returning to my roots,

The paddock hums with its usual chaos.

Engines coughing awake in the distance, radios crackling, the chatter of crew swarming over cars in a blur. Race weekend is always like this, but it feels different this time.

Maybe because you can’t stop noticing one particular absence.

Sonny.

Or rather, the way Sonny has made himself absent from you.

A few days ago the world had narrowed until it was just you, him, and the way his body fit perfectly to yours. But now, surrounded by people, surrounded by your father, Sonny might as well have built a wall between you.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. Not once.

The first time you tried to catch his attention, when Ruben dragged you into the garage that morning with a clap on the shoulder and a brisk “C’mon, kid, don’t block the damn door”, Sonny was already there. Leaning over the hood of a car, talking something low and technical to a mechanic. His hands were dirty, forearms flexing, grease streaked along his knuckles.

Normally, he’d have thrown you a nod, maybe a smirk, that lazy acknowledgement that you existed. Instead, he didn’t even flicker.

You lingered anyway, certain he’d look up. He didn’t.

Later, Ruben called him over during a briefing, the two of them bent over data sheets spread across the table. You watched from the corner, phone in your hand but screen dark, pretending distraction. And not once did he glance your way.

It stung.

Not because of the silence itself, but because you could feel what was beneath it. The deliberate edge to it. Like he wasn’t just ignoring you; he was avoiding you.

Every clipped word, every turned shoulder, every moment his gaze skated over you like you were air. It all screamed that he was still carrying the weight of what happened. That he’d folded the memory into a tight knot in his chest and was trying to bury it so deep he’d never have to touch it again.

But you’d been there too. You knew better.

The way his hands had shook when they touched your skin, the way his voice had broken on your name, none of that gets buried.

You test him in small ways. Passing too close in the narrow hallway of the hospitality suite so your shoulder brushes his arm. Setting his coffee down beside your seat instead of handing it directly, so he has to reach across you. Leaning against the pit wall during practice, only a few feet from where he stands with his headset, and letting your gaze burn holes into the side of his face.

Every time, his response is the same: nothing. A twitch of his jaw, a flick of his fingers, a shift of weight. He never takes the bait.

And yet, the avoidance itself is proof. If he truly didn’t care, if that night had been the meaningless slip he wants you to believe, he wouldn’t need to try so hard.

He wouldn’t have to shut you out.

Ruben makes it worse without even knowing. Your dad’s laughter is easy, careless, his hand clapping Sonny’s back like old times. He slings an arm around your shoulders, dragging you into the conversation like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You stand there, smiling, answering questions when you’re asked, but your pulse pounds with every glance Sonny doesn’t give you.

Because it feels like a lie, the three of you standing together like family, when underneath Sonny’s calm exterior is the memory of your mouth, your skin, your whispers.

The night air smells like gasoline and cold asphalt. The paddock has mostly gone quiet, just the distant thrum of a generator somewhere down the row and the occasional metallic clink of cooling engines. The team is gone, or shut away in trailers, lights dimmed for the night.

You didn’t mean to find him.

You were wandering, restless after dinner with your dad and the crew, pretending you needed fresh air when really you just needed space. Your phone was a dead weight in your pocket, unread notifications piling up, but you weren’t in the mood to answer anyone.

And then you turned a corner and saw him.

Sonny.

He’s leaning against the side of his car, half in shadow, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. One boot propped against the wheel, shoulders slouched, like he’s been rooted there a while. The plume of smoke drifts pale against the dark, and for a moment, you think about leaving. Turning back before he notices.

But he already has.

His head tilts the second your footsteps scuff the pavement, eyes catching yours in the gloom. You freeze, caught like you’ve stepped into a spotlight. He doesn’t say anything, just takes another drag, the ember flaring red before dimming again.

You move closer before you can talk yourself out of it.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” you say softly.

His shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. “Bad habit.” His voice is rough, worn thin, like the day chewed him up and spit him out.

You stop a few feet away, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets, unsure if you’re welcome. “Couldn’t sleep,” you offer.

Another drag. Another shrug. He keeps his eyes on the asphalt instead of you, thumb tapping ash against the car door. It’s the same avoidance you’ve been getting for days, but sharper now, condensed by the quiet.

The silence stretches. You shift your weight, chewing at the inside of your cheek. “You’ve been… different.”

That earns a faint snort, humorless. “Different how?”

“You won’t even look at me.” The words slip out before you can dress them up, too honest, too bare. “Like I did something wrong.”

He flicks the cigarette butt to the ground, crushes it under his boot, and finally turns his head. The shadows cut sharp across his face, jaw tense, mouth set. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shoves his hands into his jacket, rocking back against the car with a muted creak. His eyes dart past you, anywhere but your face.

When he finally speaks, the words are clipped, harsh around the edges. “Because it was a mistake.”

The air goes heavy, pressing down on your ribs. You blink at him, throat tight. “…What?”

“That night.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe he has to say it aloud. “Shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let it.”

You swallow, heat crawling up your neck, but it isn’t embarrassment, it’s something heavier. “You really think that?”

His gaze flicks to yours for the briefest second before sliding away again. The look in his eyes is quick, sharp, gone before you can pin it down. “Doesn’t matter what I think.”

“Yes, it does.” Your voice cracks more than you want it to. “It matters to me.”

That makes him flinch, barely, like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t braced for. His jaw works, but he doesn’t speak. The silence stretches again, longer this time.

You step closer, careful, slow. “I’m not asking you to…” You trail off, shaking your head. You don’t even know how to finish that sentence. “I just want to understand.”

His hands curl into fists in his pockets. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the taut line of his throat. When he finally looks at you, really looks, it’s like a blow.

“You don’t get it,” he says, low and rough. “You can’t. I’m too-” He cuts himself off, grinding his teeth. “Your dad… if he knew…”

You wait, quiet, letting him stumble through it.

He drags a hand over his face, muttering into his palm. “Christ. I shouldn’t even be standing here with you.”

You fold your arms across your chest, trying to hold yourself together. “Then why are you?”

He stares at you for a long time, chest rising and falling like he’s been running. His fists unclench, curl again. He looks like he wants to bolt, like every instinct in him is screaming to walk away.

But he doesn’t move.

You take another step closer, heart hammering, voice barely above a whisper. “If it was such a mistake, why can’t you even look at me without-” You cut yourself off, biting hard at your lip.

Without what? Without remembering? Without wanting? You can’t bring yourself to say it.

Sonny’s expression twists. He exhales sharply, ragged, like you just knocked the wind out of him.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about it,” he snaps, sudden and vicious, like the words have been clawing their way out of him. “You happy now? You want the truth? I can’t get you out of my head. Every time I close my eyes-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head hard.

“Goddamn it, this is exactly why I’ve been keeping my distance.”

Sonny scrubs both hands over his face, pacing a short, agitated line in front of the car before planting himself back against it like it’s the only thing holding him up. His voice is lower now, rough with something close to pleading.

“You’re not supposed to know any of this. You’re not supposed to- hell, none of this is supposed to happen. I’m too old, you’re-” He cuts himself off with a curse. “And Ruben, Christ, your dad trusts me. If he ever-”

He breaks off, shaking his head again, and you realize his hands are shaking where they clutch the edge of the car.

You don’t push further. You don’t even know what you’d say if you tried. You just look at him, quiet.

And maybe that’s worse than anything you could’ve said, because when he finally glances at you, his expression splinters.

Like he can handle anger. He can handle teasing. He can even handle temptation.

But your hurt? Your confusion? That’s what undoes him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice breaking. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You blink hard, vision prickling, but it doesn’t stop the sting in your eyes. You don’t mean to look so small, don’t mean to let him see how much his words landed, how much the distance has been eating at you.

Sonny swears again under his breath, softer this time, and before you can process it he’s moving. His hand comes up, hesitant at first, like he’s not sure if he should touch you.

But then you’re in his arms, pulled in against his chest with a rough exhale, like he’s been holding his breath all week and finally let it go.

It’s not a clean embrace. His arms are too stiff, his grip uncertain, as if he doesn’t know if he’s comforting you or apologising for every mistake at once. But you sink into it anyway, forehead pressed to the worn fabric of his jacket, breathing in smoke and soap and the sharp tang of engine oil clinging to him.

He murmurs something into your hair, low and jagged, too quiet to catch.

You don’t ask him to repeat it.

For a moment, you let yourself stay there. The steady thud of his heart beneath your ear, the heat of his body, the way his breath stutters like he doesn’t quite trust himself.

Then his hand shifts, almost unconsciously, up your back. His thumb brushes the base of your neck, and you shiver. He freezes.

You lift your head to look at him, eyes wet, mouth parted. His face is right there, close enough that you can see the grooves of exhaustion around his eyes, the tight pull of his mouth. He looks torn in half, like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to let go or pull you closer.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” you whisper, and your voice wobbles with the effort of holding steady.

He shuts his eyes and his hand cradles the back of your head before he can stop himself. “I know,” he says, ragged. “I know you don’t.”

“Then tell me,” you press, the words tumbling out because you’re too close now, too bare to stop yourself. “Tell me why it’s so wrong. Why you... why you regret it.”

His eyes fly open. There's no anger. It’s not even guilt. It’s raw, desperate want, tangled so tight with self-loathing it makes your chest hurt.

“Because you’re-” His voice cracks, and he shakes his head like the words choke him. “You’re too young. You don’t know what the hell you’re asking for. And me?” He breaks off, fists curling in your jacket. “I’ve lived too much, done too much. I should be the last man you’re standing here with.”

You swallow hard, blinking against the burn in your eyes. “But I am standing here with you.”

The words hang in the air, and his breath stutters. You can feel it where it brushes your cheek.

For a heartbeat he just stares at you, torn apart, his grip trembling where it holds you. And then, like something inside him finally gives way, he lowers his head.

The kiss isn’t harsh, not this time. It’s slow, tentative, the barest press of his mouth against yours. He tastes faintly of smoke, of bitterness, of something he’s been denying himself.

You make a soft sound without meaning to, and that breaks him further. The kiss deepens, still gentle, still careful, but with an urgency threading through it, the kind born of days spent fighting the inevitable.

When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he can’t bear to see what’s right in front of him. “This is wrong,” he whispers, voice cracked open. “I keep saying it, and I keep—”

“Then stop saying it.”

His hand trembles where it holds your jaw, and for a moment you think he’ll push you away again. Instead he kisses you once more, slower, deeper, like he’s memorizing the feel of it even as he hates himself for giving in.

And that’s the breaking point—not the hunger, not the temptation, but the softness of it. The way you look at him with confusion instead of anger, sadness instead of blame.

By the time he pulls back, his breath is shaky, his lips red, his hands still cupping your face like he doesn’t know how to let go.

“I can’t stay away from you, sweetheart.”

His words hang between you, raw and unsteady. For a long moment neither of you moves, just breathing the same air, your foreheads pressed together like it’s the only way you can stay standing.

Then he exhales, rough, and steps back. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying not to let him see how much it stings.

“Come on,” he mutters, voice thick. “It’s late. I’ll drive you back.”

You almost protest; you don’t want to leave, don’t want this moment to end, but you bite it back. He’s already turning, fishing his keys from his pocket. You follow him quietly, your footsteps soft on the cracked pavement.

The drive is silent. The radio stays off, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional shift of gears. Streetlights pass in rhythm, washing his face in alternating shadow and glow. You study the tight line of his jaw, the way his hand grips the wheel too hard, and you wonder if he feels as raw as you do.

When the hotel looms into view, he pulls into the lot without a word, cuts the engine. The sudden silence is heavy, pressing down on both of you.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

You finally glance at him. His face is turned toward the windshield, expression unreadable, but his knuckles are white on the steering wheel. Slowly, like he’s afraid of what it means, he lets go, flexes his hands.

“I’ll walk you up,” he says. It sounds like a question, but it isn’t.

You nod, throat too tight to speak.

The elevator ride is the longest thirty seconds of your life. You stand shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel his warmth, close enough that your hands almost brush, but don’t.

When the doors slide open, you step out first, pulse hammering. He follows, boots heavy against the carpet.

Your room is only a few doors down. You stop in front of it, digging your keycard from your pocket with fingers that fumble. He hovers just behind you, close enough that you can sense him, too close to pretend this is just about making sure you got back safe.

You turn, and his eyes catch yours.

For a second, nothing happens.

You don’t say it, and neither does he. But you both know.

The door clicks open beneath your hand, the muted glow of the room spilling out.

The sound of the door closing behind you is louder than it should be, a sharp little seal against the rest of the world. The room is dim, one bedside lamp left on, casting everything in gold and shadow. You stand there for a moment, not moving, not speaking, just listening to your own pulse hammer in your ears.

Then you hear it, the soft snick of the lock turning.

He followed.

You turn, and there he is, closing the door with deliberate care, like he’s giving himself one last chance to stop. His eyes meet yours in the half-light, and your breath catches.

Neither of you says a word.

He shrugs out of his jacket slowly, draping it over the back of the chair.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters finally, voice low and hoarse.

“You are.”

Something flickers across his face, anger at himself, maybe? He scrubs a hand over his jaw, then steps closer. Each heavy footfall makes the space between you smaller, the air denser.

When he stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of smoke still clinging to him, you tilt your face up to his.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit, the words trembling out. “But I know I don’t want to stop.”

His breath leaves him in a rough exhale, and for a long, agonising moment, he just looks at you. His eyes trace over your face, searching, memorising, caught somewhere between hunger and guilt.

Then his hand rises, hesitant and shaking a little, cupping your cheek.

The warmth of his palm is too much, too gentle. Your eyes flutter shut, a tear slipping free before you can stop it. His thumb brushes it away, and you hear him whisper a curse, broken and quiet.

You lean into his touch, your lips parting. That’s all it takes.

His mouth finds yours. The kiss is so soft, so careful.

Your hands rise without thinking, clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. He groans softly against your lips, a sound that vibrates through you, and pulls you closer.

The kiss doesn’t stay soft for long.

Sonny’s mouth moves against yours with more certainty, more hunger, though it’s tempered by something almost painful.

You press into him, desperate for more, and that’s what makes him stumble back a step, pulling you with him until the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed. He breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale, chest rising and falling hard against yours.

“Christ,” he mutters, rough, like the word’s been torn out of him. “We can’t- fuck, we can’t do this again.”

But his hands don’t leave you. They’re still at your waist, fingers flexing against your skin like he’s fighting himself and losing.

Your eyes are wide, pleading. You don’t even know what you’d say to convince him if you tried. But you don’t have to, because when he sees the shimmer of tears still threatening at your lashes, his resolve falters completely. His face breaks, shoulders sagging like the weight is too much.

And then he’s kissing you again, harder this time. Not rushed, not frantic, but like a man starved of something he knows he shouldn’t touch. His mouth moves slow, deliberate, savoring every second. His hands slide lower, around your hips, pulling you against him until you feel the solid line of his body.

A low sound slips from your throat, and that’s when he groans, deep and broken.

“You’re trouble,” he whispers against your mouth. “Pure fucking trouble. And I’m a goddamn idiot.”

Still, he doesn’t let go.

When you tug gently at the hem of his shirt, he hesitates only a heartbeat before dragging it over his head, tossing it aside with a ragged breath. The light catches on the scars, the years etched into his body, and your hands tremble as you touch him.

He shudders, eyes closing like the feel of your fingers on his skin is too much. “You shouldn’t want this,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Not me. Not like this.”

But when you lean in and press your lips to his chest, he grips the back of your neck and exhales like he’s breaking apart.

The way he touches you is careful, reverent almost, even when his breath is harsh and uneven. He slips your shirt up slowly, his hands skimming your ribs, your back, as if memorizing the shape of you. When the fabric finally falls away, he curses under his breath, pulling you flush to him, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I’m gonna regret this,” he murmurs, voice shaking against your skin. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna hate myself.”

But his lips are already tracing the curve of your neck, his hands smoothing over your back, holding you tighter like he can’t let go.

Every motion is deliberate. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push. He peels away the layers slowly, pausing each time, giving you space to stop him. But you don’t. You can’t.

When his hand slides down your thigh, lifting you onto his lap, his grip is firm, anchoring you there, but the way his forehead presses against yours is soft, like he’s clinging to you in a different way.

“You don’t understand,” he mutters, words spilling like confessions. “Your dad… if he knew it happened multiple times… he’d kill me.” His thumb strokes absently over your hip, tender even as his jaw tightens. “And he’d be right.”

You shake your head, whispering, “Don’t talk about him. Not now.”

Clothes disappear between kisses, tossed aside without thought. He mutters against your skin the whole time- warnings, curses, guilt laced through every word.

“Shouldn’t be touching you…” a kiss to your collarbone. “Should’ve walked away in the garage…” his hands gripping your waist.

When he finally eases you back onto the bed, he hesitates, braced over you on his elbows, his weight careful, almost protective. His eyes search yours one last time, as if begging for an excuse to stop.

But you lift your hand, cupping his jaw, and whisper, “I want this.”

He braces over you, chest heaving, eyes locked on yours like he’s searching for some last thread of restraint. His jaw works, his breath ragged.

“We shouldn’t,” he mutters again, voice shredded. “This is… it’s too much.”

But you don’t let him look away. You cup his face with both hands, your thumb brushing his cheekbone, and whisper, “I want you.”

That undoes him.

He lowers himself, his lips capturing yours in a kiss so desperate it almost hurts, all teeth and heat and trembling breath. His body presses closer, the weight of him grounding you, overwhelming you, but never crushing. His hands frame your face, then slide down to your hips, his grip both steady and cautious, like he’s fighting every instinct not to grab harder, not to lose control.

When he finally pushes inside you, slow and careful, you gasp, your body stretching around him. The sharp ache steals your breath, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He freezes instantly.

“Shit- ” His forehead drops to yours, his chest shuddering. His voice breaks as he mutters, “Too much. I knew it’d be too much. Jesus Christ.”

His hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb stroking your cheek like he’s trying to soothe away the sting. His other arm bands tight around your waist, holding you steady against him.

“You okay?” he whispers, urgent, almost panicked. “Tell me if it’s too much. Say the word, and I’ll stop right now, doesn't matter we've done this before.”

You shake your head quickly, whispering, “Don’t stop. Please.”

He groans, the sound raw, torn from somewhere deep. His lips brush your temple, then your cheek, soft, apologetic kisses as he holds himself still inside you. “Christ, baby, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters. His hand strokes down your side, trembling slightly. “I shouldn’t… but I can’t- ”

You shift beneath him, your body adjusting, “It’s okay now.”

He exhales a curse, his whole body shivering with restraint as he starts to move, slow and deliberate.

The stretch still makes your breath catch, but his hands never leave you, one cupping your face, the other gripping your hip, grounding you. His muttered words spill between broken kisses:

“God, you’re so tight…” “Shouldn’t fit inside you like this…” “Your dad would kill me if he knew…” “Fuck, I can’t stop… don’t want to stop.”

And beneath all of it, his guilt, his warnings, his curses. It's that protectiveness, threaded through every touch. He holds you like you’re fragile, like you’re too young, too good, too soft for him, but he’s helpless against the way you cling to him.

When you whimper, his mouth finds yours instantly, swallowing the sound, murmuring against your lips.

“Shh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

His careful rhythm falters, his restraint thinning until he groans against your skin, voice raw.

He holds you close, so close you can barely tell where you end and he begins. His forehead presses against yours, his lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, like he needs to touch every part of you he can reach.

When you finally come apart beneath him, he’s right there with you, arms locked around you, his voice rough in your ear.

“That’s it, baby… Jesus, that’s it.”

He doesn't stop. His thrusts get harsher, harder, more desperate. You're body is shaking, every nerve on fire while he keeps pounding into you. He holds your hips down, lips pressed to your jaw, letting you buck against him but still not slowing down.

Soon, though, his thrusts start getting more erratic, every muscle in his body straining before locking, finally following you. His whole body shudders as he buries himself in you, groaning your name like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

"Fuck- sweetheart-" he chokes out before collapsing against you, just catching himself on his elbows so as not to crush you.

Then the room is quiet again, except for your breathing; shaky, uneven, tangled together. He doesn’t move right away. He just holds you, his weight heavy but comforting, his hand smoothing gently down your side like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

After a long moment, he finally speaks, voice cracked and low. “This is wrong.” His lips brush your shoulder as he says it. “So fucking wrong.”

Sonny stays inside you. He just holds you there like if he shifts even an inch, it’ll all come crashing down.

And maybe it already has.

You’re dazed, floating, your body trembling in a way you can’t control. Your chest rises and falls too quickly, every breath shaky. When you try to shift beneath him, your legs feel weak, useless, and that’s when he finally stirs.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice rough but gentler now, low in your ear. His hands tighten on your waist, steadying you like he’s afraid you’ll break. “Don’t… don’t move yet.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. You feel small beneath him, wrecked, your body still humming from the intensity. You can’t think, can’t speak, just cling faintly to the warmth of him still holding you together.

Sonny finally pulls back, slow, careful, and you wince at the sudden emptiness. He notices. His hand is immediately there, smoothing down your thigh, grounding you. “Shit,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You okay?”

You nod, but it’s weak, and when you whisper, “Yeah,” your voice barely makes it out.

That’s when it hits him.

He looks at you, really looks, and something in his expression crumples. His eyes flick over your face, the tears still drying at your lashes, the flush in your cheeks, the way your body trembles beneath his. His jaw clenches hard. He drags a hand over his face, sitting back on the edge of the bed like he can’t stand to be pressed against you another second.

“Christ almighty,” he breathes, shaking his head. “What the fuck did I just do?”

You blink at him, confusion cutting through your haze. But before you can sit up, he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, burying his face in his hands.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Your dad… if he ever-” He stops, shaking his head again, his breath sharp, ragged. “I should leave. I should-”

But when he glances back at you, sprawled against the sheets, small and undone, something breaks in him again. His shoulders drop, his fists curl, and he swears under his breath.

“I can’t,” he admits, quiet, guttural.

The guilt is carved into every line of his face. He’s older, bigger, stronger, and you look so young, so fragile in this moment that he almost hates himself. He can feel the weight of it pressing down on him.

The years between you, the trust he’s betrayed, the lines he’s crossed.

And yet, instead of leaving, he turns back to you. He shifts onto the bed, gathering you gently into his arms, pulling the blanket over you both. His hand smooths down your hair, trembling, as he whispers, “You’re alright. I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

You curl into him instinctively, eyes closing, your body sinking against his. The floaty, exhausted haze makes it impossible to do anything else.

Sonny presses his lips to your temple, eyes squeezed shut. He should be gone already, out the door, down the hall, anywhere but here. Every instinct screams it at him.

Instead, he presses his face into your hair and breathes you in.

“Jesus Christ, what am I doing?” he mutters, low, broken. His hand moves in slow, absent circles across your back.

He feels like a monster.

“I shouldn’t have touched you,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Not once. Not ever.” His thumb brushes your shoulder, gentler than his words.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You just burrow closer, letting out a soft, shaky breath as you tuck yourself tighter against him.

That’s what undoes him. That blind, reckless trust.

He holds you tighter, lowering his mouth to your hair. His voice cracks when he whispers, “Sleep, baby. I’ll keep you safe.”

The garage is quieter than you’ve ever heard it before. No shouts from mechanics, no whine of drills or wrenches, just the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the faint smell of hot rubber that clings stubbornly to the air even after the cars are wheeled away.

You swing your legs idly from the folding chair you claimed an hour ago, phone long forgotten on your lap.

Your dad said it wouldn’t take long.

“Just a quick debrief, stay put, I’ll grab you when we’re done”, but “quick” in race weekend terms is always a lie from Ruben Cervantes.

Which leaves you here. Restless, bored, and very aware that the only other person left in the space is Sonny Hayes.

He’s exactly where he’s been since Ruben disappeared upstairs, still slouched on a stool near the coffee machine, one of his ankles hooked over the other, his hand wrapped around a paper cup. Even off-duty, he looks like he’s been carved out of something harder than the rest of the world. His jaw is sharp under the fluorescent lights, grey creeping through the edges of his hair.

His eyes flick up every so often like he’s making sure you haven’t wandered off, but otherwise, he seems content to leave you to your boredom.

It’s strange, in a way.

Sonny has always been around. Your dad’s old teammate, his drinking buddy, the guy who used to ruffle your hair when you ran around the paddock in oversized team gear. He’s always been Uncle Sonny in that casual, honorary sense. But now, with no one else around, the nickname doesn’t fit.

Your gaze drifts across the garage until it lands on the hulking shape in the room across the hall. The simulator rig, still powered down but impossible to ignore. You’ve seen drivers climb in and out of it on practice days, but never this close.

You tilt your head, considering. “So… what’s it like?”

Sonny’s eyes flick toward you, lazy, wary. “What’s what like?”

“That thing.” You jerk your chin toward the sim. “The car. Driving it.”

He smirks faintly and goes back to sipping his coffee. “Fast.”

You roll your eyes. “Wow, thanks, very descriptive.”

“You asked, I answered.” His voice is that low, gravelly rumble that makes every word sound like a dismissal. “It’s not something you put into words, kid. You feel it.”

The nickname lands heavier now, making you bristle. “Don’t call me that. I’m not ten.”

That earns you a longer look. His eyes narrow, assessing, like he’s noticing for the first time that you aren’t the gangly teenager sneaking sodas from the team fridge anymore. It only lasts a second before he turns back to his coffee.

You stand, crossing the floor toward the sim. The thing is kinda intimidating up close, all wires and screens and the sleek outline of the cockpit seat. You brush your fingers over the wheel, imagining what it would feel like with an engine roaring behind it.

“Does it really throw you around like people say?” you ask. “Like, do you feel every bump? Every turn?”

You hear the sound of his stool scraping back from behind you. A moment later, he’s closer, his presence filling the space before he even speaks.

“You shouldn’t mess with that,” he says, quieter now. “Not a toy.”

“I wasn’t gonna break it.” You glance at him sideways, lips quirking. “You don’t think I could handle it?”

His laugh is short, humorless. “It’s not about handling it. You wouldn’t last two seconds before your head hit the wheel.”

Something about the way he says it, so matter-of-fact, makes you want to push. “So show me.”

That makes him pause. You watch the muscle in his jaw tick, like he’s debating whether to shut this down outright. Finally, he exhales through his nose and mutters, “You're not gonna let up, are you?”

You smile sweetly, leaning back against the frame of the rig. “Not when I’m curious.”

He mutters something under his breath about Ruben killing him for this, but he sets his coffee down anyway, stepping past you to crouch by the simulator’s power switch. The screens flicker to life one by one, casting a pale glow over his face, and for a moment you think you forget to breathe.

Watching him like this, so focused and methodical, isn’t anything new. You’ve seen him on TV, on podiums, even slouched in your dining room during the off-season. But it's different when you're standing so close, impossible to ignore the lines carved into his face, the way his hands move with easy confidence over every switch and strap.

He slides into the seat like it’s second nature, body folding down into the cockpit until he looks like part of the machine. For a heartbeat you just stand there, staring, and then his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“Well?” he drawls. “You wanted a show.”

Heat crawls up your neck, but you force a shrug. “Just making sure you remember how.”

That earns you a real smirk, crooked and sharp. He reaches for the belts and clicks them across his chest, shoulders flexing under his t-shirt. The cockpit is narrow enough that his arms brush the sides as he works, and you can see veins shifting under tan skin.

“Everything’s tighter in here than you think,” he says, his voice slipping into that calm, instructive tone you’ve heard him use with your dad when they talk setups at home, or during team briefings.

“You don’t move around. You can’t. Car does all the moving for you.”

The sim hums louder when he taps controls, and suddenly the screens wrap around him with the illusion of asphalt and guardrails. He grips the wheel, and just like that, the laziness vanishes.

His whole body sharpens. His eyes lock forward, jaw clenches, and shoulders square up.

You find yourself leaning in, fingers curling around the edge of the rig as the seat vibrates under him. His arms flex with each turn. It isn’t flashy, but there’s a rhythm to it, muscle memory.

“Throttle’s everything,” he says, low and even. “Too much, and you’re sliding. Too little, you’re dead in the water.” He presses down with his foot and the rig lurches, the engine sound vibrating in your chest.

“But brake points are instinct. You can’t second-guess.”

You swallow, eyes fixed on the way his knuckles tighten around the wheel. “So it really feels like this?”

“This?” His lips twitch. “Multiply it by ten, and then you’re getting close.”

The car on the screen shudders through a corner. You gasp without meaning to, stumbling forward a little, and his hand shoots out instinctively to steady you, hot against your hip, just for a second, before he pulls it back like the touch burns him.

“Careful,” he mutters. “It’ll throw you if you’re not strapped in.”

You look down at him, heart skittering, and for the first time he doesn’t immediately look away. There’s something in his gaze that makes the space between you feel smaller than it is.

You force a grin, trying to break it. “You make it look easy.”

“It’s not.” He shakes his head, tearing his attention back to the screens. “Every second, the car’s trying to kill you. You either stay ahead of it, or you don’t walk away.”

“That’s why you like it, isn’t it?”

His eyes flick to you again, sharp, unreadable. “What makes you think I like it?”

“Because you’re still here,” you say softly. “Still doing it, when you could’ve walked away years ago.”

He doesn’t answer, just flexes his hands on the wheel like he needs something solid to hold onto. The car on the screen eats up another straight; you can feel the vibrations through the floor.

You lean in, lowering your voice. “So when do I get a turn?”

That breaks his concentration. His head snaps toward you, disbelief written plain across his face. “Not happening.”

“Why not?” you ask, letting the words tilt into a tease. “Afraid I’ll be better?”

“You wouldn’t last half a lap.”

“Then show me.”

You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, he’s trying to find the right angle to brush you off.

But you don’t give him a chance to tell you no again, because before he can find the right gruff dismissal, you swing one leg over the edge of the cockpit and lower yourself into the narrow space, right onto his lap.

Sonny goes rigid beneath you, every muscle locking like you’ve just thrown him into a live current.

The sim seat definitely isn’t made for two, and the fit is impossibly tight. Your back is pressed to his chest, your thighs spread wide to straddle his, the wheel just out of reach of your fingertips. His breath hitches hot against your hair.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice is low, dangerous.

“Learning,” you say, all false innocence as you wiggle to settle in. His thighs are solid beneath you, the belts of the cockpit digging against your hips. “You said I wouldn’t last two seconds on my own. So… show me.”

His arms hover like he doesn’t know where to put them, as if touching you will set off an alarm. Even like this, he dwarfs you, his shoulders boxing you in on either side, chest a hard wall, legs stretching so much farther under the pedals that you feel small in a way you haven’t in years.

“Off,” he bites out. His voice cracks around the single word. “Now.”

But you lean back, tilting your head just enough to catch his profile. “C’mon, Sonny. Just one lap.”

The use of his name lands like a punch. Your voice is soft, coaxing, not the bratty kid tone he expects.

“I said-” His jaw flexes. He swallows whatever warning is next, dragging a hand through his hair instead. “Christ, you don’t make anything easy, do you?”

You smile. “Where do my hands go?”

He curses under his breath but reaches for your wrists, guiding them forward until your fingers curl around the wheel. His much larger hands close over yours, and suddenly it feels less like a lesson and more like a trap. The heat of his skin bleeds through and you can’t help shifting slightly, pressing back against him.

The sim jolts into motion as he taps the control. The engine’s roar fills your ears, vibrations shuddering up through the seat and into your body. Well, into his body, which is pressed flush against yours. His thighs bracket you, his arms wrap around you to grip the wheel, and the size of him makes you feel as if swallowed whole.

“Hold it steady,” he mutters against your ear, voice gravel scraping low. “Don’t fight it. Let me… guide you.”

The words thrum through you, double-edged, and you let out a soft laugh. “Feels like you’re doing all the work.”

“Because you don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” he growls back, but his breath is harsher now, his hands tightening over yours.

The car jolts through a sharp corner, the rig shuddering violently. The motion presses you back harder against him and you feel everything, including the unmistakable heat building beneath you.

Your breath catches, and you shift again, deliberately this time.

His hands slip from the wheel to your waist, fingers digging in. “Don’t,” he warns.

But you only tilt your head, lips brushing his jaw as you whisper, “Then make me stop.”

For a beat, the only sound is the roar of the simulated engine, the rattle of the seat. His chest rises and falls like he’s fighting with himself.

Then his grip tightens, dragging you down against him with a force that makes your pulse stutter.

“You don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, sweetheart,” he rasps against your ear. “And I’m not the man you want to play it with.”

But he doesn’t let you go. His grip on your waist tightens like he means to shove you off, but he doesn’t.

The sim jolts again, the wheel twitching under your fingers, but neither of you are paying attention to the track anymore.

“Stop moving,” he mutters, low and ragged.

You tilt your hips just slightly, the motion deliberate, pressing yourself back against him. The growl he lets out is guttural, helpless.

“You think this is funny?” His voice rasps over your skin, vibrating low in your chest. “Sitting here, squirming on my lap like a damn-” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale.

You smile, wicked and breathless. “Feels like you’re the one squirming, Sonny.”

That does it. With a hissed curse, his hands land hard on your hips. The sim car jerks into a wall on the screen, alarms blaring, but the motion only makes the seat shudder violently beneath you.

He drags your hips back, forcing you flush against him, and his voice cracks through his teeth. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Yes I do,” you whisper, head tipping back against his shoulder. “I know exactly what I want.”

His breath shudders out, hot against the shell of your ear. He presses his mouth there, just a ghost of lips, and you feel his restraint splinter.

“Ruben would kill me,” he mutters, like saying it aloud might ground him. But his fingers are already sliding under the hem of your shirt, calloused palms hot against your skin. “Christ, I should walk away right now.”

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls you tighter against him, the sheer size of him enveloping you. Every shallow rock of your hips against him drags another ragged sound from deep in his chest.

“Look at you,” he grinds out, voice low and hoarse. “Dad’s little girl, sitting here trying to ruin me.” His teeth graze the curve of your neck, not quite biting.

“And you’re doing a damn good job.”

Your fingers clutch at his forearms, nails biting into muscle. “Then stop fighting it.”

The sim rattles around you, forgotten, the world outside the cockpit narrowing until it’s only his breath, his heat, his hands dragging you into the hard line of his body.

One hand slides down, past your stomach, pressing firmly between your thighs. You gasp, the sound swallowed immediately by his mouth on your jaw, rough and demanding.

“Goddamn it,” he groans, almost to himself, as if he can’t believe he’s letting this happen. “You feel that? That’s what happens when you play with fire, sweetheart.”

You roll your hips into his palm, into him, and he curses again, louder this time.

His control slips fast.

His touch goes rougher, his kisses harder, every word spilling out like a confession he can’t hold back.

“This is wrong,” he growls, but his hand is already working you through your clothes, the heel of his palm pressing just right. “So fucking wrong…”

You turn your head, catching his mouth with yours at last, and the kiss is a collision. It's messy, desperate, teeth clashing until he groans into you and drags you harder against him.

Sonny is everywhere, his body is caging you in, his hands pulling you apart, his breath filling your lungs like you’ll never get enough.

Finally, with a sharp jerk, he tears his mouth from yours. His voice is wrecked, his forehead pressed hard to the back of your head.

“If I don’t get you out of this seat right now,” he pants, “I’m gonna fuck you in it.”

And then his hands are under your thighs, lifting you out of the cockpit like you weigh nothing at all. You gasp, clutching at his shoulders, but he’s already moving. He crosses the garage in three long strides before slamming you up against the nearest wall. The impact rattles the tools hanging there, your breath knocked out of you in a startled laugh that dies in your throat when you see his face.

His eyes are dark, wild, all the lazy composure stripped away. He cages you in, one massive hand gripping your hip, the other braced beside your head.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, forehead dropping against yours. His breath is ragged, hot. “I shouldn’t be touching you.”

But he is.

His hand slides up your side, under your shirt, calloused palm rough against bare skin. You arch into it instinctively, chasing the heat, and his mouth finds yours like he’s been starving for years. His tongue sweeps in, his teeth catching your bottom lip until you whimper against him.

That sound undoes him. With a growl, he grabs both your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head, his grip iron. The other hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back so his mouth can trail down your throat. He bites, sucks, laves at the skin until you’re squirming, until your pulse is hammering under his tongue.

“You have no idea what you’ve started,” he rasps against your neck.

“Then… finish it,” you whisper, breathless.

His laugh is low, humourless, almost broken. “Careful what you ask for, sweetheart.”

He releases your wrists only long enough to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly aside. His hands are everywhere, palming your breasts, kneading the soft flesh, thumbs dragging over your nipples until your knees buckle.

He catches you easily, slamming your body tighter against the wall, his own pressed flush to hold you up.

“Look at you,” he groans, eyes raking down your body like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. “Ruben’s little girl. You know what he’d do to me if he saw this?”

You meet his gaze. “He’s not here.”

That’s all it takes. He swears harshly, and then his hands are on your waistband, shoving your pants down your legs in a rough, impatient motion. He kisses you again, harder, while his fingers slide between your thighs, finding you already wet. He groans into your mouth, the sound guttural, like he can’t believe it.

“Fuck. You wanted this. All along, you knew.”

“Yes,” you gasp, rocking into his hand. “I wanted you.”

That shatters what’s left of his restraint. He spins you, pressing you chest-first against the wall. The cold surface shocks you, but his body heat smothers it instantly. He yanks your underwear down with one hand, the other flattening against your stomach to pin you in place.

“You’re too damn small for me,” he growls in your ear, rutting against you through his jeans. “I’ll break you.”

“Try me,” you throw back, voice trembling but certain.

He curses again, pulls his zipper down, and in one sharp motion he’s pushing inside you. The stretch steals your breath, a cry ripping out of your throat as your hands scrabble uselessly at the wall for purchase. He clamps a hand over both of yours, pinning them flat, his whole body pressing you into the metal as he groans.

“God… tight little thing,” he pants, every word a growl. “Taking me so well.” You moan, pushing back against him, but he won't let you move much.

He sets the pace himself.

Slow, deep thrusts at first that make your legs shake, then harder, faster, until the sound of your body hitting the wall echoes through the empty garage. His hand slides from your stomach to your throat, pulling you back against him as he drives into you.

“That’s it,” he growls against your ear. “Take it. You wanted to play grown-up, didn’t you? This what you were begging for?”

“Yes, Sonny- fuck-”

He groans your name like it’s a sin, rutting into you with bruising force. His free hand slips down between your thighs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in messy circles that have you gasping and shaking in seconds.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice rough. “Right here, with me buried inside you. Show me how bad you wanted this.”

It’s all too much. The wall, his body, his voice wrecking you from the inside out. You shatter around him with a broken cry, legs giving out as pleasure rips through you. He holds you up easily, growling as your body clenches tight around him.

“Fuck- goddamn it- ” He buries his face in your neck as he thrusts harder, sloppier, until he finally loses himself with a raw groan, grinding deep as he spills inside you.

The two of you collapse against the wall, breath mingling, bodies trembling, his arms the only thing keeping you upright. He doesn’t let go, not yet. He just presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard, like he’s still fighting with the weight of what just happened.

Your chest is still heaving when the world starts to crawl back into focus, the hum of the garage lights, the faint creak of tools swaying on their hooks, the sting of cold air on your sweat-damp skin.

Sonny hasn’t moved. He’s still pressed against your back, his forehead buried against your shoulder, his arms locked tight around you like if he lets go, the whole thing will come crashing down. His breath is hot, ragged, ghosting over your neck.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice shredded. “What the hell did we just do?”

You shift in his grip, forcing him to lift his head. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, guilt and hunger knotted together.

“What we wanted,” you murmur, lips curling into the ghost of a smile.

His jaw works, like he wants to argue, but his hands don’t leave your waist. Instead, he spins you slowly, pressing your back to the wall again, just so he can see your face. His size still dwarfs you; even hunched over, he’s a head taller, broad shoulders blocking out everything else.

"This can't happen again."

You run a hand through his hair, "Says who?"

“You don’t get it,” he says, almost pleading. “Your dad… if he knew-”

You cut him off with a kiss, soft this time, a contrast to the hunger from before. He doesn’t resist, not really. His lips find yours with an ease that betrays how much he’s wanted it, how long he’s been holding back.

When you finally pull away, you whisper, “He’s not here.”

That earns you a low groan, part frustration, part surrender. He drops his forehead against yours, shaking his head. “Christ, you’re trouble.”

You smirk. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

He huffs a laugh and finally steps back. The loss of his body heat makes you shiver, but his hands linger, smoothing down your arms like he can’t quite stop touching you. He glances toward the sim, the scattered clothes, the obvious wreckage of what just happened, and swears under his breath.

“Get dressed,” he mutters, running a hand through his damp hair. “Before someone-”

And then you both freeze.

Footsteps echo down the hall outside the garage, steady, purposeful. Your dad’s voice drifts closer, muffled but unmistakable as he finishes up his call.

Your heart leaps into your throat. You scramble for your clothes, tugging them on with shaking hands, while Sonny moves faster than you thought possible. He sweeps your shirt from the floor, tosses you his jacket to cover up, and yanks his zipper up like he’s done this kind of cleanup before.

Which, to be fair, he probably has.

The door creaks open, Ruben’s laugh carrying into the garage. Sonny straightens instantly, back to his stool by the coffee machine like he’s been there all along. You drop into the folding chair you started in, jacket hiding your rumpled clothes, pulse hammering in your ears.

Ruben steps in, still distracted by his phone. “Sorry about that, took longer than I thought. You two surviving down here?”

“Yeah,” Sonny says, smooth as gravel, lifting his coffee like it hasn’t gone cold. “Just babysitting.”

You bite your lip to smother a grin, pulse still racing. If your dad notices the flush in your cheeks or the way Sonny won’t quite meet his eye, he doesn’t comment.

But when you risk a glance at Sonny, his gaze flicks to you for just a second. It’s quick, sharp, and charged with something that makes your stomach twist. Guilt, yes, but also hunger, a promise you know he won’t be able to keep.

One time, he’d said. You don’t believe it. And neither does he.

You were moving quickly, boots crunching through the dirt as you cut behind the building, hoping maybe he’d circled around. That maybe he was leaning somewhere, cigarette lit, with that infuriating half-smile like the day hadn’t nearly ended in blood.

Instead, you heard your name—low and steady.

“Hey.”

You stopped short. Turned.

Wyatt stood just beyond the edge of the alley, half in shadow, arms crossed over his chest. He looked rough—his usual crisp lines undone, hat crooked, dust clinging to every part of him. There was blood on his shirt, high on the shoulder, but it didn’t seem to be his. A dark smear ran across his jaw like someone had tried to grab him mid-fight. His holster was still unbuckled, gun half-loose at his side.

But it was his eyes that made your stomach twist. Wyatt Earp always looked ready for a fight, whether he wanted to be in it or not. But right now, he looked… tired.

“Got a minute?” he asked, not waiting for an answer before turning and nodding toward the alley.

You followed in silence. The light was dimmer there, the buildings blocking the last rays of sun. The sound of the street faded behind you until all you could hear was the quiet scuff of boots, the soft creak of wood, a few flies buzzing lazily near an overturned crate.

Wyatt didn’t speak right away. He came to a stop by the back wall of the saloon, hands resting on his belt like he was weighing the next few seconds in his head. He didn’t look at you—just stared out toward nothing.

You crossed your arms, heartbeat already picking up. Something about the way he held himself—the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw—it put you on edge.

Then he said it.

“Doc’s been tryin’ to get himself killed.”

It was flat. Not dramatic. No buildup. Like it hurt less if he just ripped the damn thing open.

You blinked a few times.

“What?”

Wyatt glanced at you, then looked away just as fast.

“I finally saw it for what it was today. Clear as anything. He stepped right into the open in the middle of the shootout. No cover. Nothin’.”

He rubbed a hand across his mouth, like saying it left a taste he didn’t want.

“Didn’t duck. Didn’t even flinch when bullets started hittin’ the walls around him. Just… stood there. Took his shot at a man with his gun already drawn, like it was just another hand of cards to play.”

You felt your body tense, muscles coiling so tight it made your ribs ache.

“He’s been doin’ it more and more lately,” Wyatt continued. “Starting fights with men twice his size. Drunk half the damn time. And he doesn't wait for backup—hell, sometimes he doesn’t even tell us he’s goin’.”

He shook his head, voice low.

“It’s not just recklessness anymore. It’s suicide.”

You stared at him, throat dry, chest tight. Your mind tried to argue—tried to reach for some rational excuse—but it landed on nothing.

Doc hadn’t told you any of this.

And that silence suddenly meant more than anything he could’ve said.

Wyatt shifted again, his expression cracking under the weight of it.

“I tried talkin’ to him,” he said. “He just laughed. Told me if death was comin’, he’d rather it take him sooner than later. Said at least out there, he gets to choose the time and place.”

You swallowed hard. It felt like your body had turned to stone.

“I ain’t tryin’ to guilt you or anythin’,” Wyatt added after a beat, more gently. “But I’ve seen you be the only person in this whole damn town he listens to. Even when he pretends not to.”

He paused. Let it hang.

“I don’t want to have to drag his body out of the street. And I certainly don’t want you to have to see it.”

The words hit you low. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. You just kept staring ahead—past Wyatt, past the alley, past the part of you that wanted to crumple where you stood.

You felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the wind that had picked up between the buildings.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

You turned without a word.

Didn’t wait for Wyatt to say anything else. Didn’t let him see what was happening behind your eyes.

You walked back toward the saloon with fire building in your chest. Every step felt heavier than the last. Like the truth he’d handed you was too big to carry—but you’d carry it anyway.

Because if Doc Holliday had decided he was done with living, then he sure as hell was going to look you in the eyes when he said it.

The noise hit you before the doors even opened.

Laughter, clinking glasses, the clatter of poker chips on oak, boots on floorboards, and someone hammering out a tune on the piano that had long since fallen off-key. The room pulsed with heat and whiskey sweat, and under it all, that constant hum of men who thought they were untouchable—full of guns and bravado and cheap beer. Even after the happenings of the day.

You pushed the saloon doors open with a little more force than necessary.

For a moment, no one noticed. You were just another body walking in off the street, swallowed by cigar smoke and dim light.

But then you stepped in fully, boots echoing sharp against the floor, and the crowd seemed to shift. Not with words. Just a subtle awareness—like animals catching the scent of something coming that wasn’t good.

And then you saw him.

Doc Holliday sat like a goddamn centerpiece at the farthest poker table, sprawled in a chair like it was a throne. One hand held a fan of cards, the other rested casually on a half-empty glass of bourbon, the deep amber catching fire in the low lamplight. His hat was tipped back, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and he was smiling—that slow, lazy, devastating smile that could smooth over murder if he wanted it to.

He looked relaxed. Smug. Untouched.

He looked like he hadn’t almost died.

And something inside you snapped.

He hadn’t seen you yet. He was laughing at something someone said—low and smooth, smoke curling from between his teeth, eyes shining with the thrill of the game. A few men groaned and tossed in their cards. One cursed and leaned back, scowling.

And then he spotted you.

His gaze cut through the room like a blade, and that smile—God, that smile—grew just a fraction wider. He stood up in one fluid motion, smoothing a hand down the front of his vest, cigarette perched between two fingers like a punctuation mark.

“Well now,” he drawled, like you were a pleasant surprise. “Ain’t you a—”

Your hand moved before your mind could catch up.

SMACK

The slap rang out like a gunshot. Loud, sharp, final.

His head turned with the force of it. The cigarette slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, still lit. His whole body froze—so did the rest of the saloon.

Silence bloomed in an instant. The kind that feels like thunder in reverse. Someone coughed, somewhere near the bar. The piano keys fell quiet mid-note. The dealer’s hand hung in the air above a split pot. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Doc didn’t look at you. Not at first.

He just stood there, jaw tight, cheek blooming red beneath your handprint, eyes cast downward like he was running through a thousand possible reactions and finding none that fit.

You were shaking.

Not with regret. Not with fear. With fury. With heartbreak so sharp it made your bones feel like glass.

You stared at him like he was a stranger.

“You selfish son of a bitch,” you said, voice low, steady, but trembling at the edges.

He finally lifted his gaze to you—slow, searching. And maybe, just for a second, the smugness fell. Not gone, but hollowed out at the center.

You didn’t wait for a response.

You turned and walked out.

Each step felt louder than it should’ve. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you pushed through the saloon doors and into the cold night air, where the dust had started to rise again with the wind.

Behind you, the crowd stayed frozen in that stunned silence. Somewhere, someone whispered your name. Another voice said “Holy hell.” You didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. You shoved the swinging doors wide and stepped into the cool night air.

You were halfway down the steps when you heard the scrape of a chair, the clatter of a glass hitting wood, and boots—heavy, purposeful—coming after you.

You didn’t have to look back to know it was him.

You could feel it, like a storm at your heels.

The door flew open hard enough to rattle the hinges, slamming into the wall with a bang that shook dust from the beams overhead. After the door steadied from the prior abuse, Doc slammed it closed back behind him, unceremoniously.

You didn’t flinch.

You were standing near the dresser, back to the door, staring down at your hands. They were still shaking. You hated that.

“You got a hell of a lotta nerve.”

His voice was sharp, low, laced with the kind of fury that didn’t come from pain—it came from pride. From being caught off-guard. From being made a fool.

You turned slowly. Not with fear—with purpose.

Doc stood a few feet away, his jaw tight, his face still flushed from the slap. The print of your hand burned red across his cheek. He hadn’t wiped it away. Maybe he hadn’t had time. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with it yet.

His hat was gone now. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, shoulders tense, boots hitting the floor like gunshots.

His face was still flushed. The red mark on his cheek stood out, stark against his pale skin, and his jaw was locked so tight you could see the muscle twitch.

“You want to tell me what the hell that was?” he snapped. “Or should I guess?”

He laughed—once. Harsh. Hollow.

“Whole goddamn saloon starin’ at me like I’d said somethin’ vile. Like I deserved it. You blindside me in front of half the town and walk out like you’re the one wronged?”

He stepped closer, gesturing vaguely with one hand, the other curled into a tight fist at his side.

“Did I cheat you? Did I lie? Did I forget your damn birthday?” His tone was mocking now, but the edge behind it was real. “Or was that just for show? You get somethin’ outta that?”

Now he was pacing, boots scraping the floor, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to pull his hair or punch the wall.

“You think that’s what this is about?” you said, low and sharp. “You think I walked in there just to bruise your pride?”

Doc didn’t back down. He turned to meet your gaze head-on, but there was something unsettled in the way his fingers twitched at his side.

“Well I certainly think I deserve to know why I got blindsided in the middle of a damn good poker hand.”

You stared at him, then laughed. Not with humor. It came out raw. Broken.

“You deserve to know?” you echoed. “You want to talk about what you deserve?”

You closed the distance between you in two furious steps and shoved him—not hard, but enough to make his boots scrape against the floorboards.

“You think I wouldn’t find out?” you hissed. “That you could just keep throwing yourself in front of bullets like it’s nothing and no one would notice?”

His brows pulled together.

“Wyatt told me,” you spat before he could speak. “He told me everything.”

Doc froze. You saw the mask start to slip.

“He told me how you walked straight into open fire,” you continued, stepping closer. “Told me you went after a man already drawin' on you. Like you didn’t give a damn whether you made it out.”

You were inches from him now, breathing hard, staring up into those pale eyes that always held a joke—but not tonight.

“I’ve seen you drunk. I’ve seen you bleeding. I’ve seen you cough your lungs up and spit red into a handkerchief like it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. But this?” Your voice cracked. “This is you giving up.”

He looked down at you, chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile. But he didn’t answer.

So you hit him with the one thing he couldn’t dodge.

“You were ready to up and die,” you whispered. “And you didn’t even think I deserved to know.”

That landed.

He stepped back half a pace, like you’d struck him again.

His mouth opened, then closed. His tongue wet his lips, slow. You saw it all happen in real time—his ego folding in on itself, that anger unraveling into something thinner, sadder. Guilt. Shame.

“I didn’t tell you,” he said finally, voice hoarse, “because I didn’t want you lookin’ at me the way everybody else does.”

You swallowed hard.

“And how’s that?”

“Like I’m already in the ground.”

Silence filled the space between you like smoke—thick, choking, unspoken things hanging in the air.

“You think I don’t see it?” he said. “The way people look at me when I cough. Like they’re just waitin’ on me to drop.”

He took another step forward, slower this time, like he didn’t want to spook you.

“But you didn’t look at me like that,” he said. “Not once.”

You wanted to scream. Cry. Shake him.

“I still don’t,” you whispered. “Yet you still chose to keep me in the dark. You didn’t even give me the chance to fight for you.”

Doc’s breath caught. His hands twitched at his sides, then slowly came up—reaching for you like a man touching water in a desert.

“You’re the only thing I got left that makes me feel like I’m still here,” he said stepping toward you, holding a sincere eye-contact.

Your chest cracked open.

You didn’t move when his hands cupped your face. Didn’t flinch when he brushed his thumbs under your jaw, tilting your head back like he needed to see all of you. His touch was trembling. He was trembling.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

Mouth crashing into yours, breath hot, hands threading into your hair like he was trying to memorize the way you felt before death took him away from you. You kissed him back just as hard, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him down to you like you could break the habit of death with your body alone.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he kissed you like he was trying to live.

The kiss slammed into you like a wave breaking a dam.

There was no warning—just hands, heat, and the raw sound of breath catching in the back of his throat as his mouth crushed into yours. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was violent in its urgency, desperate in a way that bordered on collapse.

You tasted smoke and bourbon on his tongue, tasted the fear he refused to speak out loud.

And you gave it right back.

Your hands slid into his hair. His fingers dropped to your waist, gripping the layers of fabric at your hips in frustration.

“Too many goddamn clothes,” he rasped, half-laughing, half-growl. “You tryna drive me insane, sweetheart?”

“You first,” you gasped, stepping back from him.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—like you’d just dared him—and the look he gave you was half fire, half challenge.

Then his hands went to his waistcoat.

He didn’t waste time. The buttons came undone fast under his fingers, and he flung the thing off like it had no right to be between the two of you. His gunbelt and holster followed with a dull thud on the floor, then he was at the buttons of his shirt—no finesse now, just a frenzy of motion. He popped them open down his chest, and when one stuck, he tore the fabric loose, baring pale skin and a body cut hard by illness and held together by sheer will.

He returned to you and spun you gently—urgently—until your chest pressed to the wall, your hands bracing yourself against the wood. You felt him behind you, breath hot at your shoulder, hands already at the back of your corset.

“You wear this thing like a goddamn suit of armor,” he muttered. “What’s it protecting you from?”

“Men like you.”

He made a low, breathless sound—almost a laugh—and then you felt the tug of his fingers against the laces.

They didn’t come easily. Corset laces never did. But he worked fast, muttering curses under his breath as he loosened them enough to let you breathe. The pressure in your ribs eased. His fingers slid up your back, slipping beneath the loosened stays, tugging the entire thing over your head without ceremony.

The shift underneath clung to your skin, sweat-slick and thin. He spun you back toward him, ran his palms down your sides, up under your arms, then cupped your breasts through the damp linen. His mouth found yours once again for a kiss almost as desperate as the first.

“Still mad?” he panted, voice hoarse against your lips.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Furious.”

“Good.” His teeth scraped against your jaw, dragging down to the hinge of your throat where he bit—not hard, but enough to make you gasp again. “Don’t want you soft. Not for this.”

You barely had time to take in the sight of him—long lines, lean muscle, sharp hips, and heat in every breath—before his fingers were at his belt buckle, pulling it loose in a swift, practiced motion. His trousers hit the floor with a low rustle, and then he was stepping forward again, stripped to skin, eyes locked on you like he was starving and you were the last thing left worth tasting.

His hands slid to your waist—not rough, but insistent—guiding you backward through the glow and stillness, until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You let yourself fall back with a soft laugh of breath, landing on the mattress in a rush of tangled skirts and flushed skin.

He followed you down immediately—slow, controlled, lowering himself over you like gravity was finally on his side. One arm braced beside your head, the other still dragging your shift higher, fingers shaking with need.

You looked up at him, every inch of your body already singing for more, and the words tumbled out like a secret slipping past your lips.

“God,” you whispered, half to yourself, half to the stars. “I love you.”

He went still—not in surprise, but in triumph.

His grin was slow. Crooked. Dangerous.

“Oh, you do, do you?” he drawled, eyes gleaming even as his breath still came in short, ragged bursts.

Your face flushed hotter. “I didn’t mean—”

He cut you off with a kiss that tasted like sin and smoke.

“You love me,” he murmured against your mouth, like he was trying the words on for size. “Say it again. I want to hear it when you're lookin’ me in the eyes.”

“I love you, Doc.” You cupped his face with both hands, even as your hips ground against him. “I love you, you reckless, brilliant bastard. Even when you scare the hell out of me.”

He swallowed hard, nostrils flaring. “I ain’t worth that kind of love.”

“Tough,” you said. “You’ve got it anyway.”

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at you—something wrecked and reverent flickering behind his eyes—and then he kissed you again. Slower this time, but no less hungry. Like the words you’d just spoken had knocked the wind out of him, and now he was using your mouth to pull breath back into his lungs.

His hand slid lower, under your shift and over the bare skin of your thigh, fingers slipping between your legs like he’d been there a thousand times in his mind. When he found how wet you were, he groaned low in his chest.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours. “That all for me?”

You couldn’t speak—just nodded, breath catching as his fingers stroked through the slick heat of you.

He kissed you again, open-mouthed and aching, while his hand worked slow, steady circles against your clit. Every flick of his fingers made your hips rise, your legs tighten. The warmth coiled sharp and fast, your body already trembling from the tension that had now broken since the moment you slapped him in that saloon.

His mouth moved to your throat, lips dragging down to your collarbone. “Let me hear you,” he whispered. “Let me feel it.”

You moaned as he slid a finger inside you—then another—stretching you just enough to make your back arch, your breath stutter. His fingers curled, searching, teasing. His thumb circled with steady pressure, pulling you closer, closer—

But before the wave could crash, he stopped.

You whimpered.

He pulled his fingers free, eyes locked on yours, and brought them to his mouth. Sucked them clean.

Then he rose to his knees between your thighs, gripping your hips as he shifted you towards the center of the bed, moving with you. Your skirts were still rucked around your waist, drawers shoved aside, shift hanging loose over your breasts. You were a mess of fabric and sweat and need.

He looked down at you like a man who’d finally found something to live for.

And then he lined himself up and pushed into you with one long, devastating stroke.

Not gentle—but not brutal either. It was pure need, sharpened to the bone. You gasped, one arm wrapped tight around his back, the other tangled in the sheets, your body clenching around him like it already knew he wouldn’t last long like this.

He pulled back and drove into you again—rough, deep, each thrust a little more ragged, a little less controlled. He groaned into your shoulder, hips jerking harder now, like he was chasing something just out of reach.

But he was breathing too hard.

You felt it—heard it—in the way his rhythm started to falter, his weight sagging more into your body. A soft cough rattled from his chest, one that he tried to swallow, but it pushed out between clenched teeth as he rocked forward again, slower now, less force behind it.

He kept going—God, he tried—but his arms were shaking, his breath was stuttering, and after one more broken thrust, he dropped down beside you, chest heaving, one arm slung across your stomach.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice hoarse, “I’m sorry. I can’t—I want to—just can’t keep it up.”

He turned his face into the pillow, coughing softly, wet and low in his lungs.

“I want to fuck you through the damn floor,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “But I’m so goddamn tired already.”

You looked over at him—his hair damp with sweat, his skin pale and burning, the fever hiding just beneath the surface—and something inside you melted. Not out of pity.

Out of need.

Because he was still trying.

Because he hadn’t given up.

You reached out and touched his face, fingertips trailing along his cheek, then his throat. His eyes opened—barely—and when he looked at you, something in them flickered like he didn’t know what to expect.

So you straddled him.

Slow. Sure. A deliberate climb over his hips as he blinked up at you in open surprise.

“Darlin’,” he rasped, hands finding your thighs instinctively, voice caught somewhere between reverence and disbelief.

You leaned down, nose brushing his. “Then let me do it for you.”

And before he could stop you, before he could find the strength to argue, you reached between your bodies and guided him back inside you—slow, deep, all the way down with a breathless moan that made his hands grip tighter.

His head tipped back against the pillow, throat bobbing with a swallowed groan.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You rolled your hips, slow and controlled, pressing your palms to his chest as he gasped beneath you.

“No,” you said, eyes locked to his. “It’s my intention to keep you here as long as I can.”

A beat passed, heavy with anticipation. His breath hitched, he stifled a cough, the weight of your words sinking in. Then, as if overwhelmed by the gravity of the moment, his head fell back, mouth slack.

“Fuck,” he rasped, head falling back, mouth slack. “Jesus. Goddamn.”

You were shaking already. From the stretch, the pressure, the sight of him undone beneath you. He was so deep, your thighs already trembling from how tightly your body gripped him.

You started to move—slow, steady rolls of your hips, every grind dragging another sound out of him that made you throb around him.

But Doc wasn’t going to just lie still. Not even broken, not even panting beneath you like the breath kept slipping away faster than he could drag it in.

His hands yanked you down harder.

“Faster,” he growled, voice dark and ragged. “Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me.”

You gasped, hands braced on his chest. “I don’t want to break you.”

He let out a low, vicious sound—half laugh, half threat.

“Too late for that.”

He bucked up beneath you the best he could, hips snapping with sudden force, catching you mid-thrust and driving himself deeper, harder than you were ready for.

You cried out, full-body shudder, your hands scrambling for balance as he kept thrusting up into you, every motion fueled by something furious and raw.

“You think I’m just gonna lie here?” he bit out, voice hoarse, sweat slicking his chest. “Think you can get on top and make me behave? You know I'm not one to behave darlin'.”

His mouth was at your breast before you could answer—teeth scraping over your nipple, tongue hot, hands bruising your ass as he shoved you down, used you to do what he couldn’t do himself.

“Ride me,” he growled against your skin. “Come on, darlin’. Give it to me.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. You moved—hard and fast—grinding down with a gasp as he met you halfway, every thrust of his hips sloppy now, but still fierce, still intentional, like he was fighting the weakness in his limbs with everything he had.

Your forehead dropped to his as you bounced in his lap, both of you slick and shaking, skin slapping hard with every ragged thrust. He was breathing like he was about to collapse, but his hands were still firm, still dragging you down onto his cock like he couldn’t stand the thought of you pulling away.

“God, you feel so good,” he panted. “Like heaven. Like fucking heaven.”

His voice was breaking. So was his body. But his eyes—his eyes were locked on you, wide and hungry and alive, like this was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, half-wrecked. “Don’t stop, darlin'. Not yet.”

You didn’t.

You drove down like it was the last thing either of you would ever do—hard, fast, your nails digging into his chest, your hips stuttering as the pressure built fast and furious.

“Doc—” you gasped, head falling forward. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come.”

His hand shot up to the back of your neck, pulling you down, foreheads pressed, sweat-slick skin against sweat-slick skin. His eyes locked onto yours—dark, glazed, desperate.

“No,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not yet. Hold on for me, darlin’.”

Your whole body seized, trembling from the effort to stop the climb. Your thighs burned. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your cunt clenched around him like your body didn’t care what your mind was trying to do—it wanted release. But you obeyed. You stayed right there—balanced on the edge, muscles coiled, every nerve frayed, every breath a battle.

“I wanna feel you break with me,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “Don’t let go without me. Not yet. I need—” His voice cracked. “I need this right now.”

You nodded—barely, shakily. “Okay. Okay, baby.”

You rocked your hips slower now, grinding down onto him with control you barely had. Every drag of him inside you made you shake, made your breath falter, made your walls twitch around him in desperate, pulsing waves.

He felt it. He groaned—deep and ruined.

“You’re so close,” he said, almost to himself. “I can feel it. Fuck, you’re… you’re shaking.”

“I have to come,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please—please, Doc—”

“Not yet,” he said again, rasping like it cost him to say it. “Almost, darlin’. Just—almost—”

His hands were all over you now, frantic. One gripped your waist, trying to guide your rhythm, even though his muscles trembled with the effort. The other slid up to your breast, squeezing rough and clumsy, thumb flicking over your nipple like he was trying to coax you into holding out just a little longer. His mouth dragged up to your throat, kissing, biting, panting.

You buried your face in his neck, moaning, biting down to keep yourself from breaking. You could feel your orgasm right there, clawing at the edge of your spine, demanding release.

He bucked up into you again—sloppy but deep—and choked on a groan. “Just a little more, sweetheart. Stay with me. Please. Fuck—I’m so close.”

And you did.

You held out for him.

You held it until your muscles locked, until your legs were shaking and your fingernails left half-moon dents in his chest and shoulder. You held it until your body screamed, until you thought you’d explode just from the tension.

“Now,” he whispered. “Come now.”

Your body obeyed like it had just been waiting for the command.

The second the words left his mouth, everything inside you snapped. Your hips slammed down on him one final time as the tension that had been coiled like wire through your spine exploded—hot and all-consuming.

Pleasure ripped through you so hard it hurt. You clamped down around him, pulsing in sharp, rhythmic waves that left you gasping, keening, grinding against him like you couldn’t get close enough. Your fingers scrambled for purchase—his chest, his shoulders, the slick heat of his skin under your palms—anything to anchor yourself while the world dropped out from under you.

Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled violently around his hips. Your mouth opened but no words came out, just ragged moans and desperate little sounds you couldn’t hold back.

The pleasure hit you like a storm—sharp, shaking, so big it felt like grief and joy all at once. You weren’t just coming—you were coming undone.

Your hands fisted in the sheets, in his hair, in his shoulders—anything to keep yourself grounded now. But there was nothing solid. Just him. Just Doc. Just the sound of your name falling from his mouth like a prayer as he gripped your hips, holding you flush to him, thrusting up into you with the last of his strength.

Doc cursed—loud, broken—his hands flexing hard on your hips as your release hit him, too. He came with you, gasping your name as his head fell back, voice ragged and ruined.

“God—fuck—yes,” he groaned, hips jerking once, twice, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled everything he had into you.

He held you down, buried deep, and you felt him throb inside you as he came—red-hot and thick, spilling into you with a groan that sounded like it cost him everything. His head dropped back, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body taut with the effort of staying in it until the end.

You rode it out together, bodies shaking, breath coming in shallow gasps. You collapsed onto his chest, limp and shaking, your heartbeat crashing in your ears. Sweat soaked the hollow of your back. You could feel his own heart thundering beneath your cheek—wild, irregular, but alive.

His arms slid around you—not tight, not strong—but present. Warm. His chest rose under you, then hitched once. A dry cough broke out, muffled against your temple.

He stayed there, head bowed against you, breath shallow.

And after a long moment, voice worn thin as paper, he said,

“You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.”

He didn’t say it like a gift. He said it like a confession.

Like it scared him more than the dying ever did.

You tipped your head closer, your voice steady when everything else felt like shaking.

“Then stay alive. For me. For as long as you can”

He didn’t answer. Just tightened his arms around you, fingers trembling where they held on.

And for a while, that was enough.

Seven months along, and you could still feel the weight of his hand on your belly like it had only just left.

Most nights, that memory was the only thing that kept you steady.

You'd learned how to move with the weight of him still inside you—not just the child, but the memory. The ghost of his voice, the echo of his laughter, the shape of his hands cupped over your belly like he could protect it, and you, from what was coming.

You knew the exact night the baby had happened.

Not just because of timing—but because everything about it had been different. No distance, no jokes, no walls between them. Just truth. Desperation. Love, raw and terrifying. He’d held you like he was trying to memorize you, whispered things he’d never dared say before.

You’re the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore.

And you’d told him to stay alive for you.

That was the night you'd made the baby. You were sure of it. The way he’d looked at you—like you were the only thing left in the world he couldn’t let go of.

He’d softened in a way you hadn’t thought possible, even as the light behind his eyes began to fade. At first, he’d joked—called you Mama, teased the child to come, offered names both ridiculous and oddly sentimental. But the jokes didn’t last. The coughing got worse. He slept more, ate less. You grew rounder, fuller with life, while he shrank into the bed like the world was letting go of him one piece at a time.

Still, he tried. He rubbed your back when the morning sickness took you under, kissed your neck with lips gone dry, told you you were brave even when he couldn’t lift his head. Once, in the dead of night, fever burning through him, he told you he wished he’d met you when he still had time to become the man you deserved. You held him through that too.

Near the end, words and wit came less often. But when you pressed his hand to your belly, he smiled—small and tired—and closed his eyes like he could feel the future.

“You’ll tell ‘em about me?” he’d rasped one evening.

You'd nodded, kissing his hand and blinking tears into his palm. “Every day.”

He left not but a few days later. No drama. No last gasp. Just a breath that didn’t return, and the sound of the wind outside like it was bowing its head.

The shame came soon after.

Unmarried. Alone. A woman with a swollen belly and no ring, no name but your own, and the memory of a dying man, whispered in your bones. They watched you pass in town—some with pity, others with tight-mouthed judgment. A gambler’s bastard, they said. A disgrace. A foolish girl who’d let love make you reckless.

Some nodded stiffly when you passed, like it pained them to acknowledge you at all. Others looked straight through you, eyes fixed ahead like you weren't even there. A few murmured your name in church, always just loud enough to be heard but never loud enough to offer comfort. No one said his name. Not in public. Not where it might stick to them. As if mourning a drunk gambler made you foolish.

But you kept walking. Chin up. Spine straight. Hand resting on the life inside you like it was the holiest thing you'd ever carried.

He’d asked you to live. To carry on.

And so you would.

You talked to the baby when it kicked, when it quieted. Told stories—about his sharp tongue and wicked grin, the way he held a pistol, the way he’d held you. You told it about the night the baby came to be. How he’d fallen apart in your arms and found something worth holding on to, if only for a little while.

Your house was quieter now. Lonelier. But when the wind rustled the curtains and the floor creaked just so, you liked to believe he was still here. Watching you. Walking beside you. Waiting for the child you made between heartbreak and hope.

You would see it through. For him. For what you’d made with him in the space between living and dying.

notes: AHHH @milesalexanderteller!!! I'm so sorry dude :'(

You stood near the end of the counter, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass of something you couldn’t even remember ordering.

The condensation dripped between your fingers, cool and slick, grounding you in the low-lit noise of the bar. Your heel was propped on the brass rail, dress riding up just a little, enough to feel the air against your thigh.

The place was alive tonight. Warm with pressed bodies and old wood, the kind of Friday-night hum that vibrated through your ribs. Neon signs flickered half-heartedly against exposed brick, casting everything in shades of pink and amber.

It wasn’t your scene, not really, but you’d promised yourself you’d try. A little lipstick. A short sequence dress. A half-commitment to pretending you weren’t already imagining the silence of your apartment, the relief of kicking off your heels, the familiar weight of his arms around you when you got home.

But then you felt it.

A gaze sliding over your skin like a warm hand before it even touched you. Your neck prickled. The hair on your arms stood. The strange gravity of someone looking shifted the air around you before you even turned.

Then the voice came from behind your left shoulder, cutting through the bar’s chatter like a blade.

“Didn’t think a girl like you would be here alone.”

You turned.

The man beside you was tall, broad-shouldered under a dark coat that looked expensive in a simple way. His hair was neatly cut, dark, with a hint of grey catching the neon light. Stubble lined his jaw, sharp and clean, his eyes were blue, electric even in the dim haze—and they carried this confidence that bordered on predatory.

You gave him a slow once-over. From his boots to his jaw, letting him feel the weight of your attention. Then, casually, you turned back to your drink. “I’m not alone.”

He didn’t leave. You could feel him smile before he spoke again, the warmth of it bleeding into his voice.

“Boyfriend?”

You nodded.

“Is he here?”

You shook your head, taking a sip of your drink, something citrusy and sweet that burned pleasantly on the way down.

“Then you’re alone.” His voice was soft, like he was stating a fact you’d been trying to ignore.

You huffed a laugh before you could stop it, surprised sound that slipped out like a traitor. You sipped again, buying a second, then glanced sideways at him. “That’s not really how it works.”

He leaned in, close enough that his cologne reached you first; clean, soapy, undercut with something warm and woody. It was good. The kind of scent that made you want to lean closer just to breathe it in.

“Maybe not,” he said, “but I’ve got a feeling your boyfriend doesn’t appreciate you the way he should.”

You looked at him then, skeptical, one eyebrow lifting. “You know my boyfriend?”

“No.” A grin spread across his mouth. “But if he was doing his job, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”

Your lips curved… again, against your will. A small, reluctant acknowledgment that the game was already in play. You shifted, angling your body slightly away, a polite distance that said I’m not interested even as your eyes lingered a beat too long.

He didn’t take the hint. He took a step closer, filling the space you’d left, and the heat of his body wrapped around you like a second skin.

His gaze traveled over your face, not crude, not hungry in the cheap way. Appreciative. Attentive. Too attentive, like he was memorising the curve of your jaw, the way the neon light caught the gloss on your lips.

“I’m flattered,” you said, keeping your tone light, easy. “But like I said—I’ve got someone.”

“Yeah?” His voice dropped, almost a murmur. “Is he here?”

You let out a slow exhale, a half-smile tugging at your mouth. “We’ve been over this.”

He smiled back, smaller this time. A quiet acknowledgment that yes, you had, and he didn’t care.

“You’re drinking alone,” he said, each word placed with care. “Dressed like that. Smiling at me.” He paused, tilting his head, letting the silence stretch. “You don’t strike me as the loyal girlfriend type.”

Your jaw tightened, just a fraction. You turned toward him fully now, elbows finding the bar.

“I’m very loyal,” you said, voice steady. “He’s just not the jealous type.”

He let the word sit, “oh,” slow and dry, laced with amusement. Then, “So he’s a fucking idiot.”

You blinked.

The laugh that escaped you was real this time, warm and surprised, your shoulders loosening despite yourself. You shook your head, a little smile you couldn’t suppress curving your lips.

“That’s one way to put it,” you said.

He tilted his head, eyes catching the soft curve of your smile, and holding it like a prize. A low, appreciative hum escaped him as his gaze dragged down your body, the kind of look that felt like a touch you hadn’t consented to but couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

“You let your girl come out here looking like that,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something rougher, “on her own, with guys like me walking around?” His tongue swept across his bottom lip as his eyes traveled back up to yours. “He doesn’t care. That’s what I’m hearing.”

You didn’t respond. Instead, you brought your glass to your lips, letting the cool liquid slide over your tongue, buying yourself a beat of silence. You could feel the weight of his attention pressing against your skin.

Then he lifted two fingers at the bartender, a lazy, confident gesture.

“Get her another,” he said, without breaking eye contact with you. “Whatever she’s drinking.”

You held up a hand, palm out. “I’m good, thanks.”

“I insist.” His words were soft but firm, and his eyes stayed locked on yours, daring you to look away first. “Your boyfriend can be mad later.”

You tilted your head, letting yourself study him in return. Really look this time. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his chin, and the barely-there dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when his smirk deepened.

He leaned in again, closer now, under the pretense of the music swelling around you. His lips hovered near your ear, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath before you heard his voice.

“I’ll be honest,” he said, each word a carefully placed stone in the path he wanted you to follow. “I’m not here for the small talk. You don’t want me—fine. I can take no.” A pause. “But if you do… just say the word.”

The new drink landed in front of you, the glass slick with condensation, a thin river of water pooling on the dark wood. You glanced at it, then back at him. He hadn’t looked away once, not even to blink.

You gave him a flat look, but your fingers still curled around the rim of the fresh glass, betraying you. “You’re really pushy.”

He shrugged, unhurried. “I’m direct.”

“Same thing.”

“I’d argue it’s different.” His voice dropped, conversational now. “Pushy guys don’t take no for an answer. I’m just giving you a chance to be honest with yourself.”

You lifted the drink to your lips, more to buy time than anything else. The liquid was cold and sharp, citrus cutting through the warmth blooming in your chest.

“I mean, he can’t be that good,” he casually added, as if commenting on the weather. “You’ve checked your phone three times since I walked in. Not once did it light up with his name.”

Your gaze dropped to your hand, fingers tightening on the glass until your knuckles paled.

“That’s not really any of your business.”

He leaned his elbow on the bar, turning more fully to face you. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was holding back a chuckle. “It’s a little bit my business, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “especially if I’m about to spend the rest of my night thinking about those pretty legs wrapped around me.”

Your eyes snapped to his, a jolt of heat lancing through you at the crudeness. You forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression schooled, even as your pulse hammered against your ribs.

“You always talk to women like this?” you asked, your voice steady, a thin shield.

“No.” He said it simply, without hesitation. “Just the girls who pretend they don’t want it.”

You scoffed, but you could feel the heat crawling up your neck. “You’re an asshole.”

He tilted his head, considering the word like a wine he was tasting. “Confident,” he corrected, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “And maybe a little desperate.” His eyes held yours, a challenge and an invitation all at once. “Can you blame me?”

His eyes dipped lower for just a second, dragging over the obvious curve of your cleavage, the bare expanse of thigh you’d half-heartedly crossed. When they came back up, his pupils had swallowed nearly all the blue, leaving only a thin ring of color.

“If I were your man,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something gravelly, “I’d never let you out of my sight. Let alone out of the house dressed like this.” A pause, his gaze flicking down again. “That’d only be for me to appreciate.”

You shook your head, a breathy laugh escaping you. “You really think negging my boyfriend’s gonna make me want to fuck you?”

“No.” The word camwe out confident. “But I think you’re already thinking about it. And that’s got nothing to do with him.”

The air between you tightened like a drawn wire. You hated how right he felt. How every time he leaned in, your body seemed to sway toward him, a magnetic pull you couldn’t quite override.

You didn’t meet his eyes right away. Instead, you let your gaze drift to the condensation on your glass, tracing a path through the droplets with your fingertip. Let him sit in his confidence. Let him think he was winning. Even if he kind of was.

“So,” you said after a beat, your voice dropping to a murmur that was almost lost in the pulse of the music, “how exactly would you be better than my boyfriend?”

He didn’t hesitate. Not a flicker.

“I’d actually pay attention,” he said, and his voice had gone quieter, it felt like a secret meant only for you. “I wouldn’t let you walk around looking like this unless it was for me. I’d keep you so satisfied you’d never even remember his name.”

You laughed softly, low and skeptical, a sound that caught in your throat. “That so?”

“Yeah.” The word was a breath, a promise. He leaned closer, and you caught the faint rasp of stubble against his jaw as his mouth hovered near your ear. “I’d learn your body like a map. I’d make you beg without even touching you. I’d ruin every other man for you just by how good I fuck you.”

The words landed like sparks on dry tinder, igniting something low in your belly. You should’ve rolled your eyes. Should’ve told him to get lost, laughed in his face, walked away.

Instead, you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze, your chin lifting in quiet defiance.

“You rehearse this shit, or is it just off the cuff?”

A grin spread across his face. “I can show you if you want.”

You took another sip, letting the cool liquid coat your throat. And then you felt it, his knee, sliding slowly between your thighs, pressing against the inside of your leg with unhurried pressure.

“I think,” you said, lips brushing the rim of your glass, your voice steady even as your skin hummed, “you’re full of shit.”

“I think,” he countered, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath at your cheek, “you’re hoping I’m not.”

And you didn’t say anything for a second too long. The silence stretched, filled with the thrum of bass and the thud of your own heartbeat.

His smile widened, slow and triumphant.

“Just one night,” he said, soft as a murmur. “That’s all I’m askin’.”

You exhaled, the breath shaking just a little. “God, you’re really committed to this.”

His head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “Could say the same about you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes lingered on him longer than they should have. Longer than was safe. The neon glow from the sign behind him painted his jaw in shades of pink and blue. The way he stood; loose, confident, like he owned every inch of space around him, made your mouth go dry.

You were past the point of denial now. You didn’t even try to cover the way your thighs pressed tighter around his knee every time he leaned in, the way your breath caught when his voice dropped. Every word he whispered, every glance, it was crawling under your skin, planting something hot and unruly inside you.

You let out a slow breath, your chest rising and falling as you held his gaze. Your eyes dropped to his mouth, the slight curve, the faint wetness from where he’d licked his lips, then back up to meet his.

“Fine,” you said softly, the word barely audible beneath the thrum of the bar’s music. “Just one night.”

He didn’t even blink. Didn’t question it, didn’t gloat, at least, not out loud. But the shift in him was unmistakable. His shoulders straightened, his jaw tightened, and that smirk curved at the corners of his mouth. It was a look that said I knew it. I knew you’d break.

Then his fingers wrapped around your hand; big, warm, a little rough, calloused in a way that made you wonder what he did for a living. He pulled you up from your stool in one clean, fluid motion, and you felt the sudden loss of the barstool’s support replaced by the solid heat of his body close to yours.

Your drink was still half-full. Your dignity back at that bar. Didn’t matter.

His hand didn’t just hold yours, it led. Gripped with purpose, not carelessness. His thumb pressed into the soft webbing between your index and middle finger, and you felt the pulse in his palm, steady and strong.

Out of the bar, past the crowd jostling at the door, through the heavy oak door and into the night air that hit you like a slap, cold and sharp after the suffocating heat you’d been sitting in.

The temperature difference made your skin prickle, your nipples tightening beneath your dress. But it didn’t cool you down. If anything, it made everything more electric, more alive.

He glanced back once, just long enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, you caught the flicker of heat behind his gaze, the tension in his jaw.

The parking lot was mostly empty. You hadn’t even registered which one was his, too busy trying to slow your heart down, too busy wondering what the hell you’d just agreed to.

He didn’t give you time to second-guess it.

Before you could reach for the door handle, he turned you.

One quick, smooth movement, your back hitting the cool metal side of the car with a quiet thud that echoed in your chest. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, your eyes going wide, your hands flying up instinctively.

Then his hand came up, gripping your jaw, his fingers curving around the bone just beneath your ear. He tilted your face up toward his, forcing your gaze to meet his, and you saw the raw hunger there, barely leashed.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he murmured.

It was all mouth and hunger and heat, his lips crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back for hours and the dam had finally broken.

The first contact was almost bruising, a desperate, claiming press that stole your breath and left you reeling. His mouth was warm, tasted faintly of whiskey and salt, and the scrape of his stubble against your chin sent a shiver down your neck.

He kissed like a man who knew what your mouth would taste like. Who’d imagined it in vivid detail, over and over, until now, finally, it was real. His tongue slid in, exploring, tasting, taking, just claiming what he wanted. His fingers held your jaw in place, like he didn’t want you pulling away. Like he didn’t want you thinking.

Your knees buckled.

Your hands flew up, gripping the front of his shirt, the fabric soft but warm, the muscles beneath taut and steely. You fisted the material, trying to anchor yourself to something solid as his mouth moved against yours. His chest was hard against your palms, his heartbeat a rapid drum beneath your fingers.

You weren’t kissing him back at first. You were just trying to keep up. Trying to breathe.

But he didn’t let you. He didn’t give you space to gather yourself.

He licked into your mouth like he was starving, like every second without your taste was agony. A groan rumbled low in his throat, a sound that was equal parts relief and torture, and it vibrated through you, settling somewhere deep in your belly.

His hand slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, fingers curling behind your ear, tilting your head just slightly to deepen the angle.

The world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, the way his thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear. The cold night air bit at your bare legs, but you barely felt it, all you felt was him, all you tasted was him, all you heard was the wet sound of the kiss and your own ragged breathing.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, throbbing, wet with the evidence of his claim. Your breath came in short, uneven gasps, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.

A thin string of saliva connected your lips, glistening in the streetlight, unbroken until you finally parted them with a shaky exhale.

You didn’t even realize your nails were still digging into his shirt until you felt him exhale against your mouth, a warm, shaky breath that fanned across your sensitive skin.

He didn’t say anything.

Just pressed his forehead to yours. Let you breathe. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheekbones, his breath still uneven. You could feel the tremour in his frame, the barely restrained hunger still simmering beneath the surface.

Then he stepped back, opened the car door like nothing had just happened and waited for you to climb in.

The elevator ride was barely two floors.

Maybe three. You didn’t know. You didn’t remember stepping inside, didn’t remember pressing the button, didn’t remember the doors sliding shut behind you.

All you remembered was his hand on the small of your back, the firm, pressure of his palm against the curve of your spine, fingers splayed wide, pressing just hard enough to steer you forward.

And when you reached his door, his grip tightened. Those fingers dug into the flesh just above your hip, and you felt the tremour in his arm, the barely restrained tension coiling through his muscles. Like he was already fighting himself not to ravage you in the hallway.

The key turned. The lock clicked.

And the second the door swung shut behind you, it was over.

He was on you.

There was nothing smooth about it. No romantic glide across hardwood floors to a couch you’d never reach. No whispered sweet nothings.

This was fast.

His coat hit the floor before the door fully closed, followed by the jingle of keys dropping somewhere near his shoes. Your purse slipped from your fingers, landing near the entry table with a dull thump you barely registered.

His hands found your hips first. Then your ass, grabbing handfuls of flesh through the thin fabric of your dress. Then your back, sliding up the curve of your spine, fingertips pressing into the muscles on either side. Then your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts, and you gasped against his mouth.

He couldn’t decide where to touch first, so he touched everything.

God, his mouth was everywhere too.

At your jaw, teeth scraping along the sharp edge of it. At your throat, tongue dragging hot and wet over your pulse point. At your collarbone, lips sucking a bruise into the hollow just above where your dress dipped. Anywhere your skin peeked out, he was ther.

He was like a fucking bear. Big, warm, all-consuming, surrounding you with heat and muscle and the faint scent of whiskey and leather and male. And you weren’t complaining. Not even a little.

Your back hit the nearest wall with a thud that rattled the picture frame beside you. The impact forced the air from your lungs, and you gasped, head falling back against the plaster. The dress rode up under his grip, the hem bunching around your hips, cool air kissing the bare skin of your thighs.

Your leg lifted instinctively, wrapping around his hip, heel digging into the firm curve of his ass to anchor him to you. He groaned into your neck and the sound vibrated through your skin.

“Mmm,” he muttered against your throat. His lips brushed your pulse as he spoke, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “Does your boyfriend touch you like this?”

A breathy laugh escaped you, surprised and amused despite the heat flooding your veins. You tilted your head back further, giving him more access, and your fingers tangled in the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“You really hate that guy, huh?”

He pulled back just far enough to look you in the eye. Dim light from the kitchen filtered through the apartment, catching the sharp blue of his gaze, the dilated pupils, the flush creeping up his neck.

“I think he’s a goddamn idiot,” he said, voice low and rough. “Letting a girl like you walk around wanting this kind of attention. Dressed like this, looking like you do.” His grip tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. “If you were mine—”

You cut him off with a kiss. It was teeth and tongue and a sharp bite against his lower lip that made him hiss, and then you pulled back, breath short, lips slick.

“But I’m not yours,” you said against his mouth, the words barely a whisper.

And god, the look he gave you.

His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the blue. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking near his temple. His right hand came up, fingers curling around your throat as his thumb pressed gently against the hollow beneath your jaw, feeling your pulse flutter like a trapped bird beneath his touch.

“Not yet,” he rasped, the words a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through his chest into yours

He didn’t guide you so much as haul you toward the nearest surface.

One hand clamped under your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, while the other gripped your ass hard enough to make you gasp. The world blurred; a flash of dark cabinetry, the hum of a refrigerator, the faint citrus scent of cleaner, and then your back hit the edge of his kitchen island.

The impact knocked a quiet, breathless gasp from your lungs. The granite was cold against your skin through your dress, a sharp shock against the heat blazing through your body. The edge dug into your lower back, a hard line of pressure that should have been uncomfortable, but it barely registered.

Not with the furnace of his body pressed so close. Not with the way he was already shoving the hem of your dress up your thighs, bunching the fabric with impatient hands, like the dress itself had personally offended him.

“Fuck,” he breathed out. His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking near his temple as his eyes raked down your body. His fingers curled into the hem and yanked it higher, past your hips, past the damp lace of your panties, baring you to the cool kitchen air. “Look at you.”

His voice dropped, as his hands slid under the bunched fabric to grip your bare hips. His fingers dug into the curve of bone, hard enough to leave crescents, and a shiver of anticipation rolled through you at the thought of feeling those marks tomorrow.

“Can’t believe your man lets you walk around like this,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, his gaze fixed on the exposed skin of your thighs. “Dress so short I can see the curve of your ass with every step you take. Tits practically spilling out, begging for attention. You’re a walking invitation, sweetheart.”

“He trusts me,” you shot back, grinning despite the wildfire racing through your veins.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” Bucky grunted, and then he lifted you like you weighed nothing, hands under your thighs, a single smooth motion that had you gasping as he set you on the cold granite counter.

Your ass met the stone, a jolt of cold against the heat between your legs, and you braced your palms flat on the surface to steady yourself. “Should’ve locked you up before someone else got to you.”

Your thighs spread instinctively to keep your balance, opening yourself to him like a flower turning toward the sun. His eyes dropped between them like he was starving, dress rucked up around your waist, panties damp and clinging.

His hands followed his gaze. Fingertips found the soft inner flesh of your thighs, tracing lazy patterns, goosebumps rising in their wake. His thumbs brushed the edges of your panties, teasing,. His mouth hovered just above yours, close enough that you could taste his breath, warm and slightly sweet with the whiskey from the bar.

“Bet he doesn’t even touch you right,” he murmured, his lips barely skimming yours with each word. “Bet he doesn’t make you beg. Doesn’t know how wet you get from just being told what to do. Does he, sweetheart? Does he know how your body responds to a firm hand?”

You didn’t respond. Your tongue felt thick, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

His fingers hooked into the crotch of your panties, and he shoved the damp fabric aside with two confident strokes. Then one finger traced the length of your slit, gathering the wetness that had been pooling there since the bar. The sensation made you jerk, a sharp inhale hissing through your teeth.

“Fuck,” he hissed, almost to himself. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he stared at where his hand disappeared between your thighs. “Yeah. This is mine now.”

You clenched around nothing, your body responding before your brain could catch up, a desperate, empty ache blooming in your core.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say this pussy’s mine for the night.”

A grin tugged at your lips, defiant even now. You dragged your nails up the length of his back, feeling the muscles jump beneath the fabric of his shirt. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”

He let out a low chuckle. His hand slid from your throat to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he dragged you into another kiss, a reclaiming of territory already conquered.

His other hand slipped lower, fingers teasing at your entrance, slick with your own arousal. The tip of his finger pressed in just barely, and then withdrew.

“Yeah,” he murmured against your mouth, the word a breathless, cocky whisper. “And you’re about to let me prove it.”

His fingers were still between your thighs, barely moving now. Just resting there. A lazy pressure that kept you teetering on the edge of desperate, your hips twitching involuntarily against his palm.

Every time you tried to grind down, he pulled back just enough to deny you, a cruel little game he played with the patience of a predator.

His other hand trailed up your side, slipping beneath the rumpled dress to brush the curve of your waist. His fingertips traced the ridge of your ribs, then swept higher, grazing the underside of your breast with a featherlight touch that had your spine arching.

And then he murmured, voice low and wrapped in velvet, “You ever been filmed before, sweetheart?”

Your breath caught. Lodged somewhere in your throat like a stone.

Your body said yes before your brain even processed the question, your thighs tensed, your nipples tightened, a fresh pulse of heat bloomed between your legs. But your mouth hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty crossed your face.

“Filmed?” The word came out breathless, barely audible over the thudding of your heart.

“Mmhmm.” His voice was soft now, coaxing. His lips ghosted over your jaw as he spoke, hot and teasing. “Wanna see how goddamn pretty you look like this. Want to watch you later—legs spread, begging for it, that messy little sound you make when you cum. You ever seen yourself like that, honey?”

You couldn’t answer. Your mouth was dry, your pulse hammering so loud you could hear it rushing in your ears.

He kissed your neck, his lips parting against your skin. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive tendon just below your ear, a sharp little pressure that made you gasp.

His hand stayed between your legs, just touching, his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers slick and still, the heel of his hand grinding lazily against your clit. Keeping your blood hot. Keeping you pliant.

“C’mon,” he whispered, the word a hot puff of air against your throat. “Let me keep it. Just for me. I won’t show anyone.” A pause. His lips brushed the hollow of your collarbone. “Just wanna remember how you sounded when I made you cum. Just wanna have something to jerk off to when you go back to that sorry excuse for a boyfriend.”

Your lips parted. Your heart was in your throat, beating against the base of your tongue.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—and fuck. Those eyes. Half-lidded, dark as sin, glittering with something between hunger and tenderness.

This was for him. Just because he wanted to own this moment. To freeze it, preserve it, revisit it whenever he pleased.

“Please,” he added, the word a low murmur that crawled down your spine. “Let me watch you fall apart. Let me have something to remember you by when you’re gone.”

And just like that, you broke. You nodded once, a small, jerky motion that felt too fast and too slow all at once.

The look on his face turned downright pleased. A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips, pleased and satisfied.

He stepped back, pulling his hand from between your legs deliberately slow that bordered on cruel. The absence was sharp, almost painful—you whimpered, a soft, instinctive sound that slipped out before you could stop it.

He heard it. His lips parted like he might say something, but instead he just let out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

He reached into his jeans pocket and tugged out his phone. The screen blazed to life, casting cold light across his angular features. He swiped it awake with one thumb, eyes never leaving yours.

You stayed on the counter. Legs spread. Dress bunched up around your hips, the fabric twisted and forgotten. Panties still pushed to the side, damp and useless.

But before you could process what came next, he handed you the phone.

“Hold this,” he said. “Keep it steady. And don’t stop filming until I say so.”

The weight of the device settled in your palm, the screen angled toward him. Your fingers trembled, but you gripped it tight.

His hands slid under your thighs, palms warm and calloused against your skin, and he pulled you to the edge of the counter with a single, effortless motion.

“You’re really gonna let me eat you out on camera?” he muttered. His thumb brushed the inside of your thigh, pressing hard enough to leave a mark. “Look at you. Spread open, holding the phone, panting for it like a bitch in heat. What would your boyfriend say if he saw this, huh?”

A shiver rolled through you. You let out a shaky breath as you leaned back on your elbows, your legs falling open even wider.

“He doesn’t need to know,” you murmured.

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest, through the air between you, through your bones.

“No, he doesn’t.” Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the tender flesh where your legs met your hips. “But I will.”

He lowered his head, his breath hot against your slick skin.

“Now keep that camera steady, sweetheart. I want to see your face when I make you forget your name.”

And then he was on you.

His tongue hit you like a brand. It dragged from the slick entrance of your cunt all the way up to your clit in one long, agonizingly slow stroke, tasting you like he was savouring every inch. The flat of his tongue pressed firm, parting your folds, and when he reached the top he circled once, lazy, before dipping back down.

You gasped. Your back bowed off the counter, your spine curling like a struck wire. One hand scrambled for the edge of the granite, fingers scrabbling for purchase, while the other fought to keep the camera steady, pointed directly down at him, at the way his mouth was devouring you.

He moaned into you.

A deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your clit, through your thighs, through the aching core of you. Like he was the one being pleasured. Like your taste was the only thing that could satisfy him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered against your flesh, his breath hot and damp. His tongue flicked out, lapping at your clit with a lazy stroke. “So fuckin’ sweet. Sweetest thing I’ve had in my mouth in months.”

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, eyes dark, lips glistening and chin slick. The camera caught every detail.

“Bet he doesn’t even taste you, does he?” His voice was a low, rasping cruel whisper. “Bet he just shoves it in and pumps away like a jackrabbit, leaves you lying there wet and wanting.”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form a single word. Not when his mouth wrapped around your clit again, sealing tight, and he sucked, once, hard, a sharp vacuum of pleasure that punched a cry from your throat. Then he eased, softening into slower licks, his tongue tracing figure-eights around the swollen bud.

Your thighs trembled, clamping around his head. He didn’t seem to mind. He moaned again, the vibration traveling straight through your cunt and up your spine.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how to touch you here—” His metal thumb pressed into the soft, sensitive spot just beside your entrance, the cool metal a shocking contrast against your heat. “—or how wet you get just from a little attention. Look at you. Dripping. Making a mess all over my face.”

You whimpered. A high, broken sound that felt torn from somewhere deep in your chest.

His metal hand slid up your thigh, the cool vibranium tracking a path of goosebumps across your flushed skin. Then, without warning, two fingers pushed into you. A slick, effortless slide that made you gasp again.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t give you time to adjust. He just pumped them in and out, a steady rhythm that matched the circling of his tongue. His fingers crooked, searching, and when they found that spongy spot inside you, he pressed hard and held.

You didn’t mean to make the sounds you were making.

They poured out of you like confession, gasping, keening, helpless little moans that you couldn’t hold back. Your head fell back, your hips lifting off the counter, chasing his mouth and fingers like you’d lost all sense of self-preservation.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your wet skin, his lips brushing your clit with every word. “So desperate for someone who isn’t even your man. Fuck, he must be so boring.”

You whimpered, your hips grinding against his face.

His fingers curled again… just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His tongue never stopped. It circled and flicked and pressed, relentless.

“You think about this?” he went on, “When you’re lying next to him at night, do you think about someone else doing this to you? Someone who actually knows how to use his mouth?”

You shook your head, trying to deny, but your body betrayed you, your hips rocking faster against his hand.

“Yeah, you do,” he said, and he laughed, a low, breathless sound against your cunt. “You think about it all the time. I think you’d let me do anything just to feel good for once. I think you’d let me fuck you right in his bed while he’s at work, and you’d still smile like a good girl and kiss him goodnight.”

His fingers fucked into you, slow and steady, his tongue circling your clit in tight, focused strokes that left no room for thought. The pressure built in your belly, impossible to ignore.

“You close?” he asked, his voice hoarse and knowing.

You nodded, a frantic, jerky motion. Too far gone to pretend. Too far gone to care.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. His lips were glistening, his jaw slick, his pupils blown wide and black. And then… smirking, that wicked curve of his mouth, he glanced toward the camera.

“Let’s show him, yeah doll?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let’s show him how you cum for someone who actually knows what he’s doing. Let’s give him something to think about tonight.”

And then he sucked your clit again—hard—while his fingers pumped faster, deeper, curling with ruthless precision.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You came.

It was raw. Violent. Your hips jerked off the counter, your thighs clamping around his head like a vise. The sounds that tore out of you were ragged and broken, a string of curses and pleas that blurred into incoherence.

Your vision went white, your whole body seizing, and he didn’t stop. His tongue kept stroking, his fingers kept pumping, fucking you through every last wave of pleasure until you were twitching and shaking, oversensitive and gasping.

He groaned against your clit, like he loved it. Like he was drinking it down.

You barely had time to catch your breath. Barely had time to register the aftershocks still rippling through your thighs before he was climbing up your body, his lips slick with your release, his chin wet, his eyes dark with something animalistic.

His hand snatched the phone from your trembling grip, like a predator claiming his prize. The other hand clamped around your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he dragged you toward the edge of the kitchen island.

He angled the phone down, the camera aimed directly at your cunt, glistening, swollen, still slick from his mouth. Your dress was bunched around your waist in a crumpled mess, and your panties were long gone, ripped off somewhere between the counter and the floor.

“Gonna let me fuck you now?” His voice was a mocking drawl that made your toes curl. “Even though you’ve got a boyfriend waiting at home? Probably wondering where his sweet little girl is.”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, still floating on the aftershocks of your orgasm. But you played along. You nodded slowly, your lips parting, your eyes half-lidded. Like a good girl. Like a stupid little slut who’d already crossed every line and couldn’t find her way back.

You watched like a hungry bitch in heat as he unbuckled his belt, the metal clinking loud in the quiet kitchen, and shoved his pants down his thighs with one hand. His cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach with a wet sound that made your mouth water. The head flushed dark, already slick with pre-cum.

Your voice didn’t work anymore. All the clever retorts, the smart mouth answers—gone. Your legs parted on pure instinct, your hips tilting up in silent invitation.

He clicked his tongue.

“Such a dirty girl,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “Cheating on your boyfriend like this. Letting a stranger stretch your pretty pussy open in his kitchen. On his counter. While he films it.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, just the head pressing, teasing, not pushing in yet. Your breath hitched. Your whole body trembled.

“Tell me what you are,” he said, the camera still fixed on where he was about to enter you.

“I’m—I’m a dirty girl—”

“Louder.”

“I’m a dirty girl.”

“And?”

“And I—I want you to fuck me.”

He smiled, satisfied.

And then he pushed in.

Thick and slow. Letting you feel every filthy inch as he sank into you, stretching you open inch by inch. The burn was exquisite, a sharp, delicious ache that made your jaw drop and your eyes roll back. You clenched around him, too sensitive, already fucked-out from his mouth, and he groaned, an animal sound that vibrated through his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hips seating flush against yours. “Tight little thing. Feels like you were made for this. Made for my cock.”

He pulled back just enough to look down at where you were joined, angling the phone to capture every detail, the way your cunt gripped him, the slick shine of his cock as he dragged out, the desperate flutter of your muscles.

And then he started to move.

His hips dragged back and slammed in again with bruising force. The first thrust punched the air from your lungs. The second made you cry out, loud and raw, your voice cracking in the empty kitchen.

He groaned harder at the sound.

“Look at that,” he rasped, his voice wrecked with pleasure. He angled the camera down again, zooming in on where he split you open. “Fuckin’ made for it, huh? Look at how pretty she takes it.”

He shifted his weight, lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder, the angle changed, deeper nowand your back hit the counter hard as he picked up the pace. The slapping sounds filled the room.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, breath ragged, the phone still steady in his grip. “Gonna cum on this cock like the fucking slut you are? Let your boyfriend watch it later? Think he’d wanna see what a whore you are when no one’s watching?”

Your eyes rolled back. Your mouth hung open, drool threatening to slip down your chin. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He slapped your clit, a bright flare of pain-pleasure that made you jolt.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—yes, fuck, I—please—”

“Please what?”

“Please let me cum—I need—”

He thrust harder, faster, the angle punishing. His free hand pressed down on your lower belly, making you feel every inch of him inside you.

“Look at the camera,” he commanded, his voice a growl. “Look at it and tell him who’s making you feel this good.”

You forced your eyes open, found the lens, stared into it with glassy, tear-streaked eyes.

“You,” you gasped. “You’re making me—”

“That’s right. Me. Not him. Me.”

He lowered his mouth to your ear, still fucking you, his breath hot and ragged.

“Now cum for me. Cum for the camera. Let everyone see what a good little slut you are.”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train, sudden and impossible to stop. Your back arched off the counter, your walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves, a broken cry tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, groaning as you tightened around him, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release.

“That’s what I thought”

He pulled out suddenly, an abrupt emptiness that made you gasp, your body clenching around nothing, desperate to keep him. The whine that escaped your lips was pathetic, high and needy, and you didn’t even have the shame to swallow it.

But Bucky didn’t give you a second to recover. His metal hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you upright before your head stopped spinning.

“Up,” he ordered, his voice tight and ragged. “C’mon. Up, baby. I’m not done with you.”

Your legs were jelly. Your bones had turned to water. But he hooked his hand under your thigh and lifted you off the island like you weighed nothing, sliding you down until your bare feet hit the cold tile floor.

Your knees buckled immediately. You were shaking, ruined, still dripping down your thighs in sticky trails, your dress bunched around your waist, while he steadied you with a hand on your hip.

“You’re a mess,” he muttered, not even pretending to hide the pride in his voice. His metal fingers traced the curve of your hip, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Bet he’s never fucked you dumb like this, huh?”

Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted. But he didn’t let you stay there. He spun you around, grabbed your hips, and bent you over the counter like a doll, your tits pressing flat against the cold marble, your cheek smushed against the cool stone, your legs spread wide before you even realized what he was doing.

The camera was still rolling. And he aimed it directly at your ass, at your dripping cunt, at the mess he’d made of you.

“There we go,” he rasped, his voice a rough purr behind you. “Much better view. Look at that, fuckin’ dripping for me. Like a little faucet.”

You gasped as his hand came down right across your ass cheek. The crack echoed in the kitchen, and your skin bloomed with heat instantly. Your hips bucked forward, pushing your tits harder against the marble.

“Stay still,” he grunted, his metal hand pressing into the small of your back, pinning you down. “Be good and take it. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

And then he was sliding back in.

No teasing. Just one sharp, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. He filled you completely, the angle brutal, the stretch exquisite. Your mouth fell open on a silent scream.

He didn’t wait. He started moving immediately, punishing strokes that made the counter shake. His hand clamped onto your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you open for him.

“Fuck, baby—so tight like this,” he groaned, his voice strained, wrecked. “Like you’re trying to milk me dry.”

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear.

“Bet he’s never seen you like this. Fucked out. Bent over. Filmed like a little slut.” He punctuated each word with a thrust, driving them into you along with his cock. “What would he say if he saw this video? Huh? If he watched you beggin’ for my cock with your makeup running, your pretty little pussy creamin’ all over me?”

Your only answer was a broken moan. Your hands scrambled uselessly across the marble, searching for something to hold onto.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The stretch in your neck sent a shiver down your spine.

“What would he say, huh,” Bucky panted, fucking into you harder now, the slapping sounds wet and filthy, “if he saw how much you love it? If he saw that look in your eyes—that fucked-out, starved look you get when I’m deep inside you?”

Your third orgasm was building, coiling low in your belly, your pussy aching with overstimulation. The marble was digging into your hips, leaving red marks on your skin, and you didn’t care. You wanted more. You wanted him to break you.

“Say it,” he grunted, snapping his hips faster, his hand wrapping around your throat from behind to pull your head even farther back. “Tell the camera what you’re doing.”

You choked on a sob, tears welling in your eyes.

“—Cheating,” you gasped, the word torn from your throat. “I’m cheating on him—fuck, fuck—please don’t stop—”

He groaned like he could’ve fucking died from how good that sounded.

“That’s it, baby. Say it again. Let the whole world know what a filthy little whore you are.”

You were already crying, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation, your body trembling as you struggled to hold yourself up on your elbows. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through you, your clit rubbing against the marble with every movement, building that pressure higher and higher.

“Say it again,” he growled, his cock buried deep inside you. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“—Cheating,” you whispered again, breathless, voice cracking. “I’m cheating on him.”

“Can’t hear you.”

“I’m cheating on my boyfriend,” you moaned, choked and messy, the shame in your voice only making it hotter. “Letting some stranger fuck me in his kitchen.”

He groaned, his hips stuttering for just a second, his grip tightening on your throat.

“God, you’re perfect. Fucking perfect. Say my name.”

You didn’t even think. The word fell from your lips like a prayer.

“Bucky—”

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the kitchen. Your body rocked against the marble with every brutal thrust, your tits sliding across the cold surface, nipples dragging against the stone, your breath fogging the counter in ragged clouds as he fucked you faster.

The hand on your throat dropped down your body to between your legs, metal fingers finding your clit with brutal precision. He rubbed you in rough, tight circles, no gentleness, just enough pressure to make your vision blur.

“Wanna cum again for me, baby?” he panted behind you. “Wanna cum on a stranger’s cock while your boyfriend’s out there probably textin’ you right now, askin’ if you’re okay?”

His fingers pinched your clit and you cried out.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

“Use me,” you begged, the words torn from somewhere deep, broken and desperate. “Please, just use me. I don’t care—I don’t care about anything—just fuck me—”

That did it.

He slammed in harder, faster, his groans turning into guttural snarls, his hips slapping against your ass with a force that left your skin stinging. His metal fingers on your clit were relentless. You were babbling words that made no sense, just sound and breath and need, your voice cracking as that third orgasm tore through you like lightning striking bone.

You clenched down so hard his rhythm stuttered.

“Oh fuck—fuck, doll—”

He pulled out suddenly, just in time, the loss of him leaving you gasping and empty. His hand left your clit and wrapped around his cock, jerking himself with messy, desperate strokes, the camera aimed down at the mess he’d made of you.

“On your knees,” he barked.

You dropped without hesitation.

Your knees hit the cold tile with a dull thud, your body limp and pliant and ruined. Your makeup was smudged into dark raccoon circles around your eyes. Your lipstick was blurred. Your thighs were still slick with your multiple releases, sticky and gleaming under the kitchen lights.

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, chest heaving, every inch of you screaming used.

He pointed the phone down at your face, capturing every detail.

“Jesus fuck—look at you,” he panted, his voice hoarse, wrecked. His grip on his cock was tight, the veins standing out against his skin. “Fucking look at you. Makeup ruined. Hair a mess. Cum drippin’ down your thighs. And you’re still lookin’ at me like you want more.”

You blinked up at him slowly, your tongue sliding across your lower lip, tasting the salt of your own sweat. The corner of your mouth lifted… just enough to tease. Just enough to let him know that yes, you wanted more. You wanted everything.

His breath hitched.

That was all it took.

He groaned deep from his chest, his hips snapping forward as he jerked himself harder… and then he came.

“Fuck—fuck—”

Thick, hot ropes hit your lips. Your cheek. Your tongue.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just let it land wherever he gave it, your mouth open like a fucking invitation, your eyes locked on his the entire time. One streak landed on your chin, another across your nose. You held still like a good girl.

He moaned like he was in pain, his chest heaving, his arm trembling as he kept the camera steady. His other hand milked the last drops out, stroking his tip right against your tongue, smearing the rest across your bottom lip.

“Gonna remember this forever,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “The way you look right now. On your knees. Covered in my cum.”

You swallowed what landed in your mouth. The taste of him, salt and heat and something musky, spread across your tongue.

You held eye contact… and then licked your lips. Slow. Sweet. Like you savoured every drop. Your tongue swept across the mess on your cheek, your chin, collecting every trace of him.

And then you smiled and winked at the camera.

He groaned again. His arm dropped. The phone nearly slipped from his fingers.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You’re unreal. You’re fucking unreal.”

He took a shaky step back, running his free hand through his hair, his chest still heaving.

“Get up,” he said, softer now. “C’mere. Let me kiss you.”

You were barely dried off when he dragged you into bed, still flushed in the cheeks, towel hanging low on his hips, clinging to the sharp cut of his waist. He flopped onto the mattress with a grunt that vibrated through the sheets and immediately reached for you like a heat-seeking missile.

You allowed him to wrap himself around you, his chest warm and damp against your back, arm tight across your middle, legs slotting in behind yours like puzzle pieces.

He was trying to hide. Burying his face in the curve of your neck, breathing slow and deep like he could disappear into your skin. And despite being genuinely so fucked out after three orgasms, your thighs still aching and your core still humming, you couldn’t help yourself.

“‘Gonna remember this forever,’” you murmured, pitching your voice low and rough, mimicking him. You dragged the words out, dramatic and breathy. “God, baby. The drama. Are you sure you’re not secretly a director?”

He groaned The kind of groan that started in his chest and rolled out like thunder. He dragged the covers over both your heads, cocooning you in darkness and warmth, like it might smother the shame.

And you.

“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your shoulder.

You laughed, the sound swallowed by the blanket fort. Your body shook against his, and he tightened his grip in response, pulling you impossibly closer.

“You were so into it,” you continued, turning your head just enough to speak into the darkness. “Like, really committed. Tell me, what are you gonna do with that video? Are you planning an OnlyFans debut? Get some extra cash to spoil me with?”

He squeezed your waist in warning,, deliberate press of his fingers into your soft skin. You ignored him completely.

“I personally think we’d make a lot of money,” you said, your tone almost dreamy. “With your dick and my tits, we’d be famous in no time. Think of the branding. Think of the content.”

He lifted his head just enough to find your ear. “Please,” he said, low and gruff, “shut up and let me spoon you into silence.”

You hummed, basking in victory.

“You were so serious,” you whispered into the quiet. “The dirty talk? You’re gonna start submitting audition tapes to PornHub next, aren’t you? I can see it now—‘James.B.B, 107, 6’2”, specializes in roleplay and cum facials.’”

He groaned again, but it was quieter now.

You could feel his smile against your skin. He was trying not to let it show,but you knew it was there. Just like the soft kiss he pressed behind your ear, his lips lingering.

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?” he muttered, his voice warm and entirely fond.

You turned in his arms, shifting until you faced him. The blanket still draped over your heads, cocooning you in shared heat and the faint scent of sex and soap. His whole body was relaxed in that way he only ever got after sex, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolved.

You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your fingertips. You kissed his nose.

“Not a chance, stranger.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. And then he kissed you anyway, a kiss that tasted like contented surrender. His hand slid up your spine, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breath evening out.

You laid there for a long, quiet minute, his arm slung heavy across your stomach like an anchor, his breath slowing behind your ear into that deep, rhythmic cadence that meant he was drifting.

The warmth of his body curved around yours, the sheets tangled around your legs, the faint hum of the city through the window, it was almost enough to lull you under too.

Almost.

Which is exactly why you struck.

“Okay,” you said, your voice sweet as honey. “Give me your phone now.”

He tensed immediately. His arm tightened across your stomach, and you felt the shift in his breathing.

“...No.”

You twisted in his grip, frowning, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him.

“James.”

He sighed, like it physically pained him to hear his name on your lips in that tone. The sound dragged out, full of protest, and he pulled the pillow over his face.

You didn’t let up. You tore the blanket off both of you, sitting up fully, then turned to face him with the kind of look that told him exactly where this was going. A look that said I’m not asking.

“I just want to see how I looked,” you cooed, letting your voice go syrupy and coaxing. “For science.”

“You looked perfect,” he muttered from beneath the pillow. “You don’t need to see it.”

“Oh, but I do,” you teased, already reaching past him toward the nightstand where he’d abandoned the phone. “Because someone got real creative with angles tonight. I wanna see what Christopher Nolan-level filth you captured.”

He tried to pull you back down under the covers, his arm snaking around your waist, but you fought dirty. You squirmed, laughed, dug your elbow into his ribs until he grunted and loosened his grip. There was some wrestling until you finally managed to straddle his hips, pinning him down, and snatched the phone from the nightstand.

“Aha,” you declared, waving it like a trophy. “Siri, show me the porn.”

He groaned from beneath the pillow. “You’re a freak.”

“You love it.”

You unlocked the screen with his passcode, your birthday of course, and found the video right there in his most recent gallery. It wasn’t buried in a folder, wasn’t hidden behind a password.

“Jesus Christ, you didn’t even try to hide it,” you murmured.

You tapped play.

The sound alone was enough to make you both flinch.

Your own moan filled the room, echoing off the walls. The video opened on a shaky shot of the kitchen island, granite cool and sleek under the dim light, your legs splayed wide, his hand wrapped around your thigh.

You looked down at him slowly. His eyes were squeezed shut, the pillow still half-draped over his head, his cheeks flushed dark. For a guy who had fucked you within an inch of your life thirty minutes ago, he looked deeply, profoundly embarrassed.

“Oh my god,” you said, pausing the screen on his face. There he was… eyebrows furrowed in concentration, hair a wild mess, that filthy, knowing smirk curling the corner of his lips. “Who is he? Why is he so serious? Is this an Oscar campaign? A sizzle reel for his breakout role in Eat Pray Fuck?”

“Stop it,” Bucky mumbled.

But you kept going.

“Look at you. Sergeant Pornstar. All intense and broody. Grunting like you’re about to break the fourth wall and fuck the audience too.”

He peeked out just enough to glare at you, one blue eye visible above the edge of the pillow, very unamused. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re so hot when you’re pretending not to be a freak.”

He huffed, but his ears were pink. The tips of them, visible above the pillow, turned the colour of a ripe strawberry.

You tapped further into the video, scrolling through the shots. Paused again. Leaned in closer to the screen.

“Wait—” You squinted. “Did you zoom while you were inside me?”

He huffed, and buried his face in the pillow like he could escape through the mattress.

“You did. Oh my god, you adjusted the focus on my ass. You framed the shot like it was a nature documentary.”

“Stop watching it,” he moaned.

“Never. I’m gonna turn this into a gif. A screensaver. My new phone background. Every time I get a text, I’ll see your constipated orgasm face.”

That did it.

He moved faster than you expected. The phone flew out of your hand, skidding across the bed, and he tackled you back down onto the mattress, his weight pressing you into the pillows.

It didn’t hurt. Not with him laughing into your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he tried to wrestle the phone out of your reach. His fingers fumbled against yours, and you shrieked as he pinned your wrist above your head, still laughing, still muttering, “You’re the fucking worst,” and “I hate you so much right now.”

He got the phone eventually.

And as he pinned you to the bed with both wrists above your head, his body draped over yours, sweat-slick and smiling, he leaned down and kissed your cheek. A whisper of lips against your skin.

“I’m deleting that video first thing tomorrow,” he mumbled, his voice fond.

You smiled up at him, your chest rising and falling against his.

“Sure you are, Sergeant,” you whispered, your eyes glinting in the dim light. “Right after you jack off to it one more time.”

He collapsed beside you with a huff, his body sinking into the mattress like it weighed twice what it did, limbs heavy and warm as he pulled you into his chest. His arm slung around your waist, fingers splaying across the curve of your hip, his face pressing into the crook of your neck as he exhaled a long, tired breath.

The kind of breath that said finally, peace.

He was wrong.

“So,” you whispered against his collarbone, “since I let you pick this time, I get to choose the next roleplay.”

He sighed again

You ignored it completely.

“We could do the delivery guy thing,” you murmured, a yawn stealing the edge off your words. “Like, you show up with a package and I answer the door in just a towel, dripping wet, all innocent and flustered. And you’re just standing there, all stoic, but you have to fuck me on the spot. Right there against the doorframe. Package forgotten on the mat.”

He didn’t respond. His breathing was slow, like he was trying to will himself into unconsciousness.

So you kept going.

“Or—or we could do the ‘I’m your best friend’s girlfriend’ angle,” you said, your voice dropping into a dreamy cadence. “You’re not supposed to want me. But you catch me in the shower at a party. The bathroom door’s cracked open, and instead of leaving, you just… watch. Then you step inside, still fully dressed, and pin me to the tile.”

“No,” he mumbled, the word muffled against your skin.

Before you could continue, he rolled on top of you, his body a warm, solid weight pressing you into the mattress. His mouth found yours, a kiss that was clearly meant to shut you up. His tongue swept against your bottom lip, and for a moment you let yourself sink into it.

But only a moment.

You broke the kiss with a soft, teasing hum. “What about the corrupt cop thing?” you whispered, your lips still brushing his. “You pull me over on some empty road at midnight. I’m nervous, hands shaking as I hand you my license. And you shine your flashlight in my face, look me up and down, and tell me I was speeding. Then you lean down, voice low, and tell me there’s only one way I can get out of the ticket.”

He kissed you again. Harder this time. A grunt built in his throat, muffled against your mouth, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheek like he could physically hold your words in.

You chuckled against his lips.

“Ooooh. Or the one where I’m drunk and stumbling out of a party,” you said, your voice breathless. “You’re the older guy who tells me to get in the car. You drive me home in silence, but I fall asleep in the passenger seat, my head lolling against the window. So you carry me inside, and tuck me into.”

He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your pulse point, his lips pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “Go to sleep, please,” he muttered.

“—but I wake up,” you continued, your fingers threading into his hair, “and you’re standing in the doorway. Watching me. And I’m so grateful. So vulnerable. So willing—spread out on the bed in nothing but his oversized shirt, legs parted just enough, looking up at you with those sleepy, trusting eyes. And then you just… take what you want.”

His whole body shuddered against yours. His hips pressed into your thigh, and you felt the unmistakable stir of interest against your skin. His cock, already half-hard from the images you’d painted, twitched as if responding to your words directly.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, the words rough, as he pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your neck.

You hummed, “I think you like it.”

He didn’t answer. He just pulled you tighter, his arm wrapping around your waist like a vise, his other hand sliding under your head to cup the base of your skull. He kissed your temple, then closed his eyes.

“No more talking,” he whispered.

You grinned against his chest. “Not even the professor one?” you teased. “Where I’m failing your class and you offer extra credit in the form of—“

“I will gag you.”

You snorted, the sound warm and muffled against his skin.

“That’s a yes, then.”

He groaned again, long and suffering. But you felt it, the curve of his lips pressed against your hair, the soft exhale of a smile he tried to hide.

And eventually you let him fall asleep. Wrapped around you, his body a shield of warmth and muscle, his breath evening out into the deep, slow rhythm of rest. His cock still twitched against your thigh every few minutes, a stubborn reminder of all the images you’d planted in his head.

You smiled into the dark, your fingers still tangled in his hair, and finally let yourself drift.

a/n | i fear i would let bucky barnes film me with an iphone 7 in a kitchen with bad lighting and call it art.

bucky taglist:

“The hell you think yer goin’ with that?”

His breath came out in icy clouds as he stomped his way into the barn. Leftover bits of graying snow crunched and melted under his boots. Both your cheeks and nose flared raw and rosy pink from the needling cold.

Arthur nudged his head at the carbine rifle gripped in your hands, a slow scowl formed across his dry lips.

“Well hello to you, too,” you turned your attention back toward the table the men used for weapon cleanings and the like.

Until his hand coiled over the spouted barrel, his strength forcing your feet to stop.

“Put it back.”

Your eyes grew white and round, your grip firming around the gun. “…’Scuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m ridin’ with you.”

“Ain’t ridin’ anywhere. Now put the damn gun down.”

“No.”

“I ain’t asking.”

“Arthur I’m not a child! I can do this. I can go—”

He tore the gun from your grip and the metal banged against the wooden plank. The stock slid roughly against the oak. Arthur watched you, not angry, no, he could never be too gruff with you. But with pleading eyes. Crystal blue and a tinted green that shined behind the fog of your collective breathing.

“Ain’t safe,” his voice was a mere whisper.

“Then how come you go?”

“Excuse me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yeah you heard me.”

Arthur scoffed, shook his head. He shot you an incredulous look. “You serious?”

“Everyday you risk your life with them boys. You ride. You—“

He closed the distance until there was nothing except for the familiar hint of his musk. Stale tobacco and cedar clung from his beard. The scent of him enveloped you. It tingled your skin and caused your belly to shiver. He always had a way of making you swallow your words until they burned tightly in your throat.

“You any idea what I’d do if it were you on that cross out there?” he abruptly said.

The confession rendered you speechless, even moreso when his warm hand cradled your flushed cheek. His thumb swiped across a fresh hue of pink forming across your skin.

“I’ve had to do ‘lotta ugly shit in this world. But burying you…” his throat cracked as the frosty wind bruised his gruff voice. “I won’t do it,” he gulped. “I can’t.”

“Oh, Arthur…”

You let out a subtle gasp as he gently touched his forehead against yours. His eyes closed and his thumb kept caressing the side of your face. Warmth spread across your chest and bloomed inside your belly. It felt like a butterfly had untucked itself from a cocoon and stretched its wings for the first time.

Arthur’s free hand slid down to your waist. For a moment, he held you like this and then there was silence. His eyes opened, finding your gaze and tethering it to his while his lips trembled. Trembled from the force of the snowstorm and his own stubbornness to say what you both had been dancing around a crackling fire for the last few months.

“I’ll die before ever lettin’ anything happen t’you.”

This simple confession of his had been enough for you. And it was you who had found the courage to lift yourself up on your toes then. Angling your head, Arthur leant down to catch your lips with his. You tasted like the last apricot slice he had watched you feast on for breakfast that morning. His hand threaded into your hair, tangling in it and bringing you closer to him until his tongue deepened the kiss.

His lips smoothed up into a careful smile, his teeth lightly nipped at your bottom lip until you let out a small giggle.

You watched him with a new kind of shine in your eyes. One that held something of love and affection in them. Arthur brushed the hair away from your face and leant in to brush his lips against your forehead.

“Why, Mister Morgan,” you remarked with the smug lift of your brows. “This your plan all along? Charm one into abandoning all cause. Sweep ‘em off their feet?”

“It workin’?”

You smiled. “It might be.”

He chuckled and his grasp on your waist tightened.

Shopping for ribbons has never been your favorite pastime, and it shows in the way you've been slouching since Mary started pestering you about it.

"Bonding," she said.

"It's what ladies do," she said again.

Now, you're having this one and that explained to you by a woman more patronizing than the word itself.

"Is there really much difference?" you ask the shopkeeper, staring between two that look just about identical, not a single standout thing about them.

"This one is made of fine silk, imported from—"

"And that one?" you point.

She looks scandalized by the sudden interruption, likely used to talking the heads off of her customers in hopes they'll simply take both and be done with it.

But not you. Never you.

She looks between you and Mary, your sister clearing her throat delicately, glancing at you with pleading eyes.

Go easy on her, they beg.

"That would be velvet, Miss Gillis."

You sigh, reaching out to run your fingers along the soft face of it.

"I suppose it'll do. Does it come in green?"

The woman brightens instantly, Mary exhaling a breath of relief as she saunters off. "An excellent choice, indeed," she exclaims, the words clinging to the air where she once stood like dewdrops on a cool morning.

"I'll finish up here," says Mary, coin-purse in hand. "Will you see to the tailor in the meantime?"

You're halfway to denying her when a figure passes just outside, your gaze tracking him until he disappears from view.

Was that...?

You're gone from her side before your absence registers in her mind, no doubt looking every bit as crazy as you feel, chasing ghosts through winding thoroughfares like it'll do you any good.

Only when the road opens wide, the main street a few short steps from your feet, do you falter.

He's a ghost alright—one that was never yours, but you wanted to haunt you all the same.

Arthur Morgan, looking every bit as handsome as the very first day you laid eyes on him.

Older now, broader than you've ever seen him. But the eyes are the same—so is the way he carries himself, the way he stands like the world's heavy on his shoulders and he's managing it just fine.

Your hands move before the rest of you does—fingers patting at your hair, tucking away what doesn't belong and pulling at what does.

You smooth your dress, pat your cheeks just shy of painful to get them red as a summer rose, taking stock of your appearance in a nearby window.

A man passes you by, looking more dumbfounded by the moment as you mutter the possibilities of the exchange to yourself like a common drunkard.

Maybe he won't remember you.

Or he will, but it won't matter.

He only ever saw Mary, after all.

"No," you say vehemently, shake the thought free from your mind, startling the onlooker enough to send him skittering on his way.

You take a deep, steadying breath, wring your fingers, wipe the dampness from your palms on your skirts, and wish yourself all the luck in the world.

Because that's what it'll take to win the affections of a man like him, isn't it?

Luck.

More than you've ever had at least.

Your feet step out ahead of you, closing the distance in a few easy strides.

"Arthur?" you ask, voice wavering slightly.

He turns, catches sight of you, and to your dismay, there's not a flicker of recognition in his gaze.

At least, not until you step that much closer, his eyes flickering across your face with a looming familiarity that warms you to the bone.

Then he makes for his hat, lifting it from his head and pressing it to his chest.

"Miss Gillis."

You smile, exhaling sharply from your nose, pulse stumbling over itself.

"My... it really is you," you say in thinly-veiled awe, looking him over like you've been awarded sunshine for the first time in days.

He nods, making for your elbow as if he can't well help himself, dropping his hand at the last second like he thought better of it.

"Been some time," he utters.

That drawl of his always did have a way of messing with your mind, wrapping itself around your better judgment and casting it aside.

You nod. "That it has."

You rock on your heels gently as the silence settles, interrupted only by the hustle and bustle of Saint Denis at the height of day.

Everyone moving about, carriages filling the roads, chatter in the air that doesn't find you both so readily.

He glances over your shoulder, toward the mercantile, then back to you.

"Mary with you?"

You look at him, hesitation taking the place of the sliver of hope you'd been clinging to.

"She is," you say, face screwing up as you try for amusement. "Seeing about some ribbons."

"Sounds about right."

"Asked if I could see to the tailor," you blurt then.

You glance down the street, in the direction of the discreet shopfront, then back to him. "You mind...?"

"No, ain't a problem," he says gruffly.

You walk ahead, slow down just enough to fall into step beside him, glancing sidelong at that handsome face like there's nowhere else to look.

"So... you talk with Mary much these days?" you ask, trying for casual and missing by a country mile.

It isn't worth it. You don't need to know.

Still, you tilt your head, watching his expression shift just enough for you to notice.

"No, ma'am."

Your back straightens—imperceptibly, you hope, but you know well you haven't an ounce of subtlety in your whole being.

"No? Thought you were sweet on one another."

He sighs, a heavy thing that tells you it's a sore spot you're poking and prodding at.

"Was a long time ago. Ain't much worth talking about now."

"I don't speak with my father anymore, you know," you say calmly, watching a carriage go by, loud laughter spilling out as it passes. "Me and Jamie both, but... Mary's still holding on."

His boots slow, gaze finding you before returning to the road ahead.

"Can't say I blame you. Your father ain't a nice man."

You smile. "Never were fond of him much, were you?"

He huffs, shakes his head. "Fond ain't the word I'd use, no."

In a moment of boldness that surprises even you, you allow yourself to inch closer, your shoulder brushing his.

It's more comfortable than you could've imagined, being by his side. Best of all, he doesn't ask after Mary again—only you. Doesn't pull away much either.

"You still draw?" he asks suddenly.

A quiver of excitement ripples through your stomach, stirring something in you long thought dormant.

He remembered.

And not just any old thing, either—something he taught you as a girl. When he'd guide your hand and pat your head for a job well done, and you'd look at him like he hung the moon.

Much like you are now.

Some things never change.

"Well now," you say, clasping your hands behind your back, a sudden spring in your step. "You taught me everything I know. Wouldn't be right if I didn't."

His laugh—a small exhalation that shakes his chest, crinkles his face—stokes a fire right at the heart of you, the beat of it a thunderous thing in your ears.

"That so?"

"Uh-huh. And I appreciated every lesson," you say in earnest, voice softening impossibly so. "Never did thank you back then, so..."

You look to him, smiling gently. "Thank you."

He doesn't look quite so tough now—not nearly as scary as your father always made him out to be.

His eyes lighten in a way you've never seen, the stiffness in his shoulders lessening until he's just a man, standing beside a woman he's known just about her whole life.

"Wasn't nothin'," he says, his hands fumbling at his sides. "You were a quick study, is all."

"I kept everything you drew for me."

"All of it?" he asks in surprise.

"All of it," you say with certainty, glancing at him. "Especially the deer. Hung it up in my room, I loved it so much."

"You got bad taste, little lady," he says, a hint of a smile on his lips that tells you he isn't at all stricken by the thought.

A brief silence lingers in the air between you, and when curiosity grabs hold of you, you find yourself asking, "You still keep the same company?"

He looks everywhere but you, suddenly more interested in the stones paving the road, then the blue of the sky overhead.

"Yeah... Still with 'em," he says slowly, no doubt waiting to be scolded.

But you're no Mary.

You don't need him to change a thing.

You give him a pat on the arm—a sweet, gentle thing that has him staring openly now.

"Always have been the most loyal man I've ever known."

He doesn't say much else the rest of the way, a thoughtful look on his face all the while. You think you might've said too much, spoken too soon—but then, he's there.

A hand hovering at your lower back to steady you when you lose your footing on a craggy old stone.

A gentle hold around your wrist to pull you in when a drunkard draws too close to where you stand.

His fingers staying put when you brush your own against them, worrying your lip between your teeth in hopes he doesn't notice.

If he does, he doesn't speak a word of it.

Arriving at the tailor, he offers his hand, helps you up the steps. When your eyes find his, you fiddle with the clasp of your reticule, holding it tightly in front of you.

You both speak at the same time, voices overlapping. Heat licks at your cheeks, turning them crimson as you duck your head, gesturing for him to continue.

"Well, it was—" he says slowly, fumbling over his words until he lands on the right ones, shifting his weight.

"It was real nice seein' you. After all this time."

"Yes," you say quietly, a little breathless. "Far too long."

You don't move to leave—neither does he. Instead, you hold his gaze with all the tenderness you can muster as you say, "It was good to see you, Arthur. Really."

His jaw works, tightening just so before he turns to leave.

But you can't bring yourself to leave it like that.

"Arthur—" you call out.

He turns to face you, and the question leaves you like something long overdue. Like it's been waiting there on the tip of your tongue for the day you could utter it aloud, slipping free in a hurried breath.

"If a girl wanted to pay you a visit," you say, "where might she find you?"

He watches you, hands finding his belt as he leans his weight onto one leg.

"'Spose I'd advise her against such a thing," he says after a moment.

You scoff, lips turning up at the corners. "You sound like my father."

His do the same, a barely there grin forming despite himself.

"Well then," you say, before he can get a word in. "Where can I find you?"

He pauses, tips his hat back to see you better. Takes his sweet time answering, like he knows he's starting something with all the momentum of a runaway train.

Finally—

"Just south o' Rhodes for now."

You nod slowly, let his words settle as he explains further.

"You expect to be there this evening?" you ask, tilting your head.

Too soon, you think to yourself, but he says, "Sure... If you're thinkin' of comin' by."

He looks you up and down—at your dress, your shoes. The parts of you that say you aren't made for the life he lives.

"Ain't no place for a lady like yourself."

"I'm a woman grown, Arthur," you say, holding your chin high in defiance. "This evening, then."

"Alright," he relents, watching you disappear inside without another word.

The carriage leaves you at Shady Belle at half past six o'clock, an old plantation house in Lemoyne that looks worse for wear.

Musty old paneling, hollowed out windows, vines crawling their way to the roof like they've got something to prove. It's not a sight for sore eyes, that's for certain.

But you're here for Arthur.

You'd sooner walk headfirst into the swamp itself for an evening in his company. What's a little overgrown grass?

He must not have expected you to make good on your word, because the moment you move to descend, half of his gang has drawn their guns. A proper carriage in the middle of outlaw business must look awful funny.

"Would y'all put those damn things away?" Arthur chides, waving his hand about as he approaches where you sit, waiting to descend.

He offers his hand, warm and steady around yours, helping you to the ground with the care of a man who's got no business being such a gentleman.

"We hostin' tea parties now?" asks one of the men, sitting on an overturned crate, bottle in hand.

"Shut it, Bill—" Arthur begins to say, but you interrupt him before the sentiment can take shape.

"I would hope not, Mister," you say, hands working to smooth your skirts once your feet touch solid ground.

You look him over with a discontent hum. "If we were, you'd most certainly be underdressed."

Another man with two halves of a mustache and a hat that sits just right slaps his knee, barking out a laugh.

"Oh," he says, accent smooth around every syllable. "I like this one, Arthur."

Arthur grunts in what sounds like approval, mutters a quiet, "Jesus..." that makes you bite back a grin.

You give his hand a squeeze before releasing it, subtle enough he may think he imagined it—his eyes wandering along the rouge dusting your cheeks, painted lightly across your lips.

"Well now," says the lead man, smooth as silk, descending the front steps with a theatrical little smile. "And who's come to grace our humble accommodations?"

The man is nothing short of a jackal—you know that much. The name comes to you before you can connect his face to memory, from sheer feeling alone.

"Mr. van der Linde," you say in greeting. "It's been some time."

"This is Miss Gillis," Arthur says, a silence taking hold of the group, like he's just announced the second coming of Christ himself.

You feel his hand brush the small of your back then, his quiet repositioning of himself half between you and the others making something crackle in your chest.

The sounds of the bayou filter in like sunshine through lace curtains—a chorus of frogs croaking, bugs chirping, and swamp dwellers humming low.

"Ah," says Dutch, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. "Mary's sister."

You nod politely.

"Your daddy know you're out here?" asks Bill, glancing at Arthur in mild disbelief.

"Don't know. Didn't much care to ask," you say calmly.

Arthur's voice comes low then, a warning laced in every word.

"If you'll excuse us, thought I'd show the Miss around."

"Oh, don't let us bother you, Arthur. We were only saying hello," Dutch counters, hands going up in surrender.

Arthur leads you up the steps, showing you inside until the door shuts heavily behind you, punctuating the quiet.

Your gaze sweeps the room at once as you step in further, seeing the deep cracks in the plaster, the tired lines etched into the wooden bannisters.

Your fingers trace them neatly, expression unreadable when he speaks.

His hand finds his nape, rubbing there like the gang took all the life right out of him.

"They ain't exactly known for their manners," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder like they might be listening in.

"They were just curious, that's all," you say, turning to him. "I ain't bothered."

He visibly relaxes, calm easing its way back into his eyes as he gestures at the state of the entryway.

"Place ain't in the best o' shape," he adds gruffly, looking more and more like he wishes the floor would give way and take it with him.

"It's plenty fine," you defend.

"Oh, you don't mean that," he disagrees. "Paint's peelin' up, ceiling's got holes in it. We get a little rain, whole place—"

You hesitate only briefly before your hand finds his chest, pressing it to his heart, relishing it thumping something awful beneath your palm.

You pat once, twice, then drop it back to your side.

"It's where you stay," you reassure. "I like it plenty."

You see something ease in him then—watch it give way for a softness you don't think he's shown in ages. It makes you smile, watching him fondly.

"Show me," you say, catching his gaze. "I wanna see the house."

He exhales slow, scratches his jaw in that unsettled way of his.

"...Ain't much to see."

You simply shrug, like it doesn't take much out of you to hear. Not much at all.

"Then it won't take long."

He shows you the first floor—the kitchen, the empty saloon save for a dusty old grand piano, the living room you can almost picture filled with opulent furniture, now scattered with the gang's belongings.

He mutters in disapproval all the while, eyes cutting to you more than once to read your expression, expecting disgust at the rickety state of it—

Only to see you bright-eyed, finding beauty where it might have once existed.

In the fireplace that kept the room warm in the coldest of winters, the evening light spilling into what must have been a sprawling kitchen, and in the grooves worn smooth along the bannister by hands long gone.

The bones are sturdy despite the wear, reminding you more and more of the man at your side—still standing, somehow, in spite of everything.

Halfway to the stairs, you glance back at him. He's wavering now, coming to a stop beside them, something conflicted in the slight furrow of his brow.

"Where do you sleep?" you ask, cheeks warming at the subtle implication in your words.

He watches you, your feet already ascending the steps in earnest.

His fingers carefully catch your wrist, his thumb brushing along it just firmly enough to send your heartbeat lurching against your stays.

"You don't wanna see that," he says, releasing you quickly like the touch singed his skin. He averts his gaze, busies himself with adjusting his gun belt, already sitting perfectly at his hips.

"I do."

The silence is a heady thing, swallowing up the air and leaving you both short of breath in its stead.

"I'm here, ain't I," you say, tilting your head as you regard him, eyes warm.

He breathes, slow and deep, stares at you like there's nowhere else to look.

"Well..."

He relents.

"Alright. Just for a minute."

He opens his door with a quiet sigh, stepping aside to let you enter before he does.

You don't move quickly, hands clasped as you take in the sight—the smell of him mingling with damp earth from the swamp beyond, spare boots arranged neatly beside his bed, boxes of bullets resting untouched atop an old barrel.

Sparse, but practical.

So very him it sends an ache from the pit of your stomach, up past your lungs until it settles heavily in your throat.

Your attention catches on a small cluster of photographs, nestled in a worn hutch just beside the window—edges softened with age, corners curled from years of being moved and handled, again and again.

Drifting toward them without thinking, you look them over.

The first you reach for is older than the others, image slightly blurred with the passage of time.

A woman stares back at you—dark hair pinned neatly, gentleness etched into her features, and eyes so familiar, they stop you cold.

You pick it up carefully, fingers just barely tracing the shape of her face.

"Your mother?"

Arthur clears his throat, shuffles on his feet. "Yeah."

Your gaze lifts to him, really looks, then drops back to the photograph in your hands. A soft smile touches your mouth as your thumb brushes its worn edge.

"You've got her eyes."

He doesn't answer straight away, but you don't need him to say a thing.

You set it back down where you found it, already moving to the next, stopping still when you see her.

Mary.

Pretty as always, staring off like she hadn't a clue the man she left behind would preserve this image of her for years to come.

Something in you gives way for the pesky green-eyed monster to take root, a cold hurt flooding your chest until your mouth goes dry.

He shifts on his feet, looks at the ground like he can't bring himself to see what it did to you.

Then, choosing kindness—or cowardice, you can't quite tell which—you leave it untouched, crossing the space to sit on his bed.

It's a rickety thing, one that boasts the same level of comfort as a bed of nails—but it's his. And with that thought alone, you find you don't mind it.

It creaks beneath your weight, shifts and settles to accommodate you.

He doesn't move, doesn't make to join you. Just remains where he stands, like he can't tell where you want him to go after that.

"Arthur," you say softly, patting the bed beside you. "Sit with me."

Lifting his head, he looks at you, brows drawn up tight.

"...Don't think I should," he says hoarsely.

"Please?" you ask then.

Not a hint of anger in your eyes—only the gentle pleading of a woman asking something impossible of an honest man.

He stands there another moment, shoulders tense, every line in him a lesson in restraint as he plucks the hat from his head and sets it aside.

Then something in him finally gives, and he crosses the room slowly, unhurried, the bed dipping under him when he finally settles in beside you.

You don't rush to touch him. Don't dare to break the delicate thing that hangs between you, fragile as a thread.

Instead, you allow the quiet to stretch, thick with the sounds of evening beyond the walls—the low hum of voices around the fire, a sudden burst of laughter from below, crickets beginning their ballad in the bayou.

But you never were very good at self-control, and your hand moves before you can help yourself.

The backs of your fingers brush his where they rest against his thigh—a barely there touch that sends jolts up your arm and right to the stubborn heart of you.

He goes still, gaze tracking the movement. But he doesn't dare pull away, doesn't tell you this isn't what you think it is.

So you gather what little courage you can muster and turn his hand, sliding your fingers into his—lacing them slow enough he can stop you if he truly wishes to.

He doesn't.

Your thumb traces along the rough ridge of a scar near his knuckle, memorizing the shape of it, and the words are out before you can tell yourself they're too foolish to give voice to.

"I know I ain't Mary."

Arthur exhales heavy through his nose, stare fixed somewhere along the floor at your feet.

"No."

You swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat.

"Just..." you murmur, voice catching. "Hope I'm enough as I am."

He turns to look at you—roving across your hair, your face, the stubborn set of your lips as you fight a pout—and something in his expression changes then.

Raw and aching, nearly wounded in its intensity.

"Ain't askin' for Mary," he says roughly, free hand rising to tuck a strand behind your ear, thumb brushing the shell of it before falling away.

Your heart is a traitorous thing, pounding incessantly against your chest, breaths catching in your throat.

You stare at him, lips parted, searching his eyes desperately for any hint of insincerity—only to find a sweet truth looking back at you.

"Then ask for me," you whisper, your thumb stroking over his knuckles once more. "And I'll answer."

"Can't ask that of you, darlin'," he murmurs, his forehead dropping to yours, voice harsh on the way out. "Ain't right."

Your free hand rises to cup his jaw, brushing along the rough stubble there, eyes assessing every detail of him like a picture you want to memorize.

"If I got a chance at you, I want it," you argue, soft but certain.

Your fingers tighten around his as you lean in and press a lingering kiss to his cheek—not teasing, not chaste, either. Something quieter, more profound than either of you know to do with.

Intimate in a way you've never known how to be—and if the way Arthur stills beneath your touch is any indication, perhaps in a way he hasn't known much, either.

His eyes slip shut like a man who's been starved for being wanted all his life, a surrender that makes warmth unfurl in the pit of your stomach.

You linger there for a heartbeat longer than you ought to, the feel of his skin beneath your lips, the sight of him this close near dizzying.

When you pull back just barely, your noses brush, and you notice then the change in his breathing—the change in yours.

"Arthur," you whisper, hovering there only a second longer before you press your lips to his.

His free hand finds your waist with hesitation, fingers curling around you like he still means to stop this if he can.

But the dam's been broken since the moment he caught sight of you in Saint Denis, and he knows as well as you do that there will never be a world in which you don't want him.

Before doubt can take hold, his hand is at your jaw, thumb at the hinge beneath your ear, tilting your face up to meet his.

When you don't make to pull away—your arms slipping around his neck, head angling just right to deepen the kiss—he pulls you closer with a sound in his throat that steals the breath from you.

Moments later, you're half in his lap as his mouth moves against yours, taking every little thing you offer, quiet sighs of pleasure filling the empty room.

It isn't until laughter sounds from outside that you finally part—lips swollen and red, cheeks burning bright.

He brushes along your jaw, still pressing kisses to your face as you begin to pull away.

You giggle, chiding him with a gentle swat to his chest. "Anymore of that and we'll be at it all night."

He huffs, "Wouldn't hear any complainin' outta you."

"Well," you rise, gathering yourself before offering him your hand. "I think we ought to be polite and join 'em."

"That what ya want?" he asks, staring up at you with affection, plain as day.

"Mhm," you nod, wagging your fingers at him. "Come on."

Stepping out of the front door, you're greeted by the smell of woodsmoke and Arthur's people sitting around, drinking and chattering amongst themselves.

A few of them stop to stare as you and Arthur approach, their watchful eyes taking note of how his hand holds yours.

Like you're his woman, and they all can see that now.

The gentleman you learn is named Javier holds out a bottle for you to take, a foul smelling swill sloshing inside that makes your nose turn up.

"Hey," he laughs, "Don't knock it till you try it, amiga."

"You don't gotta drink that," Arthur says, voice low as he moves to take it from you. You pull it away at the last second, looking up at him with a sly smile as you take a sip.

You regret it as soon as the liquor hits your tongue—like fire, harsh and mean all the way down.

Your face twists before you can stop it, Javier snickering in amusement as you cough, dignity abandoning you halfway through the endeavor.

And then Arthur laughs.

Not just a huff, that little breath through his nose that tells you when something landed with enough humor to coax it from him.

A real laugh—hearty and warm and gone too quickly, but there all the same. You stare at him like you've just witnessed a miracle, the sound hitting you square in the chest.

A thing you think you might fight wars to hear again.

He shakes his head, reaching to pry the bottle from your fingers before you poison yourself proper.

"Now what'd I tell ya?"

When the gang returns to their conversations and the novelty has faded, paying the two of you no mind, you pop a kiss to his lips—there for a moment, then gone again.

"What was that for?" he asks, stunned still.

You laugh, leading him to an empty seat, his eyes not leaving you for a second.

"Best get used to it," you say simply, kissing his cheek without a care in the world who sees it.

Arthur offered to take you home.

No fancy carriage, he warned—just his horse and a rough leather saddle the whole way back.

As if you'd mind this.

He's at your back, strong arms around you to keep hold of the reins, and you're giddy with drunkenness, leaning into it like there's nowhere else you'd rather be.

You sigh, a content little sound as you rest against his chest—smelling him all the while as the night air cools your skin.

His scent is pine and tobacco, worn leather and musk, and something so indiscriminately Arthur it warms you clean through.

"You smell nice," you mumble, eyes shut as you tuck your face into the crook of his neck.

You nose at him, peppering kisses that make a shudder wrack through him, the rumble of it felt against your back.

"Stop distractin' me," he mutters gruffly, all while arching into every kiss like his body disagrees with him.

"Mm," you hum, eyes blinking open to gaze at him, his own fixed on the dark road ahead. "Can't help it."

He looks down at you for a moment, searching your face, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Look tired," he comments, voice the gentlest you've heard it.

He tucks his chin over your head, holds you closer.

"I'll wake you when we arrive."

You pout, groaning softly. "But I wanna keep you company—"

Your yawn overtakes you then, exhaustion settling in before you can force it away.

"Reckon I'll survive, darlin'," he says quietly. "Sleep."

You nod, lying back into him, his arms keeping you steady the whole way home.

You wake just as he's rearing the horse to a stop, not but a few feet from the front steps.

"Made it in one piece," he remarks, a hint of amusement lacing his words. Enough to make you smile back, anyway.

He helps you dismount, hands lingering at your waist longer than propriety allows.

And you—adoring every second of his attention—press adamant kisses to whatever skin you can reach, giggling at the way the tips of his ears turn rosy in the moonlight.

"Alright, up you go," he mutters, helping you to the door, one firm hand around your hip to keep you from stumbling.

"Oh, I had a real great time, Arthur," you say softly, the drink finally leaving your system long enough to not have you slurring over every other word.

The swill was horrible, but the wine Dutch offered you was just right.

Arthur is silent for a moment, running a hand across his hair as he looks you over.

He lingers on your flushed cheeks, the dazed look in your eyes, your kiss-swollen lips that have yet to return to their original state.

But beyond that, he sees nothing but fondness and warmth—the kind that says you've found the one thing you've been missing all this time.

He grunts, nods his head, unable to hold your gaze much longer. "Glad to hear it."

You beam, reaching up to caress his cheek before dropping your hand away.

"Don't be a stranger now..." you murmur, tugging lightly at his shirt. "You gotta promise."

He softens, shoulders dropping slightly.

"Yeah... I promise."

You pause, biting at your cheek.

"Supper?"

He frowns in confusion.

"Come to supper tomorrow," you blurt, the words leaving you in a rush. "I'll cook—make you somethin' nice."

Then, because you've always been too honest for your own good, and the drink isn't helping none, you add, "Just wanna see you again."

He hesitates, looks around for a minute before he speaks, hands tightening where they grasp your waist.

"Don't wanna impose."

"It isn't imposing if I'm offering, now is it?" you say, chin lifting, lips pursed like there'll be no arguing the matter.

A sharp exhale leaves him as he glances back at his horse, its tail swishing where it stands, then back to you.

"What time?"

You, not expecting such open acceptance, stand a bit straighter, eyes going round as a doe's.

"'Round noon?"

He nods, mulls it over in his mind.

"Tomorrow, 'round noon... but don't trouble yourself with cookin'—"

"Gonna make you a whole damn potluck," you say, your smile the biggest he's seen from you all day, your breathless giggle catching in the wind, echoing softly in the breeze.

"Jesus, woman," he chides, lips curling at the edges, head tipping toward the house. "Go on up to bed."

You just stare, look at him like you'll never get the chance to memorize his face like this again—head tilted, lingering on every line etched into his skin, every fleck of blue you can see in his eyes, the sheer sturdiness of him.

"Goodnight, Arthur," you whisper affectionately.

To your surprise, he leans in—lips to your hair—and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"And to you, Miss Gillis."

Trust Dutch and Hosea to be up to no good, and rope you and Arthur straight into it.

They didn't say much, didn't give you any details. Just pressed a wad of bills into your palm and told you to head into town.

"Make yourself look proper," Dutch said. That was all.

And with money in your hand and the big city at your feet, who are you to argue?

You're certain the dress hugging your figure is something the women in higher places wear to just about any old party. Near enough to silk for the sort of men Dutch means to fool.

But to you? It's a marvel.

Satin that sits just right, stays that cradle instead of poke, petticoats that whisper with every step.

You look like a thousand dollars and some change.

Least, that's what Mary-Beth says.

All Tilly and Karen can muster are jaws on the floor, eyes all but falling from their sockets.

"Arthur sees you, he ain't gonna make it," Tilly utters, fanning herself.

Molly just rolls her eyes. She always was a woman of few words.

Even still, she mutters a quiet, "Guess it ain't half bad," before turning her attention elsewhere.

The girls are fussing over you—fixing an errant curl into place, straightening your gloves, adjusting a ribbon—when a familiar voice cuts in.

"Ladies."

You glance up, and there stands Hosea—hands tucked easy into his vest pockets, looking you over with quiet approval.

He nods, then asks, "Mind stealin' a minute?"

Your eyes narrow immediately.

"That depends. What you need?" you ask, tilting your head. Curious, cautious.

Hosea's always had a way of convincing you to do things, and it almost always has to do with—

"Arthur's havin' himself a little crisis."

Karen snorts. You don't so much as blink as you glance behind him toward the house.

"That so?"

"Mm," he hums, rocking back on his heels.

"Claims he looks ridiculous."

Your face softens despite yourself.

Hosea notices—of course he does. Everyone knows as much as the two of you butt heads, you can't help yourself where Arthur's concerned.

Apparently, neither can he.

"Thought maybe someone might talk sense into him."

You don't budge, huffing indignantly.

"Why me?"

A moment passes, the girls watching on as it stretches in the air between you. Then—

"Because you're his date, aren't you?"

Mary-Beth's hand claps over her mouth, and Tilly? Well, she looks like the cat that got the cream.

"Oh, I knew it!" she exclaims. "How sweet."

You make an attempt to catch your bearings, but all your thoughts fall apart like a wagon wheel come undone.

"I ain't his—"

"For appearances," Hosea says innocently.

Whatever he finds in your expression, it's enough to make him pause, sighing fondly.

"Though I suspect Arthur may disagree."

With that, he wanders off, leaving you staring after him, lips parting like a fish out of water.

Now what the hell are you meant to do with that?

"Well?" says Mary-Beth, staring at you expectantly. "Ain't you gonna check on him?"

You huff, drop your arms to your sides. "Yeah, yeah. I'm goin'."

Javier gives you a whistle as you pass, saying something about you holding out on them. Rolling your eyes, you grin, passing him by with a thump to the back of the head.

"Where you goin'?" he calls out, rubbing where your hand connected with his hair.

"Gotta see about a man in a suit."

You round the corner, take the stairs two at a time, holding up your skirts as you go.

Doesn't take you long to find him. Could've picked the right door blind, with the way your heart's carrying on.

Without a word, you slip inside, shut it gently at your back.

And good grief, the sight of him stops you in your tracks, kills every quip you were holding on the tip of your tongue.

There he stands—tailored suit, bowtie undone, hair fixed up like you've never seen before.

A sight for sore eyes.

Reckon you've been parched for quite some time, the way you're drinking him in like water in a barren desert.

When his gaze finds yours in the mirror, you both freeze at once.

But you see it.

The way his eyes drop to the dress clinging to you in all the right places—lingering at the neckline long enough to make your pulse jump—before jerking forward once more.

You don't miss the way his jaw tightens, wrought with tension.

Taking a deep breath, you cross the room slowly, heels clicking with every step.

"...You alright?" you ask quietly, watching him shift on his feet, discomfort on his face plain as day.

He snorts, looking back to his reflection, fingers yanking at his tie.

"Look a damn fool," he mutters.

"Oh, hush," you chide, inching closer. "Let me—"

"Naw." He bats the offer away before you can finish. "I got it. Don't worry none—"

But you're already there, hands sliding beneath his, easing them down.

Your fingers brush the warm skin at his throat as you take hold of the bowtie at both ends, doing it up easy.

"Mm," you hum, fighting a smile. "Makin' a right mess of it."

A quiet little laugh escapes your nose. Arthur watches closely as you fix the knot into place—not too loose, not too tight.

Just right.

You smooth your hands along his jacket—adjust his lapels like they aren't sitting fine already, brush away imaginary dust from his shoulders, fingers taking their time running down his arms.

"There. All done," you murmur, eyes on his mouth.

He doesn't look at you. Not until your finger hooks beneath his chin, angling his head until he can't avoid it any longer.

"Nervous?"

He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet room.

"I look nervous?" he asks, voice low.

The laugh you give him is soft, a smile curling your lips before you think better of it.

"Your tie sure did."

He stares so long, your cheeks start to burn beneath the rouge dusted over them. But you don't look away. Even as his eyes flick down to the fabric draped along your body once more before returning to meet yours.

"New dress?"

His fingers brush the fabric, curiosity getting the best of him, his hand settling at your waist. When he's certain you won't shy away, his fingers curl around your hip—steady now, no hesitation left in him.

You nod, bite the inside of your cheek before asking what's been on your mind since you walked through the door.

"You like it?"

He glances at you once—quick, like looking too long might lead to him doing something he can't take back.

"Looks nice."

He pauses.

"Real nice."

Your hand rises to rest on his chest—unmoving, just feeling—before slipping beneath his jacket to feel the heat of him through his underclothes.

"I like the suit... Looks good on you," you murmur.

His lips twitch—almost a grin, but not quite enough.

"Ain't nothin' special."

You frown at the way he shifts, looking at himself in the mirror like the man staring back just ain't quite right.

"What are you on about?"

He shrugs, rolls his shoulders. His hand finds yours, covering it on his chest, holding it there.

As if you'd ever dream of pulling away.

"Arthur—"

"Just ain't much to look at is all," he mutters.

You blink, a couple times, half-convinced he's lost his damn mind.

He's looking at the floor now, touch going slack against yours. You turn your hand, lacing your fingers, press the back of it flat to your chest where your heart thuds a rapid pace.

"That what you think?" you breathe, letting him feel it.

How he affects you.

How the sight of him now is doing little good to your composure.

How his touch, and the weight of those eyes on you, shakes you to the core.

His jaw loosens at your whispered words.

"Don't look myself," he says quietly.

"It's just a suit," you reassure him. "Same man wearin' it."

He doesn't believe it—not even close. But you won't leave it there.

"Arthur Morgan, have you looked at yourself?"

He scoffs, shakes his head.

"Every damn day."

"Then I reckon you ain't lookin' hard enough."

Cupping his face, your thumb grazes his cheek.

"I'm s'posed to find somethin' wrong with this?"

"Don't you start—"

Before he can protest, you're on your toes, pressing a kiss to his lips that lasts longer than it needs to. Enough for you to feel the hitch in his breath, his fingers tightening where they hold you still.

"What kinda woman you take me for?" you whisper against his mouth. "Think I don't know what I got?"

You trail kisses to his cheeks—the left, then the right, a firm press of your lips to his skin.

"Think I don't love the man beneath all this?"

You move along the strong line of his jaw, down his neck to where his pulse flutters relentlessly beneath the hot press of your tongue.

"Darlin', ain't a thing about you that doesn't drive me wild," you murmur, nipping lightly at the space beneath his ear.

"Christ," he mutters. "The hell you doin' to me, woman."

He rubs at his jaw, all flustered and red. You'll never tire of seeing him like this—not for a second.

"We got places t'be."

"Don't you preach at me. We ain't in no rush," you say, watching him sigh when his fingers find the scar on his chin.

You notice—ain't a thing about the man that slips past you.

"Almost forgot," you say suddenly, rising again to press a slow kiss to the mark. Long enough to remind him it's just another thing about him you can't help but love.

His brows draw tight, watching you in surprise, reverence taking its place soon after.

Stepping back with a playful grin, you adjust his collar and make your way to the door.

"Go on and finish up, cowboy."

Then, tossing his words right back, you say, "'We got places to be,' after all."

He doesn't get a word in before you're gone, slipping out of the room, the smell of your perfume lingering long after.

Out front, you nearly collide head first with Hosea where he leans against a railing, watching you with thinly-veiled amusement.

He knows too much. Old man's got eyes in the back of his head.

"He alright in there?"

You pause, the memory of what you just did flashing in your mind, and cast a brief glance back at the house.

"He's just fine," you say, a lilt in your voice you couldn't hide if you tried.

Hosea studies your face a beat too long.

The pleased little curl of your mouth, the way you won't quite meet his gaze, cheeks a touch too flushed.

His lips twitch.

"Thought as much."

The metallic shriek of the connecting door slamming shut behind you echoes in the narrow passageway between cars. The world outside is a blur of green and tunnel lights, a nauseating kaleidoscope that matches the frantic rhythm of your heart. Or is that his?

"Just my luck," Ladybug wheezes, his breath coming in ragged pants that fog the cool air. "A snake. A literal, venomous snake. And not just any snake, the Hornet's snake. Of course it is."

You're both running, a synchronized sprint born of countless tight spots shared. The briefcase—the stupid, pristine silver briefcase you'd so elegantly lifted from the bickering British brothers—feels like a lead weight in his hand. Behind you, you can almost hear the sibilant hiss of the snake slithering over the grates, and further back, the booming, furious voice of Tangerine promising a world of pain.

"Less talking, more running, sweetheart," you shoot back, your voice remarkably steady despite the adrenaline singing in your veins. You glance over at him. His face, always a little pale, has taken on a concerning, chalky hue. There's a fine sheen of sweat on his temple. You saw the tail end of his scuffle with the Hornet—the way he’d moved with that desperate, graceful efficiency to avoid her poisoned syringe.

He’d handled her, of course. Your man is clumsy, not incompetent. But the fight, the adrenaline dump, and now the frantic sprint from a venomous snake and two very pissed-off, impeccably dressed rival assasins… it was the perfect storm for his system to stage a mutiny.

"Y'know, I'm really trying to embrace the universal flow here," he gasps, "but the universe seems to be flowing directly into a septic tank today."

He stumbles. It's barely more than a hitch in his step, a slight sway, a momentary loss of coordination. But to you, who knows the map of his body better than your own, it screams louder than any alarm. His knees are about to become a temporary non-renewal resource.

Your brain, a supercomputer calibrated for both lethal force and loving care, processed the environment in a nanosecond. The snake's hiss was closer. Tangerine's and Lemon's furious bickering from the other end of the carriage was closer.

Your eyes, sharp and scanning, don't waste a second. They dart past his heaving shoulders, past the panic in his wide and hazy blue eyes, and land on the small, illuminated panel of a bathroom door, right there in the passageway behind him. A tiny, claustrophobic sanctuary.

Your brain conjures out three plans in less than a split second.

Plan A: Outrun them. Impossible. He’d face-plant before you took three more steps. Plan B: Fight them. Suicidal in his current state. Plan C: Your specialty. Improvise.

Time seems to warp, stretching into a single, decisive moment.

Plan C, it is.

Your left hand shoots out, palm smacking the "Open" button for the automatic door with a sharp, precise thwack. The door slides open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the sterile, cramped interior.

At the exact same moment, your right hand darts forward. Your fingers don't fumble; they find their target with unerring accuracy: the worn, sturdy belt loops of his cargo pants.

You don't just grab him. You reel him in.

With a firm, undeniable tug, you pull him off his failing axis. He stumbles forward, off-balance, and his body collides with yours in the confined space. It's not a gentle bump. It's a full-body impact. His hips slam flush against yours, the hard planes of his body meeting your softer curves, knocking the air from his lungs in a soft oof. The briefcase handle digs into your side, a cold, hard reality check.

This is his kryptonite. That specific, possessive, physical claim. The one you use to center him, to pull him out of his own head. And right now, it's the only thing keeping him upright.

You don't stop. In one fluid, powerful motion, you step back, dragging him with you into the tiny bathroom. You turn around in a swift movement and his back hits the metal wall with a dull thud, the impact jarring enough to make his vision swim. But he doesn't crumple to the floor. Because you'd already calculated the trajectory, anticipated the collapse.

As his legs give way, your guiding pull directs his fall. He lands not on the grimy floor, but squarely, almost gracefully, onto the closed lid of the toilet, sprawling across it like a deposed king.

The door hisses shut behind you, plunging the small space into sudden, profound silence, broken only by the two of you gulping down air. The frantic shouts of Tangerine and Lemon are muffled, becoming a distant, outside problem.

For a long second, there's only the sound of ragged breathing.

He's slumped against the wall, legs splayed, head lolled back. His cheeks, which were pale moments ago, are now blazing with two spots of high color, a combination of exertion, dizziness, and sheer, unadulterated shock. His eyes, wide and a little dazed, find you standing over him.

You're still holding his belt loop.

He lets the briefcase drop to the floor with a definitive clunk, the sound unnaturally loud in the tiny room.

His gaze is hot, bewildered, and utterly, pathetically captivated. He looks from your eyes, blazing with a mixture of concern and triumph, down to your hand still fisted in the fabric at his hip, and then back up again.

He was a wreck. A beautiful, pathetic wreck. His hair was a mess, his chest heaving. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead and the exposed column of his throat. And his eyes… they weren't hazy with dizziness anymore. They were dark, wide, and blazing with something else entirely. Awe. Mortification. And a hot, sheer, unadulterated want.

You leaned over him, one hand planted on the wall by his head, caging him in. The other came up, leaving the fabric of his belt-loops, your fingers gently brushing the damp hair from his forehead.

"Hey there, handsome," you murmured, your voice a low, intimate whisper in the tiny space. "You check out the specials on the floor again?"

He just blinks, his brain struggling to reboot. The adrenaline is curdling into something else entirely, something warmer and far more dangerous.

"You…" he starts, his voice rough. "You just… you manhandled me."

A slow, wicked smile spreads across your lips. "I just manhandled you into a bathroom and saved your delectably clumsy ass from becoming snake food or Tangerine's new punching bag, you mean?" you finished for him, your thumb now stroking slow, soothing circles on his temple. "Yes. I did. Part of the girlfriend n'partner-in-crime service package. Don't worry, it's complimentary."

He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. The blush on his cheeks deepens. "You pulled me… you pulled me right into you. I felt… everything."

"Is that a complaint, Ladybug?" you purr, leaning forward slightly, bracing your hands on the wall on either side of his head, caging him in. The position brings your face close to his, your breath ghosting over his lips. "Because from where I'm standing—or, where you're sitting—it looked like you rather enjoyed your rescue."

His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide. The dizziness from the anemia and the fight is now mingling with a different, more potent kind of vertigo, one that only you can induce.

He swallowed, hard. You watched the bob of his Adam's apple. "The… the belt loops," he finally managed, his voice rough, the words breathed out against your lips.

"What about them, baby? Needed a good handle. Seemed like the most… secure place to grab you. Unless you had a better suggestion?"

A full-body shudder wracked him. You felt it where your knees were almost touching his. He was utterly, completely at your mercy, and the knowledge was making him lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with his iron levels.

"You're… you're a menace," he breathed out, but there was no heat in it. Only a desperate, worshipful kind of surrender.

"Your menace," you corrected softly, your lips brushing the shell of his ear before you pulled back to look at him again. Your gaze was clinical for a second, assessing. "Dizzy spell passing? Or do I need to get the emergency gummy bears from the purse?"

Before he can answer, a loud, angry voice echoed from right outside the door. "Where the bloody hell did they go? They can't have just vanished!" Lemon's reply was a low, rumbling murmur.

Your eyes lock with Ladybug's. The flirtatious heat instantly banked, replaced by a predatory, shared focus. You bring a single finger to your lips.

He nods, his breathing consciously slowing. The professional in him, the one buried under the anxiety and the anemia, was surfacing. But he never broke eye contact with you.

In the profound, tense quiet, with your enemies just feet away, you slowly, deliberately, let your gaze drift down his body, from his flushed face, over his still-heaving chest, down to where your fingers had, moments before, been hooked into his jeans. You let him see the pure, unadulterated heat in your eyes. You let him see that while this was a crisis, it was also, for you, the most thrilling date night imaginable.

You lean in again, your mouth so close to his you can almost taste the panic and desire on his breath.

He reaches up, a hand trembling slightly, not from weakness now but from sheer, overwhelming want. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. The gesture is unbearably tender in the midst of the chaos.

"A terrifying, brilliant, beautiful menace. And you just saved my ass from a snake, two pissed-off Brits, and my own circulatory system." he breathes, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.

"You're my anemic, philosophizing, bad-luck-charm of a partner," you whisper, leaning into his touch. "It's in my job description to save your ass. Especially when it's an ass that looks this good in these pants."

You see the spark in his eyes, the one that appears when you've successfully short-circuited all his anxiety with sheer, unadulterated flirtation. The color is fully back in his face now, and it's all for you.

He uses the hand on your cheek to gently pull you the last inch forward, closing the distance. His lips find yours, not with desperate passion, but with a deep, soul-aching gratitude and a simmering heat that promises much, much more later. It's a kiss that tastes of adrenaline and the sweet, undeniable victory of your presence in his cursed life.

When you finally pull back, both breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

"The second they're gone," you whisper, the promise a silken threat in the dark, "I'm not letting you off this toilet until you're fully rehydrated. And then," your voice drops even lower, laced with a playful, possessive venom, "we're going to have a veeeery long talk about the proper way to thank your girlfriend for saving your life."

A low, pathetic whimper escaped him. His head thudded back against the wall, his eyes squeezing shut. He was done for. Completely, utterly, and gloriously conquered. And as he sat there, trapped between mortal danger and the woman of his dreams, he decided that maybe, just maybe, his bad luck wasn't so bad after all.

You stare, frozen. He’s drenched in blood. Sickeningly copious amounts of thick crimson blood dribbling down from his jaw to his somatch. Dark smears on his shir that you are not even going to try to wipe off. Split lip, swelling eye, the bridge of his nose mashed crooked. His knuckles are raw and split and there’s definitely something wrong with the angle of his shoulder.

“Tyler Durden” you breathe, horrified as he coughs thick red across your hardwood. “What the hell happened?! What the hell happened to you?”

The guy whose name you can never seem to remember, but is always side-to-side with Tyler, and a few other ones that you definetely haven't seen before stare from the doorway. There's a bleached blond smiling like that punk vampire that Brooke McCarther played in that 80's movie about vampires in Santa Carla, another one that seems he got his nose smashed and broken more than thrice and the only one that seems mildly concerned is Tyler's second-in-comand.

“Men,” Tyler said, blinking up at you like he was discovering the meaning of life in your face. “They didn’t like me squatting in their dungeon. But you like when I squat, huh?”

Then he laughs.

Loud. High. Giggles like a kid.

The guy steps forward, sheepish and grim. “He let two guys beat the shit out of him to prove a point.”

“To inspire the crowd,” Tyler corrects with a bloody grin, still slumping against your white wall while slowly sliding down, leaving a crimson print behind like it’s a crime scene. “Did it work? They looked inspired. Inspired to piss their pants.”

“I think you have a concussion,” you say flatly.

“I think you have beautiful tits.”

You blink.

He’s giggling again. You walk over to him. He's soaked in sweat and blood—mostly his. His lips are split open, pupils already swallowing the entirety of his irises. His shirt is going to be thrown straight to the trash, it has no salvation. To add up to it there's a gash above his eyebrow that looks like it should have stitches, and his knuckles are raw hamburger. You grab his face with both hands.

“Tyler. Focus.”

His pupils are blown. Dilated like saucers. He stares at your mouth. Your nose. Your forehead. Then leans forward like he’s about to lick your cheek.

You shove him back gently and toward the couch. He sprawls backward onto it with a dramatic ooof, grinning like he’s just landed on a cloud made of your thighs.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the stuff,” he mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.

“Christ,” you mutter, rounding back to the guy and the handful of Fight Club stragglers still loitering in your doorway. “Get out. Now. You’ve done your job. I’ll handle the rest.”

“You sure?” Whatever-name-he-has asks. “He’s, uh…”

“I can handle him.”

“You say that like he’s a toddler..”

You raise a brow. “Out.”

They scatter.

So now Tyler’s shirtless. You don’t even remember when that happened. Probably while you were rummaging through your cabinet for hydrogen peroxide and painkillers. He’s splayed across your couch like a Renaissance painting—sweaty, bloody, and somehow still sculpted, like a pagan god caught mid-orgy.

He lifts his head when you return.

“There she is,” he drawls. My very own Florence Fucking Nightingale.”

You kneel beside him, hands full of gauze and antiseptic. “You’re going to hate me for this.”

“I already love it.”

You douse a cotton pad and press it to his lip. He hisses, back arching.

“You bitch,” he groans, eyes rolling back. “Marry me.”

You roll your eyes. “Hold still.”

“Impossible,” he says, voice dropping to a murmur. “I see you and I can’t be still. You make me wanna fight again. You make me wanna rip my own ribs out and gift wrap them for you.”

You look up sharply.

He’s staring at you like you hung the moon. Like you could stab him with that bottle of antiseptic and he’d moan through it.

And then—because of course—he tries to kiss you.

His hand catches the side of your face. He leans in, bloodied mouth and all, pupils still huge, breath hot with copper and adrenaline.

“Tyler,” you say warningly. “You have a head injury.”

“I have a hard-on,” he whispers dramatically. “It’s very different, and much more urgent.”

“You’re bleeding on my couch.”

“I’m bleeding for you.”

“Stop talking.”

“Only if you kiss me.”

You pause.

He’s grinning. Drunk on pain and lust and himself. He’s beautiful in the ugliest way. Bruised. Filthy. Wild-eyed and cracked open. And still somehow cocky.

You sigh, leaning close. He chases your mouth like it’s water in a desert.

“Open your mouth,” you whisper.

He obeys, eagerly—

And you shove two ibuprofen onto his tongue.

He gags. You cover his mouth and force a water bottle into his hand.

“Swallow,” you command.

He drinks like a man starved. Water splashing down his chin. He stares up at you, betrayed and turned on all at once.

“You’re evil,” he mutters, half-coughing. “That’s why I love you.”

You finally smile, brushing sweaty hair back from his forehead.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.”

An hour later, you’ve gotten the worst of the blood off him.

He’s sprawled on your bed now, still shirtless, still bruised, skin bandaged in three different places. He’s calmer—but not by much. Just enough for the concussion to settle in and make him weirdly affectionate.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles. “Too pretty to live. I should lock you in the closet.”

You raise a brow. “You’re delirious.”

“I’m horny.”

“You’re half-dead.”

“You make me feel alive.”

“Tyler.”

“You smell like a warm place,” he murmurs. “I wanna fuck you.”

You choke on your own laugh, shaking your head as you run a washcloth over the last dried smear of blood on his collarbone.

“I should be pissed at you,” you murmur. “You scared me half to death. You show up with a face full of blood and you’re still cracking sex jokes like a drunk frat boy.”

“I’m a visionary,” he says proudly.

“You’re an idiot.”

“You’re in love with me.”

You pause.

He looks up at you—half-lidded, cocky, beautiful and broken.

So you sigh and wipe his mouth again, watching the red streak across your towel. He winces as he leaned forward, then—without asking—buries his face in your neck.

And you don’t deny it.

“Ugh,” you groaned, feeling the blood and sweat rub off on your skin. “Tyler—”

“Yeah, baby?”

“You almost died,” you said, matter-of-factly, not quite mad but not exactly happy about it either. Hehummed, lips parted, eyes dreamy as he stared up at you from the crook of your shoulder.

“Uh-huh?”

His smile spreads slow and lazy, you're an expert in the language of Tyler's different smiles and you know what exactly what that one means.

“You’re concussed and horny? Seriously?”

“Oh baby,” he whispered, “it’s the best combination. I can’t feel my teeth and I wanna rail you into next Tuesday. That’s balance.”

“You’re leaking from the head.”

He grinned. “The lower one.”

You snorted despite yourself. You wrapped a bandage around his ribs, ignoring his little gasps and definteley exagerated moans every time your hands brushed his skin.

“Are you—making those noises on purpose?” you asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said, nodding solemnly. “It’s part of my seduction technique.”

You kissed the corner of his jaw. It was warm and slick with sweat. “Well, it's not working.”

“It will, just you wait” he hummed, a small giggle bubbling up past his lips, grabbing your waist with one hand. “Can I sleep here tonight?”

“You live here, jackass.”

“Oh yeah,” he said, blinking slowly. “That’s so hot of me.”

You sighed, pulling him up again. He stumbled, but you caught him.

And for once, just once, he didn’t push it. He didn’t twist out of your arms or try to crack another joke. He just leaned on you, warm and heavy, face buried in your shoulder as you walked him from the couch to your bedroom.

You tucked him into your bed, and when his hand snaked up your thigh even as one eye swelled shut, you didn’t stop him. You just kissed his temple, pressed your forehead to his, and whispered, “Sleep, Tyler.”

“Can’t. Too horny.”

“You can molest me when you’re not concussed.”

“Ugh, fine,” he groaned dramatically, finally letting his head hit the pillow instead of straining his neck to look up at you. You actually saw the switch go off behind his eyes, eyelids twitching slightly, when he finally rested his head against the soft white cotton he was for sure going to stain with a nocturnal nosebleed throughout the night.

You just closed your eyes, tangling your hand in your dumb, beautiful, half-dead boyfriend's blond hair.

God help you. You loved this maniac.