept my apology?” He doesn’t look at her, his eyes focused on the road as they drive back to Quantico.

“You didn’t apologize.” Her words make his teeth clench so hard she’s surprised they don’t crack under the pressure. That also turns her on, she realizes, his anger. But then again she had always been attracted to danger.

He stays quiet, one hand moving to undo the top button of his collar and she can’t help but watch his Adam’s apple bop as he swallows down whatever he was going to say. It wasn’t an apology, that much she was sure of.

“Stop looking at me like that.” The deep gravel in his voice is back, like he’s physically trying to restrain himself from snapping even more. A part of her wants to push his buttons, to get under his skin until he has no choice but to react. But she doesn’t, the logical part of her knows that she can’t. They were still colleagues, even if right now all she wanted was to tear his clothes off and ride him right in this car. Preferably while he was still driving. That would be a thrill. Her thighs press together at the thought, a vain attempt to relieve some of the steady pressure that had been building inside of her and settled into a dull ache between her legs.

“Just, drive.” She finally mutters as she turns to look out the passenger window.

If he got angered by her slightly dismissive tone or noticed the fact that her cheeks were heating slightly, he didn’t comment.

They didn’t speak until they got back to the office and when she left later that evening she didn’t say goodbye but she could feel his eyes on her as she walked out through the glass doors.

The knock on her front door later that night is not completely unexpected. She would be lying if she said she didn’t hope for this, for him, at her door. She’s holding a glass of red wine in hand when she opens the door, her bathrobe hiding the black, slightly sheer underwear underneath.

“It’s late.” She leans against the doorframe while Aaron is standing on the other side, one hand resting against the wall. He looks just as angry as he had earlier, but there was something else lurking in the depth of his eyes, something more heated.

“Are you alone?” His eyes travel the length of her body slowly, like he’s calculating how fucked this is. He shouldn’t be here. And yet, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. But then again he spent most of his free time thinking about her.

“Yes.” She finally takes a step back to let him into the apartment. When he passes her she feels the familiar cologne that’s so distinctively Aaron. Like sandalwood and expensive leather, heady and comforting.

“Do you know why I’m here?” He removes his jacket and hangs it neatly on the back of one of her chairs. His tie is done up again and she finds herself wanting to tug on it.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Without prompting she pours him a glass of wine too; her eyes locked on his as she hands it to him.

“No.” He doesn’t take a sip, simply sets the glass down, his own gaze just as intense as it had been earlier in the prison. “You tell me.” The order makes her stomach twist deliciously.

For a moment they’re locked in a stare down, and she feels the corner of her mouth tug into a smirk.

“You’re here because you’re angry. The type of angry you can’t show anyone else.” It’s not a lie, not even a little bit but it’s not what he wants to hear.

“Try again.” He takes a step forward, almost towering over her as she stands barefoot. She doesn’t back away.

“You’re here,” She starts, her eyes flicking across his face, taking in the stubble on his cheek, the heavy frown, the way his jaw twitches. “because you need to blow off steam.” Without breaking eye contact with him, she undoes the knot of her robe and lets it pool around her feet. “And you know I can handle it.”

The sound that rips from his throat is close to feral, a growl that causes a pang of electricity through her. He grabs her so quickly she doesn’t even realize he’s spinning her around and pinning her to his chest until his lips are ghosting along her neck.

“I’m here because you’ve done nothing but eye fuck me since the prison.” He mumbles against her ear, his hands wrapping around her, one arm pulling her close around the waist, the other gently grasping her jaw, keeping her still. “I’m here because for months I’ve thought about this.”

Her eyes close as his warm breath falls over the nape of her neck and when she shivers she feels his lips curl into a grin.

“I’m here because today I figured out something about you.” The hand around her middle grips her a little tighter, forcing a soft gasp from her.

“And what’s that?” Her own voice comes out low, raspy and close to trembling.

“You get off on anger.” Slowly his hand moves from around her middle towards the black panties, one of his fingers gently playing with the hem. “You get off on danger.”

“Not all danger.” She doesn’t know why she tells him that. Probably because he hasn’t even kissed her yet and she can already feel her clit throb between her legs.

“Hmm.” He hums, amusement dripping from the sound, almost smug. “No. Not all danger.” His fingers move further down for a moment before completely letting her go, making her stumble for a moment before he’s spinning her back around to face him. “You get off on the type of danger where you know that I wouldn’t hurt you. But I could.”

She swallows harshly, her mouth dry, her cheeks flushed pink, brown eyes blown black. She grabs his tie and tugs him closer, just like she had wanted. His lips brushes, just barely, against hers and she tightens his grip on his tie.

“Prove it.” She breathes against his face. “Take your anger out on me.”

Not even a second later he’s kissing her, swallowing up the low moan that leaves her as his tongue delves into her mouth. His hands wrap around her, picks her up and crushes her against the nearest wall as her legs wrap around his hips. He groans against her lips when he feels the heat of her through her underwear.

“Bedroom?” He hisses when she pulls his tie off forcefully. He has half the mind to gag her with it but he tucks that idea away for the next time. Because there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that they wouldn’t be here again.

“Upstairs.” She knows she shouldn’t, but she still rips the top of his shirt open, sending the first few buttons flying. In return his fist wraps in her hair, tugging her head back and exposing her neck.

“Dirty thing.” He growls against her throat, his teeth grazing her skin, his tongue tasting her low moan before he sets her down on her feet. He might already be going insane with all consuming need, but he wasn’t going to risk falling down a flight of stairs.

The way up the stairs is a blur of his clothes flying and hands grabbing, lips tasting until he pushes her to sit on the edge of her bed. He’s in his boxers, his cock a hard outline against the navy-blue fabric.

“On your knees.” He palms his erection as he stares down at her, his eyes gleaming when one of her eyebrows rises almost in defiance. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” He grasps her jaw, angling her face up. “I know that mouth is more useful for something other than talking.” The way her eyes flicker with something close to intrigue makes him smirk. He had suspected that Emily had a darker side, a part of her that enjoyed the rougher things in life. In all fairness he was the same, but with Haley he hadn’t gotten to let that side of himself out often.

The way she sinks to her knees in front of him is slow, self-assured as she deliberately licks her bottom lip. It’s probably the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Two taps.” She whispers and for a second he doesn’t understand what she means by that. But then she’s pulling his boxers down until they’re around his feet and she’s stroking his shaft with one hand, while the other grasp his hip. He sucks in a breath from the way her hand gently twists the base of his cock. It’s the first time he’s felt another person’s touch in months.

“Two taps.” He agrees lowly before fisting her dark hair into a ponytail and gently pushing her forward.

The first swipe of her tongue is slow as she licks the tip of him, tasting the bead of precum already there before she takes him between her lips. It’s warm, soft, wet, and he groans as he watches her take him deeper and deeper. She begins to bop up and down, sucking, her cheeks hollowing out as he keeps her hair in his hand, not pulling or pushing, just holding the soft strands.

His fingers twitch as she takes him deeper, her throat constricting around his tip as she takes him as far as she can.

“Jesus Christ.” He groans, hips pushing forward automatically. “That’s it, good girl.” He keeps his eyes on her, watches as her brown eyes get glassy, her lips stretched, but still making sure she doesn’t tap his hip. “Choke on me Em, fucking gag on it.”

The sound she makes is muffled, the vibrations around his shaft forcing his hips to twitch. He begins to slowly thrust, keeping her head in place as his cock slides against her tongue. She doesn’t fight it, not even as saliva drips down her bottom lip and her face flushes from lack of air. Instead she sits back, almost obedient in the way she blinks up at him, mouth full of cock.

“I’m not going to come down your throat.” He tells her and almost chuckles when she looks close to disappointed. “But next time, I’m painting that pretty face with it.” With a final push he forces her to take him deep enough that her nose presses against his pelvis. He feels her choke around his length, coughing, gagging, and then she taps his hip twice and he immediately pulls back.

She inhales sharply, her throat feeling raw as she coughs again. His thumb is stroking her cheekbone, something that in any other scenario would be considered gentle, now it just exudes dominance. It’s driving her crazy, she’s lightheaded from arousal, she’s pretty sure her underwear is ruined. Her thighs squeeze together, just like they had earlier that day in the car and Aaron snickers lowly.

“You want me to take my anger out on you?” He pulls her up so she’s standing in front of him again, one hand reaching around to unhook her bra with such ease she doesn’t even realize it’s off until it’s falling to the floor to join his boxers.

“Yes.” She barely recognizes her own voice, breathy and deep. “Fuck me like you never fucked your wife.”

“Watch your mouth.” He warns as his hand wraps around her throat, not tight enough to cut off air, but enough for him to feel her pulse race against his fingertips. She grins knowingly as she falls back onto the bed, his hold guiding her until she’s laying in the middle of it with Aaron above her. He on top of her as he rips her panties off her hips. When his fingers move between her legs she spreads them wide and she can feel the arrogance radiate off him as he feels how wet she is.

“Fuck me.” She tries to pull him between her legs but he easily pins her down.

“Not yet.” His fingers trace along her folds, barely grazes her clit, the gentleness seems off, she didn’t want gentle. “Soaked.”

The word almost sounds like he’s scolding her, like he’s disappointed.

“You got no self-control, do you?” Before she can answer he pushes two thick fingers inside of her, quickly hooking them inside of her.

Her eyes drift closed and her back arches as he finds that spot inside of her that makes her tremble like he’s done this a hundred times before.

“Fuck, right there.” When her eyes open he’s studying her like she’s something intricate, watches every little twitch, listens to every sound until he’s found the perfect spot, the perfect pace.

“Like this?” It’s rhetorical, she’s already straining on the bed, her body trembling slightly as he keeps fucking her with his fingers and his palm rubs against her clit. “You gonna come on my fingers already? Pathetic.”

The humiliation makes her flush as her pussy squeezes harder around his fingers as something close to a sob leaves her lips. It seems to encourage him and he moves his hand a little harder and then ducks his head to suck on one of her nipples. It’s too much, he’s everywhere and she comes with a broken grunt, her body tensing as pleasure spreads through every nerve ending of her body.

“That’s it, good girl.” He encourages lowly as her hips buckle against his hand and her eyes roll back in her head. The flush on her face creeps down her neck and chest, her body feels like it’s on fire. Aaron watches it all with dark eyes, he’s so hard it hurts, precum staining the outside of her thigh as he watches her come completely undone for him.

When she slumps, breathing ragged, eyes glazed over, he wastes no time getting between her legs.

“Look at me.” He tells her as his pushes his cock through her wet folds. “Look at me when I fuck you.” It’s not until her dark eyes meet his that he pushes forward, filling her roughly with one strong thrust.

It’s not gentle, it’s not romantic. It’s wild, close to feral, the way he fucks her so hard the bed slams against the wall while Emily’s blunt nails drag long red lines along his back, her moans and screams barely muffled against his shoulder.

“You feel so good.” He huffs against her neck, his teeth sinking into the junction of her throat. “So tight for me.”

She can barely breathe, can barely string two words together as Aaron fucks her in a way she’s never been fucked. It’s delicious, the slight pain, the way his cock stretches her. It’s what she had fantasized about for weeks, but she had never really believed her own fantasy, didn’t believe he would be like this, not really. She had never been so wrong. She cries out as her nails dig harder into his sides and she hears him hiss against her skin when her nails break skin, but he doesn’t stop her as she marks him.

“Don’t stop, do not stop fucking me.” She gasps as one of her hand sneaks down between them, her fingers finding her clit and beginning to rub in tight circles. The pleasure is building again, almost like her body can’t get enough of him and she knows Aaron can feel the way she’s tightening around him when he growls in her ear.

“Insatiable little thing.” He pushes up on his hands to watch her properly below him. “Clenching my cock so good.” His hand finds its way back to grab her jaw, keeping her eyes locked on his.

“H-harder.” She breathes, eyes heavy lidded, jaw slack, her hair a mess on the pillow. She’s never looked more beautiful, he thinks. Somehow he managed to thrust harder, slamming into her in a way he’s sure is probably more painful that pleasureful, but Emily only cries out, the sound raw and broken as her fingers move faster on her clit.

She comes again, squeezing his cock so hard he almost falls right off the edge with her. Her slick walls pulse around him as her body trembles on the bed beneath him. He swallows the last of her moans against his mouth as he kisses her messily until her body has calmed and her legs fall limply to the bed.

“Holy shit.” She chuckles breathlessly and he lets out a deep chuckle too.

“We’re not done yet.” He flips her around, pulls her hips up and pushes back into her. “Going to fuck you every which way, going to fill you up until you can’t even walk.” He mumbles lowly. Before her, he had never been a talker, but now it seemed like he couldn’t stop, like a part of him that had been asleep was finally being set free.

“Please, fuck please-” She isn’t sure what she’s begging for, all she knows is that Aarons grip on her hips are bruising, his dirty words are sending her into a spiral. The sound of skin slapping against skin and their desperate moans and groans fill her room. Somewhere in the back of her mind she realizes that her neighbor could probably hear them, but it didn’t matter, not when Aaron was fucking her like his life depended on it.

“You’re going to come for me one more time.” He grunts as he reaches around her body to toy with her clit.

“N-no… Aaron I can’t… I-”

“You can. You will. I will fuck you until you do.” He bites the back of her shoulder in warning. His hips slam against hers, just barely changing the angle until the moan that rips from her throat is close to guttural. “There it is.” He smirks, sweat dripping off his body from exertion. He knows he must look just as wild as she does, red lines on his back, hair a mess, bite marks on his chest and shoulder. And he loves it.

Her fist slams against the bed as her body begins to tighten up like a spring again, the ball in the pit of her stomach building so fast that she twitches away from him. But Aaron doesn’t let up, keeps his fingers on her clit as he fucks her with deep, strong thrusts. She’s pretty sure she’s screaming, his name and curses, it doesn’t matter as he makes her come for a third time, her voice raw and trembling.

This time Aaron doesn’t hold back. When she tightens around his cock he grunts, his forehead resting against her back as her trembling pussy drags his orgasm from him. He keeps moving, hips twitching, prolonging everything until his eyesight goes white, pleasure making his hips stutter until finally, he collapses on top of her, a heap of sweaty limps and heaving breaths.

For a long time everything is quiet except their labored breathing. Aaron rolls off her to keep from crushing her, Emily stays still on her stomach, head turned to watch him. There’s a smile on her lips, the hazy look in her eye slowly dissipating until there’s something close to amusement shining in her dark orbs.

“So.” She finally says and Aaron looks at her.

“So.” He pushes some of her hair out of her face.

“Want a Gatorade and do that again?” She grins and he laughs, that real laugh that had been rare to hear from him for the last couple of months.

“I want a Gatorade, and then you’re going to sit on my face.” He agrees, sitting up and pulling her with him.

One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.

"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel. 

Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"

Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"

You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."

"That's what I thought."

The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”

Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.

Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"

You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?

"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.

A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."

He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission. 

The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day. 

It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.

Instead, the air was thick.

Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.

Well, you and Steve. 

At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.

It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.

Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve. 

Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.

Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.

It infuriated the hell out of you. 

He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased. 

It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other. 

By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.

Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.

Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.

Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.

"Come to daddy."

The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red. 

In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart. 

But also… you fucking hated his guts. 

Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down. 

His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.

"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.

You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed. 

You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain. 

"Who's your daddy now?" 

Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"

Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice. 

He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."

The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.

Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning. 

The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.

The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own. 

You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash. 

Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."

You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.

He sighed. "If we crash—"

"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.

What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care. 

He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were. 

Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath. 

"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."

The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already." 

"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather. 

“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.

He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

“After you, sweetheart.”

You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.

ding-dong. ding-dong.

You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.

You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.

Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.

Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.

Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors. 

He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—

“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler. 

He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She lit up.

“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”

You faked confusion. "Ben…?"

He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."

You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”

“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.

You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”

Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”

Of course they did.

You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.

“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again. 

His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.

"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.

“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”

You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.

“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”

“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”

Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”

“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.

Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait. 

It started with waves.

Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up. 

Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.

Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”

It was unsettling.

Steve got pulled in first.

Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.

“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”

Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”

Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”

That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.

Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.

From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.

But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.

You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.

Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.

You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.

You played the part. Perfectly.

But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".

About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.

Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways. 

“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”

“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”

And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.

Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.

Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.

“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.” 

Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”

The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.

Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing. 

Well, who does? He thought.

He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.

Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.

Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused. 

By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else. 

Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.

“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.

Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”

Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”

For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”

Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.

Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.

“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”

Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.

The back nine loosened things.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.

Way less about business. 

Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.

“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”

One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.

Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.

“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”

Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”

“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”

“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”

“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."

Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.

A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.

The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.

He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.

He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on. 

Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—

Of course.

A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side. 

The motherfucker had surveillance on your house. 

In your house. 

The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.

You were humming, soft and absentminded.

Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.

He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.

He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.

Five.

Hell, two.

But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.

Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared. 

Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.

He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.

Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you. 

With you.

All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—

"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.

We're being listened to.

"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there. 

His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water. 

“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”

Your breath hitched.

Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"

"Everywhere." He confirmed. 

Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.

“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”

Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.

“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.

Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You were pretty good at… faking it. 

Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.

The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.

As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway. 

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.

The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure. 

You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.

Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.

You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.

You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed. 

Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him. 

You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be. 

Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still. 

Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.

He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."

He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin. 

As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out. 

You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.

The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.

His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.

Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.

You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.

“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”

From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.

You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name. 

His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.

Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.

His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”

Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”

You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.

It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside. 

Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience. 

His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—

He should really take this shirt off. 

And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much. 

"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?

"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."

Oh.

He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—

The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy. 

"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.

That earned you a scolding look. 

"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."

Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”

He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “You do not.”

“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you. 

"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear. 

It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.

“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.

Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge. 

You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over. 

“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”

“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”

“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”

The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."

Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper. 

You nudged him again with your heel. 

"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."

What in the fuckity fuck?

Steve?

He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well. 

Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock. 

"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."

That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.

And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes. 

His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed. 

You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.

Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying. 

You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.

Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling. 

"Are we—"

“…go to sleep,” you muttered.

Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood. 

Right at the belly of the beast. 

The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine. 

String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance. 

The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.

It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.

Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing. 

You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.

And there she was.

Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.

Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.

“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”

“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.

Julie laughed. “Exactly.”

Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.

Of course he hadn’t.

He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”

You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."

“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”

Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”

Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible. 

His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.

“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.

“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”

She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.

“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.

“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.

“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”

“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”

Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.

“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”

Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.

His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”

For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident. 

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt. 

Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.

They cost you everything.

You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.

You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks. 

You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen. 

Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more. 

You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.

He clocked the men immediately. 

And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.

“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.

“They’re looking for someone,” he said.

“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“They’re closing exits.”

And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.

Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down. 

“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”

He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.

“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”

“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.

“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.

He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.

A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.

“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.

The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.

Perfect.

Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”

The back door burst open under his hand.

Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.

Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.

One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.

His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he. 

The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned. 

"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure. 

“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.

You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”

PRESENT

“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.

And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel. 

Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.

“A little.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."

Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office. 

The party swelled around you.

Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.

Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold. 

Steve.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen. 

You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.

You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.

You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.

“What—”

“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat. 

A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.

He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.

“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and— 

The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.

You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.

You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.

“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.

Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out. 

Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.

“We were just—”

“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.

“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again. 

“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.

You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house. 

Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.

Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn. 

You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”

You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.

“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him.  “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."

You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"

He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."

You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you. 

For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb. 

And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours. 

Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter. 

He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.

Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."

He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision. 

Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh. 

His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.

"Steve… People might see…"

"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"

You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day." 

That did it. 

Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.

His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"

He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.

Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue. 

"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.

"Steve, what the—"

He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.

Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.

Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair. 

"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."

Fuck him and that nickname. 

His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing. 

His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission. 

You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips. 

The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.

At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"

He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.

Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded. 

Not at all. 

He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."

He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming." 

Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage. 

"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.

Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit. 

Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you. 

"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"

You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue. 

He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it. 

He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you. 

In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers. 

Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.

And hard.

Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.

He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist. 

And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness. 

Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further. 

You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"

He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."

He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge. 

“Steve, please put it in…”

"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any. 

You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"

"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."

And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:

There's more?!

"Oh God…"

That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."

"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.

"Barely half." He grunted.

You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again. 

"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."

You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"

After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice. 

You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Steve, please, please let me—“

Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”

You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.

As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.

You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.

“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”

You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”

“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.

Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.

As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.

After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."

He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”

You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.

“I could do this all day, Cap.”

final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh

You were grateful it wasn't a far drive. It wasn't that the trip was an awkward one, but things still felt tense. You played with a frayed edge of your sweater, trying very hard not to look over at Brendon Park in the driver's seat.

You could understand that what you and Robby had looked odd from the outside. But there wasn't a world in which you could see yourself doing anything different. What Brendon wanted… wasn't something you could give.

It hurt to think it, to think about him one day understanding and maybe finding a cute nurse or fellow surgeon to fill that space for him. Someone who could ride in the exact passenger seat you were in now, in his sleek black BMW, where he'd pull her hand up to let his lips occasionally brush over her knuckles at a red light. Someone he could laugh with and kiss softly without either of them wondering if it would be the last time. Someone who wanted dinner dates and easy goodnights and the normal, steady forward motion of a relationship that made sense to everyone looking at it.

That version of you had died in the car accident years ago, it felt like.

The version who dated because dating meant marriage one day. A house with children's voices filled the halls. Parents to take care of, holidays to split. A future like felt like tempting something cruel by wanting too much of it.

By the time you pulled up to Robby's, you were nearly in tears again, but this time it had nothing to do with Brendon saying the wrong thing. It was your own spiraling thoughts, your own grief, your own stupid imagination handing him a life without you.

"Maybe you should just—" you began, one hand already on the door handle.

But Brendon was already getting out of the car.

Shit.

You jogged up behind him to catch up, but before you could reach for the door in hopes of sneaking in without being seen, the large oak door was pulling in.

Robby stood in the threshold, one hand still on the knob, his brows pulling together at the sight of the ortho surgeon in front of you.

"Hi, honey." he said stiffly.

Except he was looking at Park.

"Hi." you said, stopping just beside the ortho surgeon.

Robby's eyes moved over you, quick at first, then again a little slower. You didn't know what he was looking for. You wondered what he saw—glossy, red eyes, a swollen mouth, if your clothes were still askew. The whole assessment made your stomach turn, mostly because you knew you were failing some part of it without knowing.

"What do we have here?" Robby asked.

"Brendon was just dropping me—"

From somewhere behind him, you heard Jack call your name, the clacking of crutches against the wood floor, and then he appeared at Robby's shoulder, his expression changing almost immediately when he saw who was standing there.

Park looked at Jack, then at Robby, and his mouth pulled into a smile that made your entire body want to leave. He looked like his coined nickname. His teeth gleaming in the dark with a smile that was not really a smile at all.

"Well," he said with a dark chuckle. "Isn't this rich."

Your eyes flitted between the three of them—Robby and Jack were looking at him strangely now, both of them wearing different versions of the same hard expression. No one explained anything. No one even really moved. The three of them just looked at one another and somehow you understood there was a conversation happening that you were not part of, some silent thing passing over your head while you tried to figure it out.

Robby leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, almost casual if not for the look in his eyes.

“Surprised you stayed long enough to walk her to the door,” he said.

Park’s smile sharpened, quick with his retort. “Surprised you let her out of the house.”

Jack gave a quiet breath through his nose. “Christ. Do you rehearse that shit on the drive over?”

Park’s eyes slid to him. “Still here, Abbot?”

“Looks like it.”

“Must be nice. Robby always did like keeping a spare around.”

Jack’s mouth pulled to one side. “And you always did mistake being tolerated for being wanted.”

“Okay,” you said, cutting them off, trying to step forward. “I’m gonna go inside now.”

But Park's hand came up before you could move far. It wasn't rough or menacing in any way, hell—he'd put his hand on the back of your neck plenty of times before, it was a touch you usually liked. But tonight it felt different. Your breath caught, more from confusion than anything else. You looked back at him just as his thumb settled on the side of your throat.

Park looked down at you. "Where's my goodnight kiss?"

The silence after that was immediate and awful.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You looked at Robby before you could stop yourself, then at Jack, because you had no clue where the rules were right now. You didn't know what had changed in the time between leaving earlier and now as you stood under the porch light with Park's hands on you.

Your eyes stayed on Robby—his face had gone almost amused. Brows lifting faintly, mouth relaxed in a way that could've looked calm to anyone who didn't know better. But you did. You knew better. You knew the difference between calm and deadly quiet.

Jack, on the other hand, looked like he was battling his inner most thoughts of stepping over the threshold to start throwing right hooks.

Robby looked over at him, "What do you think, Jack? Think our guy deserves it?"

Jack's head turned slightly, eyes still fixed on Park.

You looked at him too, pulse jumping. There was a beat where you almost didn't understand what Robby had done—but then you did.

Jack was part of this now. Jack got a say. Robby was giving him the space to use it.

Jack's answer came without hesitation. "Absolutely fucking not."

"Oh." Park said, glancing between them with that look that made your blood rush cold. "Big man lets you make decisions for our girl now?"

"Our girl, huh?" Jack scoffed. "Not sure you get that privilege. Look at her, Park. The hell did you do?"

Park’s thumb soothed up and down your neck. You weren’t sure if it was tender there because of his touch or because of what you knew was true.

You sniffled, the emotions ready to boil up again. You felt stupid standing there in front of two men who’d had such a good conversation with you earlier, who’d trusted you to understand what this was, and you’d gone and done this.

It was just kissing, you told yourself. Relax.

But still. Whether it looked like more or not, it still felt like crossing a line now. You were certain the argument was still all over your face, the evidence of you and Park written into your rumpled hair, your swollen mouth, the way you could barely bring yourself to look at Robby or Jack.

Robby pushed off the doorway, reaching his hand out to you, "C'mon, honey. Inside."

Park's hand tightened on your neck for a moment, just a little squeeze, before you were moving forward and accepting Robby's hand in yours. His fingers closed around you gently, but there was no mistaking the way he pulled you toward him, out of Park's reach and into the house.

You turned to say goodnight to him, heart still up in your throat.

But the front door was already closing behind you with a heavy slam.

The three of you stood silently in the foyer. You could hear Park's receding footsteps, his car starting outside, the engine revving loudly before peeling from the curb. You waited until you couldn't hear the angry thrumming of it before you spoke again, breathing uneven.

"I had no clue he was going to be there." you whispered quickly.

Robby nodded, eyes down on the floor. His weight shifted back and forth between his feet. He looked sort of folded in on himself, one arm wrapped around his middle, the other bent up with his hand over his beard, rubbing the heel of his palm against his mouth.

Jack stood just beside him, looking between the two of you, his weight a little uneven where he leaned onto his crutches. His expression was still stormy, but somehow you knew it wasn't at you.

"What the hell happened?" he asked.

"Everything was fine—" you began, swallowing hard, "I was just hanging out with Jesse and Mel mostly, and Brendon just…showed up out of nowhere. He said he wanted to talk to me."

"Just to talk, huh?" Robby asked, a little humorous.

"I thought so." you said, your voice small.

Robby's eyes lifted to yours then, and your stomach tightened at whatever he saw on your face.

"How do you explain that then?" he asked, pointing.

Your hand came up immediately, fingers pressing to the side of your neck.

Your skin felt hot beneath your touch, tender too, but you still didn't understand. You only knew that both of them had seen something there outside. That Brendon had put his hand there.

Robby reached for you with one arm, careful but firm, drawing you closer by the shoulder. He turned you toward the mirror by the front door.

For one second, all you saw was yourself.

Your cardigan pulled crooked from the drive home. Your hair a little mussed from the party. Your eyes glossy and red. Your face a little peaky and strained.

But then your eyes drifted down, and your mouth parted in surprise.

"Oh, shit." you whispered, grimacing. You touched the column of your throat again, lighter this time, and the soreness answered under your fingertips. The whole night folded backward in your head at once—Brendon's mouth on you in the bathroom, sucking and nipping hard at your neck. How he'd made sure that they'd seen it when you were being passed over like a hostage negotiation on the porch.

Robby sighed, "So? What happened?"

You turned around and headed for the kitchen before you could answer, because standing in front of the mirror with both of them looking at your bruised throat made you want to crawl out of your skin. You padded across the house, kicking your shoes off somewhere near the edge of the hallway, then flinging your cardigan over the back of a kitchen chair as you made a straight line for the cabinets.

You filled it with water, took a few sips, then filled it again and stood there with one hand braced on the counter, trying to breathe like a person who was absolutely not about to get herself in even more trouble by explaining the trouble she was already in.

Robby and Jack followed you in after a moment. Jack took the barstool closest to the end of the counter, setting his crutches carefully against it, while Robby stayed standing at the side, both hands pressed into the cool granite.

"He said—he was just apologizing for last week." you said, looking at Jack, who was grinding down on his teeth hard enough that you could see the muscles tensing under his skin. "He said he missed me, and then—" you licked your lips, "he kissed me, and things kind of got heated…"

"Did you have sex with him?" Robby asked.

"No!" you said quickly, heat flashing up your face. "No. It was just kissing. He, um—we—"

You looked at Jack, then back at Robby, because there was no good direction to send your eyes.

Robby lifted his hands to his face, rubbing them hard up and down before hooking them behind his neck. His elbows flared out, his fingers squeezing at his own nape, and heels of his palms pressing into his cheeks for a second before he dropped his hands again and looked toward Jack.

"Jack, I need to hear all of this." Robby's voice was controlled with forced calm. "If it's something that's going to upset you, you can head home. Thanks for hanging here tonight. With me. But I don't want you to get—"

Jack shook his head, "No, it's okay. I want to be part of this. The good and the bad. Go ahead."

"Are you mad at me?" you asked, your voice so small it felt childish.

Jack hesitated, but then he reached across the counter, his hand wrapping gently around your wrist. His thumb pressed at the pulse there, so warm and steady, and his head tilted until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"No, sweetheart." he said. "I'm not mad at you. I'm pissed at Park for acting like a possessive asshole."

Robby let out a big, heavy breath, almost a groan, his head tipping back for a second before he looked down again.

"I'm gonna need to talk to him this week." he said. "Put an end to this bullshit he keeps pulling."

"I didn't stop him, though, it's my fault too—"

Jack's hand tightened a little around your wrist. "How did he know you were even there?" he asked. "Was he there from the start?"

"I think Frankie told him." You shook your head, trying to pull the whole night into order and failing. Your brain still felt a little fuzzy, but all the chaos of the evening had sobered you up quickly. "I don't know. That part was confusing. I'm sorry. I smoked a little with Jesse, and—"

"Did anything happen with Jesse?" Robby cut in.

You bit your lip. But nodded. "We kissed."

Robby's eyes stayed on you, big and brown and hurt in a way that made your chest cave in around itself.

"Our four weeks are up, Robby." you said, trying to hold onto that even as your voice wavered. "I'm allowed to kiss people."

He shut his eyes tightly.

"We should've discussed it first." he murmured.

You looked away, shaking your head. "No, see, this is the thing—you can't just change the rules whenever you think—"

"I'm not changing rules, honey." Robby's voice climbed despite the fact that he was clearly trying to keep it steady, his hands falling back to the counter as his eyes opened on you. "But you are doing things without talking to me first. Don't you understand how that feels?"

You looked over to Jack.

"Listen," Jack sighed, shaking his head and sitting back, "I'm new to this, sure, but I agree with Robby, sweetheart. We should've talked about it before you left. But that's partially on us. On me. I got carried away, we barely talked about what that looked like going forward, especially with the others."

Your stomach sank, even as his eyes softened at the look on your face. Your hands tightened around your glass of water, condensation making it sweat a little.

"Brendon was mad because he thinks I'm…" You went on, licking your dry lips. "He thinks you—Robby, I mean—he thinks you're keeping me in something. Or making me do things. I don't know. It's like he's always trying to save me from something."

Robby looked at you.

"Do you want him to?"

When you looked back at Robby, his face was so open, so plain with hurt, with expecting the answer he always feared.

"No," you said, your voice even for the first time since you got home. "No, I don't."

Robby's breath left him slowly.

You set the glass down and took one step toward him before you could overthink it. He met you halfway, arms wrapping around you from behind, turning you so your back to was his chest in a hold that was firm enough to make your eyes sting. You let your head fall back against him, your hands closing over his forearms, feeling the comforting shape of him around you.

"You should've at least texted me." he said in your ear. His voice had settled, the hurt soothed with touch. "That he was there… that you wanted to… I don't know."

You nodded your head. "It all happened so fast. I'm sorry."

His arms tightened. For a moment, he didn't answer, and you wondered if he couldn't yet. If the apology wasn't enough, if the hickey was still too bright under the kitchen light, if Jesse's and Park's name and the porch were all sitting too heavily between the three of you.

Then his lips brushed near your ear. "It's okay, honey." he said. "Do you want to tell me what else happened?"

Your eyes opened, and you looked over at Jack, who was watching the two of you from the barstool. He gave you a small nod, his expression still tense, but steadier now.

You breathed in. "We…went into the bathroom."

Robby didn't move behind you. "Okay."

"We…there was a lot of, like, heavy petting, grinding." You whispered, your face already going hot again, because there was no way to say any of this that didn't sound awful and embarrassing in your own mouth. "He…"

Jack sat forward a little. "What did he do?"

You covered your eyes with one hand. "Um. He…finished."

Robby stilled behind you.

"But you didn't—?"

"Clothes stayed on." you said quickly.

There was a pause.

When you looked through the slats of your eyes, Jack had his lips pressed together hard, mirth clouding his eyes as he looked over your shoulder.

"Don't—" you groaned, trying to bite back your own smile.

You felt Robby try not to laugh, his chest pressing harder against your back before the sound finally broke loose into your neck. "Damn."

"He came in his pants for you?" Jack asked, his voice already shaking with the laugh he was failing to hold back.

"Jack."

"I'm just asking for clarification."

"Poor guy." Robby said, a laugh still shaking his chest behind you.

"Stop…." you groaned, feeling bad for Brendon now that you'd said it. "Be nice."

"What?" His brows lifted, but there was finally some life in his face again, something warmer creeping in around the edges of his anger. "Not like he deserves any niceties after the shit he pulled."

"He was being an asshole." Robby agreed.

"Can we please not make fun of him too much?" you asked, softer now. as you wrapped your arms around where his pressed against your chest. "I know he was being shitty outside, but he was upset. And I feel bad."

"What a sweet girl you are, feeling bad for the Shark." Robby said, then kissed near your ear again, not quite your cheek, not quite your neck.

"Anything else?" he asked.

You breathed out, fingers curling lightly around his forearm.

"No," you said. "That's it."

Robby sighed behind you, his arms adjusting tighter around your shoulders, forearms still laid firm over your chest. Comforting, somehow, even with the weight of the night still sitting around all of you. He had every reason to be upset. To feel lied to, maybe, or left out, or undermined by the way Park had stood on his porch with his hand around your neck. You had been ready for a real argument when you walked in, half from what Park had turned the night into and half from how tightly wound you had become on the ride home.

"I do think some form of… retribution is in order, though." Robby said in your ear. His lips grazed the shell of it, and goosebumps rushed up your arms before you could pretend otherwise.

You licked your lips, eyes widening as you looked over at Jack's growing grin.

"Why don't you…" Robby began, pausing to kiss your earlobe, "go into the bedroom and strip for us."

Your breath caught.

"I'd like you waiting for us on the bed when we come in." His eyes moved to Jack then, and his voice changed a little, rougher. "What do you think, Jack? Fully nude? Or should we let her keep something on?"

Jack pressed his lips together, trying and failing to tame the smile on his face.

"I think I'd like to see what color she's got on, brother." His gaze came back to you. "Panties and bra only, sweetheart."

Robby's hand moved under your chin, turning your face just enough for him to see you. "Okay?"

You nodded, breath already coming quicker.

His thumb brushed along your chin, then over your lips, parting them as his eyes grew hungrier. "Words."

"Yes," you said. "Okay."

"Good girl."

Your thighs pressed together, and Robby's arms finally dropped from around you as he said: "Go on."

You started past him, trying for dignity and not getting very far before his hand cracked lightly against your ass.

You squealed, half scandalized and half laughing, and bolted toward the main bedroom before either of them could see just how badly your legs had begun to shake.

Only a few minutes later you were sitting on the bed, only your bralette and panties on.

You'd thought about changing into something cuter, something matching or just… sexier, but thought better of it. Robby would know, and then he might add onto whatever punishment he had in store. So it was just the little blue cheekies you'd worn that day and your black bralette. You reached up to adjust the one strap that twisted slightly after pulling off your shirt.

The men had made their way in eventually, Robby taking the armchair by the door, leather made and tucked into the corner. Jack walked in, smiling down at you as he made his way around the bed. You lifted your eyes to follow him, heart jumping a little when he slowed beside you. He reached out and cupped your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek, not saying anything. Just looking at you for one long, warm moment before he readjusted his grip on the crutches and passed.

Once he settled against the cushions of the bed, you turned your head to look at Robby, who's eyes were narrowed, but you could see the smirk pulling his lips.

"Come over here." he said, patting his thigh. Your tongue slipped over your bottom lip before you could help it. Jack's attention followed you as you stood from the bed, and you let your hips swing a little on the walk over.

You went to go to Robby's side, where you usually draped across him for these sorts of things—over his knee—but his hand shot out, only to lay gently on your hip. He squeezed, and shook his head.

"Not today. Sit up and face him."

You looked over to Jack, then back at him, your eyes clouded by uncertainty.

Robby nodded, patting his thigh again, "C'mon now. Be a good girl."

The words worked, sending a rush of tingling heat through you. All you wanted to do was make him happy when your blood began to rush like this and he got that look in his eye. So you slowly lowered yourself onto his knee, facing the bed, facing Jack, and Robby's arms closed around you from behind, forearms crossing your middle as he pulled you back to his chest. The hair on his arms brushed your bare skin, his breath against your ear.

"Can you tell Jack what your safeword is, honey?"

You sucked in a breath, nodding, "Pickleback."

Jack grimaced. "Quite the choice. I prefer Yuengling."

You smiled.

"And," Robby continued, his lips close to your shoulder now, "when you can't talk?"

You lifted your hand and snapped twice.

Robby kissed your shoulder. "Very good. Now…do you know why I need to correct your behavior?"

"Yes." you breathed. Your blood had become loud in your ears, nerves scattering through your limbs, down your belly, between your legs. Jack's eyes were darkening as he watched you from the bed.

"Why is that, honey?"

You swallowed. "I—I didn't talk to you before…before Brendon."

"Before Brendon what?"

"Before he and I…um…"

Your eyes drifted before you could stop them.

Jack had settled back against the pillows, knees parted, one hand near his lap and the other stretched over the cushions. His shirt was a little rumpled where he'd thrown it off at the edge of the bed, his mouth twitching, but the look on his face had changed. Less gentle now, less amused. He looked comfortable there, almost cocky, watching you sit half-naked in Robby's lap while you tried to confess your sins.

His staring made your pupils dilate to drink him in. He looked so good, so tempting spread over your pillows like that.

Robby's hand went to your face, and his thumb and forefinger pinched your cheeks as he shook you only infinitesimally. "I'm talking to you, young lady. Before you and Brendon what?"

Your stomach flipped.

"Before we went into the bathroom."

His hand left your face and traveled down the front of you, so slow, making you feel every rough callous of his fingertips. They ventured your throat, your chest, slipping under the edge of your bralette and traced the sensitive flesh beneath before completely sliding into the cup to massage at your breast. He hummed in approval, your head lolling a little at the feeling of his hands on you.

"Did you have fun tonight, honey?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse.

You knew better than to lie. "Kind of."

Through your half-lidded eyes, you could still see Jack. His face was amused, still watching you, but his eyes had darkened. "Kind of?" he echoed.

You nodded. "I wish… I wish I had just come home." you hiccuped as Robby pinched your nipple under the fabric. Your hands went to his legs, gripping them tightly, nails digging in. A little sound slipped out as he switched to the other side, slipping his hand under the cotton covering you again.

"Why's that?" Robby whispered.

"He was… he was such an asshole after." you breathed out.

Jack's jaw ticked.

Robby's palm flattened over your breast, holding you there for a moment before sliding down your stomach. His other arm stayed locked around you, keeping your back to his chest when your body wanted to squirm.

"S'okay, honey." he said. "I'll talk to him."

Your eyes fluttered shut.

"No more Shark tonight." His lips touched the side of your head. "You're home. You're with us now."

You nodded. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry for tonight."

You meant it for both of them, and when you looked over, Jack's features had softened. Robby kissed your shoulder again, squeezing you against him a little harder.

"I know, honey. I know. It's okay. Gonna take care of you." His mouth brushed your skin. "But first—"

His hand slid down your belly and over your thigh, hooking your knee over his and opening you up before doing the same with the other. You gasped when your balance shifted, body falling back entirely into him, spread open on his lap with nowhere to hide.

He hummed, and you watched Jack as his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. His hand went to his jeans again, not resting this time but squeezing over the growing bulge there, the heel of his palm pressing down.

"Do you wanna tell her what we're gonna do, or do you want me to?" Robby asked.

Jack's head tilted, his eyes dark as they moved over you. "Robby's gonna make sure you remember to tell us when Dr. Park shows up next time, sweetheart." His voice had dropped rougher, the sound of it making your thighs squirm over Robby's. "And then you're gonna come over here, and I'm gonna have my turn with you."

You wondered if they could see your pulse through your skin, how hard it was beating, how every part of you had gone hot and embarrassed and eager all at once.

"Wha—what's my punishment?" you asked meekly.

"Let me show you." Robby murmured.

His hand moved from your thigh to the front of your panties, his fingers soothing over the damp cotton where your arousal had already started to soak the fabric. His long digits felt so good it was almost like relief as they rubbed over your covered mound.

You barely had time to understand the change in his touch before his palm lifted.

Smack!

You lurched, stomach pitching, your heart stopping, mouth opening into an—"Ah!"

Robby groaned behind you, his chest vibrating against your back as his arm locked tighter around your middle. He gave you half a breath to settle, then lifted his hand again and brought it down in the same place, the same pressure, the sting blooming hot through the fabric. This time, your surprised gasp turned into a moan.

Jack's smile pulled wide from the bed. "Is it really a punishment if she likes it, brother?"

"Oh, yes." Robby said, voice thick with amusement. "Yes, indeed."

His fingers hooked over your panties then, pulling them aside, and Jack let out a little groan at the sight of you. Wet. Eager. "Fuckkk…" he whispered, his hand tightening at his pants.

Robby's mouth came back to your ear, low enough that only you could hear him. "Go ahead and ask him, honey. Know you want to watch."

You swallowed, breathless, eyes fixed on Jack. "Jackie, I wanna see you play with yourself. Please."

Jack smiled wider at the nickname, "Happy to, sweetheart."

He unbuttoned his jeans slowly, watching your face while he pushed them down enough to free himself. His heavy cock settled in his hand, and your breath stopped short as you watched him stroking himself there on Robby's bed, the other hand gripping into the pillows harder behind him as his head tilted back for a moment, teeth tucking over his bottom lip.

Then his eyes came back to you.

"Again." he said, looking past you to Robby.

"Hold these open for me, honey," Robby said, bringing your hand down to your center.

Jesus Christ.

You brought your own hand down and hooked your fingers into your cotton panties, holding them aside the way he asked. Your whole body burning from the position, from the exposure, from the fact this was all because of a stupid hickey and a man with an ego.

Robby's hand made contact with your waiting pussy with an even louder, wet smack!

"Fuck!" you squealed. The pain was sharper without the cotton there to soften it, the sting spreading up through your belly and down your thighs into your toes. Your knees tried to close, your grip slipped, your back curling against Robby's chest as his other hand kept you held open for him at your knee.

"Good girl, good girl." Robby soothed, mouth grazing your hair. "C'mon now. A few more."

You whined as the sting settled into heat, your breath shaky while you forced your legs open again and fixed your grip on the ruined and soaked edge of your panties.

Smack, smack, smack!

Three in a row, each one landing wet and mean against you, had your head falling back, eyes rolling as the moan tore out of you. The sting stayed, bright and pulsing, your hips trying to run from it and rock into it at the same time.

Robby's breathing had gone rough behind you.

Jack cursed under his breath, hand moving faster over his cock, his eyes fixed between your legs like he couldn't look away.

Robby let his fingers slide up and down your sopping folds, sensitive to his touch, making you moan anyway.

"You're so wet, honey. How are you so wet from just a little smacking, hm? You enjoy your punishment?"

"God, yes."

"Ask for more then."

"Please," you whispered. "Please."

"Ask Jack like a good girl."

You opened your eyes, wet with the prickling of tears from the sting. His mouth was open, his fist pumping a little faster, his chest rising and falling under the strain.

"Please, Jack, please. Can I have more?"

"Fuck, yes, sweetheart." His voice was rough, almost breaking around the words. "Go on. Give her five more. Then she's mine."

You bit on your bottom lip, your eyebrows threading, body tensing as you waited for it.

When all five came at once in a speedy rhythm—smacksmacksmacksmacksmack!—you were mewling, crying out in pain and pleasure, shutting your thighs quickly. Robby's hand was still over your pussy, the press of his fingers relieving there as he growled into your ear.

"Gooood fucking girl, takin' it so well, honey. S'okay, s'okay, you've learned your lesson, huh?"

"Yes!" you squealed.

"Okay, okay, breeeeeathe, honey." His hand stayed between your legs, rubbing now, soothing over the ache he'd put there. "Just breathe. Can you look at me?"

You did so, peeking your eyes up at him. You'd kind of fallen down his lap as your body twitched and curled in from the pain, looking up at him from where your neck was cramped against his belly. You could feel, suddenly, the bulging tent in his pants against your shoulder.

His other hand came up to cup your face, his eyes sparkling with pride. "You did so good, honey. Why don't you go over to Jack and tell him how grateful you are for your punishment, hm?"

You nodded, trying to get up on shaky legs. As you stood, you heard a click of teeth from behind you.

Robby's eyes had darkened as he looked up at you from beneath his lashes. "Crawl."

You immediately obeyed, knowing that tone, and getting on your hands and knees.

"Jesus." you heard from the bed.

Your knees touched the carpet first, your palms following. The sting between your legs made every little movement feel too shaky. Your eyes locked onto Jack, who had slowed his hand around himself now, watching you with his mouth parted and his eyes blown wide.

You began crawling toward him.

Behind you, Robby shifted in the chair, and you heard the low sound of his zipper coming down. You knew he was watching the way your ass moved, the way your panties were askew and ruined, the way your thighs trembled each time you brought yourself closer to the bed.

Jack's hand had stopped completely by the time you reached him.

You crawled up between his open legs, smiling a little at the look on his face, at the way he seemed caught between reaching for you and waiting to see what you would do first.

"Hi, handsome," you murmured.

"Hey, sweetheart." he whispered, finally reaching out to pet your face with his free hand.

You leaned into it, eyes fluttering before you remembered what Robby had told you to do. Your hands settled on Jack's thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of his jeans as you looked up at him from between his knees.

"Thank you." you said softly.

"You're very welcome, sweetheart." he murmured, "What good manners you have."

You bit down on your lip, his warm look of pride and eagerness making your belly twist on itself. You looked down at his thick, throbbing length in his hand.

"Can I help you with that?" you asked cheekily.

He smiled wider, "Think we could work something out."

You glanced over your shoulder at Robby, only for Jack's hand to move to your chin, stopping you. "Eyes on me. Don't look at him."

"Listen to Jack, honey." you heard Robby say from the corner.

"Okay," you nodded, your smile gone, your heart leaping into your throat, "yes, Jack."

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, and you opened for him, taking it into your mouth without being told. You sucked gently, tongue moving around him, letting your teeth graze his knuckle enough to make him groan. It was a noise you missed.

"Do you want me to suck your cock, Jack?" you asked, eyes wide as you kissed his thumb.

"That what you want, sweetheart?"

You nodded.

"Go on then." he said.

He laid back into the pillows, and you lowered yourself slowly between his legs, keeping your eyes up until your mouth met the thick head of him. The first taste of him made you moan, your hand curling around his base while the other settled on his thigh. Jack whimpered with you, his hips shifting beneath you when your tongue dragged along the underside.

"Oh, fuck." he breathed, head tipping back. "Oh my god."

You let yourself sink into it, mouth stretching around him, the weight of him heavy on your tongue. Your ass stayed lifted behind you, knees spread on the bed, and you could feel Robby watching from the chair without needing to look. It made you wetter, made you work your mouth slower at first, then greedier when Jack's fingers slid into your hair.

"She gets so fucking wet sucking dick, brother." Robby said from behind you.

Your hips wiggled in response, shameless and involuntary, though you couldn't answer with Jack's cock filling your mouth.

Jack laughed under his breath, gathering your hair in his fist and pulling it clear from your face as you bobbed over him.

"Hold her down." Robby said through what sounded like gritted teeth.

Jack's grip tightened in your hair, and he guided you lower.

You gagged almost immediately, his size too thick, too overwhelming—throat fluttering around him, your nails pressing into his thigh as your eyes watered. You were nowhere near taking all of him, not really, but the sound Jack made above you was enough to make your stomach twist hot and needy.

"Looks to me like you've got some learning to do." Jack said, voice rough from above. "Can you go any deeper, sweetheart? Hm? Or does Robby not teach you these things?"

"Fuck off." you heard from the chair.

Jack chuckled again, breathless, but eased his hand when you gagged again. You pulled back with a gasp, spit slick on your lips and chin, lungs dragging in air while your hand stayed wrapped around him.

You barely had time to recover before Jack was sitting up and kissing you.

His mouth came up hard against yours, open and hungry and wanting— pushing you back into the bed as his hand moved between your shoulder blades to deftly unclasp your bra. It was dragged off with clumsy urgency, tossed somewhere near the pillows, and then he was over you, chest pressing yours, hips heavy between your thighs while he kissed you deeper.

You moaned into his mouth, hands going into his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he settled against you. He felt so good, so warm, so oddly familiar already. The push of his tongue was welcome between your lips, your mouth wet where your spit had dribbled down your lips, his cock hard against your thigh while he kissed you like he'd been waiting all night to get you under him.

"You are so beautiful," he sighed when he unlatched his lips from yours, kissing down your chin, your jaw, onto your neck.

"No, you are." you said with a smile.

"Ha, ha," he chided.

"I mean it." you said, "I'm a lucky girl." you added.

"Think we're the lucky ones." you heard from behind, and you craned your neck to look back at him.

Robby was fisting his own long cock in his hand, but he smiled at you when you met his gaze. You licked your lips, watching his hand move up and down, his other hand coming down to cup his balls. "Look at Jack, honey. Keep your eyes on him like he said. Be a good listener."

Before he'd finished, your chin was being brought down to look not just at him but between your bodies. Jack's cock was lining up with your entrance, and your eyes widened, the memory of the last time rushing up to the forefront of your mind. How big he felt—how he filled you and stretched you like your whole body felt split in half.

"Ohhh god." you breathed, muscles tightening.

Jack looked up at you, then leaned down to press a long kiss to your mouth as he nudged closer, dragging his cock through your wet folds. Both of you moaned at the feeling, your hands clutching at his shoulders, and then he was notching himself at your core.

"Breathe, honey." Robby said from the corner. "Curl your toes if you have to. Let out a long breath."

You did as he said, curling your toes into the bedding, sucking in a long breath through your nose. When you let it out, Jack joined you with a groan and pushed inside.

Your arms and legs clamped around him immediately, fingers pawing at his shoulders, ankles digging into the backs of his thighs.

"Ohgodohgodohgod—"

"S'okay, s'okay," Jack was moaning, petting your hair, his mouth held open in a perfect 'o' and his brows threaded as he pushed further in.

You whimpered as your body adjusted around him, ducking your face into his neck when his weight settled over you. He was hot everywhere, chest to chest, his arms braced around you, his breath breaking against your hair while he worked himself in slow.

"God I missed you," he whispered into your ear, half choked. "Missed you so much sweetheart."

Your belly flipped a little at that, or maybe at the feeling of overwhelming fullness, or your nerves as you felt Robby's eyes on you from behind. Jack held there when he was finally inside you, hips flush, his body pinning yours in place while you shook around him.

"How's that feel, honey?" Robby asked. "How's that big dick feel inside you, huh? Talk to us."

You nodded, clinging to Jack while you forced your shallow breathing to settle, forced your muscles to loosen around him. Finally, you let your head fall back against the bed and turned your eyes toward Robby.

He looked more wrecked than he had a few minutes ago. Before, he had been sitting back, stroking himself slowly with that narrow concentration in his eyes, but now his gaze had gone heavy, his jaw slack, his big hand tightening around the base of his cock. The tip was flushed angry red, precome pearling at the slit while he held himself back.

You licked your lips, blinking slowly.

"He asked you a question, sweetheart," Jack murmured in your ear, nipping your delicate lobe, letting his tongue peek out to trace the shell.

Your skin lit up, your eyes threatened to roll.

"Feels sooo… mmm—ah!" you gasped when he pulled out an inch, "big!"

You had half a mind to glare at both of them when you heard a resounding chuckle through the room.

"And how's she feel, Jack?" Robby asked. "God, I wanna be inside you so bad right now, honey—fuckkk…"

"Oh, our sweet girl feels like goddamn heaven." Jack sighed, pulling his cock out by inches and slowly pushing back in.

Your head knocked back, chin tipping, mouth falling open around a mewling cry as he filled you again, the stretch of him dragging in and out of your cunt, making you feel every notch and vein of his length.

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed out. "I know, I know. Takin' it real slow, getting your little pussy adjusted, right, sweetheart?"

"M-more—" you sighed, legs tightening around him. "Want more."

Jack tipped his head toward Robby, and when you looked up, there was a smirk pulling at his mouth.

"What do ya say, brother?"

"Put her leg over your shoulder." Robby demanded from the corner, the words coming out rough. "Hug it close to your chest. You can—"

"Listen to him." Jack's eyes came back to you, amusement braided through the arousal in his voice, deep and husky as his mouth tilted. "Talkin' to me like I'm one of his residents."

He clicked his teeth and pulled back from where he had been laid over you. For a second, you thought he might do exactly what Robby said, but instead he leaned to grab one of the pillows, pushing it beneath your lower back and ass with a confidence that made your stomach jump.

"He thinks I don't know how you like being fucked." Jack murmured, hands sliding down your thighs, then back up to your hips. "Isn't that right?"

You gnawed at your lip, breath snagging when the shift changed the angle of him inside you. His cock pressed up against you differently now, fuller somehow, deeper without even moving much. Jack hoisted your hips, sheathing himself all the way inside again, and your gasp tore out of you before you could swallow it down.

"He thinks I don't know exactly what angle to make you tighten up real good around me," Jack said, "How to make you see stars, sweetheart."

You heard Robby's warning from the corner: "Abbot…"

"Don't worry," he said, flitting his darkened eyes over to the other attending, "I've done this before."

"You are such a —" you shook your head with a lazy smile, but Jack moved before you could finish.

His hips swung back, and he began fucking you in earnest now, and the words breaking apart in your throat—the new angle dragging you right back to the truck a month ago, to the cramped backseat and the way he had figured out your body with an almost infuriating ease, shifting you up until he found the spot that made your breath go stupid. He found it again now, much faster this time, his hips driving into you with the pillow lifting you up to meet him, your body taking him deeper with every thrust until your vision blurred at the edges.

"Oh fuck, Jack!" you squealed.

His cock pistoned in and out of you now, hard and slick, the sound of it obscene beneath your panting. Heat coiled fast in your belly, your muscles tightening before you were ready for it. Your legs widened around him, hands losing strength where they clung to his wrists, to the sheets, to whatever you could reach as his fingers clamped around your hips and held you in place.

"She's close." Robby said through gritted teeth.

Jack's mouth pulled, the crinkles of his eyes deepening. It was a look of both fondness and cockiness you couldn't take the time to distinguish because that swell in your hips had built up, your pussy constricting his cock, sucking him in.

"You wanna come, sweetheart?" he cooed from above you, hips still snapping into that perfect place. "Been a while, huh?"

You noddded, "Oh, yes, yes—"

Jack's forehead was dappling in sweat, his top teeth hooked over his bottom lip, eyes black and glazed as he watched you under him.

"Jesus, I might—oh god—" he stuttered, lungs catching, his brows pulled together tight. He reached between your bodies, and your eyes widened.

"No no no no—don't!" you shrieked, pleasure shocking up your spine before he had even touched you the way he meant to. "I'm gonna—I can't—I can't hold it—"

"Ask real nice now, honey." Robby moaned from behind you, breathless. "Ask Jack. Ask for it, and you can come. Beg."

"Pleaaaaase!" you moaned, nearly in tears, your brain lagging behind anything that wasn't the hot, overwhelming locking up of your muscles. Your body thrashed under Jack, heels digging into the bedding, hips trying to meet him and run from him at the same time while his cock kept kissing your womb, right at the perfect spot inside you, again and again and again.

His eyes stayed locked on your face.

"Please, what, sweetheart?" His voice shook now, almost whining with you, his own restraint starting to splinter. "C'mon. I'm so close. Gonna come in your sweet pussy if you just ask real nice."

"Please let me come, Jackie, please please please—" The words tore out of you, wet and desperate, your hands clawing uselessly at his shoulders. "I'll be so good, I promise. I'll be so good—I'm—"

He was nodding down at you, breathing hard through his mouth. "Okay, sweetheart. Come for me. Go on—"

"I'm sorry." you choked suddenly, the words coming from somewhere you hadn't meant to open. "I'm sorry for being bad."

Jack's face changed. Yours felt wet and hot now, too.

"Come for us, sweetheart." he said again, softer now, but his voice sounded further away.

"Jack—" you heard Robby say from the corner.

You didn't know what the warning meant. You could barely hear it over the sound of yourself, over the blood in your ears, over the horrible, perfect pressure building too fast to survive.

"Oh fuck—please!" you wailed.

"Go on, it's okay, it's okay, come for us sweetheart."

You realized at once it was tears that were spilling hot down your temples into your hair, over your cheeks. You tried to moan and sobbed instead.

Your body locked up on you, muscles clenching down hard around him. Your back arched so hard it pulled you nearly off the bed, eyes wide open even as your vision went white, as if the whole room had been struck by lightning. The wave that had been building in you for weeks finally crested and broke, but it didn't roll through you the way it usually did. It swallowed everything. Your stomach twisted, your thighs clamped around Jack's hips, your fingers curled so hard they cramped, and Jack's cock pushed in deep, so deep it felt like he hit the center of you and split the feeling open.

When you came back down to earth, everything felt so wrong.

Your vision had cleared, and above you was Jack, his mouth open and panting, his face caught somewhere between awe and panic. His eyes were so wide and unsure.

And you were crying.

Really, really crying. Harder than you had in a very long time.

Through the sobs, you could hear Robby saying something from the corner, but Jack was all you could see. His face shifted as he realized it was not stopping, that the sounds coming out of you were not pleasure anymore. He leaned back over you, mouth parted, hand cupping the side of your head too hard before he caught himself and loosened his grip, fingers dragging into your hair instead.

Their voices came in and out of your ears, fuzzy, but there.

"Shit—shit, shit, I'm sorry—what did I do?"

"Nothing, it's okay—" you heard Robby say. "You didn't do anything wrong—"

You couldn't talk, it was just their voices swirling around you.

"Sweetheart? What's going on?"

"Jack—"

"Sweet girl, look at me, look at me now."

"Abbot."

Jack's voice went quiet, his chin lifting to look at the other attending. He sucked in a deep, calming breath, even as yours felt lost in your chest, choking and wailing and lost in the room, caught somewhere behind your chest where every breath scraped on the way up through your lungs.

Your whole body still hadn’t stopped reacting, little tremors running through your thighs, your stomach, the muscles low in your belly clenching, leaving you open and spent and helpless beneath him while your mind kept trying to catch up to the fact that it was over, that you had come, that after a month of being held back from it, the thing your body had wanted so badly had finally broken over you and left nothing solid behind.

"Breathe," Robby said, "it's okay. This is called a drop, just talk to her."

"I'm sorry!" you sobbed, the words tearing out of you before you even knew what you were apologizing for, your hands curling uselessly in the blanket, unable to grip.

"It's okay, honey, it's okay, Jack has you."

"Listen to my voice, sweetheart." Jack said, his hands petting heavier and soothing now, the heel of his palm moving over your hairline, then your cheek, then back again. Though his breath was against your mouth, too fast for someone trying to calm you, and then you felt him swallow hard, felt the effort of him trying to force himself calm.

There was no one word for the rush of emotions that swept through you like a tidal wave. You didn't even have time to try and name one of them before another took over. Relief, euphoria, then anxiety and shame, and then back to a euphoric state so sharp it almost hurt.

Tears came quick and thick down your face, sliding into your ears, wetting the bedspread beneath you, your mouth open in a wail, your head thrown back into the covers while the ceiling blurred into blocks of light and shadow. You wanted to disappear, you wished your limbs didn't feel so heavy so you could cover your face. You felt mortified, you felt ashamed. You wanted to be held. You wanted to be alone. But you couldn't stand the idea of either of them leaving, couldn’t stand the thought of Jack lifting off of you or Robby stepping away from the room, even while every part of you felt too exposed, your legs still open, your skin too sensitive where the sheets touched it, your chest heaving against Jack’s.

"Robby, brother, maybe you—"

"It's alright—just keep talking to her."

You could feel Jack lean down, lips against your ear, could hear his soothing nothings even as you hiccuped and sobbed, your chest feeling tight, your throat scraping against the sound of your cries. It was too much and too overwhelming, the mattress under your back, Jack’s weight over you, the damp press of his mouth at your temple, Robby’s voice from the corner with that steadiness that made the room feel less like it was tilting as he spoke in hushed tones to his fellow attending.

"Sweetheart, can you hear me? Listen," Jack said into your ear, his arms coming around you tightly, holding you to his chest. He was still inside of you, your legs still fallen open. "You're okay, you're such a good girl. Listen to me."

You only had half a mind to listen, your eyes still glued to the ceiling, your body sunken deep into the bed like you could never find your way out. As if a pit had opened in the covers and you'd fallen down into it, their voices far, far away up above. They kept talking, but you could hardly make out the words at all, only soothing cander, Jack’s gentle breath against your skin, Robby’s lower voice, the sound of your own breathing coming in broken little pulls that didn’t feel like enough air to live on.

This drop was like none you'd had before. Usually it came after the sex entirely, sometimes even days later. But this—the during—it was too much. There was no little pause where your body understood the scene had changed. The pleasure had crested, shattered, and then opened straight into panic, with no seam between one feeling and the next. Your body still thought it was being asked for more, still fluttering around Jack, still shaking from the release, while your mind had gone soft and frightened and far away.

"Answer me, sweetheart." Jack whispered.

A choked sob came out of you, and you finally were able to form a word: "W-what?"

"I asked if you could hear me."

"Y-yes." you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut, gulping in air, their voices becoming a little clearer, Jack’s hand finally settling at the back of your head instead of moving everywhere at once.

"Have her hold onto you—" you could just barely hear Robby's voice from the corner.

"Put your arms around me, sweetheart." Jack said gently in your ear. "Like this," and he brought one arm from around you and lifted yours around his neck, his fingers so gentle as he rubbed the skin there.

"That's a good girl, other arm too," Jack said, repositioning his hand beneath you to lift the other around his neck, "That's it."

Robby's voice was muffled behind you, "There you go. Let her just breathe, then we can check in."

"Deep breath, sweet girl, c'mon now, breathe with me, I've got you, you're safe, you're doing so good."

You shakily let air depress out of you, inhaling again slowly, even if it was a little uneven. Your mind started to come back to you in pieces: the sheet bunched under your shoulder, Jack’s hair caught between your fingers, the warm weight of him, the damp place on his neck where a cold sweat had broken out. Fresh tears no longer fell from your face, only clinging to your lashes when you blinked.

"That's it, what a good listener. Just breathe—"

You felt the mattress dip, two hands up around your face, tilting it back. Robby's eyes found yours, leaning up above you. The light above made a sort of halo around his rumbled hair. Jack's face stayed in the crook of your neck, just whispering praise.

Robby's thumbs soothed across your temple, and he made a show of breathing in and out deeply above you. You matched his rhythm, in through the nose, out the mouth. Long, long breaths until they eventually evened out, until the tight pull in your chest loosened, until the room stopped slipping at the edges and you could see the crease between his brows, the careful set of his mouth, the way he was watching you for every little change.

"Okay," Robby said, leaning back a little, but still sitting on the bed.

Jack pulled away only enough to be able to look down at you, his worried eyes skating across your face, checking your mouth, your eyes, the wet tracks down your cheeks. He still held you around your body, but eased up on the tightness, bringing one hand up to your face to soothe it where Robby's were, his thumb brushing close to the corner of your mouth before dragging back over your cheek.

"I'm okay," you whispered out your next breath, "I'm sorry—"

Both men were shaking their heads before you even finished saying it. "Don't apologize," Jack said gently, leaning down to press a faint kiss to your parted lips, barely there, more breath than anything. "Nothing to be sorry for."

"I must've really—" you breathed in again, breath still a little hard to pull, your chest hitching before it settled, "Really scared you there. It's never…never been like that before."

"Been a long time since we had a drop like that," Robby agreed, his hand now petting the bowl of your skull, fingers moving through the hair at the crown of your head. He tilted his head to find your eyes when you looked up at him, his voice staying even, careful.

"Are you alright? We're going to stop now, okay?"

You breathed in, and the question moved through you slowly, too tender to answer from. Stop sounded like relief. But stop also sounded like this was all your fault. It sounded like Jack pulling away from you, like the room going too quiet and cold. You hadn't even realized your hands had found the back of Jack's hair, wrapping a curl around your index finger, fisting the locks with a weak little grip that made him glance down at your lips before his mouth pulled into a small smile. He looked shaken still, but there, staying right where you had pulled him.

"Okay…maybe just for a little? Can we… cuddle? Maybe watch something?" you finally answered.

"Of course we can." Robby said, and then looked at Jack, nodding.

Jack began to pull away, but the second his weight shifted, the adrenaline in your blood shot up again.

"No—no—no, I'm sorry—I'm sorry, I don't want to stop, please!" you begged.

He stopped immediately, one hand braced beside your head, his face lowering back toward yours. Though he had completely softened, he was still inside of you, and the closeness of him was the only thing keeping your panic from tearing wide open again.

Robby was there in an instant, his hand finding yours before you could curl it into the sheets. "Okay, why don't we do this?" he said, his voice low and close. "I'll hold your hand, and Jack is going to sit back. He's just going to sit on the pillows, honey. He just wants to get comfortable to watch something with us, okay? I'll be right here. I'll hold you."

Your chin was wobbling, and Jack began to pepper more kisses over your face, his mouth touching your cheek, your temple, the wet corner of your eye. "I'm right here, I'm right here, we're not mad at you, sweetheart. You're so special to us, our sweet girl. My sweetheart. I'm just sitting back, you can come with me."

You nodded, though fresh, quiet tears had begun to fall from your face. You felt so silly, so stupid. Crying because he would be apart from you—for what, a second?— crying because you ruined such a good time, something they were enjoying and you had to go and cry about it, had to make both of them stop and look at you with all that worry, had to make Jack’s hands shake when he was only trying to be good to you.

"You're our best girl," Robby cooed as if reading your mind, leaning down to kiss your face, still holding your hand like he promised while Jack slowly pulled away. The air felt cold without him, and you began to cry softly again, your thighs drawing together. Your free hand searched blindly until Jack caught it and brought your knuckles to his mouth before fulling sitting back. While one hand was held in Robby's, his other continued to pet at the crown of your head soothing you gently, whispering praise and kissing your face.

"Okay," Jack exhaled against the headboard, shifting up onto the pillows, one arm already opening for you. "C'mere, come cuddle me, sweetheart."

Robby lifted you into a seated position, keeping one hand at your back until you had your bearings. The room tipped for a second, your head still light from crying, the duvet half rumbled around your hips, and then you were climbing up the bed into Jack, koala-ing yourself to him, tucking yourself into the arm he held open. He lifted the covers around you so you could get warm, his arm snug around you as you fell into him, your cheek pressing against his chest, your fingers finding the fabric at his side and holding there. It felt good, just skin on skin like that.

Robby got up with a groan as his knees cracked, standing and heading for the door.

"Robby—" you croaked, your eyes widening in panic.

He was quick to come over and lean over the bed, fists holding him up so he could lower himself to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek bone. "I'm coming right back. Just getting you some water, honey. Stay here with Jack."

His dark eyes found Jack when he pulled away, something silent passing between them. Jack’s hand moved over your back slowly, answering it without words, and Robby nodded before he lifted himself from the bed and headed for the hallway.

You felt Jack's warm kiss to the top of your head, his hand rubbing soothing circles along your spine. You tucked in closer to him, your arm draped around his middle and cheek pressed to the bare warmth of his chest. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. The room had gone quiet enough that you could hear the soft drag of his palm over your back, the shift of the blanket where it was tucked around your shoulders, the faint sound of Robby opening a cabinet in the kitchen. Jack kept his mouth near your hair, kissing you there a few more times, and you held onto him tighter when your breathing stuttered again.

Robby was back soon, three glasses of water balanced between two hands, his steps careful so the rims didn’t knock together. He bent to hand one to Jack, and put the other two on the bedside table, beside the lamp and the little mess of tissues already pulled from the box for you. Jack brought his glass down to you, holding it until your hands found it, and you sat up just enough to sip lightly at the rim.

The cool water slipped down your throat, and you felt it all the way into your chest, cutting through the heat that had climbed into your blood. Your hands were still a little unsteady around the glass, so Jack kept his fingers near yours, ready to catch it without taking it from you.

It had been such a deep drop, deeper than you knew what to do with, but the room was starting to come back now: the weight of the covers over you, Jack’s arm behind your shoulders, Robby sitting down on the edge of the mattress again, the glass leaving a cold ring of damp against your palm. You felt yourself beginning to climb out of that far-away place finally, leaning into their closeness.

Robby's arm came around you so that you were positioned between the two men, and you snuggled up closer to Jack, your leg hooking over his.

"Let's put on some of The Office, huh?" Robby murmured from behind you, "how's that sound?"

You nodded, "Good."

You saw the crinkles around Jack's eyes deepen as he gave you a small smile, leaning down to kiss your forehead once again. "I think Robby is feeling a little lonely, sweetheart, mind if he cuddles up too?"

"Yes, please," you said, turning your chin to look over your shoulder.

Robby grinned down at you, his other hand coming to rest on your hip as he leaned into the curve of your back. He kissed the crest of your shoulder before hooking his chin over it, eyes on the screen, scrolling through the list of episodes.

After a while, with the TV screen flashing blues and grays over the three of you, you had finally settled in, and your mind began to remind you of what had just happened.

"I'm sorry." you whispered into Jack's chest, because the words kept sitting there in your mouth, in your head, stirring around all useless and heavy and gnawing.

Robby's hand moved over your hip beneath the covers. "Honey."

"I know," you said, voice cracking. "I know you said it's okay, I just…"

Your throat tightened again before you could finish. You swallowed around the lump forming again, squeezing your eyes shut. Jack's arm tightened around you, and you felt the press of his mouth into the crown of your head.

"You're allowed to cry." Robby said from behind you, his voice low near your ear. "You don't have to stop yourself. It's okay that you cried earlier too. It's just release, honey."

Your face crumpled at that, embarrassed by how badly you needed permission for something already happening again.

"It'll feel good to cry a little." he murmured. "You had a big night. Your body doesn't know what to do with all of it yet."

You nodded, eyes squeezing shut as more tears slipped out. Jack's thumb moved over your upper arm slowly, while Robby's hand stayed warm as it snaked around your belly to pull you into him. There was no space where you weren't comforted, held, known. Neither of them rushed you. Neither of them tried to make you talk your way out of it.

"You did so good." Jack said quietly.

Your mouth trembled harder, and you pushed your face into his side to hide.

"I don't feel good." you admitted.

"S'the drop talking," Robby murmured, as if it wasn't meant for you, and then, his lips went to your ear, "You're the best girl, honey. You were so good, you listened to well, took those four weeks so well. You're just a little overwhelmed, huh? Lots of emotions."

You nodded.

Jack's cheek rested against the top of your head. "What do you need, sweetheart?"

You didn't know. You were not sure you could pull together an answer better than this, than the covers and their bodies around you and the distant smell of sex still in the room, Robby's warms arm around your belly and Jack's at your shoulders and his heartbeat against your cheek.

"This." you whispered finally.

Robby's hand squeezed you. "Then this is what you get."

Jack kissed your forehead again. "We're not going anywhere."

Somewhere between Jack's fingers moving gently through your hair and Robby's breathing going slow against your back, your eyes closed, and you fell asleep tucked between them.

🏷️ @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @kittymeowmeow17, @viviandarkbloom11, @kneelforloki, @kitkatrina, @dugiioh, @ineedbooksandoldermen, @spookyscaryfish, @dugiioh, @ineedbooksandoldermen, @spookyscaryfish, @anthropsych, @shawnysimp, @1-800-bobcut, @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing, @thoroughfareblues @isasdreams @katestuff17 @obi-wansgirl @archxve, @readersassemble5, @ohmeohmy0, @vipervixxen @earthhtoness, @kkatnapp, @macbaetwo, @honeylilli, @marvel-mistress, @harryswizzle, @imabapical, @rosetintmworld, @satanssideho,@imabapical, @pearlessance

A/N: so... I won’t lie, I’m a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many people’s cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope you’ll enjoy! series masterlist

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.

Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.

And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.

You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.

Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.

“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”

Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.

Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.

He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.

You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”

Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”

Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.

You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.

“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”

No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.

Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.

Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?

Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.

The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”

You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.

Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.

There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.

Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.

“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”

You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.

“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.

The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.

Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.

“Watch your head.”

You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.

As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.

“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”

You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.

“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”

Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.

In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.

“You look lovely tonight.”

That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.

The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.

His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.

“There’s my pretty girl.”

Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.

“I missed you so much, baby.”

You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.

His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”

You nod eagerly.

“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.

Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.

“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”

You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.

Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.

“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.

“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”

When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.

“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.

You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.

“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.

From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.

And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.

“You wearing the brown boots today?”

You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.

“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE PICTURES TOGETHER The local coffee shop is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.

You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.

In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.

It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.

The contrast is cute rather than discordant.

You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.

You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.

“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.

You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.

“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”

It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.

So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.

The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure. 

“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”

His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.

“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”

His brows draw together. “Went off how?”

Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.

“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”

You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.

“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.

You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”

“The art teacher.” 

You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.

“I remember.”

“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.

“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”

You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”

Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”

“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.

“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.

For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.

Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.

“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.

“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”

That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.

“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.

You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.

“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”

You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.

“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”

Bucky’s expression softens instantly.

“What is it, sweetheart?” 

You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”

He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.

“C’mere.”

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward his lap.

“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.

The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.

Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.

“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.

“I’m not.” You insist weakly.

Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.

“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”

Your face burns.

“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.

“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”

The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.

The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.

A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.

“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.

You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.

“They came out pretty nice, huh?” 

You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.

“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”

Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.

“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.

You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.

You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.

The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.

“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.

A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.

“Send me those pictures later.”

You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”

That earns you a look.

“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”

You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.

Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.

Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR HIS CLOTHES Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.

The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.

The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.

There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.

With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.

You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.

For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.

“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”

Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.

You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.

On his flannel wrapped around your body.

His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”

The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.

Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.

“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.

Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”

When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”

“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.

“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”

“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”

“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.

Your eyes widen. “What—no!”

A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.

“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”

You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.

“You’re exaggerating.”

A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”

Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was simply checking how it fit.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.

“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.

“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.

“Ain’t.”

“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.

“Not anymore.”

The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.

“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”

Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.

“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.

He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”

“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.

“Mhm.”

“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.

“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.

“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.

That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”

You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”

His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.

“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”

You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”

“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”

“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.

“Mm-hmm.”

You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”

“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.

“Means I make the laws around here.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.

“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.

“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.

You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”

At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.

Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.

His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.

Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.

“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”

Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.

“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.

The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.

“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls. 

“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.

“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.

“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze. 

Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly. 

First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.

“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.

“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses. 

You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.

“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”

“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine. 

When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.

Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.

“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.

When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.

“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”

You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.

Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.

“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?

Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”

“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”

You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”

“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy. 

“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.

It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.

“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.

“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.

Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.

It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.

His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair. 

“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”

Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”

He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.

“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”

“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”

Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.

“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?” 

Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.

“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”

Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.

Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.

“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.

You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.

Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.

And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.

And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.

It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.

Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.

Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?

So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.

But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.

Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.

You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.

“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.

You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”

Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.

“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”

“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.

A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.

“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”

“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.

“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.

That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.

“Baby—”

“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”

Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.

“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”

“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”

His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.

“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.

His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”

“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”

There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.

“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.

“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”

“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”

He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”

“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”

“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.

“That’s anxiety.”

“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”

“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”

You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.

“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.

“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”

“To who? A bowling ball?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.

A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.

“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.

You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.

“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.

His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”

And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.

Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.

Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.

And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.

You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.

His large, warm palm tilted upward.

Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?

Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.

Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.

Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.

Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.

Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.

You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.

His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.

“What?”

Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.

“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”

The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.

A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.

You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.

From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.

“Steve!” He whispers sharply.

The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.

“What.”

“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”

Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.

“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it. One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.

And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.

“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”

His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.

“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”

Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.

By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.

Eat something besides crackers today.

This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.

At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.

“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”

“I know you can.”

The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.

“Then why are you doing all this?”

That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.

“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”

Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”

“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”

Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”

“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”

Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.

“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.

You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.

“This is tea.”

Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.

“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”

Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”

The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.

“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”

And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.

Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.

There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.

By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.

You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.

Already driving       12:22am

Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.

“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.

And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.

“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.

His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.

“You ate dinner?”

The hesitation on your face answers for you.

His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.

“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”

There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”

Your shoulders visibly lower a little.

“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”

And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.

You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.

“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.

Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”

“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”

“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.

Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw. 

“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.

“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”

“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”

You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.

Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.

“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”

“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Mhm.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”

His grin only grows as he reaches you.

“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”

Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.

“Bucky!”

“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.

“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.

“I know you could.”

His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.

“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.

This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.

“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.

“I know you can, baby.”

“Then put me down.”

“No.”

The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.

He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.

You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.

“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”

Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.

The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.

“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”

You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.

“C’mere, baby.”

And just like always, you go.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.

Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.

His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.

“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.

“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”

You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.

“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”

His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”

You step closer without thinking.

“You wanna help?”

You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”

The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.

“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”

And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.

“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.

You nod silently.

“Then stay.”

Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.

After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.

“Hold this for me.”

“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”

“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”

At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.

One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.

“I’m fucking useless.”

Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.

“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”

You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.

“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”

You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.

Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.

The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.

Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.

His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.

Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.

“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”

Bucky snorts softly without looking up.

“I’m working , sweetheart.”

“Mhm.”

He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”

You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”

A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.

“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”

“Barely.”

“You’ll make it.”

The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.

Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.

You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.

“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”

This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.

“Oh, so that’s what this is?”

You try to appear unbothered. “What?”

“You being a needy girl.”

Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.

“I am not needy.” You insist.

His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”

“No.”

“Mhm.”

You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend. 

“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.

The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.

“Oh, you’re trouble today.”

You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.

“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”

You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.

“You’re playing with fire, doll.”

You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”

Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”

His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.

“I need you, Jamie.”

And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.

“Jamie—”

“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.

Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.

“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.

“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing. 

“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed. 

See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.

And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.

By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further. 

Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.

You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.

The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.

Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.

“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”

“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.

You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”

“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.

“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”

There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.

“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”

You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.

“Oh, baby.”

And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.

Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.

“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”

Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.

You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”

He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.

“Mhm.”

“Do you feel dizzy?”

“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”

The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.

“You need ice.”

“Mhm.”

“And water.”

“Probably.”

“And you should sit down for a minute.”

At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.

“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.

You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”

That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.

Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.

“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.

“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”

And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.

“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.

Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.

“…Little bit.” He decides finally.

Your eyes widen. “You do?”

“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.

You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”

“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”

“You don’t have a concussion.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.

He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.

“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”

Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.

“Too cold?” You ask softly.

“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”

You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”

“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.

“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”

That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.

“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.

This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.

“Keep spoiling me like this.”

The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.

“There,” you murmur. “Better?”

Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.

“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND MORNINGS TOGETHER The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.

You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.

So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.

Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.

“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”

His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.

“I’m awake.”

Bucky hums softly, deeply unconvinced. “You sure?”

“Yep. I was listening.”

“To what?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.

Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.

“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.

You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.

And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience. 

Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.

“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.

The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.

Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?

Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.

Your eyes fly open.

Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.

Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.

Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”

“For falling asleep here.”

“You were tired.” He frowns.

“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.

“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”

You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”

Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.

“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”

Your lips part slightly. “Well—”

“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”

It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.

“I liked waking up next to you.”

The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.

“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.

“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.

“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”

“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.

“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.

“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”

The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.

“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.

“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”

Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.

And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”

The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.

“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it. 

Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.

He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.

Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.

“Morning, baby.”

His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.

Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.

“What happened?”

You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”

Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.

“Show me.”

You turn in surprise. “What?”

“Show me what you gotta do.”

“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.

“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”

So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.

“This all for one class?”

“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.

Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.

At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.

“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”

You blink once. “Yes?”

He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”

“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.

Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.

“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”

You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.

“Is that a frog?”

You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”

“He encourages them.”

Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.

“Good for him.”

After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.

By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.

“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.

Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”

He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.

A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.

“Oh no.”

The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.

“No, no, no, no—”

Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”

He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.

“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”

But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—

Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”

Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.

“Sweetheart.”

You barely hear him.

“Where are my tights? Fuck—”

The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.

“Sit down for me.”

The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.

“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.

“You got thirty seconds.”

“Bucky—”

“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”

And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.

Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.

“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.

You nod quickly. “Yeah.”

“What about bottoms?”

“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”

A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”

“They’re different.”

“Mhm. I’m learning.”

He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.

“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”

Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”

“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”

And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.

By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.

“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.

“Bucky—”

He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.

“C’mere.”

You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.

“You need protein.”

You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”

“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”

You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”

That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”

He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.

He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.

“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.

Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”

“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”

The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.

“A little.” You nod reluctantly.

“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.

“You got everything?”

You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”

“That usually means no.”

You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”

He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.

“You forgot to fill this.”

“Oh.” You frown.

“And your portable charger.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.

“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”

Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.

“Why won’t this stupid thing—”

Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.

“There.”

Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.

You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.

You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.

“Text me when you get there.”

“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.

“You did good.”

You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”

“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”

He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.

He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.

“Now go teach your little gremlins.”

“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.

His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”

“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.

“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”

You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.

That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.

You don’t even think before stepping in.

“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”

One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”

He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.

“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”

You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”

That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”

He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.

And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.

Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.

The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.

“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”

The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.

“Try again.”

Silence.

Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”

The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.

His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.

“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”

You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”

Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s fifteen.”

“He’s still a student.”

His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”

With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon. 

“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.

“Didn’t look like you did.”

The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.

Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?

You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.

“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.

Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove. 

“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”

“I did help.” You frown at his back.

“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”

“I’m a teacher.”

“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”

That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.

“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.

Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.

You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.

“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.

“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.

He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.

“C’mere a second, baby.”

You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.

Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.

But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.

“We’re not doing silence, okay?”

Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”

“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs. 

“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”

The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.

“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”

“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.

“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”

Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer. 

“Then help me understand.”

Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.

And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.

“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”

You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”

“But I still made you feel that way.”

That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.

Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.

“C’mere, babygirl.”

You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.

“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”

“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.

“You still flinched.”

The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.

“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”

Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh. 

“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter. 

“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart. 

“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you. 

Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.

“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little. 

“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”

Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.

“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”

You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.

The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.

“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”

Your arms tighten around him at that.

“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”

A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.

Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”

You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”

“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.

“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”

You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.

“That sounds very therapist of you.”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”

A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.

“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”

You nod slowly. “I can do that.”

“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.

“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.

His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his. 

“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.

He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.

“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”

Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.

Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.

“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.

“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.

“You alright?”

The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.

“Were you scared of me?”

You almost flinch back. “What?”

“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”

You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”

“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”

You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.

“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”

You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.

“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”

“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.

“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”

You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”

His expression softens at the full name.

“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you. 

“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.” 

“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.

“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.

Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.

That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.

“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”

Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.

Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.

He pretends to find it deeply offensive.

“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.

“She sees you every day.”

“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”

Tonight is no different.

“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.

“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”

From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.

“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.

“You say that like you’re any better.”

The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.

“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.

“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”

“Mmh, that’s not true.”

“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”

You frown. “She was sick.”

“She had dust on her nose.”

You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.

Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”

“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”

“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.

“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”

You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.

“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.

“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.

Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”

His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.

“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”

Your breath catches quietly.

“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.

“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”

You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.

Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.

“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”

Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”

Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.

“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.

“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.

“Any future is right if you’re in it.”

Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.

“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”

You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.

“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.

And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.

Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.

“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”

— ⟢ END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment 🥰? thank you so much for reading 💕 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

Blood was drawn from the goat. Sacrifices made. And you were pushed aside in the revelry. You didn't want to enjoy any of it. Not that you could have. You were an afterthought, swept away in the crowd of cultists and freaks, standing along the fringes by yourself while they all drank and celebrated.

Titus didn't spare you a second glance when you left for your room. He had what he wanted. And you knew that your nightmare was just beginning.

You’re in your room when there’s a knock on the door. You tighten the silk robe around your waist and answer, nearly shaking too much to hold the door handle.

"Hello Mrs. Danforth," a man in a white button up nods pleasantly at you. "I have been sent to tend to you."

"Ah- what do you mean?" you ask as he makes his way into your room, opening up the bag that he carried with him. Your mind reeled with the possibilities. Tend to you? Take care of you? Is he here to kill you?

As he unpacks his tools, you realize very quickly that they’re just medical supplies. Gauze, alcohol pads, needle and thread.

The man looks at you, and gestures to the bed. "Please, relax Mrs. Danforth. This won’t take but a moment."

The name still feels foreign to your ears. Mrs. Danforth. Your new title. It’s going to take a while to be able to wear that completely, without it feeling like a mask.

They had done some basic patchwork before the wedding. Bandages and gauze. Barely holding you together at the seams. Enough to make you presentable for the ceremony, that’s it. 

But this is real medical care. You needed it. Every stitch, every swipe of a wound made you bite your tongue, holding back screams. But at least you’re being tended to, and you can only hope that you never have to endure this kind of pain again.

When he’s done, you stay laid out on the bed. He packs up his medical kit, collecting the bloodied rags and wiping away the surfaces, leaving no trace.

"Who-who sent you?" you ask.

"Mr. Danforth," he smiles at you. He said it so calmly, as if the answer was obvious.

He’s out of the room without another word. 

You’re finally alone. Tears well in the corners of your eyes. Tears that you didn’t even realize you were holding in all night. Dawn breaks through the curtains, thin streaks of light fighting their way into the room. A new day, a new beginning. The start of the rest of your life. 

You let out a shaky breath and sit up in the bed, running a hand through your hair. You extend your left hand in front of you, catching the light on your wedding ring.

You hear Ursula's voice in your ears.

I tried looking for the goodness in him. I found nothing.

We can control him, together.

Maybe she was right, there is no goodness in Titus. But maybe she was also right, that he could be- well, not controlled- but gently steered in the right direction.

Hades and Persephone. Death and his wife. Two sides of the same tarnished coin.

The door opens. No knock, of course not. He owns everything, including you, and he’s entitled to whatever he pleases. Whoever he pleases. 

You rise to your feet immediately, wincing at the sudden movement and trying to bite back the discomfort.

"I see you're looking better. All stitched up?" Titus grasps his hands in front him. He looks pleased with himself.

"Yes," you say, giving no emotion away.

He twists the rings on his hand- both the wedding band and the family heirloom- and steps closer to you.

You flinch slightly, taking a half step back. It’s more reflex than anything, conditioned by multiple nights of being chased and hunted. Those hands, one ones innocently twisting at his wedding band, were around your neck not too long ago.

Titus notices. He takes a beat and nods. "I owe you my gratitude," he says. 

There is something strange behind his eyes. The feral bloodlust from last night has faded into something almost human. "I obviously didn't know about the loophole," he continues. "Rather convenient."

"Yeah, convenient," you deadpan. "For you."

"We both win, right? You're still alive. I have what is rightfully mine." His fingers linger on the council ring. His priority.

"Are you here to consummate the marriage?" you spit, venom laced in your words.

"No," Titus shakes his head.

You allow yourself a breath of relief. A small victory in a night of horrors.

"When I have my way with you,” he mutters, voice low, “you'll be asking for it. Begging for more. And I won't touch you until then. You have my word."

The small victory was short-lived, obviously. This is a challenge. To see how long you can last. 

"Then you'll be waiting for a very, very long time," your voice is even, though you’re almost visibly trembling.

"We'll see about that," he nods. Not a threat, just a fact.

There's something in the air between you two. Heavy, and almost tempting.

Without another word, he leaves you in your room to sleep by yourself. You let out the breath you were holding, and collapse onto the bed. Every cell in your body is begging for rest.

And you have your first full night’s sleep since before your first wedding. 

When you wake, the sun is strong and high in the sky. It must be mid day by now. You have no idea how long you slept, but you feel like you’ve been hit by a train. 

There’s a knock at your door. Who knows how long they’ve been waiting for you to gain consciousness. 

"Come in," you grumble. You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes until you see white spots, trying to wake up fully.

A very perky young woman opens the door, stepping in with a stack of clothes.

“Mr. Danforth would like you to come down for a meal before you depart,” she says, her tone much too light and airy for the setting. 

“Depart?” you ask, yawning. Just the simple act causes you to wince, your body still aching and sore. “Where are we going?”

“Home,” she smiles.

It’s unsettling, how pleasant everyone here is. Don’t they know what just happened? What you’ve been through?

Titus clearly has terrible taste in clothing. You realize this when you put on the clothes he has chosen for you. Just bleak, drab, business casual. You wince a little when buttoning the pants, your stitches crying out for sympathy. 

When you go downstairs, Titus is nowhere to be seen. You’re quietly grateful for the opportunity to eat in peace. Again, your first full meal since your first wedding. You don’t realize how weak you’d become until your belly is full again and your senses are renewed. 

A dark escalade pulls up to the front, and you are ushered out the door. Titus is standing outside, talking with the driver. He spares you a sideways glance before climbing into the back seat. You sit next to him, staring out the window the entire time.

“I’ll have your belongings brought to the house,” Titus says as the car peels away, still not looking directly at you.

“I don’t have many,” you say. 

Which is true. The clothes in your dresser. Your favorite books. And the necklace that your mother left you before she died. You were cursing yourself for not bringing it with you. But then, how could you have known that a weekend wedding getaway would morph into this?

Otherwise, there wasn’t much to want. 

“Somehow, that doesn’t shock me.” Titus replies.

You glance at him sideways, and his smug attitude makes you seethe. After everything you’ve been through this week, you should feel relieved that you’re still alive. And yet, you’re chained to this man.

You won’t feel any relief until you’re free from him. 

The house in Newport is not a house. It’s a sprawling estate, of course. Inherited by Titus after his father’s death, the house’s upkeep is its own operation. There’s more people working on the property than were on staff at your last job. Every need is taken care of, so that the Danforths don’t have to lift a finger.

Titus has probably never had to work for anything in his life. And now, you’re going to make him work for your favor. 

“Someone will show you to your room,” Titus says as the front doors open for you. Again, never lifting a finger, these Danforths. 

“What am I supposed to do here all day?” you ask, looking up at the foyer with curiosity. It’s grand and heavily decorated, paintings and lavish accents touching every corner of the space.

“I don’t care,” Titus replies, voice flat, already walking down one of the hallways.

“I’m just supposed to stay locked up in here?” you call after him, tone incredulous.

Titus stops dead. He turns on his heels and stalks back to you. 

Your chest tightens, the image of Titus running after you replaying in your head. 

“Upset with the lodgings, darling?” he says, voice low. “Remember, a golden cage is far more preferable to a goat pit.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to settle the emotions building in your chest. 

“Now,” Titus continues. “Anything you should desire can be taken care of. Want to try horseback riding? Go to the stables. Want to rot your fucking brain all day? The theater room is on the first floor. Go online shopping. Do whatever you want. I don’t. Fucking. Care.” The last sentence is emphasised, his eyes boring into yours. 

“Whatever I want,” you reply, eyes narrow, “except leave.”

Titus relaxes slightly, a smile forming that doesn’t reach the rest of his face. “Now you’re getting it. I knew you had some sense.”

He wraps a firm hand around the back of your neck. Your breath stills and eyes widen, just barely, worried that something in him snapped. That volatile temper of his has decided to just kill you right there.

But he brings you closer and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Without another word, you watch him walk away. This time, keeping your mouth shut. 

It occurs to you that he could, actually, kill you at any time. Decide you’re not worth the trouble anymore. All of this would have been for nothing if you still end up dead by the end of it. And then Titus will have gotten everything he wanted, like he always has. 

It’s time to make yourself more valuable.

-

The forest on the edge of the property is secluded, just like you want it. You needed somewhere to practice without the prying eyes of the staff. You line up the shot, taking a deep breath. Almost ready, when you hear a branch snap behind you. 

Your arms fall to your sides, head turning to the sound. The tightness in your chest does not ease when you see Titus walk towards you. The only thing keeping you calm is that this time, you’re armed. Just in case.

“When they told me you were out here,” Titus stops just a few feet from you, “I thought I misheard.”

“Nope,” you say, turning your attention back to your practice.

“Of all of the hobbies you could have chosen, and I do mean all of them,” he walks closer, stepping around a fallen branch, “should I be worried that this is what you picked?”

You take a deep breath, fingers light on the blade. You bring the knife behind your head, other arm outstretched in front of you, finding your target. After steadying yourself, you launch the knife. It sinks into the tree. Not into the target, but also not on the forest floor. You take the victory. 

“I don’t know,” you turn to him, wiping your hands on your pants. “Should you be?”

“What’s the matter, nothing good on the television?” he asks.

“Don’t you have some small children to bring to tears or something?” you reply.

“Where did you even get the knives?”

You walk by Titus, jutting your chin out. “Like you said, I can get anything I want here.”

After collecting the knives from the bark, you find your starting point again, with every intention of practicing as if Titus isn’t standing there, watching you.

“You’re choking it,” Titus says. 

You glare at him. “Excuse me?”

“The blade.” Titus approaches you and takes your wrist in his hand, turning it over in his grip. You have the knife in your grasp, fingers gently wrapped around the base of the blade. He gently slides the blade down, so that your fingers are resting at the tip. 

“You have more leverage this way,” he says, voice low. 

Without explaining further, Titus moves his hands to your hips. You still, just barely, breath hitching in your throat. Based on the way his eyebrow lifts, and the corner of his mouth twitches, Titus notices.

He gently positions you, moving your hips so that you are facing him straight on, perpendicular to your target. You wait for his hands to fall away, but they linger just a little bit longer. You can feel his fingers twitch lightly against your hips.

“You will push through with this back leg,” he taps your thigh.

You watch his hands, eyes narrow.

“Now,” he murmurs. The hairs on the back of your neck stand. “Try again.”

Titus brings his hands behind his back and takes a few steps back. He nods, waiting for you to make your move.

You don’t hide the disdain in your face, but square up anyway. Blade behind your head, other hand out towards your target. One deep breath in, and out, and let the knife fly.

It lands right on the target. Not the center, but closer than you’ve been all afternoon. 

Titus flashes you a smug grin. “Good,” he nods, and you hate the way the word runs through you. “Maybe now you’ll be able to hit a sleeping elephant.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, readying your next blade. 

You throw again, remembering what Titus said, and hit closer to the center of the target. Titus’s smug grin permeates your periphery. You roll your eyes. 

“Alright, time to come inside,” Titus extends a hand. 

“I’m not a dog,” you spit. 

“No, and you’re not a child either. You’re going to come with me. Now.” His tone is flat, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Unsettling as always. 

You collect your knives and walk by Titus, leaving his extended hand hanging in the air.

Titus directs you to your bedroom, keeping a respectable distance as you make your way through the halls. Even after moving to your permanent residence, he doesn’t have you to sleep in the same bed as him. Chivalrous, maybe. More likely, though, his clear disdain for you would ruin his sound sleep.

When you open the door, you realize why he brought you back in.

Your belongings have been delivered. Four boxes, stacked neatly on the floor, with your name printed on the front. Your entire life, reduced to this. You would be ashamed, but you worked for everything in those boxes. It’s all yours.

“Your apartment has been paid off. Furniture sold, and personal effects packed,” Titus walks in behind you. “I’m not sure how you managed to live in such a tiny hovel, though,” he adds, nearly under his breath.

You glare at him, unamused.

“Anyway,” Titus clears his throat, “Let me know if anything is missing.”

“Okay,” you approach the boxes, gently kneeling on the ground to open them.

Old concert shirts, a few pictures, and some well loved novels. You pick up your worn and very annotated copy of The Portrait of Dorian Gray, grateful that it made the trip.

You move to the second box. Then the third. And the fourth. Your movements become more haphazard with each box, hope fading fast. You check the excess packing material, thinking it must be hidden somewhere. Not missing, though. It can’t be.

“It’s not here,” you mutter. Not wanting to believe it, you rifle through the boxes again. 

“What is it?” Titus asks, stepping up behind you. 

“My necklace. The- the heart pendant. It’s not here,” your voice is rising. 

Titus looks at your possessions with near disgust. “I can buy you another necklace-”

“No,” you cut him off, tone harsh. You turn to him and try to decide how much you’re willing to share with Titus. “It was my mother’s.”

For the first time, something softens behind Titus’s eyes. You almost don’t notice it, but there is definitely something different in his expression. Something like empathy, if that’s even possible for him.

“I- I understand,” he nods, tone noticeably softer. “I’ll send someone out to see if it was missed.”

You sit on your bed, arms wrapped around your stomach. “She was a single mom, and tried to give me the world. It was the only thing of value she had to her name. When she died-” your voice catches in your throat. You look up at Titus. His hands are heavy at his sides, clearly not sure what to do at this moment. 

“When she died,” you continue, “it was the only thing I had left of her.”

There’s a heavy silence, a lengthy pause. You retreat into yourself, any bravado you had cut short. Any quips you may have for Titus die on your tongue.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Titus nods and folds his hands behind his back.

He leaves you alone in your room, your whole life reduced to four measly boxes and a broken heart.

-

Titus decides to throw a dinner party. He says it’s to honor the new marriage, and to celebrate the Danforths remaining at the high seat of the council. But this is clearly just a way for the wealthy to live in their wealth. Spending money just to spend. Luxury for luxury’s sake.

Your outfit was chosen by him, of course. You half expected it to be some tacky, gaudy display of horrendous opulence. It’s not like he has proven to have exceptional taste.

But the dress is surprisingly lovely. Lush, deep blood red fabric hugs every curve from your breasts to your hips, then drips down to the floor. Off the shoulder straps leave your collar bone exposed. With minimal beading, it’s much more subdued than you would have expected from him. Not that his wardrobe is particularly flashy, but these events have a way of bringing the tackiness out of people.

The maids finish preparing, leaving you at the vanity, staring at yourself in the mirror. You look beautiful. And you can feel your will starting to erode. You hate how much you like this gown on you. You hate how perfectly your hair is pinned. You hate how your skin is glowing, how well this life fits on you, like the ring on your finger. 

Titus enters the room without knocking. The vest he’s wearing has an ornate pattern on it, blood red, matching your gown. 

“You look beautiful,” he says. 

“Way to compliment yourself,” you roll your eyes, “since you’re the one that picked this out.”

“The dress is nice,” Titus says, standing behind you now, hands behind his back. “You look beautiful. Now, close your eyes.”

“Why,” you glare at him through the mirror.

“Just do it,” he squints at you, patience thinning.

You stare at him for a moment, but he’s unmoving. Finally, you relent.

“You aren’t particularly trusting,” Titus says, voice low. “Then again, neither am I.”

“I wonder why,” you mutter, eyes still closed.

You feel a chain drop down around your neck, and his fingers clasp it behind you. You can only imagine what kind of garish jewels Titus has picked out for you. Without waiting for him to release you, your eyes open, and your gaze falls immediately on the necklace.

Your mother’s necklace. 

A thin, gold chain and heart pendant, etched with an ornate design. Simple, but beautiful. You thought you’d never see it again.

Tears well in your eyes. You blink them away quickly, careful not to ruin your makeup, or let on how moved you are by this gesture.

“How-” you start, but you bite your tongue.

“The servant who collected your things tried to pawn it. Idiot. He has been killed for his treachery." Titus says those words so plainly, and even smiles at you. Like taking a life is as mundane as taking out the trash. 

Your painted fingers move to the pendant, touching it gently, making sure this is real. There is a pang of guilt at the thought of someone dying for this. But you think about what you would have done just to get it back, and suddenly your disdain doesn’t feel as strong.

You look at Titus through the mirror. “Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but the rest of his face remains unchanged. Something flashes behind his eyes. Not smugness, but maybe pride. 

“Our guests will be arriving soon. Be sure you are in the foyer to receive them.”

And he leaves as quickly as he entered. 

Dinner is a chore, to say the least. These people, having no real lives or ambitions, have no personalities and no interesting things to say. They comment on the state of the world- which, seeing how far removed they are from it, leads to very shallow discussion. 

You remain silent, picking at the courses set in front of you. Any appetite you had vanished the moment you were seated and were forced into such mindless discussion.

Titus sits at the head of the table, and you at the other end. Every so often, he steals glances at you, and the necklace. But he otherwise does not acknowledge you or your presence at the table.

Somewhere near the end of the meal, you feel something nudge your leg. 

The cousin seated next to you, Jonathan or something, catches your attention. What you thought was a mistake proves to be very intentional when he drops his hand under the table, resting right on your thigh. His gaze is heavy, daring you to make a sound.

“Titus lucked out with you, didn’t he?” Jonathan’s voice is low, lost in the many conversations happening around the table. 

Your entire body goes stiff, unable to decide on what to do. Nothing in your brain materializes on your tongue, and for once, you are stunned into silence. The sheer audacity required to hit on you at a dinner party in your own house, when your psychotic husband is on the other end of the table.

“That is not a good idea.” Your words are weak, but it’s all you can think to say.

Jonathan gives your leg a rough squeeze. “Titus is all talk. We both know he’s not man enough to do what needs to be done,” his eyes drag over you, lingering over your chest and the deep breaths you’re taking. 

You look down the table at Titus, who doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s locked in a conversation about who knows what. Oblivious to the disrespect happening right under his nose. 

Jonathan removes his hand and settles back in his chair, continuing on as though nothing happened. Your breath finally returns to you. Stupidly, you think that is the end of it. 

When the dinner party winds down, and the men gather in the drawing room for scotch and cigars, you excuse yourself. 

“I’m going to bed,” you murmur in Titus’s ear before slipping away. He gives a silent nod in understanding. 

In your room, you start by taking down your hair and removing your accessories. Your fingers once again linger on the necklace. Your heart squeezes in your chest, thinking of your mother, what she gave up for you. And how much you wish she was here to guide you. The necklace stays on.

There’s a knock on the door. Instantly, you know it’s not Titus. 

He doesn’t knock.

“Come in,” you say, thinking it’s one of the maids sent to help you undress.

The door creaks open, and Jonathan saunters in. He’s holding two glasses of wine in his hand. 

“I figure we pick up where we left off, what say you?” He sets the glasses down on a nearby table. 

“I say you should leave,” you say, backing away slowly. 

Jonathan loosens the tie around his neck. 

“You’re a woman with needs,” he says, stepping closer. It doesn’t take many strides for him to cross the room. “I’m sure you understand that a man has needs as well.”

His gaze appraises you again, dragging over your figure and practically licking his lips. 

“He will kill you,” you spit. 

“He won’t,” Jonathan shakes his head. “Because you won’t say anything, will you?”

Your back finds the wall, trapping you. Jonathan reaches out and tucks some hair behind your ear. “Pretty little wife,” he murmurs. “Pretty little trophy.”

Jonathan bends down and plants a kiss to your collar bone. Testing, to see how you’ll react. He looks up at you, searching for signs of betrayal. 

“Don’t,” you say, voice small. Your hands find his shoulders, and you start to push back. 

When you do, fury flashes in Jonathan’s eyes. This is no longer a game. At least, no longer a fun one. He captures your wrists in one hand and pins your arms above your head. 

“You’re going to take this like a good little whore,” he spits.

His other hand palms your breast roughly.

“I’ll scream,” you bite.

“I’m family,” Jonathan’s eyes are dark, “you’re just some gold-digging slut. We’ll see what happens. Who is believed.”

“Jonathan,” a voice cuts through the air. Angry, uneasy.

Never in your life have you been relieved to hear it. Until now.

Jonathan goes still. He releases you from his grip, and smooths the fabric of his shirt before turning. 

“I was wondering where you went off to. Only to find you groping my wife.” The words are venomous.

“Titus,” Jonathan nods. “Your wife has quite the insatiable appetite, doesn’t she?”

Jonathan’s voice is light, almost jovial. But there’s a tremble in it, and you can see the panic in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting to actually have to answer for this. “She asked me up here,” Jonathan continues, stepping closer to Titus.

Titus’s eyes move from Jonathan to you, looking for something, anything, to validate what Jonathan is saying. A quiet anger simmers below the surface, ready to explode with any excuse.

With everything you have gathered about the Danforths, specifically about Titus, you know what will happen if you out Jonathan and his true motives. His fate will be sealed. And right now, you couldn’t care less about him or his life. You give a near imperceptible shake of your head that Titus understands immediately. 

“Come with me,” he says to Jonathan, turning on his heels and moving quickly from your room. 

Jonathan turns to you, flashing a smile as he walks away. But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and you know that he can feel how the air shifted. 

The door closes. You hear hushed voices for just a moment, before the loud bang of a gunshot cuts through the air. 

A heavy thud, then nothing.

Titus enters the room again. You see Jonathan’s legs on the ground on the other side of the door, his lifeless body already worthless, dead weight. The blood splatter blends in with the color of Titus’s vest, but you still see small specs around his collar and on his neck. The gun is still firm in his grasp. 

“Blood is not easy to wash from silk,” he nods to you. “And it’s easier to clean the floors than an entire room, anyhow.” The way he says it so calmly, so rationally, shocks you more than the killing itself.

At this point, after all you’ve been through, the violence should be second nature to you. There have been many sleepless nights spent reliving the lives you’ve taken. Their faces, bloodied and screaming, calling out to you. Asking why. But it was self defence. It was all in the name of survival. That’s what you say to their decaying bodies in your nightmares, at least. 

As horrifying as it is, you hope that you never one day grow numb to these careless acts of violence. 

You haven’t moved away from the wall yet, but your pulse has noticeably steadied. Titus sets the gun down on the table next to the glasses of wine and makes his way to you. 

“You should know,” Titus says, “I will always protect what is mine.”

You take a deep, steadying breath.

“And like it your not,” his voice drops low, “you are mine.”

Titus reaches out for you. This is the first time that you don’t flinch. The first time that Titus has reached for you, and your first thought is not of the possible and very likely damage he could inflict upon you. And has. 

There is no ire in his words. You slide your hand in his. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks, pulling you to the center of the room. 

You don’t argue as Titus turns you away from him. His hands drag from your hips, to your waist, up to your shoulders. 

“No,” you say, voice thin. 

“Good,” he says. 

His fingers find the top button of your dress, undoing it quickly. Your body stills. 

One of his hands lingers on your waist, while the other drags the zipper down your back. Slow and controlled. Your breathing shallows. 

Titus leans in, pressing a kiss to the base of your neck, then your bare shoulder. He pushes the straps of your gown down, the fabric giving way easily under his touch. The satin slips down your body, pooling at your feet. 

You’re left standing in front of him in your undergarments. Compared to the fear coursing through you when Jonathan touched you, this is different. You aren’t afraid, not of Titus. Not now. This feeling is harder to name. It’s almost curiosity. Almost.

Titus’s hands grip your bare hips. The touch shoots up your spine. It’s not bruising, but firm. He’s reminding you that he can, and will, do what he pleases. His mouth moves up your neck again. You don’t realize how long it’s been since anyone has really touched you until now. Not your ex-fiance, not anyone. 

Your body leans back to him without you realizing it, your back meeting his chest. 

One of Titus’s hands moves slowly from your hip to the front of your panties. Just resting, not moving between your legs yet. Titus sets his chin on your shoulder, looking down at how your body reacts to him. Your breath catches in your throat.

“Feeling needy, are we?” Titus’s voice is low and gravelly right at the shell of your ear. 

“N-no.” You don’t even believe yourself when you whisper it.

“Don’t lie to me, darling,” his fingers toy with the lacy seam. 

As much as you can feel the heat growing between your legs, you can’t get the context of this situation out of your head. What almost happened just 10 minutes ago, the dead body outside your bedroom door. The hands on you, and what else they have done to you.

“I’m-not-” you breathe.

Suddenly, Titus pulls away. You almost fall backwards, jolting back to yourself.

You turn to him, your face burning.

He can’t meet your eye as he smooths the front of his vest. You can’t quite read his face, but he looks almost disturbed, embarrassed.

“Good night,” he gives you a curt nod.

You watch him walk out, dazed. You have no idea what just happened, and you’ve stopped breathing entirely.

As soon as the door shuts, you drop to your knees, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Your hand presses to your chest, heart clenching, pulse racing. Everything from this evening collides in your brain. 

Jonathan’s leering, greedy gaze. The way Titus looked at you, angry, protective. How vulnerable he looked when he left. How your body eagerly accepted his touch. It’s all too much.

There’s no sleeping soundly tonight. 

Hours spent tossing and turning, you finally give up. Anxiety fills you all over again. Every sound, every creak in this god forsaken house, sounds like someone entering your room. You sit up, sleep deprivation pulling at your sanity. There’s no way you’ll get any rest like this. Feeling alone and unsafe. 

There is one room that you know no one will enter. 

Until now, neither have you.

You pad down the dimly lit hall, a few lights guiding your way. 

A large painting of the late Chester Danforth watches you walk by. His face is somber, stoic. You pause for a moment, feeling uneasy under his gaze. Titus’s eyes have the same look when he’s focused. You shake off the eerie similarities and push on.

You hold your palms to the heavy wood of Titus’s bedroom door, pressing your ear to try to hear any movement inside. All you hear is the racing pulse in your ears. 

Trying to be as quiet as possible, you push the door open, just enough for you to slip through. 

You see Titus’s sleeping figure illuminated by the moonlight. He’s on his back, one arm resting on his chest, and one arm splayed out next to him. You approach slowly and quietly, just in case he’s a light sleeper. 

It’s almost strange, seeing him like this. Completely disarmed. There’s a softness in his features that you haven’t been able to appreciate, what with his personality ruining it. You want to lean in and memorize him like this. The sharpness of his jaw, the slight curve of his nose, his long lashes.

Titus’s chest rises and falls steadily, clearly in deep sleep. You move quietly to the other side of the bed and slip under the covers, head resting over his outstretched arm. 

For a few moments, you just watch Titus sleep. Like this, you can pretend. You can pretend that he’s not who he is, and that you married into a normal life. That Titus is a loving husband. That you are not constantly unnerved by him and confused by his motivations. 

It lulls you to sleep.

Morning light streaming through the gap in the curtains wakes you softly. It takes you a moment for you to remember yourself and your surroundings. Everything comes back to you when you see Titus’s arm wrapped around your waist, holding you flush to his chest. His face is pressed against your hair. 

Annoyingly, this was probably the best night’s sleep you’ve had these last few weeks, which pains you to admit.

One minute. You allow yourself one minute like this. To feel Titus’s arm around you and again, pretend this is normal. You want to melt into his embrace, and forget what he’s done.

But you don’t want to risk him waking up like this, with his arms wrapped around you. There’s no way you would willingly give him that satisfaction.

You hold your breath and try to slip out from his grasp without waking him, almost tripping trying to contort yourself in such a way that makes as little noise as possible. When you straighten yourself out, Titus appears to still be sleeping. Thankfully. 

You quietly sneak to his door and pull it open without another glance. 

“Sleep well?” his groggy, deep voice calls out to you. 

You press your forehead to the door and curse quietly to yourself. When you turn around, Titus has one arm tucked behind his head, eyes on you. His mouth curves into a smug grin.

“Don’t.” The word is a curt warning. 

“Come back to bed, darling,” his voice is dripping with condescension. 

You remember why all of that softness from last night was not real. The fact that you were able to pretend this was remotely normal was not real. It was all in your head. You will never have a normal life with Titus, not as long as he is who he is. 

Face hot, you leave without another word.

-

“Pernilla,” you look up from your book, “where is Titus?”

“The guest room in the west wing,” she nods. Her eyes shift back and forth, and she looks uncharacteristically nervous.

“Okay,” you say, dragging out the end of the word. “Why is he in there?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

“You know what,” you hold a hand up. “Don’t worry about it.”

It takes you a second to even figure out where the west wing is- this house is far too big for normal people- and find the guest room.

You lean your head to the door and are immediately confused. All you hear is the sounds of sex. Whines, moans, and the animalistic grunts that can only come from your dear husband. 

The door creaks when you open it, and falls heavily shut behind you. 

“Darling!” Titus smiles when he sees you. 

The girl, whoever she is, is bent over in front of him. Her hands are tied behind her back with thick satin bindings, face twisted in pain or pleasure, you're not sure. Then again, the line between them is thin, anyway. 

Titus is thrusting into her at a dizzying pace, surely chasing his own release, not worried about the girl in front of him. His bare chest is glistening with sweat, biceps pronounced as he grabs the bindings of the girl in front of him, hauling her up and pressing her back to his chest. 

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Titus asks, looking at you with amusement. He drags his tongue up her neck, gathering the sweat. She whimpers, leaning her head back to his shoulder.

Titus forces her face forward towards you. “Meet my wife,” he says into her ear. 

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” You ask, crossing your arms. “That would suggest I want you in the first place.”

You can’t help your gaze from falling down to the girl’s poor pussy, where Titus moves in and out. It’s the first time you’ve seen him. All of him. You swallow hard, trying to keep your face flat.

“You expect all of us to take a vow of celibacy, just because you have?” he smirks. “Sit down,” Titus nods to the chaise across the room, “if you want to watch.”

The girl in front of him starts whining again. Titus covers her mouth with a firm grip. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he growls. 

You narrow your eyes. This was a no-win scenario. Leaving would imply that he got to you somehow. He could stay in here, fucking this girl in peace. Staying and watching would mean he could put on a show, and you would be subjected to whatever happened next. Or, worse, let him think you were turned on by this display. You wish you never walked in.

Arms still crossed, you walk towards the bed. Titus’s hips stutter slightly, clearly confused by this course of action. You grab the girl’s face with one hand, bringing her gaze to you. 

“Does that feel good?” you ask. 

“Mhmm,” she whimpers. 

“Did he let you come?” you push the hair out of her face. 

“N-no,” she whines. 

Titus looks down at you, smile faltering. 

With your eyes locked on Titus, you drag two fingers into your mouth, and press them against her exposed clit. She lets out a loud yelp. 

“Wha-what are you doing?” Titus groans, feeling the effects of your actions on his cock.

“Come on, come for me, let go,” you coo at the girl, caressing her clit as Titus continues to move inside. 

His pace has slowed, too busy watching you. 

You’re not sure how long he has been using this poor girl’s cunt, but it doesn’t take long for her to reach her peak.

“I’m coming,” she whimpers. “Oh my god.”

You help her ride through it, watching Titus’s face as she squeezes him. He drops her down onto the bed face first, his face twisted. 

“What’s the matter?” you smirk. “You gonna come now, too?”

He looks at you, breathless, as it dawns on him. He can stop now, stave off the climax he’s right on the edge of, or find his release, and end this charade.

“Bitch,” he mutters, moving inside the girl again. 

“Your bitch,” you spit. 

Titus is so sensitive at this point, that it takes three more thrusts for him to finish off inside the poor girl. 

“Show’s over,” you shrug, turning to leave. “And make sure you clean her up before you send her away. Please.”

-

Two can play at this game. 

Not that you want to hire an escort to fuck. Titus would clearly enjoy that. 

In true Titus fashion, you saunter into the study, unannounced. In your clothes. Not the ones Titus bought for you. The ones he turned his nose down at when they were delivered in boxes. 

Soft, dainty panties and a flowy nightgown that is far too short to be considered PG. It was your go-to sleeping outfit when you were trying to seduce your now dead ex-husband. Worked every time.

Titus's eyes rake over you, not even trying to hide his leering.

"Comfortable?" he asks, taking a sip of his whiskey.

"Very," you smile. You lie on the couch on your stomach, your ass almost completely out, and feet waving lazily in the air. You flip open a magazine, and try to pretend like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve read in the last two months.

Titus clears his throat and moves the paperwork in front of him to the side of the desk. He leans back in his chair and just…watches you.

You continue leafing through the pages, feigning ignorance. The quiet is unsettling, though. Every so often, you steal a glance at Titus, to find that sure enough, he’s still just watching. 

Deciding to take it up a notch, you roll over onto your back. Your legs drape over the backrest of the couch, and the soft satin falls even further, exposing the entirety of your legs. Very little skin is left covered.

Titus clears his throat.

“You have something to say to me?” you ask, not looking up from the page.

“Just that you are incredibly predictable,” Titus drawls. 

One of your legs falls to the edge of the couch, completely exposing your panties. “What’s the matter, dear? Can’t stand to look at what you can’t have?”

Titus rises from his desk and moves towards you. The magazine falls from your grip. He just stares down at you at first, almost appraising you. When he reaches down, you think he may break his word, you think he may have snapped. He may take you right here on the couch.

But he grips the front of your panties, dragging the fabric firmly between the folds of your pussy, rubbing right against your clit. 

Your jaw drops in a surprised, silent moan, eyes wide.

“You think you can tempt me?” he says, his voice low and gravelly. His eyes aren’t crazed. Intense, yes, but otherwise Titus is surprisingly calm. His grip on your panties tightens, increasing the friction on your clit. 

A low whimper escapes you before you can stop it. 

“That’s not-”

“You’ll have to try harder, my dear,” he says, finally letting go. The fabric hits your skin with a sharp snap. 

You yelp. Against your better judgement, and the soul still thriving in your heart, you are ashamed to admit how wet you are. 

“Satan knows I want you,” he caresses the side of your face.

You have to will your eyelashes not to flutter, and your heart to stop beating so fast. 

“But like I said,” Titus’s gaze is heavy, eyes boring into yours, “when I have you, you’ll be begging for me.”

You swallow hard, trying to get a fucking grip. This should not be turning you on, and yet.

And yet.

-

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Titus storms into the kitchen. The arguing, he ignored. It was when he heard your voice cut through the hall that Titus knew he needed to see what the hell was the matter.

He finds you standing there, thoroughly chastised by his tone.

“They won’t let me cook,” you cross your arms. 

The cooks look at Titus, eyes wide, not knowing what to do. 

Titus takes a beat, closing his eyes for a moment, like he’s trying to calm himself.

“Leave,” his voice booms through the kitchen. 

They vacate without another word. The entire kitchen leaves, a fury of kitchen clogs scurrying out of the room.

“Of course they listen to you,” you mutter.

“They would listen to you,” Titus says, moving closer to you, “if you didn’t ask them for things that directly contradict me. Now, what is this about?” 

“I wanted to make dinner,” you shrug. “They wouldn’t let me, kept offering to do it for me.”

“Really?” Titus’s eyebrows raise. “An entire team of expertly trained chefs, and you think you can cook better than them?”

“It’s not about better,” you snap.

“Fucking ridiculous,” he scoffs. 

“Like you would even understand,” your voice rises. 

“I don’t!” his matches.

“I need some agency, Titus!” You’re yelling now. The only person (alive) to dare raise their voice at Titus Danforth. “I don’t understand how you live like this. I need to know that I can still do something for myself. That I can still take care of myself.”

“You don’t need to take care of yourself,” he hisses.

“It’s not a matter of need, darling,” you spit out the pet name. “You obviously don’t get it. I’m sure Titus Danforth can’t even make a fucking grilled cheese!”

He narrows his eyes at that. You think you may have angered him, struck a nerve, but you don’t care. At this point, more than two months in, Titus has proven that he won’t lift a finger to you with the intent of causing pain. At least, not anymore.

“Sit,” he points to the stool in the corner.

“Titus, I’m not-”

“Sit. Down.” He hisses. “I won’t say it again.”

You settle down on the stool, arms still crossed. 

Titus takes a moment to orient himself before searching around the kitchen. He opens and closes multiple cabinets, not finding what he’s looking for. 

“This is painful,” you groan. 

“Shut up.”

“You don’t even know where anything is in here,” you roll your eyes.

He finally finds a skillet, and glares at you pointedly. 

“Congrats,” you scoff. 

He sets the pan on the burner and pilfers for everything else. Butter, sliced bread, cheese. 

“Cheddar, gouda, or havarti?” he asks over his shoulder, looking at the offerings in the fridge.

“Cheddar and gouda,” you reply.

“Of course,” he mutters.

You watch as he builds the sandwich, the actions clearly foreign to him. Nearly tearing a hole in the bread as he spreads the butter, and cursing to himself when he realizes that he let the pan get too hot. You watch as the man who walks with his head high, all the confidence in the world, stumbles through the kitchen. For you.

“My mother was a lot like you,” he says without removing his attention from the skillet. “She married into the family. What she wanted was security, what she got was my father.”

He flips the sandwich, wincing slightly when he sees how dark this side is. You listen to him silently. “In the end, she wouldn’t let this life consume her. Until it ended her. And my father saw her as weak for it.”

When Titus turns the sandwich out onto a plate, the second side is much lighter than the first. He seems pleased with himself, sliding the plate down the counter to you. 

“It’s a little well done,” you grumble. 

“Satan help me,” he sighs, eyes cast towards the ceiling, flexing his hands at his sides.

You take the plate in your hands, looking down at it, and back up to Titus. “So what you’re telling me is that your humanity died with your mother? That’s it? You are the way you are because she was the light? And then your daddy put it out?”

“What I’m saying,” he grits his teeth. “Is that the world is not black and white. We are all good. We are all evil. You have to be the strongest in the room. You have know how to play the game.”

“I’m tired of your fucking games,” you take the plate and storm out of the kitchen. 

“And by the way,” you pivot back for the last word. Apparently, you can’t help yourself. You raise the plate. “This is still not what I wanted. The grilled cheese was a joke. I was going to make myself a chicken quesadilla. So. Thanks for that. You proved that you can burn bread and that you don’t listen.”

Titus just blinks at you. “Incredible.”

-

This cat and mouse is exhausting. You don’t know how much longer you can do this, how much longer you can keep being the petulant, defiant bride.

One day, Titus is surely going to snap. He seems on edge as it is. When he gave you his word, he probably didn’t think you’d last as long as you have- three months now. The teasing and taunting from both of you has gotten to be pathetic and draining. 

Some days, you can almost feel your humanity eroding. Being locked away in the gilded cage, seeing no one, caring for nothing. It has a way of steeling you to the outside world and its problems in a way you swore wouldn’t happen.

But then, you’ll catch a glimpse of a story on the news. Or Titus will take you with him to the resort for a day of meetings. Being around people again, it reinvigorates you, grounds you, reminds you that there is something outside of the Newport walls.

“We should come out here more often,” you look at him over your sunglasses. 

“Why, are you bored at the house?” he drawls. 

You just stare at him. 

“Don’t look at me like that.”

You sit out by the pool of the penthouse suite at the Danforth Casino and Resort, while Titus paces back and forth on the phone. Every so often, his voice raises at whoever is on the other line. Eventually, you try to tune him out and lean your head back on the lounge chair. 

“You have a short temper,” you say when you feel his shadow cast over you, eyes still closed. “You should consider therapy.”

“I’m in therapy. It’s called a cigar club, very effective,” he responds. “I need to take care of some business down at the casino.”

You wave him off. “Okay,” you say, uncaring. 

You expect him to stalk off, like he always does. But instead, he bends down and presses a rough kiss to your head. You wave him off.

“I’ll be back shortly.” 

You mumble a response.

As the time passes, you get bored fast. After an hour, you decide you’ve had enough. With the entirety of this resort at your fingertips, Titus thinks you’re going to stay locked up in this room? 

Laughable.

You pull a sundress over your swimsuit, slide into some sandals, and take the elevator down. 

There’s people everywhere. You wander the lobby, watching the uber wealthy fret over luggage and take pictures by the front entrance. You wonder, if they knew of the blood spilled in order to keep this thing afloat, would they still come? Still make their reservations, host their bachelorette parties? Or would they turn their heads, somber for a while, mumbling about thoughts and prayers, and still come back for more?

You move on, knowing the answer.

You see the cinnamon sugar curls of your dear husband, his back to you, talking to someone you’ve never met. They’re standing in the doorway of the casino, having a heated discussion. You try to stay on the fridges, watching without looming, but it doesn’t last long. 

The man sees you, and immediately his demeanor changes, lightening up to something worthy of a show.

“Ah, the wife,” his face lights up dramatically at the sight of you. You try not to roll your eyes at the address.

Titus’s head snaps in your direction. The heat behind his eyes fades, brows knitting together into something akin to concern. You step closer, plastering on a smile of your own.

“Mrs. Danforth, lovely to make your acquaintance.” The man bows his head and kisses the back of your hand. It’s not exactly inappropriate, but it still confuses the hell out of you. 

“Likewise,” you reply, still unsure of what to make of him.

“I’m Jones, your husband’s favorite business partner.” Jones flashes a mouth full of tacky veneers. 

“Remains up for debate,” Titus deadpans. 

“I hear you hold the humanity of our man Titus, here,” he grabs Titus by the shoulders, shaking him a little. 

Titus clearly does not like that.

“Wha- what do you mean?” you ask, your gaze flickering between them.

“Enough-” Titus starts.

“Apparently,” Jones continues, “Titus has been making all kinds of changes with his new seat. And people seem to credit all of it to his marriage to you.”

In an instant, his smile is no longer joyful. Jones drags his gaze down your body, sizing you up, deciding what to make of you. 

Titus’s jaw clenches. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops when you drape your arms over his shoulder. He brings a hand to your waist as you press your body to his side. 

“Well, if you know anything about my husband,” you say, “you know that he doesn’t do anything on anyone’s behalf. Afterall-”

You look Titus dead in the eye, your noses almost touching.

“He’s not a man that can be controlled.”

Titus’s jaw works again, eyes refusing to lift from yours. 

“Right,” Jones nods. “Of course.”

“Go away, Jones,” Titus grits, still not looking away from you.

Jones lingers for a moment longer. 

“Now,” Titus raises his eyebrows and flicks his wrist in annoyance.

As soon as Jones is gone, you remove your hands from Titus. But he keeps his grip securely around your waist. 

“I thought I told you to stay upstairs,” he mutters. 

“You didn’t, darling,” you smile. 

“It should go without saying at this point.”

A hand firmly at the small of your back, he leads you back to the elevator. You grumble under your breath the entire way.

“What was that about, anyway?” You ask as soon as the elevator doors close. 

“Don’t speak to me right now,” he says without looking at you, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“It’s a long ride to the top,” you say, “plenty of time.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Titus snaps. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “No.”

Titus moves quickly. His hand wrapped around your jaw, not hard but forceful, pushing you against the shiny, opulent wall of the elevator. Your eyes widen.

“I have been very patient with you,” he spits. “Any other slut would have been bent over my knee a hundred times already. And still, you push me.”

“Titus,” your voice is thin. It’s the only word you can get out. 

He’s completely pressed against you, and you feel every muscle and hard outline of his body.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Higher, holier, cleaner” he continues, “but I’ve seen what those pretty hands are capable of. The violence, the destruction. You were one of us before I put the ring on your finger. Before our blood mingled on the page.”

You want to argue, but Titus is right. Whether or not it was self defense, you still did those things. You still hurt people. And lived to not regret it at all.

“You want me to tell you that I want you? Huh?” Titus’s pupils are completely blown, voice harried. “You want me to tell you that when I fucked that girl, I pretended she was you? What difference would it make?”

“Titus,” you croak again. You bring your hands up around his biceps. The action is small, but it does something to him. At the very least, it snaps him out of it. He presses his lips together, and with a frustrated growl, Titus releases you from his grip. 

Your breath comes back to you all at once. 

“Do not mistake my restraint for anything other than that,” he spits. 

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to the penthouse. Titus storms out without another glance at you. 

You’ve completely lost it. There’s no other explanation for what you are feeling. This man has chased you, threatened you, and tried to kill you- multiple times. He’s made you fear for your life. 

But now, when you watch him pace the length of the patio from the other side of the sliding glass door, you twist the ring around your finger. You think about the serenity of his sleeping form. The way he protected you from his own family. The lengths he went to for the one thing in your life you held dear. Even that stupid, nearly burned grilled cheese.

Ursula was wrong when she said there was no goodness in him. She just wasn’t looking in the right places.

Titus has won. Again. It doesn't bring you any joy. But what's worse is knowing you are trapped either way. And you are so tired of fighting, of pushing, of making your life harder. Wouldn’t it just be easier to acquiesce? To give in to the part of yourself that isn’t repulsed by any of this?

And really, how bad can selling your soul really be? In the grand scheme of things?

The sun dips down below the horizon. Room service has brought up your meal, and you sit in silence with Titus. 

The sound of cutlery hitting against the plates is interrupted by Titus’s deep breath. Your attention snaps to him immediately.

“I…” he starts

You look up at him from behind your glass. The sip of wine turns into a full gulp.

“I dismantled a terrorist organization in the Middle East.”

You set your glass down, nodding, trying to absorb this information.

“That’s what Jones was referring to. He had an arms deal with them that is now…void.”

Titus does not look proud or pleased. You try to catch his gaze, but he won’t look at you directly. 

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask carefully.

“You asked,” he says.

After a beat of silence, you continue. “You don’t have to do anything on my behalf.”

“I don’t.” Titus finally looks at you, his words heavy. “It’s hard to invigorate economic growth when those people are being slaughtered, so.”

Titus shrugs. He isn’t eating anymore, silverware set down on his plate. 

“Of course,” you nod. 

You don’t know what to make of this information. Would Titus have always made that decision? Was Jones right, are you somehow swaying him? It’s something you’ll probably never know.

Titus still won’t sleep in the same room as you. Now you realize, it’s not disdain, it’s temptation. The best way for him to ensure that he keeps his hands to himself is to make sure there is a physical wall between you. 

It’s late, but you can’t stop thinking. The time you spend undressing, your thoughts are with Titus. Trying to figure out how you feel, how to move forward. What the right choice is in this impossible situation. Sleep isn’t even an option right now.

You tighten the robe around your waist, wringing the straps in your hands. Your body and mind are at war with each other, fighting over control. But really, the choice is simple. Keep fighting, keep resisting, or take your place. Accept your fate. Make this system work in your favor.

And you’ve come too far to remain a prisoner. 

Your knuckles hit the door lightly, almost sheepishly. It’s like you’re giving yourself an out if he doesn’t hear. 

“Come in,” Titus’s voice calls from the other side.

You slip in quietly, shutting the door behind you.

Titus’s hungry eyes watch as you cross the room. He’s standing by the fireplace, stance wide, top buttons of his shirt open. The dim lighting of the room and low fire highlight his features, the ones you came to appreciate in the moonlight.

You twist the tie of your robe again, trying to steady your heartbeat. 

“What is it?” TItus asks, crossing his arms. 

You don’t say anything for a moment, just looking around the room. The entire Newport house, and even the lodge, have Danforth written all over them. Old, ancient money, collections that would put a museum to shame. But this is the first time you are surrounded by Titus’s things. What he holds with value.

“I thought maybe we could sleep in the same bed tonight,” you say, meandering towards his desk. Titus’s eyes track your movements, but he doesn’t stop you.

“You thought?” Titus narrows his eyes at you. 

You gently push a stack of books aside, fanning them out to read the covers. Most of them are ancient-looking notebooks, or books on finance. But one catches your eye.

The Portrait of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. The same edition as your very well-loved copy. He’s been reading it, you can see the tabs and dog ears as evidence.

“Yes,” you whisper, gaze meeting his. 

When you finally approach Titus, he drops his arms to his sides. You reach for his shirt, carefully undoing the rest of the buttons. The fabric falls open, exposing the lightly freckled skin that you’ve only seen once before. Titus watches your face as your eyes drop to his chest. 

You raise your hands towards him.

Titus grabs your wrists. Your breath catches in surprise, but not fear.

“Don’t toy with me.” His voice is a low warning. 

“I’m not,” you reply. You are not trembling, you are not confused. There is not an ounce of mischief in your actions. Not this time.

He releases his grip, and you bring your hands to his shoulders, gently pushing his shirt down over his shoulders to the ground. You don’t hide your appraising stare. His broad chest, his strong arms. Every move is slow and deliberate. You’re taking your time, and Titus is taking you in. 

"Say it," he says, still not raising his voice.

You chew on your bottom lip. 

“I need to hear you say it,” his voice is still strong, but laced with less venom. Almost desperate. Almost.

"Titus," you look him in the eye, "I want you. Please.”

Titus’s eyes- though already dark- cloud over with something forceful. He clamps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His eyes move between yours and your lips, like he’s trying to make his mind up. Decide if you mean it, or if this is just a trick.

He takes you for your word.

His mouth presses against yours. Just like on your wedding night. Forceful, eager. Only this time, you kiss him back. Your mouth opens for him, taking his tongue against yours. This is the first time he’s kissed you since the wedding night. And that was completely one sided.

This time, you whimper into his mouth, and it spurs him forward.

It’s not sloppy. Titus is many things, but not sloppy. He’s eager, ready to take what he believes is his. 

And as of now, you are. Completely.

He grabs at the tie of your robe, undoing it and letting the soft fabric fall, leaving you in your delicate lingerie. Your exposed skin prickles in the cold air. It’s not the first time Titus has seen you like this. But it’s the first time he’s been able to drink you in, knowing that it’s all for him. 

“On your knees,” his voice is gruff, catching his breath.

The command runs through you.

You lower yourself to the floor, looking up at him through your lashes. Titus’s breath comes out heavy as he loosens the buttons at his waist. His eyes don’t leave yours as he pushes the waistbands down, discarding both his pants and underwear at the same time. 

Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him, hard and ready. You think back to when you saw him fucking the escort. That was different. Now, you’re seeing him fully, right in front of you. Embarrassingly, your mouth waters a little. 

When you think he’s going to come closer, Titus actually steps away from you. He looks smug as he settles back into an arm chair by the fireplace. 

He watches you, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“Come here,” he waves. 

Heat rises in your cheeks. You know what he wants. After a deep breath, you move to your hands and knees, and slowly crawl to him. He watches you cross the room, hungry and waiting. You push your face against his knee, resting your head on his leg. 

“Good girl,” he smiles. The praise courses through you. You should be embarrassed. This should be upsetting to you. But for some reason, your panties are completely soaked. 

Titus looks down. “You know what to do.” 

You swallow once, bracing yourself. When you reach for him, and wrap your fingers around his length, Titus’s inhale sharpens. His smile falls fast. It makes you remember that he had been waiting for this, too. Even if he wasn’t completely without sex in the meantime.

With your mouth wide, you look up at Titus and drag your tongue up his length, gathering the salty precum at the tip, watching for his reaction. 

Titus’s mouth opens slightly, feeling your tongue against him. He reaches one hand behind your head, threading his fingers through your hair, and holds you steady. 

“Come on,” he says, “take it.”

You open your mouth as wide as you can, and he pushes your head down. One of your hands rests on his thigh, and when you take him as far back as your throat will allow, you squeeze gently. It’s involuntary, like a muscle reaction.

And he stops. 

Titus’s eyes close for a moment, feeling your wet mouth tight around him. “That’s it,” he groans. 

You gag slightly, and after a moment, Titus lets you up for air. Saliva drips from your lips onto his lap. He lets you take a moment before pushing your mouth back around him. 

It’s equal parts strength and trust. Titus pushes you down further and further each time, only stopping when your fingers curl gently at his thigh. 

Eventually, Titus releases his grip, giving you autonomy. You don’t relent, bobbing your head up and down, hand stroking the length your mouth doesn’t reach. Titus’s fingers grip the arm of the chair, growing more and more restless the longer you work him.

“Enough,” he says. His voice is strong, but he’s slightly breathless. You try not to get too smug, knowing that you can elicit this reaction from him.

“Enough?” you ask, resting your cheek on his thigh again.

He motions for you to stand, and you slowly rise to your feet.

He rises along with you, capturing your mouth with his again. His hands grasp as much of you as possible. It’s a frenzied kind of contact. After months of depriving him, Titus finally has you. And he can’t stop touching you.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” he mutters into your mouth. 

You reach behind you for the clasps at your bra.

“No,” he grips your arms and pulls away, “I want to do it.” 

“Okay,” you roll your eyes, just a little, and drop your hands, letting Titus reach behind you. 

His eyes don’t move from yours until the fabric falls away, exposing more of you. He takes you in, and can’t help himself from reaching up and palming your breast, catching a hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

You hiss, the sensation shooting through you.

“Sensitive?” he asks, dipping his mouth down to your chest. 

You gasp and thread your fingers in his hair, holding him close. Titus holds you, hands splayed out on your waist and ass. 

“Please,” you whimper, running your hands down his arms. 

“Please what?” he mutters, standing over you again.

“Please,” you breathe, “I need you inside me.”

Titus smiles, the tone of your voice clearly exciting him.

He kisses you, pushing you towards the bed. When the backs of your legs hit the mattress, you collapse onto your back.

“Let me see her,” he mutters, pushing your legs open. He presses his mouth to your panties, dragging his tongue over the wet spot that’s formed.

“Don’t make it weird,” you writhe under him.

“What’s the matter?” Titus looks at you from between your thighs. “Embarassed?”

“No,” bite back, but you feel heat rush your cheeks. 

Titus pulls at the straps of your underwear, tugging the fabric down your legs. 

He starts on your thighs, biting down on your skin, soothing the marks with his tongue. He pushes your legs up, knees towards your stomach to get a better angle. You are completely open and exposed to him, everything on display.

“Fuck,” he hisses, licking his lips before kissing the skin just around your cunt.

“Titus,” you whine. 

“Look at how wet you are,” he mutters against you. “Who is all this for?”

You whimper, desire clouding your thought processing power. His tongue slides quickly over your folds, just tasting you for now.

“Say it,” he grunts. 

“For you,” you gasp, back arching off the mattress. “It’s for you, Titus.”

“That’s right,” he growls. Two fingers slide over your pussy, teasing, before slipping in easily. “Mine.”

Your jaw drops at the sudden thrust. 

“Oh shit,” you hiss.

“I can’t believe this is what you’ve been hiding,” TItus says, slipping a third finger into you.

You can’t think of anything remotely intelligent to say. The combination of Titus’s mouth on your clit, drinking you in, and his fingers sliding in and out, brings you to the edge faster than you wanted. It has been months, after all.

“Titus, I’m so close,” you bring your hand down into his hair, pushing your hips closer to his mouth, chasing the release.

“No,” he pulls away. “Not yet.”

You let out a frustrated groan. “What the fuck?”

“The only way you get to come,” he stands upright, looking down at your desperate form, “is wrapped around my cock.”

You stare daggers, but open your legs for him anyway, as he slowly fists himself, moving closer. 

Titus bends over you, a glint in his eye. He presses a firm kiss to your lips again, tongue sliding against yours. He swallows your gasp when you feel his tip graze over your pussy, teasing you. 

“Titus,” you moan. 

“What, darling?” he drops his mouth to your jaw, trailing wet kisses to your neck.

You buck your hips slightly, seeking out any kind of friction you can get. 

“Words,” Titus growls, nose brushing yours. “Tell me what you want.”

You kiss him, taking his bottom lip in your teeth as you pull away. “Enough with the teasing. Fuck. Me,” your eyes narrow.

“That’s more like it,” Titus smiles. 

“I told you,” he says, lining himself up with your entrance, “when I take you, you would beg for it.”

Any smart quips die in your throat when he suddenly thrusts inside of you. You take him all the way in all at once, pushing you to your limit.

“Fuck,” Titus grunts. “Look at that. You take me so well.”

“Titus,” you breathe, voice wavering. “It’s too much. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he says, holding your legs up over his shoulders. “You’re going to be a good girl and take it.”

He starts moving, and your vision immediately starts fading at the edges. You’re completely overwhelmed, voice already ragged. 

“You feel so good,” Titus says, pressing his face to your leg. He kisses your calf as he slowly pulls out before pushing all the way back in.

Titus watches your face, watches for the moment that your whines change from pain to pleasure. Only then does he start to pick up the pace. 

“Talk to me, darling,” he pants. “I want to hear you.”

“You’re splitting me apart,” you moan. 

“You want me to stop?” his mouth curls up into a sly grin. 

“No.” The word slips out quickly. Too quickly. 

Titus presses a smug smile to your leg. 

“Don’t,” you snap, but the word is not as threatening as you want it to be.

Titus moves his hand down between your legs, pressing gentle circles over your sensitive clit. 

Your hands find purchase on the sheets, gripping them so tightly you almost cramp. It’s impossible to keep your body still, arching and writhing under him. 

The climax you were so cruelly denied just moments ago builds back up in your belly.

“Please,” you look up at Titus. This is as close as you will let yourself get to literally begging him. 

“How could I deny that face,” Titus smiles down at you. The mischievous glint is gone, his eyes only focused on your and your breath. 

Broken, desperate sounds claw their way from your throat as you finally feel the euphoric release you were chasing. The orgasm washes over your entire body, all the way down to your toes. 

Titus feels it, too. His jaw goes slack and his hips stutter, feeling your walls squeeze around him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he moans, fucking you through it. 

“You need- ugh- Titus please,” you press your hands on his hips, completely over-stimulated and overwhelmed. 

He pulls out of you, but not without a sly grin plastered over his face. 

“Too much for you?” Titus bends over you and kisses your neck.

“Don’t,” you groan. But your legs wrap around his hips, holding him close. 

“I think I’ll say whatever I please,” he kisses you hungrily. “After all this time, I’m going to enjoy this.”

You drag your nails down his freckled back, pulling small noises from Titus. 

“We need to set some rules,” you whisper into his ear. 

Titus pulls away, propping himself up over you. 

“Excuse me?” He raises an eyebrow.

You grip Titus’s shoulders and push him, rolling the both of you over until you’re straddling him. Based on his expression, Titus is surprised, but not upset. 

With the new position, and your senses finally coming back to you, you smile down to Titus. 

“I want to sit in on council meetings,” you say, rubbing your cunt over Titus’s dick. 

“That’s not-”

“I will.” You cut him off, leaving no room for an argument. “You don’t have to include me in every discussion, but I will be there.”

Titus rests his hands on your hips, helping you hold yourself up on shaky legs. 

With Titus’s dick in your grip, you try to sink down on him, only able to take a few inches at first. 

“That’s it,” Titus mutters, squeezing your leg reassuringly. 

Unable to control your whimpers, you lower yourself further and further. 

With one final push, you arch your back over Titus, taking him all inside of you. He brings a hand up to your breast bone, dragging all the way down your stomach before gripping your hips.

You move above him, slowly and intentionally. The fervor of moments ago has melted into something almost religious. Two bodies becoming one, meeting each other where they are. 

“I will not be your pet.”

Titus just moans, looking up at you with those pathetic eyes. For a split second, you see his bravado drop. He looks completely at your mercy as you ride him. Your hips move back and forth, grinding against him.

“I will not be your trophy. I will not be your silent arm candy. I am your wife, and you will treat me as such.” You lean forward, gripping his shoulders for stability. 

“Yes,” is all Titus manages. His voice is beginning to thin, the same pleasure in you finding its hold on him.

“And in return,” you bite your lip, letting yourself feel this without shame or embarrassment. “I will truly be your partner. Completely. Body and mind.”

Titus’s eyes flash dark, the aggression taking hold again. “Yes.”

He looks up at you, licking his lips, moving his hands to grip your ass. His hips buck upwards, picking up your slow, deliberate pace. It catches you off guard, your grip tightening on his shoulders and leaving small half moons under your nails. 

You lean forward over him even more, allowing him to control the pace. You are almost completely overwhelmed by pleasure, feeling him hit that spot deep inside you that makes you squirm. 

“Titus,” you moan right into his ear. “I’m gonna come again.”

Titus brings a heavy hand down onto your ass, pulling a yelp from you. 

“Yeah?” Titus grunts. “Greedy, greedy girl. Gonna come on my cock again?”

“Mhmm,” you nod your head, eyes closed.

“Go ahead,” Titus brings his hand down again, squeezing your ass roughly. “I’m going to fill that greedy cunt. Claim you once and for all as mine. Forever.”

When you fully collapse on top of him, face buried in the crook of his neck, Titus presses a kiss to your shoulder before sucking a bruise to your skin. The feeling of his teeth grazing you, leaving little marks, pushes you over the edge. 

You come again, hard, with his name on your lips.

The second you clench around him, crying out for him, Titus loses himself inside you. He buries himself deep, not letting up until he’s sure he’s completely spent. 

Your body is almost completely useless, just dead weight on top of Titus. He presses another kiss to your shoulder before carefully rolling you off him, pulling out of you slowly. 

You lay on your back, trying to regain control of your breath, watching Titus sit up against the headboard. You reach your hand out, gently dragging your fingertips against his leg. He takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. 

“Is this what love is supposed to feel like?” he asks.

The question catches you completely off guard. You blink, trying to understand. 

“This is the closest we are going to get,” you say, curling your body around him.

“I love you,” Titus says, pressing a kiss to your lips. 

Something foreign blooms inside of you. It can’t be love. You have felt love before. For your mother, your friends, and your ex-fiance- before he tried to kill you, obviously. 

This thing with Titus is different. Everything that has led up to this moment compiles together into something like attachment. Your souls are linked forever. When you look at him, you just feel like he’s a part of you. 

The woman you were a few months ago is no more. She’s had to adapt to her surroundings.

“I-” you start, resting your head on his shoulder. “I love you, too.”

─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆

PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]

PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]

PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]

PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]