lower your expectations

The words just slipped out naturally the moment he'd said them to you, like they belonged to him alone. Because in all actuality, they only did belong to him. There was no one else you could see yourself waking up to next in the morning. No one else you wanted to spend time with for the foreseeable future. Maybe it was the memories between the two of you that helped you come to the conclusion that you loved him.

From the time that he carried you back to your shared apartment

Your legs wobbled with every step you took on the concrete, the heels you had on digging into the back of your ankle and the sides of your toes. You didn't have to take the heels off to know that you were mostly likely bleeding. "Wait, Miguel. Just wait up a bit," you were trying to catch up to his long strides, failing miserably with each new sting of pain that shot up your foot. You made a mental note not to wear heels whenever Miguel suggested a 'brisk walk' as a date idea.

He looked back to see you leaning against a pole, taking off your heels for some kind of temporary relief before you continued the rest of the walk. Not that you looked too enthusiastic about that either. Though he couldn't have his pretty girlfriend standing on a dirty sidewalk, could he? With what seemed to be no effort, he took you in his arms and resumed the walk. "How bad's the pain?" He looked down at you once he was sure he wouldn't bump into anyone in a three block radius.

You opened up your mouth to speak, about to tell him that it was bearable enough to the point you could still walk, but he interrupted you by saying, "Don't lie to me because you think you're inconveniencing me. Just tell me the truth." The truth was that you were debating on staying on that sidewalk and calling an Uber at this time of night. Not that he needed to know that, though. "It's not so bad now that you're carrying me," you reluctantly admitted, looking away from him.

If at any point during the night he struggled with the task, he didn't seem to show it. He hadn't even cracked a sweat. Somehow he'd managed to maneuver the front door open, setting you down on the couch with the utmost care necessary. "I'm gonna go get you the first aid kit. Is there something else you need?" You shook your head, laying back onto the couch cushion while you waited for him to come back.

He came back, raising your feet before taking a seat down next to you. He put your feet down on his lap, getting an ointment from the box. You wondered just how many things he had in there for these types of occasions. Throughout the couple months of dating, you'd seen him pull out an ointment for ant bites, scratches, and now blisters. "Try to stay still for me, will you?" He murmured, starting to rub the ointment over the exposed skin. His touch was the gentlest you'd ever felt, barely feeling the subtle brush of his fingers.

"Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana," he hummed as he finished applying the bandages, making sure that they were well wrapped before standing up. You made no attempt to stand up from your spot on the couch just yet, letting your feet recover from wearing those heels for five hours straight. "You need some help getting into the bedroom?" He questioned, scooping you into his arms with that same ease as before when you nodded.

"Thank you."

"Anything for you, my lady."

To the time that he begrudgingly agreed to dance with you in the rain

"Come on, just indulge me a bit," you stood in the middle of the empty road, extending your hand out to him while the rain poured down relentlessly. "I'll indulge you inside where we don't have any chance of catching a cold," he grumbled from his spot on the sidewalk, trying to appear menacing. He really did just look like a sopping wet cat, especially with the way that his brows furrowed slightly. "Mami, let's go. I'll let you dance with me inside, please. Any song you want, too."

You kept your arm extended to him, waiting. You knew that he was bound to fall for your whims any second. He let out a small groan, pushing himself off the sidewalk before walking over to where you were standing. "If you get sick, I won't hesitate to tell you that I told you so," he intertwined his hand with yours, the warmth from his body a nice contrast to the chill air surrounding the two of you. "Do you know how rare it is for Nueva York streets to be this empty?"

Usually, there was at least a mad man that would be running around the streets. Even in these conditions. But the two of you were alone, streetlights illuminating your 'dance floor.' His reluctance seemed to fade away as the two of you swayed on the street, with seemingly no rhythm whatsoever. "If you wanted to sway with me, we could've done that inside," he pointed out, letting out a small snort. "Just because I said I wanted to dance didn't mean that I promised to be good at it."

He guided you through a slow rhythm, his coordination slightly better than what you would've given him credit for. His feet moving to a silent melody in his head. "I was a chambelán at this quince, they had us practice the routine until we ended up crying or collapsing from exhaustion," he spoke up before you had the chance to ask, "But at least it's given me some pretty gnarly dance moves."

"Hey, Miguel?"

"¿Qué paso?"

"Never say 'gnarly' again. You sound older than what you are," you burst out into little giggles at the scoff that left his lips. "I'll let you know that all the scientific studies I've participated on have shown that gnarly's making a comeback."

"Hey, Miguel?" You were debating on if this was the right time to admit what had been threatening to escape your lips for a while now. All you could do was hope that he didn't think that this admission was too soon.

"If you're gonna ask me about the resources that I have for those studies, I don't have them on me now. I'll get them later, though," you could only roll your eyes at his persistence, a laugh bubbling from your chest. Even as the laugh echoed through the empty street, you weren't exactly too concerned with how loud you were being. It wasn't like it compared to the way your heart was beating against your rib cage, your hands starting to clam up in his grasp.

"No, it's not about that. Not that gnarly's making a comeback either way."

"Mark my words. Gnarly. Will. Be. Making. A. Comeback," he accentuated his words carefully, giving you a mock glare before he continued to speak, "But if it's not about that, then what's up?"

The moment of truth. Maybe this was a mistake. You could feel your throat close up, your movements starting to get a little sloppy. Just tell him. His reaction can't be that bad, right? You knew he had no reason to react negatively but every single worst-case scenario started to run through your head relentlessly. "I love you."

"I love you too," while it was the response that you were expecting, it still caught you off-guard. He held your gaze, showing no signs of regret or hesitation as he whispered those words to you. "I don't think that I've loved someone the same way that I love you," and even now, he had to top off your admission. You weren't sure how much time had passed by while the two of you danced away, all that you knew was that the cold tomorrow was probably worth it. If only to say that you got the chance at this experience.

He didn't say anything the next morning when you woke up with a cough, your skin on your nose starting to get raw from how many times you'd gotten up to wipe it. Even though you could tell that he was itching to tell you, the words practically on the top of his tongue if you had to guess. "I got you some chicken soup," he spoke up after you woke up from what seemed to be your 50th nap on the day, the faint aroma from the soup wafting up your stuffy nose.

Definitely worth it.

And even the time that he'd gone up to receive his award with your lipstick all over his face

"I need my good luck kiss, c'mon," he gently pinched your side, a small laugh escaping from your lips as you attempted to push his hand away. "You'll get my lipstick all over you," you pointed out, remembering that the Chanel lipstick you had on was in fact, not transfer-proof. Miguel didn't seem to care too much though, a grin on his face as he leaned in to kiss you. "At least they'll know that my lady loves me."

You'd imprinted the mark of your lips on his cheeks and the tip of his nose, satisfied by the work you'd done when you looked at it. Perhaps you'd gotten a little carried away. Not that he looked bad covered in your red lipstick, by any means. He was no longer Miguel O'Hara, the world-renowned geneticist with more awards under his belt than he could count. He was simply just a love struck idiot with a grin on his face. A love struck idiot for you.

"What time do the awards start again?" You wiped away the lipstick on the side of your mouth and under your lips, grabbing the tube from your purse to fix it. The last thing that the two of you needed was to hear Aaron's snide remarks about how Miguel was incompetent. You went to hand him a clean makeup wipe, but he rejected the advance. "I believe they started about five minutes ago," he responded, pulling his jacket sleeve to look at the watch adorning his wrist.

"Why are you not freaking out about this more?" You questioned him, panic evident on your voice as you pushed everything inside your purse and moved to get out the car. He put his hand on your thigh, gently rubbing it through the material of the silk dress you'd worn for tonight. "Why are you freaking so much about it?" For someone who valued punctuality, he seemed to be oddly calm in this situation. Well, you supposed there was nothing you could do now that you both were late. You took a couple deep breaths, grabbing the stuff you'd missed when you were in a rush.

While you were busy gathering your bearings, he went around the car and opened the door for you. Extending a hand out to you. He grasped your fingers in between his own, helping you with getting out of the car before he even thought of stepping into the building. "They're about to announce your name, O'Hara. Get in there," Delgato hissed as the two of you walked past him, his head craning up to look up at Miguel. "Maybe if you stopped standing in my way, I might be able to."

You could practically see the sheer anger in Delgato's face as he muttered to himself, moving out of the way nonetheless. "Now I know why you end up so stressed," you muttered, making your way down the stairs to take a seat. The room was a bit packed but the two of you managed to find some good seats in the middle. A couple people turned to look at the two of you but their attention was captured once more by the person speaking up on stage. Something about a drug slowing the speed in which some disease grew.

"And now for our next award of the night, please give a hand to Dr. Miguel O'Hara from Alchemax."

The cameras started clicking immediately as soon as he stepped onto the stage, a couple whispers of how unprofessional he was being being shared around in the audience. A couple thank you's were shared, to his lab colleagues and assistants who all simply just nodded upon being acknowledged, before he delved into what the topic of his research had been about. Well, just enough to keep the audience and you entertained. Even though only a couple of the words coming out his mouth actually managed to stick, you couldn't help but listen intently.

To the way that he described his work, with such passion and dedication. The way that he visibly lightened up whenever he got to speak about something that was fascinating to him. Even with all the talk circulating through the audience, you just couldn't help but be so proud of him. His eyes met yours through the sea of people, a smile on his face as he finished with the summary he'd gone over time and time again in front of the bathroom mirror. "Are there any questions?"

He was starting to get agitated, even you could tell from a distance. Well, it's not like you could exactly blame either parties here. The audience wanted to know why he'd shown up with lipstick adorning almost every corner of his face and he wanted to get asked questions about his research. "Any questions that aren't related to my current appearance?" He decided to ask, and it was almost comical how many hands went down. He answered the questions of those who remained, about five. But all he seemed to care about was having your attention in the audience as he spoke.

And while you'd expected him to win tonight, you hadn't expected this. Having him on one knee while you two were supposed to be celebrating his achievement. "So I didn't really prepare a speech before this or anything. But I was just wondering if you'd give me the second win of the night and agree to marry me," As corny as it was, you found yourself nodding to his proposal. "You mean to tell me that worked?" He asked, hesitatingly reaching over to grab your hand to slide the ring on.

"Yes, you idiot. You're acting like I expected anything more from you," you answered, watching as he slid the band on. It was fairly simple, a small stone perched on the middle of it. Your birth stone. "I promise to make you the happiest woman alive," he murmured against your lips, gently tilting your chin so you'd be looking at him. "You already are," it was your turn to be smooth. He let out a small chuckle, his lips gently pressing against yours.

So how did it get to this point?

To the point of having dozens of your calls and messages ignored, and if there was a response, it'd be a simple one-worded response. Enough for you to want to drop the subject all together. Dates between the two of you were a common occurrence, or at least often enough to the point where you didn't have to spend five minutes wondering when the last one had been. Promises left unfulfilled, accumulating only to be left discarded in the dust.

As much as you tried to resist it at first, you started to grow.. okay with it. It felt almost selfish to ask more of him, knowing how much effort he put into making sure that the three of you had a roof over your head. You were able to get a part-time job, giving you more time to spend with Gabriella. A nagging thought kept bugging you though. You married him for the purpose of having him as a husband, not solely a provider. Maybe you weren't as okay with it as you thought.

Your eye twitched when the last balloon was being filled up. How was it that almost every member of his family was capable of showing up and he wasn't? Even some of them came from Mexico for the week. For all the events that he'd missed, you at least would've thought that he would make some attempt to show up for Gabriella's party. You could see her looking around, with the hope of catching a glimpse of her father. It wouldn't hurt to call his work to see what was so important that he couldn't get off, right?

"Alchemax Industries. What can I help you with today?" The receptionist's bored tone came through the other end of the line after spending a couple minutes on hold, your foot irritably tapping against the hardwood floor. All you could do was hope that they wouldn't send you to another line like the previous five times.

"Hi, I'm calling about one of your employees. Miguel O'Hara. I was wondering until what time he was scheduled to work today," you answered quietly, in attempts that no one would overhear. The last thing you needed were any additional comments from his family about how you couldn't keep him around. You listened as the receptionist on the other side started typing out on their computer, silently thanking them.

"¡Te voy agarrar!" You heard yelling behind you, moving to the side before you ended up getting trampled by a bunch of five year olds. "Okay, sorry about taking a while. So about the employee that you're calling, there's a mistake. Miguel hasn't-" The rest of it fell onto deaf ears, your grip on the phone tightening as you struggled to keep up your composure. "Ma'am?" You heard the receptionist ask after a couple moments of silence. The fact that the call had ended hadn't even registered until a while later.

The words kept sounding through your head as the party continued, despite how much you'd tried to drown them out. With water balloon fights in the backyard with some of the kids, karaoke with Gabriella, and the breaking of the piñata. But you couldn't. Your eyes kept darting over to the door, almost expecting to find Miguel walking in at any given moment now. Though you weren't exactly surprised when it remained shut after the first five times that you'd checked. Everyone was having a good time and all you could do was miss him.

Chatter and laughter filled the atmosphere as you made your way through the penthouse, trying to find Gabriella. She'd disappeared right after the cake was cut with the pretense that she needed to use the bathroom about half an hour ago. And while she did spend up to that in the bathroom, it was only really whenever you gave her your cellphone to play around with. And you knew that none of the kids were playing hide and seek. "Gabi!" You called out, searching for her in the guest room.

The last time you'd seen her, she was busy talking with her tías. Nice women, really. Just too involved in finding out whatever chisme they could get out of Gabriella without any regards towards her feelings or the setting they were currently in. You wouldn't be surprised if they brought up the topic of separation to the poor girl. "Hey, have you seen Gabi around?" You didn't even question why Gabriel was exiting one of the rooms with one of your friends, too concerned about Gabi.

Gabriel wiped some spit from the corner of his mouth, shaking his head. "I'll let you know if we find her," he assured you, trying to hide your friend with his body. Like that'd erase the suspicion. Though you guessed it wasn't the right time to go over the whole 'don't hurt them' spiel. You'd do that when you knew your daughter was safe. "Okay, thank you," you told him, going to look for her in the secret spots you knew she liked to hide. In the laundry room. The library. Out in the balcony.

You stepped inside your shared closet with Miguel, not expecting to find her inside. You only really bothered to check as a last resort. But there she was. Her knees pulled up to her chest with her head buried deep in them, sniffling that was almost enough to bring you down to your knees. You walked over to her, sitting down in front of her before gently pulling her hands away from her face.

Only then could you see the extent of her pain. Her cheeks were tear-streaked and her nose was starting to turn pink at the tip from how much she'd been rubbing at it. "What's wrong, mija?" You wiped away the tears that brimmed at the edge of her waterline with your thumb, drying it on your jeans. All you'd been trying to do was make sure she was having a good time at the party and your efforts had all but flopped.

"Why didn't he show up?" With every little crack of her voice, you could feel a piece of your heart shatter. You knew perfectly well who she was referring to her. Just like you'd been waiting for him to arrive, you caught small glimpses of Gabriella searching hopelessly around for her father. "I don't know. I wish I knew what could've been so important but I don't," you whispered, holding her close to your chest. There wasn't any use lying to her, not when you knew she'd look through it.

"Mami, me duele la cabeza," Gabriella spoke up after a couple seconds, looking up at you. You could only guess. From what you could gather, you figured that she must've been crying at least for the previous half hour. "I can't give you any pills.. but I'll read you a story once you lay down for bed," you told her, helping her stand up from her spot on the floor. Gabriella left the closet to go brush her teeth and get ready for bed, leaving you in the deafening silence of the closet.

"Party's over," you announced on your way downstairs, already imagining the flurry of complaints that would come your way. You knew that if it was up to everyone else, they would find a way to keep the party going until two in the morning. After thanking everyone for coming and sending them home with leftovers that would last them through the weekend, you cleaned up the house a bit. Picking up a couple candy wrappers from the floor and sweeping off the multitude of streamers on the floor.

You'd spent the next hour tidying up the house, cleaning up juice stains from your once pristine white floors. Well, at least Gabriella managed to have a good time. Mostly. You'd almost expected her to fall asleep by the time you went back upstairs, but you saw her peering over at you when you opened up the door. "Alright, what story did you want me to read?" You questioned, stepping over to the library she had in the corner of her room. Naming off the first suggestions that appeared in your field of vision. "Can we do The Little Prince?"

Gabriella scooted over on the bed to let you sit down next to her, listening intently as you begin to read the story. Almost like she hadn't been listening to this story for the previous two weeks. At some point, she'd learned some of the passages from memory and began to recite them from the top of her head. You finished the book, half expecting her to still be awake and wanting another book. But no. Her eyes were shut, her arms tightly wrapped around one of her plushies while her breathing slowed down.

"Que sueñes con los angelitos," you whispered, pushing a couple loose strands of her hair back before kissing her forehead. She stirred in her sleep, her grip on the blankets tightening slightly. You moved when she finally managed to still, putting the book back on the shelf where it belonged. Prepping it for tomorrow. You made your way out the room, making sure to leave her night lamp on before shutting the door behind you. At least her headache hadn't bothered her too badly.

You poured yourself a glass of wine from a trip you'd taken with Miguel to Italy, swirling the burgundy liquid around. Much how your own thoughts were currently swirling around without any clear direction. Not your usual drink of choice, you had to admit. But it was a nice distraction. The subtle glow from the moonlight illuminated the otherwise empty room, the quietness almost too much to bear. There was nothing to distract you from the thoughts running rampant inside your head, each one of them leading to what seemed to be the same conclusion.

A divorce.

Even thinking about it felt wrong, though. You and Miguel made a pact upon getting married—stating that no matter how mad the two of you got at one another, that word would never be mentioned. Not even as a joke. But you supposed that was made during a different time. A time where Miguel wouldn't put his family on the back burner simply because of work affairs. A time where you didn't have to come up with excuses for his behavior.

It wasn't just for yourself that you were considering this solution. But also for Gabriella. His absence was starting to affect her in more ways than you could possibly fathom. Not just today for her birthday, but also throughout the last couple months. You could see the different attempts that Gabriella had made to talk to her dad, most of them ending up unsuccessful. Only leaving her more and more confused. Leaving her wondering what she'd done wrong.

"¡Mami!" Gabriella called out from the other room while you were busy finishing up dinner in the kitchen, setting a separate plate for Miguel to put in the microwave. A nudging feeling that you would find the plate the same way you'd left it running through your head. You walked over to Gabi, spotting her in the kitchen table with a coloring book set in front of her. You were almost impressed by how precise she was at such a young age.

She'd managed to color in the photos without going through the lines once. She was always a bit of a perfectionist though, much like her father. It felt like staring at a reflection of a mini Miguel at times. If only he would try to maintain that relationship you knew Gabriella needed in her life.

"Yeah, what's up?" You wiped your hands on a napkin before taking a seat next to her. Looking over at the design on her book, you decided to commit the sight to memory. It wouldn't hurt to search it up later and use it as a form of gift inspiration for her birthday party coming up. "There's this parent career day tomorrow and I was hoping that you could come."

You wouldn't have expected her to ask you for help first. Given that your job mostly consisted of logistics and paperwork most of the day. The last interesting thing that had happened in the office was an affair between one of the CEO's and an intern. "You sure you don't want your dad to go instead?" Even if it wasn't by much, you figured that genetics would be more interesting than how graph analysis works. Gabriella played with her pens, avoiding looking at you.

"What's the point of asking if he's not gonna show up?" She spoke up after a couple moments, a small sigh escaping from your lips. You couldn't lie to her any better than you could lie to yourself, you knew that much. But you at least had to try. If only to stop that frown from forming on her face. "How about I present what your dad does for work? So it's almost like he's there," Except he wouldn't be. You figured it was a good enough compromise for her though. "But why can't he show up? Do we not matter to him anymore?"

The same question that clouded your thoughts while you laid in bed, arms wrapped around one of his pillows so it wouldn't feel so empty. So you wouldn't be reminded that the stupid California King was too big just for you to lay on it. "We do matter, he's just busy with work. It's how we're able to live the way we do," you answered, trying to keep your answer simple without dumbing it down. She was smart enough to understand. Smarter than you sometimes gave her credit for. "Okay. Your option sounds good."

You'd stayed up well past midnight that night, reading through a couple of Miguel's research papers in some attempt to figure out what you needed to describe. So far, all you had was talking about flasks and the basics of chemistry that you'd learned. Adorning a poster board with glitter also proved to be more work than you would've imagined, the clean-up taking longer than you would've expected. At least it didn't look too bad. Well, just enough to impress a classroom full of ten year olds.

Just the fact that Gabriella wasn't even making the effort anymore was enough to reassure the decision that maybe a divorce was necessary. Even if the thought was still painful to think about. At some level, you still loved Miguel just as much as the first day that you'd uttered those words to him. Just as much as the day you showed up on the aisle to officially intertwine your life with his. But you knew that neither you or Gabriella could be content just expecting the minimum from him.

The front door swung open, a loud groan escaping from Miguel's lips as he stepped into the threshold. His work shoes squeaked against the floors you'd just cleaned as he trudged over to the living room. "Hey, where's Gabi?" His lips barely grazed your cheek when he bent down to greet you, his voice riddled with exhaustion. He took a seat on the couch, his back slouched against the cushions. "She's asleep. Given that it's currently midnight."

You heard shuffling from his side, the bright phone screen illuminating his face. From this angle, you could see the dark circles underneath his eyes. It almost made you regret wanting to even bring this topic up. He squinted, tapping at the screen with his pointer finger to turn down the brightness. "Ah shock, you're right. I missed her birthday," Normally you would've been okay with the fact that he'd even bothered to remember the event he'd missed.

"Where were you?" You questioned, reaching over to turn on the lamp. You felt like one of those detectives in the old movies you'd watched with Miguel, the light dim enough to create an ominous shadow over yourself. "What do you mean? I was at work all day," he responded, rubbing a hand through his face. He was committed to making the lie work, you had to give him that. He even had the Alchemax lab coat and badge on. And under normal circumstances, you might've just let that slide. Like all the other previous instances.

You calmly took a sip from your drink, letting the suspense marinate for just a little while longer. "I called Alchemax. It's funny that you say that, given that their system shows that you quit months ago. So, I'll give you one more chance to tell me the truth," you told him, his eyes widening almost comedically. The silence was enough of a tell for you to realize that you had him cornered now. He managed to meet your gaze after a couple seconds, speaking almost begrudgingly, "You called my job?"

You gave him a dirty look, almost surprised that it was what he was choosing to focus on. "Right, right. Not the point," he muttered, rubbing his temples. The silence was almost deafening, the two of you trying to keep things quiet for the sake of keeping some normalcy in front of Gabriella. "She kept asking about you, you know?" You started off, setting the wine glass with a thump before speaking again, "I kept lying to her. Telling her that something at work was more important than you being able to show up to her party."

"I want a divorce." It was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, and you could almost see the different wheels in his head work. The wedding ring around your finger suddenly felt too heavy, the life that the two of you built together threatening to crash down in a mere matter of seconds just by that single sentence. "The least that you could do now is tell me the truth. Because what I'm imagining right now is that you have some kind of secret family on the down low."

In your defense, what more were you supposed to think? Especially when he's made no effort to tell you anything up to this point? You picked up the wine glass, glancing over at him to see what he'd do now. You'd be lying if you said that you fully expected him to start telling you the truth. But you hoped he did. If only to make you reconsider the idea of getting a divorce. If only to let you sleep better at night.

"Okay. Fine, I'll tell you. Just please.. consider the divorce one more time. Please. And believe me when I say there is no other family," he stood up from his spot, his hands clasped together as he stood in front of you. This was starting to sound dangerously similar to the number of excuses that he'd given you before but you decided on giving him the benefit of the doubt. You stayed silent and he took that as a cue to continue, "I haven't been around because... I'm Spider-Man."

The wine in your mouth poured down your nose, the liquid have gone down the wrong pipe. You coughed, attempting to clear your throat as the words settled in. There was no way that he was being serious. But the way that he was looking at you made it seem like he was. "And I know that it doesn't justify putting the two of you on the back burner but there's a lot of crime in Nueva York and throughout the universes in case you haven't realized." Universes?

Now you were certain he'd either lost it or he was just pulling excuses out of his ass. Probably a combination of both if you had to guess. "You're kidding," you deadpanned, waiting for some kind of indication that this was all just a joke. He flicked his wrist, a string of what seemed to be a web sticking onto the lamp next to you. You reached over, tentatively scooping the substance onto your pointer finger to examine what it was. It was indeed.. a web. You were starting to wonder if you'd drunk too much wine.

Nope. Still half a glass left. You punched the side of your arm, waiting for some kind of indication that you were dreaming. All you received was a sharp shot of pain though. Now all you had left to do was actually acknowledge the situation. Accept the fact that your husband was the self-proclaimed vigilante of Nueva York.

"Why didn't you tell me in the first place?" You managed to ask after the initial shock had died down, clearing your throat. He shifted his feet awkwardly, sitting down next to you once more. "Because I've seen too many instances of this play out. I didn't want any danger to come to you after you found out," he responded, his hands reaching out to hold your own. "But please, trust me. I only have eyes for you. Every single of my absences has been for the better of Nueva York."

It all started to make sense, though. The amount of files scattered on his desk, information on previous villains. A couple comic books from the previous Spider-Man on his bedside table. The awkward disappearances when the two of you were out on the street.

"Please say something," he urged after a couple seconds of your silence, his calloused thumb rubbing small circles on your hand. What could you really say, though? It felt wrong to still be pissed off at him while he went off to save the city, and yet.. you still couldn't find it in yourself to forgive him just yet. "I know that the city of Nueva York needs you. But so does Gabriella. She doesn't deserve to be questioning what she's doing wrong as a child."

He was about to speak up but you quickly interrupted him, "She thinks she's not doing enough. That all those trophies in her room aren't enough for you to be proud of her. I beg of you to find some kind of balance before you end up losing the both of us for good." With that, you downed the rest of your wine before retreating to the kitchen to clean up the glass. You expected him to come back to bed, though you hadn't heard him come in after half an hour of tossing and turning. All you heard was the guest room door being opened.

You were awoken to the sweet scent of buttermilk, all kinds of different alarms going off in your head. The thought of Gabriella burning herself in the kitchen was starting to imprint itself in your brain. It certainly wasn't Miguel. Despite how groggy you were, you quickly rubbed your eyes and made your way over to the kitchen. Niña Bonita welcomed you as soon as you stepped inside, noticing Miguel stirring some batter with Gabriella by his side. At least she wasn't too close to the stove.

"Mi niña bonita, my dulce princesa," he hummed along to the song, gently ruffling Gabriella's hair. You stood at the doorway in silence, a small smile making itself known on your face despite how mad you were at Miguel. Gabriella attempted to push off his hands, but even she couldn't hide how much she was enjoying this time with him. "Mami, you finally got up!" Gabriella called you over once she noticed you.

"When'd you take the time to learn how to make these?" Usually it was you that took care of the cooking. "I'm not completely useless in the kitchen, I'll have you know," Miguel retorted, flipping a pancake with practiced ease. Though you knew better. You could see a couple pancake pieces sticking up to the ceiling. Just how long had he been up to try to perfect this skill for Gabriella? "Take a seat, they'll almost be done. The sous chef's been doing an excellent job helping."

"Papi promised we'd go to the aquarium today, to make up for missing my birthday," Gabriella announced as you were in the middle of pouring syrup onto your pancakes. You had to forcibly stop yourself from reacting, trying to ensure that you wouldn't be having syrup with a side of pancakes. "You sure you can handle it?" You gritted under your teeth when Gabriella went to retrieve her tablet in the living room. "I wouldn't have suggested it if I couldn't. Haven't given you any reason to but have some faith in me."

You raised your brows, waiting for him to realize just how contradictory that statement was. Not that it ever came, though. "Can I stay the night over at my friend's house?" Gabriella piped once she finished her pancakes, all too eager to grab your plate along with Miguel's. You glanced over at Miguel, seeing the resistance on his expression. "Which friend is it?" You questioned, trying to rack your brain if it was something that she mentioned before. "The one from soccer practice, Candice."

After making some calls to Candice's mom to make sure that sleepover was actually something that she was aware of, you gave Gabriella the go-ahead. She practically rushed into her bedroom after the three of you had finished with breakfast, picking out a pair of pajamas and clothes before stuffing them into her backpack. Triple checking it so there would be no reason for room to doubt her preparation. While she was in the shower, you snuck in her stuffed animal. Just as a safety precaution.

The trip to the aquarium was honestly more trouble than it was worth, in your opinion. Parking was nearly impossible, the vein on Miguel's forehead threatening to pop with each turn that he made around the lot. Waiting patiently for whatever spot would open up for half an hour before realizing that no one was leaving. Even Gabriella had started to get fidgety in the back seat, asking Miguel if you all were there yet over and over again. "Just get the valet, I'm sure it won't be that expensive," you suggested, hoping that it wouldn't add on to the frustration Miguel was feeling.

"Wait, hold on," like a beacon of hope, one of the spots opened up just as soon as you said that. Before he had the chance to park the car though, one of the newly arriving guests immediately seized the opportunity and took it before he had the chance. With one slam to the steering wheel, he relented and went over to get in line for the valet parking. "Here, you can watch a documentary on turtles," you pulled it up on your phone before leaving, not that you thought you would have to use it. And just like that, Gabriella immersed herself on what was on the screen.

Seeing the price of valet parking almost made you want to regret ever suggesting at all. Seriously, who charged $50 just for a parking spot? Gabriella let her grip on your phone slip when she was handing it to you, your brows furrowing as you already started to imagine the crack on screen just from the sound it made hitting the concrete. You quickly picked up, pocketing it up before Gabriella started to feel guilty. "Don't worry about it. I was due for a new one anyways," you assured her, holding to her hand while Miguel held her other one.

The three of you were visibly annoyed as soon as you stepped foot into the aquarium, the excitement towards this trip dying down with every single thing that kept going wrong. Not only had it taken half an hour and $50 to even enter, but now, none of the shows were even available? Even the dolphins had gone down with some kind of fish flu. Why it was even so full was beyond you. "Come on, we'll still have a good time," Miguel sounded like he was trying to collectively convince all three of you, offering Gabriella a piggy back ride as compensation.

Gabriella didn't seem to mind it too much, her head raised like she was royalty while perched on Miguel's shoulders. His grip on her legs was tight, assuring she wouldn't fall down. Given that she had a tendency to test herself and lean as forward as she could when one of the fish approached. You'd never seen her this excited about a trip before. You quickly realized the reason for her excitement. Miguel kept giving her subtle facts about each of the different species that you approached, whether from his own brain or the information board put up.

And she held on to every single word that escaped from his mouth, listening to him like he was the most interesting man in the world.

After seeing how full the gift shop was at the end of the tour, you decided to wait outside with a couple other guests. All you could hope was that Miguel would talk to her while the two of them were inside, give her some of that connection that she longed for. She came back bouncing back with a shark plushie— one identical to the one Miguel had gotten you on a prior date. Just the sight make your resolve melt a bit. You glanced over at Miguel, seeing him give you a shrug. "It's what the princess wanted."

Exiting the aquarium was almost as troublesome as entering, a line of cars parked at the exit. Gabriella didn't seem to mind it as much, plotting a story line with her as a mermaid with the shark. It'd been a while since you got the chance to see her be so animated. Throughout the car ride, she couldn't stop talking about how the trip at the aquarium and explaining the exhibits to you in explicit detail. Well, that was until you got to Candice's house. She was quick to leave as soon as she saw her friend waiting outside, her two feet almost too slow to match her energy.

The tension in the air was thick from the moment Gabriella had departed the car but it was much more obvious now that the two of you were stuck in a room together. After making a beeline to go change into a pair of shorts and a shirt—calling it a night, you were surprised to find Miguel still laying on the bed. Idly tapping at his phone with one finger, the faint sound of a Candy Crush!reaching your ears. You figured that he would've left to go monitor the city after spending the day with Gabriella. Maybe he was determined to make it work this time around.

No.

You couldn't start thinking that way just because he bothered to stick around for one evening.

He settled in between your legs, continuing to tap away at the screen. As much as you wanted to protest, you decided not to. From this angle, you could see him struggling with solving level 3976. How much time had he seriously dedicated to this game? Time that he hadn't spent dedicating towards you. Great. Just the thought was enough to piss you off once more. You grabbed your own phone from the bed stand, forcing yourself not to roll your eyes every time one of those stupid family channels showed up. If you had to bet, you'd guess their marriage wasn't that good either.

Miguel looked up at you from his spot in between your legs, with furrowed brows and brown irises practically boring into you. He looked so needy.. so desperate. "Please mamita, I need you. I need to touch you again," he pleaded, his lips leaving a searing sensation as he kissed up your leg. It'd been too long since you'd received any form of intimacy from anything other than your fingers and your vibrator. And while they did get the job done, they didn't exactly offer this kind of foreplay.

He moved the flimsy material of your pajama shorts to the side, kissing the innermost part of your thighs. Your fingers tugged at the strands, trying to pull him to your cunt. With every single teasing breath against the thin material, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing and dripping onto your panties. "Not yet," and the bastard had the nerve to laugh. It was the last sound you heard before you felt a small sting on your thigh, your eyes almost popping out of your skull. When he said he was Spider-Man, you'd been expecting the whole swinging around.

What you hadn't been expecting, however, was a pair of fangs that were almost the same length as your head. Just how far did the extent of these spider powers go? You were thinking of every possibility, unaware that you'd even spaced out. He regained your attention by pulling the waistband of your shorts, the elastic snapping against your skin. "Only thing you have to be focused is on me," he spoke up before you had the chance to say anything, moving to take off your shorts off. You raised your hips, your panties and shorts falling off in one swift motion.

He'd been nothing but desperate earlier, but his touch almost seemed reverent this time around. Kissing up your legs as if you were something to worship, drinking up your gasps as if they were the finest tunes he'd ever listened to. His hands pried your thighs open, leaving you completely exposed to him. Only before he got the chance to lean in was that you got the chance to see just how desperate for this he truly was. His pointer finger ran through your folds, collecting whatever slick had started to accumulate.

"You say you want a divorce but this pretty cunt's telling me a different thing," almost like he was timing it—which he was, he pulled his fingers out of your cunt. A loud squelch echoed through the otherwise silent room, a small groan escaping from your lips. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of letting him hear your moans. "Let me hear you mamita. Let me hear good I'm making you feel," he prodded, his fingers moving in a scissoring motions. You bit on your bottom lip, a muffled moan escaping your lips.

"Eso, no me nieges. Te lo ruego."

He pulled his fingers out of your cunt, his eyes boring into yours as he licked the glistening slick off them. Practically feining to get every single drop. He leaned in to be face-level with your cunt, licking a stripe up your folds before parting them apart with his tongue. "Oh fuck," the moan slipped out of your lips before you had a chance to think better of it, the small chuckle he let out against your cunt vibrating throughout your body. His head moved from side to side, practically engulfing himself in between your legs with his nose pressing against your clit.

Your legs trembled in his grasp, struggling to keep them open when all you wanted to do was close them around his head. You wanted him to stop. You wanted him to keep going. The constant whiplash was enough to make you into a whining mess underneath him, despite your better judgement. "Please," you didn't even make sense to yourself. You weren't exactly sure what it is that you were even begging for. "Shh, it's okay. I'll give you what you need," and yet, he seemed to understand your pleas perfectly.

His mouth closed around your clit, his eyes boring into yours as he sucked on the neglected nub. Your nails dug into his scalp, a groan escaping from his lips. Like a domino effect, that small groan vibrated against your clit which caused you to only tighten your grip on his hair. You bucked your hips to meet his lips, his grip on your legs tightening. "I got you mamita, just let me take my time pleasing you," he murmured, kissing a trail from your inner thigh to your folds once more. His tongue fell flat, licking a stripe up your glistening folds.

The tip of his tongue prodded at your entrance before the wet muscle pushed inside, your juices leaking down to his mouth almost instantaneously. If anything, he didn't seem to mind it. He almost looked like he was in complete bliss. Miguel made no attempt to continue the ploy he'd started with the eye contact earlier, his eyes shut as he got lost in the taste of your essence. "Oh, Mig, Mig, Mig-" Broken fragments of his name escaped from your lips as his pointer finger rubbed small circles on your clit, the dual stimulation enough to have your toes curling.

You reached down to play with your erect nipples, rolling them in between your fingers. The orgasm you were chasing was so close, so attainable. "Gonna cum, gonna cum," every single word from your vocabulary seemed limited. All you could do was repeat yourself and hope that he would get the picture. "That's it, you got it," he coaxed you into an orgasm, your toes curling and your grip on his hair tightening. If anything, he seemed to revel in how you were gripping him.

Every word at the tip of your tongue failed you as you came with a shudder, your release coating his mouth and chin in the process. Miguel eagerly took every drop that you had to give, even going back into your cunt to get anything that he might've missed. You practically had to push him off before he started to eat you out again. While you knew that he could handle it, you weren't too sure that you could. You let your back hit the mattress, basking in the afterglow from your orgasm.

Before Miguel had the chance to finish with unbuttoning his pants, you took the chance to clear your throat. His hands halted their movements, his eyes shooting up to you like a deer caught in headlights. "With the way you've been acting, do you seriously think you've earned the right to fuck me?" You questioned, seeing his expression visibly deflate as he removed his hands from the buttons. "Please. I'll do anything, mi vida. Es tortura tenerte tan cerca y no poder tocarte," it was a rare sight to see.

Miguel prided himself in being above begging. And yet, here he was.

"Go on and lay on the bed for me," your tone offered no room for protests, his steps quick as he went to lay down on the bed. You trailed your hand from his knee to his crotch, cupping his heavy balls in your palm. "Look at me and tell me you have the right to fuck me, if that's the case," you spoke up, looking over at him as your hand switched from one ball to the other. Giving each the same amount of attention. You watched as he opened his mouth, closed it back up again, and repeated the process until he eventually gave up.

"I can't," he huffed out, almost in a whisper. You reached over in your bedside table, pulling out your trusty vibrator. "And why's that?" You asked him, your touch featherlight when you rubbed the vibrator against the outline of his cock. Just enough to give him a taste of what he could have. "Because I don't deserve to fuck you. I know. But I'm still selfish," he admitted after a while, his words barely above a whisper. Good enough of an answer for now.

A shaky groan escaped from his lips when you turned the vibrator on, the lowest intensity almost too painful to bear. Shudders ran across his body as you rubbed the vibrator on the tip of his cock, sliding it down to his frenulum. "Ngh, don't stop," his voice was practically a whimper by this point, his hips bucking to meet your touch. Not that you allowed for that continue for long though. You pushed your thighs down with one hand, his muscles flexing underneath your grasp.

You moved the vibrator to rest against the tip of his cock, precum leaking onto the tip of it. You tentatively brought it up to your lips, swirling your tongue around it as the familiar salty taste overwhelmed your senses. His eyes were locked on yours, his hips bucking up in some miserable attempt to gain some friction. You set the vibrator back on the tip of his cock, a hiss escaping from his lips. "Turn it up."

"What's the magic word?" You shifted to grab the remote, lowering the intensity despite the groans that escaped from his lips. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, if you had to be honest. Well, the closest he could get to that point anyways. "Pl.." he couldn't finish his sentence, a choked groan escaping from his lips. He looked over at you, like he was expecting you to understand. And while you did, you also wanted him to use his words. Hear how pretty he sounded begging.

"P-Ple-nghh."

“Plea-shockk."

"P-Ay mierda."

It was a cruel game you were playing, you were aware. You kept the vibrator at the same speed, raising a brow as you looked at him. "Sounds like you don't really want it," you taunted, deciding to put the vibrator to the highest level possible. Only for a fraction of a second, though. Just as quickly as relief had come for him, it was gone. He let out a groan, trying to will the word to slip out of his mouth. Just one word.

"Please," it seemed like your little show of motivation had finally paid off. You turned the intensity of the vibrator gradually this time around, allowing him to get used to the sensation. "See what you get when you ask nicely," you decided to taunt him even further despite knowing better. You knew your cunt would be paying the consequences for your relentless teasing later in the night. Not like the thought mattered now, though. Not when you had Miguel begging and at the verge of tears just for your touch.

His balls felt heavy to the touch, almost like he was at the point of cumming. You gave both of them equal attention, rolling them in your hand. Miguel's eyes could only clamp shut, his mouth parted. "Please let me cum, so close," he begged so nicely, a couple drops of precum leaking down to your thigh. You could always be generous and let him cum. Then again, the idea of prolonging his orgasm was just too enticing to resist. Each buck of his hips became more erratic, more needy. Before he got to that point of climax, you pulled the vibrator away from his cock.

"I asked nicely," he pointed out, his voice cracking slightly. He scrambled to sit up, almost searching your expression to see if he'd done something wrong. "I'm aware," you simply responded, wiping your vibrator before placing it on the nightstand to clean it throughly later. "I just didn't feel like letting you," you added, waiting to see if he'd offer more resistance. You could see he wanted to say something, but he was holding himself from saying anything. Smart man.

Miguel set a pillow underneath your stomach, your back set in a mean arch as you laid on it. He stepped behind you, his thumb rubbing against your folds before he dipped it inside. Your wetness immediately engulfed his finger, your walls stretching out as he pushed it deeper inside. "What happened to the attitude you had earlier, hm?" He used the same taunting tone that you had, mocking you. A protest died in your throat as the tip of his cock went inside your folds, your head craning back to look at him.

"Just the t-"

"Yes, yes, just the tip. I promise," he cut you off before you had the chance to finish speaking, rolling his eyes. You were already testing his patience by allowing just the tip. He retracted, the tip of his cock an angry shade of red as precum dripped down his shaft. Your walls clenched and unclenched rhythmically, your own body betraying your resolve. He pushed the tip inside once more, keeping it inside your wet cunt. "Please, let me fuck you properly. You're punishing both of us, not just me."

And here you would've figured that his negotiations were reserved just for the state of Nueva York. You shook your head, determined to see this through. "If it's not enough for you, we can just stop here," And how you wished your voice would've come out with more bite. Now you sounded just as needy as he did. Maybe even more. "No, no, it's fine," he was quick to respond, retracting. It was almost painful how slow he was going, almost making you want to give up on this whole argument. Getting stubborn wasn't getting you anywhere.

"Please let me fuck you properly," he pleaded after a couple thrusts, his hands on your hips. Well. At least you didn't have to give in first. "Fine," you tried to sound annoyed, though you weren't convincing him any better than you were yourself. A strangled gasp left your mouth as he bottomed out, your cunt stretched out to the brim. Your walls clenched against his shaft rhythmically, trying to get used to the intrusion. Your hands reached over for the pillow above you, your grip on it tightening as he pulled out.

His skin slapped against your own with each thrust that he made, his grip on your hips tightening. "Don't stop, Mig! So, so good," he'd turned you into a babbling mess within a matter of seconds. "Wasn't planning on it," he responded quickly, each word punctuated with a harsh thrust. You craned your head to look at him, the sight having a new wave of arousal coat his cock. His head was lolled back, his face contorted into one of pure pleasure. You rocked your hips to match his rhythm to the best of his ability, your ass smacking against his hips with every movement.

"Oh shock, slow down," he was mesmerized by the sight of your ass rippling with each move that you made, one of his hands reaching down to cup the flesh. "Not gonna last long if you keep at it," he added, raising his hand before giving your ass a slap. The mixture of pain and pleasure mixed together, your own release starting to approach. "Fill me up, Mig!" You could only whine that out, a groan escaping from his lips at your words. The hand on your ass moved down to your clit, his thumb rubbing on the nub in circles. Fervent circles to match the pace of his sloppy thrusts.

You clamped tightly around his cock, your arousal coming out of you in waves. Your stomach hit the pillow underneath you, your body giving out on you. As soon as you clamped around him, Miguel knew his own orgasm wasn't too far off. With one final thrust, he shot his cum up your cunt. Filling you up like you'd asked. He pulled his flaccid cock out of you a couple moments later, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His fingers pushed back the cum threatening to drip down before he went over to get a wet towel to clean you up.

"It shouldn't take me threatening to divorce you for you to get your act together," you spoke up once you managed to catch your breath, wiping the sweat off your forehead. Not exactly the topic that you would've imagined talking about after sex. But you figured it was important for him to know that just a good lay wouldn't be enough to resolve this issue. He swiped his arm over his forehead, wiping away at nonexistent sweat beads. Something to do while he tried to figure out what to say.

"I know. And I'm sorry that it ever got to this point, I promise that I'll spend the rest of my life trying to prove to you how worthy I am to be next to you," he spoke up after a few moments, turning to face you. His hands itched to be wrapped around you, for some semblance of that intimacy that he'd neglected for so long. But he didn't make any effort to touch you. He knew it'd take a while for you to get to that point. The conflicted expression on your face was enough to tell him that you didn't believe him.

And it's not like you were looking forward to starting any issues between the two of you. But with the amount of empty promises and "I'm sorry's", you figured that you'd earned the right to doubt him. You got up, putting up your pajamas in an attempt to divert the conversation. You didn't want to voice that you were worried about him failing to fulfill his promise. "I know you don't believe me, but I promise I'll do my best to prove it to you," he whispered, pulling the blanket over the two of you before exhaustion overtook your body.

Instead of the usual emptiness that you'd grown used to waking up to, you found Miguel laying by your side with his arms tightly wrapped around your body. Like he didn't want to let you go. "I can feel you staring," he mumbled, half asleep as he begun to stir. He kept one arm wrapped around you, bringing the other hand up to his face to rub his eyes. "Just surprised you're not at work yet," you responded, pushing a couple stray hairs away from his forehead. "Well, I'm trying to prioritize my family a bit more."

His promises didn't feel as empty as the ones he'd spoken about before. He seemed determined to bring them into fruition this time around. Or at least you hoped that he would. For you and Gabriella. "I know it doesn't amount to much with how many times I've said it, but I really am sorry for neglecting you for so long. I got so carried away into maintaining the safety of Nueva York that I forgot to maintain my own marriage."

"I know you can't be everywhere at once. Me and Gabriella are aware you have responsibilities but still.. I don't want to have to feel like I'm being selfish for asking for some time with my husband," you spoke up after a couple seconds, looking over at him. Neither of you made any attempt to leave your bed just yet, too engulfed in the temporary state of bliss. "And you won't have to feel that way anymore, I promise."

Dating an older man really did sound good in theory.

Everyone always said girls matured faster than boys, so you figured the math would math. Older boyfriend meant stable. A little boring, maybe. A little steadier. Someone who had already done the whole fuckboy lap around the block and come out the other side with a job, a routine, and the ability to go a few hours without needing proof you still liked him.

James Buchanan Barnes should have fit the brief.

He was older by ten years, and you’d been seeing him for seven months now. You were twenty-five. Your frontal lobe was fully developed. You liked to remind yourself of that whenever you did something questionable and then tried to justify it later, like, technically you were a grown woman with your own apartment and a 401(k). Technically you were not being preyed upon. Technically you made this choice with my eyes open.

Because you had.

You matched with him on Tinder on a bored Tuesday night, half in the mood to flirt, half in the mood to just entertain yourself with strangers, and there he was. Pretty eyes. Broad shoulders. Hot as hell, in this quiet, earnest way like he didn’t realise he was hot, which unfortunately made him hotter.

Even with his corny ass mustache.

It should have been a dealbreaker. It was not.

It was actually… kind of doing it for you, which was embarrassing, because you had a preference to maintain. You liked men clean-cut and put together. You liked men who looked like they knew how to order a drink without stuttering. You did not, in theory, like a man who looked like he’d tip his hat at you and call you “doll.”

Except Bucky did that sometimes, in this soft, old-fashioned way that made you feel simultaneously adored and slightly like you were being courted in 1945. He held doors. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for dinners and surprised you with expensive gifts.

And you were pleasantly surprised by his big heart.

Even more so, his big dick.

If you were being honest, that was where half your patience came from. That and the way he acted like touching you was this privilege he didn’t want to take for granted. Like he could get needy and clingy, and still somehow turn around and treat you like you were precious. He overdid it, yes. He went too hard, yes. But he was sweet in a way that didn’t feel fake.

And, yes, there were red flags.

The texts, for one.

In the beginning you told yourself it was just excitement. He was older, he was awkward, he probably hadn’t dated much, and he definitely hadn’t dated someone like you. You were fun. You were pretty. You were not afraid to tell him “no” and then kiss him anyway. You made him feel brave.

He texted good morning. Then another good morning in case you missed the first. Then a third message that was just, “Hope your day is going okay.” Then, “No pressure to respond, I just like talking to you.” Then, “Sorry, that sounded weird. I’m not weird.” Then, somehow, you’d look down and realise he’d sent you five messages in a row and you’d been at work the whole time.

It was… a lot. But it was also weirdly flattering.

It wasn’t even love bombing in the normal slick, manipulative way. It was messy and unintentional. Like he didn’t understand the difference between affection and intensity yet, so he just threw it all at you and hoped you caught it. You could tell he wasn’t trying to impress you. He was trying to keep you.

And the clinginess didn’t exactly get better with time. It just got more comfortable. More familiar. Like a habit. Like you belonged to him now in the way he looked at you, in the way he reached for you in his sleep, in the way he convinced you to sleep over at his house numerous times a week.

You probably should have dumped him. You friends had already told you it wasn’t your job to manage a thirty-five-year-old man’s feelings.

Unfortunately, you didn’t give a fuck. And you told yourself you could handle the rest. That you could rein him in when you needed to. That you could keep the good parts, and teach him how to calm down.

You really, truly believed that.

And you tried to hold onto it while you were out with the girls at some new club opening up on the Lower East Side. Packed shoulder to shoulder, lights low and red, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat.

You felt good. You looked good. You were supposed to be having a good time.

And like clockwork, every fifteen minutes, you felt your purse buzz.

You couldn’t even stay on the dance floor long without circling back to this little quiet corner by the bar or the wall, checking your phone like it was a habit you did not want your friends to notice. At first, it was manageable. Sweet. A check-in. The first hour was almost normal.

james barnes (bucky) Are you having fun, beautiful? | 10:22pm

You lots. music is peak. we got free drinks too | 10:37pm

james barnes (bucky) Oh, really? From who? | 10:37pm Was it the bartender or some random men? | 10:38pm Doll? | 10:39pm

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, letting the music wash over you while your brain did that stupid thing where it tried to decide the exact right balance of response. Too short and he’d spiral. Too detailed and you’d be feeding it.

You locked your phone, tossed it back into your purse, and went back to the girls like you didn’t just feel your mood get tugged sideways.

But it didn’t stop.

By the time you were heading to the bathroom, you were already sighing before you even unzipped your purse. You could see the stack of notifications lighting up the screen through the little transparent window of your purse, like your phone was trying to pre-warn you.

You slid into the closest open spot at the counter and swiped up.

More messages had piled in.

james barnes (bucky) Where did you get the free drinks from? | 10:44pm Who are you with right now? | 10:45pm Just text me back for two seconds, doll. | 10:46pm

“Isn’t it past your grandpa’s bedtime?” Nicole said from your left, reapplying her cheap lip liner.

You didn’t look up right away. You kept your eyes on the screen, jaw tight, like you could will the irritation away by ignoring it.

“Don’t call him that,” you muttered. “And he’s not that old.”

“Yeah, and the sky isn’t blue, and my boobs are real.” Nicole snorted, still looking at herself. “Being paroled by an old ass man is crazy work. Could never be me.”

You knew she was being shady as fuck. And you knew your man was being annoying as hell. But you weren’t about to let this bitch act like she had moral high ground when her life was a revolving door of men who didn’t even like her.

“Come talk to me when you find a man who’ll eat your ass without having to ask,” you said lifting your eyes. “And not a baby daddy who thinks child support is optional.”

Nicole’s mouth snapped shut.

MJ and Darcy were behind you in the mirror, MJ adjusting her earrings, Darcy washing her hands, both of them watching you. They exchanged a quick look like they were sharing a thought without saying it out loud.

Nicole held your gaze for a second longer, nostrils flaring, then rolled her eyes like she hadn’t just gotten read.

“Whatever,” she muttered, tossing her lip liner back into her bag, and she pushed out of the bathroom without waiting for anyone.

You barely acknowledged it. You just looked back down at your phone, thumb resting over the keyboard again.

You just the bartender. relax | 10:56pm he was flirting w Darcy half the time anyway | 10:57pm and you know im w MJ nd Darcy | 10:58pm

james barnes (bucky) Right. I’m sorry, honey. | 10:59pm I just don’t like the idea of anyone bothering you. | 11:00pm

You stared at that for a second, jaw working. It was always like this…. he’d pull, you’d give him an inch, and then he’d act grateful like you’d done him a favour by letting him breathe.

“Girl.” MJ’s voice cut through it.

You looked up and caught her in the mirror. She was standing a little behind you, brows raised, mouth twitching like she was trying not to laugh but couldn’t fully hide the exasperation either.

“Michelle,” you said back, tilting your head.

She shook her head, amused but pointed, and slid her hand over your shoulder as she brushed past you to the door.

“Just remember this is a girls’ night,” she said. “No hate. Just… saying.”

“Two minutes,” you muttered, eyes back on the screen.

Darcy, already halfway to the door, turned her head. “I’m timing it,” she announced. “Like, actually. One-twenty seconds. And if you’re still in here, I’m coming back and I’m flushing your fucking phone.”

MJ grabbed Darcy by the wrist and tugged her out, laughing under her breath as they disappeared back into the noise.

You exhaled, it came from deep down within your chest, and your screen lit again before you could even lock it.

james barnes (bucky) When are you heading home? | 11:02pm Do you want me to pick you up? You can stay at my place. | 11:03pm

It was honestly impressive how fast he typed. For a man who acted like technology was out to get him, he was weirdly efficient when it came to blowing up your phone. Full sentences, no typos, like he was sitting upright at his kitchen table drafting these messages like professional emails.

You im sleeping over at MJs. girls night remember | 11:05pm and i literally slept over the other day 😭 pls stop | 11:05pm

You knew exactly why you’d put that emoji. Not because it was funny, because it softened your words. Because it made it sound playful instead of like you were getting irritated.

You rolled your eyes and shoved your phone back in your purse before you could get sucked into another back-and-forth. You stepped out into the hallway, bass immediately swallowing you again, lights flashing harsh and bright as the crowd pressed past.

Your purse buzzed, faint against your hip. Again. You didn’t even look.

james barnes (bucky) I will, sorry. | 11:06pm Tomorrow night then? I miss you. | 11:06pm Message me when you’re safe at Michelle’s please. | 11:07pm

You found MJ and Darcy posted at the bar the second you stepped out of the bathroom . Darcy was half-turned in her seat, pointing into the crowd and laughing so hard her shoulders were shaking. MJ was rolling her eyes at whatever Darcy was saying, but there was an unwilling little smile on her mouth like she didn’t even want to fight it.

The second you got close, MJ’s eyes slid right to you.

Darcy followed her gaze and started clapping softly. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you saw your own brain for a second, but that just made them both worse. MJ started up too, syncing up with Darcy. “Shame, shame, shame.”

They were both snickering by the time you slid onto the barstool between them. Darcy didn’t even ask what you wanted, just shoved a cold glass of something colourful into your hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, taking a sip. The drink was too sweet, too strong, exactly what you needed. “Laugh while you bitches can.”

You tried to get your head back into the night. The bass was steady, the lights were doing that neon blur thing, bodies moving around you like one big wave. For a couple seconds it worked. You let yourself sink into it, let the noise swallow your thoughts.

Then MJ, from your left, “You know I love you, right?”

You groaned into your drink on instinct. “MJ. Not right now.”

Darcy laughed beside you.

“I do,” MJ said anyway, undeterred. “I love you.”

“—Michelle, please.”

“Hey, I’m not trying to jump you. I’m just asking… what are we doing right now?”

You let out a slow breath and looked down at your glass. “We’re drinking right now.”

“Mm-hm.”

Darcy jumped in before MJ could keep going, because Darcy physically could not let a serious moment live longer than ten seconds.

“Sweetie, we’re not judging you,” Darcy said, talking with her hands. “But your man is on some serious Joe Goldberg crap.”

You couldn’t help the snort that came out of you.

Darcy took that as encouragement and leaned forward, eyes wide under her glasses like she was swearing on a Bible. “No, I’m serious. Like I would not be shocked in the slightest if he’s here right now. Somewhere we can’t see. Just… posted up in a corner and watching you.”

“Darcy,” MJ said, exasperated.

“What?” Darcy swung on her stool and started scanning the room, craning dramatically like she was about to catch him hiding behind a speaker. “Men do weird shit like that all the time.”

You laughed despite yourself, watching her spin like a damn security camera.

MJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “Darcy, please.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you took another sip. The alcohol was settling warm in your chest now, smoothing everything out around the edges. Megan was blasting through the speakers, bass vibrating up through the metal footrest of the stool, and for a minute the three of you just sat there listening to the music and watching people move around the packed dance floor.

Then your shoulders dropped a little.

You looked down at your glass, turning it slowly between your hands before speaking. “So what should I do?”

“Dump him.”

“Dump his old creepy ass.”

MJ and Darcy answered at the exact same time.

“Wow,” you said dryly. “Thank you two so much for helping me find a mature, adult solution for my boyfriend who I actually care about.”

Darcy, completely unfazed, took your empty glass out of your hand and replaced it with a fresh drink. “You asked,” she said.

MJ leaned against the bar, eyes still on you. “Then take a break.”

You turned your head slowly. “A break?”

“A break,” she repeated with a nod. Then she lifted a hand before you could interrupt. “Now hold on now. Not a breakup. I’m not saying dump him, block him and start the healing process. I’m saying… maybe spend some time apart so he can calm the hell down.”

You frowned faintly, listening.

“Because right now?” MJ continued, voice even, “that man wakes up, thinks about you. Goes to work, thinks about you. Eats, sleeps, breathes you. And I know you think it’s cute—”

You tilted your head. “It’s a little cute.”

“—but it’s not healthy,” she finished. “He needs to remember there’s a world around him that doesn’t revolve around you.”

Something in your expression shifted at that. You looked down at your drink again, thumb tracing the condensation on the glass. The idea rubbed you the wrong way immediately—the thought of him not orbiting you quite so hard. Which probably said something bad about you too.

Still… the rest of it sounded reasonable.

A break wasn’t a breakup. Just some distance. Some breathing room. Time for him to remember he was a grown man with a grown life and grown responsibilities outside of you.

“A break,” you repeated slowly, more thoughtful this time.

The conversation about a “break” had been looping in your head for some time, a persistent mental itch you couldn’t quite scratch.

You knew you had to do it—sooner or later—but as you let out a low, guttural moan, your back arching and sliding against the cool, expensive glide of Bucky’s Egyptian cotton sheets, the idea felt so far away.

It was hard to maintain a level head when your body was being systematically wrecked by the man beneath you.

The room was filled with the heavy, wet sound of unapologetic squelching that echoed in the quiet of his massive bedroom. You let out a sudden, sharp squeal, your hips jerking upward as you spared a glance down.

There he was.

Still in his slacks and that crisp button-down, his tie loosened and hanging haphazardly around his neck, looking every bit the stable, put-together man the world saw. But here, with your legs draped heavily over his broad shoulders and his face buried deep in your cunt, he was nothing but a starving man.

He had been at it for five minutes, meticulously edging you, driving you toward a peak he refused to let you hit.

He shifted, sucking your outer lips into his mouth one by one with this concentrated pressure, before sliding his tongue up your slit. He licked you from bottom to top, over and over, his tongue flat and insistent.

When he finally suctioned his lips over your clit, the vacuum was intense, pulling a loud, broken moan from your throat. You could feel the faint, rough scratch of his mustache against your mound, as he pushed his tongue inside you, humming low in his throat.

The vibration of that traveled straight through your nerves, making your walls clench tight around him. You collapsed back into the pillows, breathless and frustrated, your voice sounding strained.

“Bucky—please... just give it to me,” you whimpered.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a muffled, groan against your skin, his voice vibrating against your folds. He paused for just a second, glancing up at you with dark, blown-out pupils.

“I know, baby,” he rasped, his voice gravelly and thick that made you clench again. “But I’m just taking my time with her. Spent the whole damn day at the office thinkin’ about her...”

He leaned back in, his tongue swirling around your clit . “She’s so happy to see me, isn’t she? Look at her... just soaking wet for me.”

A broken, whiny sound escaped your throat as you felt the blunt pressure of one of Bucky’s thick fingers probing your entrance.

He didn’t rush; he sank in slowly, stretching you open, and the relief was so instantaneous that you instinctively arched your hips, pushing yourself hard against his hand to swallow him whole. Your fingers dove blindly into his hair, gripping the thick strands and scratching at his scalp.

Bucky let out a low hum, his body reacting to the touch like a devoted dog getting a scratch behind the ears.

“Another one,” you sighed, your voice breathless and strained, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Baby, please... another one.”

He paused, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His mouth was a glistening, wet mess, coated in your slick, his lips swollen from the suction. Bucky didn’t pull his finger out; instead, he kept it thrusting in a slow, rhythmic pace that made your toes curl.

“Another one?” he murmured.

He looked down at where he was joined with you, a smile playing on his lips. “Look at her... she’s greedy, isn’t she? Just begging for more.”

“Bucky, stop talking to my pussy and just do it,“ you whined.

He let out an amused, condescending huff, “I know, honey. I know you’re desperate.”

Without another word, he slid a second finger inside. The fullness made you gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him as he began to drive both fingers deep into you. His pace quickening as he found the exact spot that made your vision blur.

He shifted his weight, sliding upward until his heavy, broad frame blanketed your body.

He leaned down, pressing his chest against yours, until your noses were touching. His lips parted, hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours.

You clenched your eyes shut, your breath coming in shallow hitches. You were practically just moaning and breathing directly into his open mouth.

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me how much you need me to fill you up.”

“I need... I need you,” you whimpered, your hips stuttering against his hand. “Please, Bucky, I can’t—I’m going to—”

“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he said hoarsely.

He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his fingers curling deep inside you, hooking upward to snag that hypersensitive sweet spot that made your brain short-circuit.

He trailed a line of searing kisses from your flushed cheek down to the sensitive curve of your neck.

“Uh-huh... okay,” you nodded insistently into the crook of his neck, your breath coming in jagged gasps. You could feel the heavy, rigid bulge of him through his slacks, grinding firmly into your stomach with every thrust of his fingers.

“Cum for me, baby. I wanna feel it,” he breathed against your lips. He nibbled at your bottom lip, teasing the skin before pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it. While his mouth claimed yours, his thumb found your clit, rubbing in fast, heavy circles.

“Bucky, please—”

“Look at me,” he insisted, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let go for me.”

As he curled his fingers one last time, digging deep and applying a sudden, sharp pressure, you let out a loud, guttural moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk!”

An overwhelming volcano of pleasure surged through you, your pussy spasming violently around his fingers in tight contractions. Your back arched off the bed, your body straining upward, trying to push yourself even deeper into his touch as your orgasm rolled over you in waves.

As your peak subsided, you slumped back into this sheets, your chest heaving and your limbs feeling like lead.

Slowly, he slid his fingers out of you with a wet, suctioning sound. Without breaking eye contact, you watched through an amused, exhausted daze as he brought his hand up to his face, sliding his fingers into his mouth to taste the remnants of your orgasm.

He closed his eyes for a second, savouring the taste of you.

“God, you taste so good,” he hummed, his eyes snapping open to look at you.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, reaching up to shove at his chest. “You are so weird.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “You love it,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to grip your ass with a firm, possessive squeeze. “Now, tell me how much you missed me today.”

“Ha ha,” you mumbled sarcastically, rolling your eyes. You tried to maintain a shred of your composure as the heavy weight of him shifted off you.

Bucky loomed over your naked body, while he began to unbutton his shirt, the fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders.

“How was your day, doll?” he asked casually.

Your mind was the furthest thing from a professional debrief. As the buttons gave way, revealing the expanse of his broad, muscular chest and the dusting of hair that trailed down toward his waistband, you felt a familiar, insistent tingle returning to your core.

“I really do not wanna talk about my day right now, Bucky. Thanks,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him.

You watched him like it was your own private strip show, your gaze tracing the line of his abs as his hands finally reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the quiet room.

Almost as a reflex, your thighs squeezed together, a subconscious attempt to soothe the ache building between them.

Bucky didn’t miss a thing. He let out an endearing, husky chuckle, “Still need me, huh? Good girl.”

With one fluid motion, he shoved his pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free with a heavy thud, slapping against his stomach, bobbing up and down. It was thick, veiny, and the head was a deep, angry red, looking almost painfully engorged after how long he’d been eating you out.

“You ready for me?” he murmured.

You didn’t even use words. You nodded enthusiastically, your attitude completely gone. You swiftly turned away from him, shifting to your knees and arching your back in a deep curve as you wiggled your ass at him.

Behind you, he let out a jagged exhale, and before you could even blink, you felt one of his massive hands clamp onto your hip, his fingers digging into your skin, before both hands moved to spread your cheeks wide, exposing your still soaking pussy to the cool air.

You let out a small, pleased sigh, as you felt the scorching tip of him slide against your slit, teasing the entrance.

He didn’t go in yet; instead, he dragged the length of his cock slowly across your cheeks and through your slick, painting you in his pre-cum.

“So wet for me,” he murmured, almost fixated on the sight of his cock sliding between your cheeks. “Been thinkin’ about this all day. Just imagining me filling you up, stretching you out.”

“Just—fuck, put it in,” you whimpered impatiently, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips. He pulled you back toward him until there was no space left between your skin and his, and then, without warning, your world shifted. With a sudden movement, he flipped you onto your back.

You let out a small, surprised squeak as he gripped your ankles, dragging you by your legs to the very edge of the bed. He hoisted your legs up, draping your feet over his broad shoulders, leaving you completely open for him.

“Need to see my baby’s face while I fuck her,” he rasped.

As you shifted your hips impatiently, trying to bridge the gap, he dragged the head of his cock over your slit one more time. The blunt tip caught your clit perfectly, sending a jolt of electricity through your spine that made you gasp.

He didn’t let the moment sit for too long; he nudged his tip against your entrance, popping the head in with a firm thrust that forced a loud, guttural moan from your throat.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he felt the friction of your walls clamping down on him. He groaned, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure. “God, stretched you out so many times, but you’re still so tight for me... s’like you’re tryin’ to squeeze the life outta me.”

He paused for a second, buried just an inch deep, letting the pressure build. “You like feeling me in there, yeah? Like knowing I’m the only one who gets to do this to you.”

“Yes... please, baby, all the way,” you begged, your hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms.

“I got you, doll,” he whispered.

And just like that he drove the rest of his cock home, bottoming out with a heavy slap against your thighs that knocked the breath from your lungs.

You cried out, your eyes fluttering shut as he filled every available space inside you, the sensation of being completely stuffed making your mind go blank.

He stayed there for a moment, his chest heaving, a low groan rumbling from deep in his throat as he savoured the feeling of being completely encased in your pussy, your walls fluttering around him like they were trying to pull him deeper.

“Feel that, baby?” he rasped, his voice ragged and strained. “Feel how much I need to be inside you? You’re fuckin’ perfect... made for me.”

He began to move, starting with slow, agonizingly deep strokes that made you whimper with every pull. Each time he withdrew, he dragged the thick ridge of his crown against your inner walls, coaxing out a wet, obscene sound before he slammed back in.

Standing at the edge of the bed, he began to drive into you like a man possessed. The slaps of skin against skin was the only thing you could hear right now, alongside the wet squelch of your slick coating every inch of him.

His balls repeatedly slapped against your ass, and you could do nothing but dig your nails into the sheets, your body bouncing helplessly with every thrust.

Bucky’s eyes were locked on where your bodies met, his jaw slack, his lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into you over and over.

“Look at that,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Look how pretty she looks taking my cock, sweetheart. She’s so happy... she’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, like she never wants me to leave.”

You tried to form a response, but all that came out was a broken moan as he angled his hips, finding that deep, sensitive spot that made your vision blur.

“You like being fucked like this?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You like knowing I can’t get enough of you? That I wake up every morning thinkin’ about burying myself inside you?”

“Yes... yes, Bucky...” you gasped, your voice barely audible over the sounds of your bodies colliding.

The frustration that had been simmering in Bucky’s chest finally boiled over—the desperate, gnawing need to be as close to you as humanly possible. His hips were already hammering into yours with a punishing rhythm, but it wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

Without breaking his pace, he hooked his hands under your knees and slid your legs from his shoulders, guiding them to wrap around his waist.

The shift in angle made him sink even deeper, and you let out a choked sob as he adjusted.

Then he leaned forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his hips continued their brutal assault, the force of his thrusts actually pushing your body up the bed. He crawled over you, his chest hovering just above yours, his breath ghosting hot and ragged across your face.

For a moment, his eyes dropped; fixated on the way your breasts bounced. His mouth twitched, the urge to lean down and suck one of those hard nipples between his lips almost overwhelming.

But he forced his gaze back up, traveling the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, until he found your face. Your eyes were closed, your lips parted, your expression slack and utterly lost in the sensation of being fucked senseless.

He didn’t like that. He needed you with him.

He released your hips and reached for your hands, prying your fingers from the crumpled sheets you were gripping. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your palms flat against the mattress on either side of your head.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting his. Those barely-blue irises were blown wide, dark with something raw and animalistic.

“This house is always so big and quiet, baby,” he breathed against your neck, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear before he nipped at your earlobe.

You could feel the thick ridge of him dragging against your inner walls, the friction building a pressure so intense it made your toes curl.

“I miss you when you’re not here,” he continued, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled against your skin. “I hate it. Hate coming home and not seeing you. Hate sleeping alone.”

You were barely coherent, lost in the haze of being absolutely pounded into the mattress. The world had narrowed to the sound of his grunts, the wet slap of skin against skin. You couldn’t form words, only broken moans and gasps.

Then his next sentence caught your attention.

“Think you should move in with me.”

He punctuated the words with little nibbles along your jaw, his teeth scraping against the tender skin before his tongue soothed the sting.

You were so dazed, your brain so thoroughly scrambled by the relentless fucking, that you didn’t even have the strength to turn your head and glare at him through half-lidded eyes.

He kept thrusting, kept spewing his nonsense into your ear like a prayer.

“I’ll fuck you every morning when we wake up—” He felt your walls flutter around him at the words, and mistook it for encouragement, his pace quickening. “—and every night before we go to sleep. You like that, huh? Wake up to me buried inside you, feel me stretching you out before you even open your eyes.”

He shifted his weight, pressing his chest flush against yours so that every inch of his sweat-slicked skin was molded to your own.

“And you can change anything in the house you want, doll. Paint the walls. Buy new furniture. I don’t care.” His voice dropped to a fevered whisper, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just come home to me. Let me take care of you.”

You finally managed to pry one eye open, staring at him through your lashes, your voice a breathless, broken mess. “Bucky, what the fuck are you talking abo—Oh fuck!”

He pulled back nearly all the way out, the thick, glistening head of his cock catching on your rim, and then drove back in with one devastating, deep thrust that hit the spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

The sudden, blinding orgasm tore through you without warning, ripping a cry from your throat as your body arched beneath him, your inner walls clamping down on him in a vise-like grip that made him groan like a man possessed.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, his hips stuttering as he tried to keep thrusting through your climax, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. “That’s it, baby. Squeeze me just like that. Cum for me.”

The aftershocks of your orgasm were still rippling through you in waves, each clench of your inner walls drawing a deep grunt from deep in Bucky’s chest.

His hips never faltered driving into you, the loud, wet squelch of his cock pistoning in and out of your soaked pussy sounding obscene in the quiet room.

“Almost there, doll,” he rasped against your throat, the words barely intelligible through his heavy breathing. “So close. Fuck, you feel so good.”

You were still floating in the hazy aftermath of your orgasm, your limbs heavy and useless, but something nagged at the back of your hazy mind.

Something important.

It took you a second to remember it—the empty pack of birth control pills sitting on your nightstand. The new pack you hadn’t started yet. The four-day gap you were in the middle of… which Bucky knew.

Your eyes snapped open, clarity cutting through the fog like a blade.

“Baby,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse and breathless. “Remember to pull out.”

He didn’t seem to hear you. His hips kept hammering, his rhythm growing sloppier, more desperate. You could see the strain in his face, the pinch of his brows, the way his mouth hung open with broken, breathy groans.

He was seconds away, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you with every thrust.

“Bucky.” You managed to untangle one of your hands from his, slapping weakly at his shoulder. “Don’t cum in me.”

It barely fazed him. He caught your wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours again as he smashed his lips against yours in a bruising, desperate kiss.

His tongue thrust into your mouth in rhythm with his hips, and he spoke against your lips, his voice a low, pleading groan.

“She’s gripping me so tight, honey,” he breathed, his lips brushing yours with every word. “I don’t think I can pull out.”

Your eyes flew open, your words muffled against his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I can’t help it, doll.” His voice cracked. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes blown wide and his face flushed red. “I’ll die if I don’t cum in her. Do you want me to die, doll? Do you?”

You could barely make sense of his absurd words, your brain still scrambled from the relentless fucking.

You tried to push at his shoulder again, but he was solid as a mountain. He captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your protests as his hips slammed forward one last time.

He stilled with a long, agonized groan that seemed to tear from the very depths of his chest. You gasped against his lips as you felt it—hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your insides, painting your walls with his release.

He pulsed inside you, his hips twitching through the aftershocks, holding himself buried so deep you could feel every spasm.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he slowly, almost lazily, rocked his hips, milking every last drop of his release into you.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his voice thick with post-orgasmic bliss. He pressed a soft, apologetic kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Couldn’t help it, sweetheart. She was begging for it.”

His hand slid down your sweat-slicked stomach, coming to rest on the soft swell just above where you were still joined. His palm pressed down, and you felt a fresh trickle of warmth as his cum began to leak around him.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your skin, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading across his lips. “But what a way to g— ow!”

The smack echoed louder than it should have in the quiet room, connecting with the back of his skull with a satisfying crack that made him yelp.

His head snapped to the side, the lazy smile wiped clean off his face, replaced by a wide-eyed, dazed confusion that would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t so overly irritated.

“Clean. Me.” Your glare could’ve curdled milk.

It took a full three seconds for the words to penetrate his post-coital fog. You watched the realization dawn slow, then all at once.

Bucky’s mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, and you watched the guilt wash over his features; the sheepish crinkle of his brow, the way his gaze dropped to where you were still joined, a sticky mess of his cum leaking out around him.

He swallowed hard, and you felt the bastard twitch inside you at your smack, his half-hard cock giving an involuntary pulse that made your eye twitch.

“Right. ’Course. Yeah, I got it, doll.” He pulled out slowly, a wince crossing his face as he watched his release leak down your thigh. “Shit. Let me just—”

You said nothing.

Just stared at him until he scrambled off the bed, his softening cock bobbing between his thighs as his pale ass disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

You heard water running, the rustle of a cloth, and then he was back, kneeling between your legs with the careful, contrite air of a man who knew he’d pissed you off.

You lay there stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling, refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. He worked in silence, dabbing at the mess he’d made, pressing kisses to your inner thighs when he was done.

You yanked the sheet up over yourself and turned onto your side, your back firmly to him as you reached for the remote on the nightstand.

And so began the silent treatment.

Bucky, to his credit, seemed to understand the gravity of his transgression. He shuffled around the room, pulling on a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, he reappeared with a plate bearing a warm brownie, a generous dollop of whipped cream melting on top, and a glass of ice water.

He set it on the nightstand beside you, then climbed onto the bed, his weight dipping the mattress as he slid up behind you. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.

You ignored him, reaching for the brownie.

He kissed your shoulder again. Then your neck. Then the shell of your ear. You ignored him like a persistent mosquito, taking a bite, letting the silence stretch.

“You know I love you, yeah?”

You paused mid-chew, turning your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. You hummed, a noncommittal and flat sound, and went back to your brownie.

His arm tightened around your midsection, pulling you closer, his lips finding the curve of your neck in a series of featherlight kisses. “But you know, sweetheart... if you hadn’t been squeezing me so tight, I might’ve had a fighting chance. How’s a guy supposed to think straight when you’re milking him like that?

You set your fork down, turned your head just enough to fix him with a deadpan stare. “Are you seriously trying to blame your cumming inside me on my pussy?”

He had the decency to look caught, his blue eyes wide and innocent in a way that was utterly unconvincing. “No, no—I’m just saying—”

“Uh-huh.” You hummed, turning back to the TV.

He sighed against your neck, his arm tightening around your waist. “I love you,” he murmured, trying a different angle. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

You took another bite, pointedly ignoring him.

At least the fool had enough sense not to bring up that moving in, living with him bullshit he’d been spewing while he was balls-deep inside you.

You had no idea where that came from.

His hand slid up to rest over your heart, his thumb tracing a soft circle over your collarbone. “And you know you love me too. Even when you’re mad. Even when you’re giving me the silent treatment like a brat.”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t rise to the bait.

You felt his lips press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. His hand moving down to rub slow circles on your stomach, the gesture soothing, possessive.

Yeah, you thought, staring at the flickering TV screen, a break is definitely needed.

But even as you thought it, you leaned back into his chest, just a fraction, and felt him exhale against your neck. The idiot thought he was winning you over.

Let him think that.

“A break?”

The word hung in the air like a bad smell neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You stood awkwardly in his living room, your jacket still on, keys clutched in your hand, a clear signal that you weren’t staying, despite the way he’d lit up when you walked through the door.

Bucky was frozen across the room, a bowl of popcorn balanced in his hands. He’d made it fresh, the buttery smell still wafting through the air, probably with that hopeful little grin on his face when he’d heard your knock. 

Perfect timing, doll, I just—

Except you’d cut him off before he could finish. Told him you couldn’t stay long. Watched his face cycle through confusion, hurt, and now this—a weird, controlled stillness that felt more unsettling than if he’d just thrown the bowl at the wall.

He set the popcorn down on the coffee table with exaggerated care as he rubbed his forehead.

“I don’t understand,” he said, his voice low and carefully measured. “What—what does that mean?”

You let out a long exhale, shifting your weight from one heel to the other. “Time to spend away from each other while we—”

“—so you’re breaking up with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, flat and accusing, like you’d already handed him the pink slip.

“No, I’m not breaking up with you, I’m—”

“—then what are you saying?” His voice became rougher. He gestured vaguely, a jerky motion that nearly sent a lamp flying off the end table.

He caught it at the last second, fumbling it back into place, and the near-miss only seemed to rattle him more, “Because it sounds like you’re saying you wanna leave me. Like you’re done. Like I’m—”

“If you let me speak, then maybe I can fucking explain!”

You snapped it before you could stop yourself, the words sharp and loud enough to make him blink. His mouth snapped shut. His eyes went wide, completely startled.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and incredibly awkward.

You squeezed your eyes shut, took a long breath, and counted to four in your head. One. Two. Three. Four. 

When you opened your eyes, you plastered on your sunniest customer-service smile, the one you reserved for difficult clients and, apparently, emotionally unstable boyfriends.

“A break,” you repeated, infusing the word with forced cheerfulness, “means we take some time apart. Space from one another. Time for ourselves. To breathe.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He was trying to stay calm, you could see it in the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides, in the way he kept swallowing like he was forcing down words he wanted to say.

His eyes stayed fixed on you, searching, and the longer you stared back, the more he started shaking his head.

“Why?” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Why do we need that?”

You opened your mouth, then paused. The truth was, you’d rehearsed this conversation about six different ways and still hadn’t landed on a script that didn’t make you sound like an asshole. So you winged it.

“To... grow as separate people. Become less... dependent on each other.” The words tasted like bullshit coming out.

He stared at you like you’d just started speaking in tongues. His brows furrowed, that deep V forming between them. “But we’re not dependent on each other.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

No, you thought. I’m not. But you sure as hell are.

You let out a small, exasperated sigh. The popcorn on the coffee table was definitely cold now. The lamp he’d nearly knocked over had stopped swaying. And you were this close to just walking out the door.

“I mean, sweetie, c’mon. Let’s be honest with ourselves right now.”

You were dumb enough to take your eyes off him for just a second, glancing toward the hallway, mentally calculating the escape route, and that’s when you heard the shift of his weight, the quick, determined stride of his boots on the hardwood.

“Bucky, what are—hmph—”

Before you could finish, his hands were on your face. Not gently. Gripping. His palms cupped your cheeks like you were a football he was about to punt, and then his mouth was on yours.

His tongue pushed past your lips before you could even register what was happening, and for a solid three seconds, you just stood there, frozen, letting him practically molest your mouth with the enthusiasm of a man trying to kiss the words right out of your brain.

What the fuck.

He broke the kiss with a wet smack, but before you could say anything—before you could even catch your breath—his fingers squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth into a fish-like pout. Your lips puckered involuntarily. Your words came out garbled.

“Mmph—Bucky—”

“I love you,” he emphasised.

Kiss. Another one, quick and frantic, against your squished lips.

“And you love me.”

Kiss. This one lingered half a second longer, like he was trying to imprint the words onto your mouth.

“I need you, doll.”

And then he went in for a fourth kiss; longer, deeper, his tongue sliding back into your mouth while his fingers still kept your face hostage. You couldn’t breathe. Could only make muffled, indignant noises against his lips and slap at his chest with increasing urgency.

Slap. Slap. SLAP.

Finally, he pulled back, breathing hard, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide. His cheeks were flushed.

You gasped for air, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and stared at him in disbelief.

“What is wrong with you!” you said incredulously, shoving him back with both hands against his chest.

It was like pushing against a brick wall wrapped in an old knitted sweater. He barely budged, then tried to grab your wrists, those big, warm hands reaching for you like magnetic force,but you were faster. You dodged left, put the coffee table between you, and held up a warning finger.

“Don’t.”

The look on his face shifted from desperate to wounded to frustrated in about 0.3 seconds. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. That was his tell. The impending headache was already setting up camp behind his temples. His mouth set into a firm line, barely visible under that stupidly attractive mustache.

Then he started pacing. Back and forth across the living room rug.

“I don’t understand where this is coming from,” he said, and the laugh that followed wasn’t a laugh at all, more a cynical huff of air. “I’ve done everything for you. Everything.”

You froze. There was an edge to his voice now, a sharpness you hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring at the wall, at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but your face.

“I buy you clothes.” Thud. Thud. “I pay for dinners.” Thud. “For hair appointments. For nails—”

Nails. Shit. You had an appointment with Yelena in thirty minutes.

“—I’ve been attentive. And supportive. And loyal.” His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief. “I don’t look at other women. I don’t think about other women. I don’t even notice other women exist unless they’re blocking my view of you. So what the fuck did I do wrong for you to break up with me?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, wounded and accusatory.

You opened your mouth to correct him—it’s a break, Bucky, a break, not a breakup—but he bulldozed right over you.

“Tell me.” He stepped closer. “What did I do?”

You scoffed.

Because suddenly every legitimate reason you had poofed right out of your head like smoke.

And still, despite the fact that he was standing there yelling at you like a madman, you had the decency to not want to hurt his feelings by calling him a clingy, obsessed loser.

You lifted a hand like it was obvious. “The texts,” you said, flat.

His eyes narrowed. Genuinely confused. Confused, like you’d just accused him of a crime he had no memory of committing. “What texts?”

You waved your hands around like you were crazy… because you felt it, the absurdity of having to explain this.

“The gazillion texts I get throughout the day from you. On the hour. Every hour. ‘Good morning, doll.’ ‘What are you eating for lunch, doll?’ ‘Did you see the sunset, doll?’ ‘Thinking about you, doll.’” You dropped your hands. “It’s a lot.”

He let out a disbelieving scoff, his head tilting back like he was seeking divine intervention. “You’re breaking up with me because I text too much?”

Your jaw dropped. There was no way this bastard was making you seem like the irrational one here.

“Okay, then how about asking me to move in with you during sex?” You crossed your arms, lifting your chin. “When I’m—when I’m literally so distracted and can’t form a coherent sentence?”

“Sue me for getting lost in the moment,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled his sweater tight across his shoulders, and you hated that you noticed. “I don’t hear you ever complain when I say I’m gonna breed you. Or fuck you through the mattress. You seem pretty into it then.”

“Oh my God.” You covered your face with both hands, pressing your palms into your eye sockets like you could physically block out the absurdity of this conversation. The pressure made little pinpricks of light dance behind your lids. 

Bucky sighed, as if he genuinely believed he was the victim here. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, then dragged it up through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”

And then he turned and walked away, heading toward the foyer.

Your heart did that stupid thing it always did, lurched and twisted. Because the sadness in his voice was real. And you, absolute fool that you were, hurried after him, your heels clicking sharp and fast against the hardwood.

“For the last time, it’s a break, Bucky,” you said for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks… maybe a month or two… I don’t know, we’ll see.”

He was already at the entryway cabinet, the antique one with the brass handles that you’d helped him refinish last spring. He yanked open the drawers, rummaging through it with this kind of frantic energy that you did not notice at all.

“It doesn’t have to be this big dramatic thing. I just need—I dunno, space. To breathe without your texts vibrating in my pocket every forty-five minutes. To go a full day without you asking if I’ve eaten or if I’m still mad or what I’m wearing.” You waved a hand at his back. “Lots of couples do breaks, it strengthens the relationship.”

He shook his head, and you heard the soft click of his tongue against his teeth. “Can’t do a break, doll.”

You scoffed, irritation flaring hot again. “Well, that’s not really your choice to—”

He turned around.

And you stopped mid-sentence because he was holding a whole-ass gun in his hand.

You didn’t even register it at first, just a blur of metal and movement, but then he swung it, sweeping it in an arc like he was gesturing with it, and you ducked out of pure instinct, your shoulders hunching, your hands flying up.

“What the fuck!”

But Bucky didn’t look at you. He looked at the gun, turning it over in his hand like he was examining it for the first time. And then, without hesitation, he pressed the muzzle against his own temple.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” Your hand clamped over your mouth, fingers pressing into your lips, “Why do you have that right by the door?”

He ignored you.

“You can’t leave me if I’m dead.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world.

You just stared at him, mouth hanging open. The seconds stretched, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized you should probably be scared. Worried. Calling 911. But instead, all that came out was a long, exhausted sigh.

“Bucky. Oh my God.” You rubbed your forehead. “Put that down!”

“No.” His voice was firm. Petulant. The no of a toddler who’d decided he was done with vegetables.

And because you had apparently lost every shred of self-preservation instinct you’d ever possessed, you took a step forward, hand reaching out like you were just going to snatch the loaded revolver from this six-foot man.

He backed up immediately, the muzzle digging deeper into his temple, the skin whitening around the metal. “I swear I’ll kill myself. I will. Don’t test me, doll.”

“Oh my God.”

“I love you so much. I can’t live without you.” He shifted the gun down, pressing it under his chin, tilting his head back so he was looking down the barrel of his own mortality. “I can’t live without you. You know that. You’ve always known that.”

You stood there, frozen, arms hanging limp at your sides. And because your mouth had no filter, you heard yourself murmur, “We’ve only been dating for seven months.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, just a fraction. The gun wavered. And for a split second, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of embarrassment cross his face.

But then he recovered, pressing the barrel harder against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “Seven months and twenty-five days.”

“You counted?”

“I know what I’ve got, sweetheart. And I’m not letting it go.” His voice dropped, low and serious, “Not even if it kills me.”

You could only stare at this fool for so long before your head dropped to your chest, a small, disbelieving chuckle slipping past your lips.

His brow furrowed. The gun stayed pressed under his chin, but his eyes narrowed, “I’m about to put a bullet through my skull and you’re laughing?”

You pursed your lips, trying to smother your smile, and let out a long exhale, tilting your head as you looked up at him, “I wanna say I’m too old for this shit,” you said dryly, “but you’re a hell of a lot older than me, so… what do we do now?”

“I—” He faltered. Adjusted his grip on the revolver. “That’s not how you’re supposed to talk to me.”

Your brows knit together. “How am I supposed to talk to you, then?”

The more unaffected you seemed, the more his frustration bled through. The barrel shifted slightly, a tiny wobble, and he reset it against the soft skin under his chin. His jaw tightened. He looked at you like you were the unreasonable one.

“You’re supposed to be begging me to stop. Crying. Telling me you love me.” He gestured with his free hand, the motion jerky, like he was trying to reassert control over the situation. “That’s how this works.”

You stared at him for a long moment after that, not really knowing what else to say anymore.

Instead you clapped your hands together, and sighed, “Well. I gotta go.”

“Wait—what?”

You started edging toward the door, slow and casual, like you were just stretching your legs. Your eyes never left his face, but your hand was already reaching behind you, fingers searching for the doorknob. “I’ve got a nail appointment in, like, ten minutes that I’m probably gonna be late for.”

His eye twitched. A micro-spasm of disbelief. The gun rotated in his grip, not raising, just… shifting.

“I’m about to kill myself,” he said, each word enunciated like he was speaking to a child, “and you’re leaving for a nail appointment.”

“Yeah,” you said flatly, your fingers brushing the brass knob. “And you know how expensive Yelena’s late fee is.”

“You can’t be serious.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost reasonable. “I’m standing here with a gun to my head, begging you not to leave me, and you’re worried about a late fee? Is that really what our relationship means to you?”

“I am completely serious,” you said, ignoring the barb.

Before he could retort, your hand finally found the doorknob. You turned it, yanked the door open.

Late afternoon air hit your face, and then you were moving, sliding through the gap, your heels clicking on the hardwood of the foyer onto the worn birch of his porch.

“For fuck’s sake—”

He yelled your name, the sound bouncing off the walls and chasing you down the steps. Behind you, you heard the heavy thunk of the gun hitting the floor and then the heavy thud of his shoes on the porch, scrambling after you.

You had a head start. By the time you reached your car, you could hear him gaining, swearing under his breath, probably calculating how much force it would take to haul you back inside.

Your key found the lock on the first try. You slid into the driver’s seat, slammed the door, and had the engine roaring to life before he reached the bumper.

He stopped at the end of the driveway, hands on his hips, chest heaving.

You rolled down the window. just an inch, just enough for your voice to carry.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.” Your tone was calm, almost kind. “We’ll try and have this conversation again. Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone. And please, for the love of god Bucky, throw that thing away.”

His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, a cutting retort forming, something designed to burrow under your skin and make you feel guilty for walking out on a man who’d just threatened to blow his brains out—

But you were already pulling away from the curb, your taillights the only answer he got.

In your rearview mirror, you watched him stand there, frozen at the edge of the driveway, watching you disappear around the corner.

Let him stew, you thought, gunning the engine toward the salon. He’ll be fine. He always is.

“He pulled out a gun?”

Yelena didn’t look up from your hand, her focus razor-sharp as she filed the edge of your nail into a perfect almond shape.

The salon smelled like acetone and rose-scented hand cream, a combination that had become oddly comforting over the months you’d been coming here. Rows of pink-lit mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the quiet hum of drill bits and the occasional burst of Russian pop music from the speakers.

Yelena’s station was in the back corner, the one with the good lighting and the jar of complimentary vodka shots she kept under the counter for “loyal customers only.”

“Yeah,” you muttered dryly, adjusting your lashes as she moved to your left hand. “I won’t lie—for a moment there, I thought it was about to become a murder-suicide type of situation.”

Yelena pointed the file at you, nodding. “I see a lot of white American men do that on the news.” She tapped the file against her chin, thoughtful. “Where do they get such easy access to guns?”

You could only shrug, the movement pulling at the foil wraps on your other hand. “When you figure that out, please let me know.”

She made a noncommittal hum and returned to work, picking up a tube of gel glue and a single extension. 

“So,” she said, not looking up, “you are done with this mad man, da?”

You opened your mouth to answer. Then you closed it. Then you opened it again, but nothing came out. Your face must have done something odd, because Yelena’s eyes snapped to yours.

“Girl.”

“What?” you said defensively.

“You have that look,” she said, pressing the extension into place with practiced care. “That look where normal, beautiful women stay with ugly loser men.”

You pointed a finger at her. “He’s not ugly.”

Yelena just stared at you. Three full seconds of that unblinking Russian gaze. Then she shook her head slowly, “Da. Is confirmed. You are hopeless.”

“It is not that simple,” you said a bit hopelessly.

“Then make it simple so I understand,” she said bluntly. She picked up the UV lamp and slid your hand under it, the blue light casting a sterile glow across your fingers. “Explain to me like I am child.”

You let out a long exhale, slumping back into the chair. The cushion squeaked beneath you. Where to even start? How to explain the gravitational pull of a man who was equal parts sweet and suffocating? 

“See, being with a man—it’s like... taking the time to invest in him so it can benefit you a lot. And with James, I’ve invested a lot.” You gestured vaguely. “Time. Energy. Emotional labour. I know his routines, his moods, the way he takes his coffee. I’ve memorised which arguments get him to back down and which ones make him double down. That’s work, Yelena. That’s equity. And as a result I’ve grown very comfortable with him.”

She pulled your hand out of the lamp, inspected the nail, and grunted. “And you are still comfortable with the man even after he kept you hostage, threatening you with a gun?”

“But he wasn’t threatening me,” you emphasised, straightening up. “He threatened himself to keep me. There’s a difference.”

Yelena stopped. Set down the glue. Turned to face you fully, both hands flat on the table in front of her.

“There is no difference,” she said flatly. “Gun is gun. Threat is threat. Man who points gun at himself to make you stay is still pointing gun at you. You are just standing behind bullet path.”

“I probably sounds insane.”

“It is insane,” she corrected, picking up the glue again. “But I am not your mother. I am your friend, more importantly, nail technician. So I will make your nails beautiful, and you will go home to your crazy gun man, and maybe one day you will learn.”

She pressed another extension into place with a decisive click. “Or maybe you will be on news. I will watch and say, ‘I told her.’”

You stared at her.

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you finally said, your voice dry as the cotton balls in the jar beside you.

Yelena just lifted one sleek blonde brow, her expression flat as a frozen lake. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she picked up your right hand, examined your natural nails, and then looked you dead in the eye.

“He must have a big dick, huh?”

The question came out flat, like she was asking about the weather or the price of gel. No judgment. Just pure, clinical curiosity.

You felt your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Yes he does.”

“Of course. Is always the way. Beautiful women stay with crazy men for one of two reasons; money or dick.” She picked up a file, examining the edge of your nail with a critical eye. “Big dick explains many things. The gun. The madness. The way you keep going back like a moth to flame. Is biological. Men with big dicks and small brains create chemical dependency in women. Very common in America.”

“But he’s kind,” you said, holding up your hand to count on your fingers. “And thoughtful. And attentive—”

“And crazy, and pathetic, and clingy,” she interrupted, picking up a new extension, examined it against your nail.

You rolled your eyes, actually rolled them, like a teenager being lectured.

She lifted her green eyes to yours, and there was something almost fond in them. “You are just as crazy as him.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are,” she repeated, “You like his craziness. And his clingyness. And even when you complain about it, it makes you feel special.” She paused, her gaze flicking to yours. “And horny.”

You opened your mouth to protest. Closed it.

You thought about the way Bucky’s texts made your stomach flip; equal parts annoyance and that warm, someone wants me satisfaction. The way his desperation and dominance in bed made you feel like the center of his entire universe.

“Oh fuck,” you said, the realization settling over you, “I’m a cliché.”

Yelena shrugged, reaching for the topcoat. “Da. But you are cliché with very nice nails. So at least you look good while being pathetic.”

“… Thanks,” you muttered dryly.

Then your phone rang.

You reached for it automatically, half expecting Bucky’s name to light up the screen with another round of I miss you texts. But instead, an unknown number stared back at you,a New York area code you didn’t recognize.

You frowned, swiped to answer, and pressed the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

Yelena pretended not to watch. She busied herself with oiling your cuticles, her blonde head bowed, her movements steady. But her eyes kept flicking up to you.

“He what?!”

The shriek tore out of you before you could stop it. The sound bounced off the salon’s white walls, and every head in the place swiveled toward you. You felt the weight of fifteen pairs of eyes on your back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You listened. Nodded. Your eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the wall where a poster advertised acrylics with a woman’s perfectly manicured hand draped across her face.

“Uh huh. Mhm-mhm.”

Your face scrunched. Then, slowly, your shoulders relaxed, the tension bleeding out of them as you let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.

“Seriously? Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, thank you.”

You hung up and turned to Yelena, who had stopped pretending to be disinterested. Her eyebrows were raised, as she tilted her head. “What was that?”

You let out a long, slow sigh and held up your freshly done nails, admiring the pink gloss under the neon light.

“Fool shot himself in the foot. Literally. And guess who was listed as his emergency contact?”

Yelena let out a low whistle and shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line of amused disbelief. She took the cash you dug out of your purse, counted it without looking, and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.

“That is a level of pathetic that has never been reached before,” she said. “Not even in my country.”

“Tell me about it.”

Your shoes clicked against the polished linoleum as you followed the signs to the orthopedics wing.

You still didn’t know what you were going to say to him. Every option cycled through your head—swearing him out, dumping him right there in the hospital bed, maybe throwing your heel at his head for good measure.

The words break up had been sitting on your tongue since you left the salon, a clean cut to end this unnecessary nonsense for good.

But then you rounded the corner to his floor, and your feet slowed without permission.

The door to his room was partially visible through the slatted blinds, and you slowed as you approached, your heels clicking to a stop on the linoleum. Through the narrow gaps, you could see him.

Bucky sat propped against the pillows, his right foot elevated in a crisp white cast that ran from mid-calf to his toes, the edges already starting to scuff from the hospital sheets.

He was still wearing that blue knitted sweater from earlier. It pulled tight across his chest as he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs, nodding slowly at something the doctor was saying.

His jaw was set, brows furrowed in that serious, focused expression he used whenever he wasn’t speaking to someone other than you, the one that made him look very stoic and grouchy. A stark contrast to the disheveled, manic mess he’d been a few hours ago.

Bucky listened, his eyes fixed on her, the picture of a composed, well-adjusted adult. He didn’t look like a man who had accidentally shot himself in the foot.

And as you stood there, in the harsh fluorescent light of a hospital corridor, realized that you really did love him.

There was no way you were breaking up with him. Unfortunately, you were stuck with this idiot. This beautiful, emotionally unstable, big-hearted fool who couldn’t even orchestrate a proper suicide threat without maiming himself in the process.

The doctor finished her spiel, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. You stepped back, plastering a courteous smile on your face as she passed, her heels clicking in a rhythm that matched your own. Then you pushed the door open.

Bucky’s head snapped up, and his blue eyes found you instantly.

The guarded, stoic mask crumbled replaced by something embarrassed, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips parting as if to speak but hesitating.

“Now before you say anything,” he started. “I really was planning on getting rid of it. And I did not plan on shooting myself in the foot. It was an accident. I was moving it, and I—”

You didn’t let him finish. You crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the collar of the blue sweater, and pressed your lips to his.

He made a surprised sound—a muffled mmph—but it melted into something softer, his hands finding your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer until your knees bumped the edge of the bed.

The kiss was warm, tasting faintly of hospital coffee and mint. His fingers curled into the fabric of your jacket, and you felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, his whole body sagging into you.

When you finally broke away, you were both breathing a little heavier. You stayed close, your forehead resting against his, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “No break.”

His eyes fluttered open, and the look on his face was something else entirely. You’d never seen a man who accidentally shot himself in the foot look so happy. The corners of his mouth twitched, then spread into a slow, boyish grin that softened all the hard edges of his face.

And that’s how you ended up sprawled sideways across the narrow hospital bed, one leg dangling off the edge, clipboard balanced on your knee as you scribbled through the stack of discharge paperwork.

Bucky was propped beside you, his shoulder pressed into your side, his arm looping around your waist. Every few minutes, he’d shift, his lips brushing against your shoulder through the thin cotton of your top.

You were halfway through entering his insurance information when he lifted your free hand, and brought it to his mouth. His lips pressed against your knuckles, before he turned your hand over and examined the nails.

“Pretty,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the glossy edge.

You hummed, not looking up from the paperwork. “Yelena had a lot to say about us.”

“Yeah?” He shifted slightly, his interest piqued. “Like what?”

You shrugged, the motion jostling his head gently. “Just very true things.”

“Such as?” he pressed, his lips brushing your jaw, a gentle nudge.

You turned your face toward him, and he met you halfway. The kiss was brief and soft, your lips lingered just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath, the slight curve of a smile forming against yours.

“That we’re both crazy,” you said, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “And i agree.”

A beat of silence.

Then he let out a low chuckle, before settling his head back against your shoulder. “Whatever you say, doll.”

if you made it this far… thanks

Privacy is a concept other couples get to have. You? No. Your body betrays you for sport, and unfortunately Matt has the hearing, smell, and nerve to know every single time.

You didn't realise how often you get turned on until you started dating a man who can hear your pulse do a backflip because he rolled his sleeves up while making pasta. He was COOKING. That's all he did. Garlic, sauce, shirt slightly tight on his back, forearms out. Suddenly you're sitting there like a pervert with a glass of water.

The worst part? He doesn't even turn around at first. He'll keep stirring the sauce, head tilted, smiling to himself like an absolute bastard. Then he'll go, "you alright over there?" Like he doesn't already know. 

You'll say, "fine." Obviously, because you can't simply show your cards (even though he knows all your cards)

He'll hum. Just hum. Like he's heard enough.

Sometimes he lets it sit there too. He'll plate the food, pour wine, sit across from you like a normal boyfriend. But his ankle? It hooks around yours under the table. And you're already thinking, Matthew, don't do this near carbohydrates. 

And the cooking thing became a Thing, by the way. He'll be next to you on bed, hand between your legs because let's face it, that man cannot keep his hands to himself. When he feels how soaked you are around him, he'll press his mouth to your jaw and go, "this all from watching me cook?" You'd want to die. But his hand is between your legs and his cock is hard against your thigh, so death can wait.

Fighting is somehow worse, which is like betrayal from your own body.

Because you'll be genuinely mad. Like fully correct, in your opinion. Pacing around, saying things with evidence, maybe even pointing at him a little because sometimes a finger needs to be involved. And then his jaw gets tight and his voice goes low, and your body immediately forgets the cause.

Feminism? Where?

He'll notice mid-fight too. You'll be halfway through a sentence, something very valid about how he cannot just disappear into Hell's Kitchen bleeding and expect you to be normal about it. Then he'll stop listening. Like not stop stop, he's listening to something else. He's compartmentalising listening. Your pulse. Your breath. The way your thighs shifted. Whatever. Disgusting surveillance state of a man.

Then he'll come closer, and say, "you can keep arguing with me," while his fingers slip under your waistband like he isn't the worst person alive, "but this is making it very hard to believe you."

Sometimes you still try to argue, which is embarrassing for everyone involved. Mostly you. You'd be stuttering, trying to finish a point while he has two fingers sliding through your folds, and mouth near your ear, like he's waiting for you to confess. Absolute lawyer behavior.

Sometimes he makes you say it too. That's the thing. He'll have you right there, hips lifting into his hand, your whole argument dead on the floor, and he'll ask, "what got you like this?" Like he needs it entered into record. And when you refuse, he'll slow down. You wish he'd stop. But no, he's just slowing down. Enough to get you you desperate. Leaving all dignity on the floor along with your skirt, you'll mutter, "your stupid voice," and he kisses your temple like he's comforting you through a problem he caused.

The court thing was the worst one though. You still haven't emotionally recovered from that. 

You went to watch him because it seemed cute. Supportive girlfriend behavior. Very adult. You had coffee, you wore something decent, you sat there thinking this would be sweet, like look at him doing his job, look at my boyfriend being smart and competent.

No.

Bad idea.

He stood there in that suit, calm as anything, voice sharp but polite, sounding gentle while absolutely ruining someone's argument, and your body decided this was porn. Porn you hear me? You didn't even realise you were squeezing your thighs together, but he did. 

Like the perfect boyfriend, he kissed you outside the courthouse, and then paused like a maniac. "During closing arguments?" He asked so softly, like he was trying not to laugh. 

Traffic was right fucking there. You could have walked into it. 

He brought it up for three days. Three full days. "I thought my opening statement was stronger." "Was it the objection?" "Should I wear that tie more often?" Shut up, Matthew. Shut up before you make it worse.

Because he can tell when you're lying, surprises are nearly impossible. You once tried to hide a birthday gift in your closet and he walked in, paused, smiled a little, and said, "is that for me?" You nearly threw the gift at his head.

And he had the nerve to act innocent after. "What?" Like he hadn't just ruined the whole operation. You had wrapped it. You had hidden it under sweaters. There was a tote bag involved. Effort had been made. And he’d just sniffed wrapping paper.

Dating Matt is basically losing every normal human advantage. You can't lie. Can't hide gifts. Can't be horny in peace. Can't even fight without your body betraying the cause.

And the really annoying part is he's sweet about it after. Which almost makes it worse. He'll kiss your forehead after being unbearable. He'll pull you close after making you admit you got wet because he made pasta. He'll plant a soft kiss to your mouth like he didn't just read you fully. 

So yeah, dating a lawyer is bad. But dating Matt Murdock is worse.