#i00que

a herding dog didn't ask.

it didn't request that you go a certain direction or suggest that you might want to consider the alternative route. it simply appeared at your heel and applied gentle, persistent, completely unapologetic pressure until you were going where it had decided you were going, and it looked at you the whole time with those dark patient eyes like it couldn't imagine why you'd want to be anywhere else.

you understood this by the end of the first week.

it had started small, the way everything with him started small. you'd been heading to the commissary on the wrong floor, the one that had the better coffee but was two floors down and involved passing through a section of the building that was louder and more populated, and he'd appeared at your side in the corridor and his shoulder had turned you, gently, fractionally, in a slightly different direction. not a push. barely even a nudge. just the weight of him angled against your trajectory and the steady expectation that you would adjust to it, and you'd adjusted to it without really deciding to, and ended up at the commissary on your floor instead. you'd only realised what had happened when you were already there.

he did it again the next day with the elevator. you'd pressed the button for three floors below yours to pick up a report from one of the other teams and he'd appeared beside you in the time it took the elevator to arrive, looked at the lit button, and looked at you. the elevator opened. he'd pressed your floor number before you'd stepped fully inside. you'd said i need to go to three and he'd said i'll get it and you'd stood in the elevator going back to your floor while he'd gone to three, and he'd appeared at your office door twenty minutes later with the report and set it on your desk and gone back to his position in the doorway.

"you didn't have to do that," you said.

"i know," he said.

it kept happening.

you'd wander toward the kitchen too late, past the hour that he'd apparently decided was the correct hour for you to eat, and he'd be there, materialising at your shoulder with the particular energy of something that had been tracking your location and had an opinion about your choices. he'd nudge you back toward the table with a hand at your elbow, steering without grabbing, the lightest possible pressure in the exact direction he wanted you to go. if you stopped walking he'd stop with you and then the shoulder would turn again, the same barely-there weight of him redirecting you like a ship with a very large and very patient tug, and you'd find yourself going the right direction without having made the decision.

he'd decided what the right direction was in most situations, apparently. the commissary on your floor not three. the elevator to your level not the stairs when you were tired. bed before midnight, which he enforced by appearing in whatever room you were in and standing in the doorway and looking at you until you put the tablet down, and if you didn't put the tablet down he'd come and sit beside you and the proximity of him made the tablet feel increasingly beside the point until you put it down yourself.

"you're herding me," you said to him one evening, when he'd steered you away from the briefing room where a meeting was running two hours over and back toward your floor with nothing but the angle of his body in the corridor.

he looked at you.

"you are," you said. "you're literally herding me. like a sheep."

he considered this with the seriousness he brought to most things. "you don't go where you're supposed to go," he said.

"where i'm supposed to—" you stopped. "i go where i need to go."

"you go where the work is," he said. "not where you're supposed to be."

you looked at him. "those are sometimes the same place."

"not at ten at night," he said, and his chin tilted toward your floor in the direction he wanted you to go, patient and absolute.

you went, because you always went, because he was very good at this and you were increasingly terrible at arguing with him about it.

the nudging got more physical as the weeks went on, because of course it did.

it started with the shoulder, that barely-there redirection, and graduated to the hand at your elbow and then the hand at your waist, the same calm steering energy, the same complete confidence in the direction. he'd be behind you and the hand would settle at your waist and apply the faintest pressure and you'd shift course the way you always shifted course, automatically, the way you'd learned to move with him and not against him because moving against him was a theoretical option and moving with him was the actual option. he'd steer you through a crowded common room with his hand at your waist and his body blocking the approach from the left, keeping you moving through the space the way he wanted you to move through it, and you'd arrive at wherever you were going and he'd step back and cross his arms and look satisfied, and you'd say i could've done that myself and he'd say i know.

he had opinions about where you sat.

not unreasonable opinions. always the seat with the wall behind it, always the sight line to the door, always the position that he'd already assessed as the correct one before you'd arrived and would silently direct you toward with the shoulder or the hand until you were in it. you'd stopped arguing about this one early because the reasoning was sound and because his hand at your back steering you to the right chair was difficult to maintain strong feelings against.

the herding extended to other people.

if someone got too close to you in a corridor he'd close the gap between you and them with his own body, smoothly and without drama, just placing himself in the space in a way that made the space unavailable. if a conversation ran long and he'd decided it had run long enough he'd appear at your shoulder and the person you were talking to would invariably look at him and lose their conversational thread, and you'd conclude the debrief and he'd walk you away with his shoulder turning you in the right direction. he wasn't aggressive about it. he didn't glare or posture or do anything that could be pointed to and named. he simply existed between you and whatever he'd decided wasn't necessary, calm and large and absolute.

sam had commented on it once.

"does he know he's doing that?" sam had asked, watching bucky materialise in the corridor between you and a colleague who had been talking for a while.

"i think he knows exactly what he's doing," you'd said.

"and you're okay with it?"

you'd thought about it honestly. "he hasn't steered me wrong yet," you said.

sam had made the complicated face and gone back to his lunch.

what changed in the third week was the quality of the proximity.

the herding had always been functional, purposeful, the energy of something with a job and a clear idea of what the job required. what changed was that it became something else alongside the functional, something that didn't have a job except to be close to you. he'd stand behind you at the kitchen counter not to steer you anywhere but just to stand there, his hands at your waist and his chin finding the top of your head, and you'd let the morning happen around you and he'd stay until the coffee was ready and then step back. he'd sit beside you in the evenings with his knee against yours not because you were going somewhere or needed redirecting but because that was where he'd decided to be. he'd push your hair back from your face slowly, not because you were heading in the wrong direction but because he wanted to, and then let his hand stay at your jaw for a moment longer than the hair required.

it was still herding, technically. just herding toward him instead of away from something else.

one afternoon you'd been heading to your desk and he'd nudged you — the shoulder, the faintest pressure — toward the couch instead, and you'd gone because you always went, and he'd settled beside you and put his arm around your shoulders with the same calm certainty he put his arm around your shoulders when he wanted you to put your head on his shoulder, and you'd put your head on his shoulder and the afternoon had happened around you and neither of you had gone anywhere for two hours.

you'd looked up at him at some point and said "this is what you wanted."

"yeah," he said.

"you herded me onto the couch," you said.

"you were going to sit at your desk for four more hours," he said.

"i had work—"

"the report could wait," he said. "you needed to sit down."

you'd looked at the ceiling. "you can't just decide when i need to sit down."

"i can see when you need to sit down," he said. "so i can."

you'd thought about arguing with that and decided you didn't have the energy, which was possibly his point, and you'd put your head back on his shoulder and the afternoon had continued.

the kisses built the same way the herding built, incrementally and without a formal announcement, each one a small extension of something already established.

his lips at your temple after he'd pushed your hair back. the press of his mouth to the top of your head when he stood behind your chair with his hands on your shoulders. one evening at the kitchen counter, standing behind you with his hands at your waist and his chin on your head while you cooked, and then his mouth at the side of your neck, warm and slow, staying a moment before he straightened. you kept chopping and breathed carefully and said nothing and he kept his hands at your waist and said nothing and the kitchen smelled like garlic and the city went dark outside the window.

a saturday morning at the window with your tea, him coming to stand beside you with his shoulder against yours, and he pressed his mouth below your ear and his hand came to your waist at the same moment and the touch lasted longer than the others, several slow seconds of his lips warm against your skin, and then he straightened and said morning and you said morning back and neither of you moved from the window for a long time.

the herding became the touching became the kisses, all of it the same thing, all of it him deciding where you were supposed to be and moving you toward it with the same patient certainty, except that where you were supposed to be had shifted from your floor and your chair and the right seat in the commissary to somewhere much closer than any of those.

on sunday evening you were on the couch with your tablet and he came and sat beside you and took the tablet out of your hands and set it on the table and pushed your hair back from your face and let his hand stay at your jaw with his thumb at your cheekbone, and the room was quiet and the city was dark outside and you sat there and looked at him.

"bucky," you said, quietly.

"yeah," he said. rough and low. right there.

his thumb moved against your cheek. then he pulled his hand back and stood up and looked at you with something decided in his face.

"go to your room," he said.

you looked at him for a moment. "are you herding me to my room."

"yeah," he said, like this was obvious.

"bucky—"

"go," he said, patient and absolute, the same way he said everything when he'd made a decision.

and you went, because you always went, because he was very good at this and you had stopped pretending you weren't completely aware of where the herding had been heading this whole time, and you walked to the door and looked back over your shoulder and he was watching you with those dark eyes and hadn't moved, and the corner of his mouth was there, and you turned and walked out and you were smiling before you'd made three steps.

you pressed the elevator button.

the doors opened and you stepped in and then he was through them before they closed, stepping in beside you, and the doors shut and it was a very small space and he was a very large person and you looked at the numbers above the door. you felt him turn toward you. he took one step and his hand came up to your jaw and he kissed you, not the way he'd pressed his mouth to your temple or your neck, not careful and brief and still finding its way. he kissed you like he'd decided to, like the deciding had happened a long time ago and this was just the part that came after, and it was warm and sure and unhurried, and you kissed him back before you'd thought about it, which was becoming a theme.

the elevator stopped. your floor. the doors opened.

you pulled back and looked at him for one second and then you laughed, the genuine surprised kind, and slipped out into the corridor and ran. not frightened. the run of someone who knew exactly what was behind them and had decided to make it interesting, and the corridor was dim and yours and your room was at the end of it and your heart was doing something unreasonable and you were still laughing.

his footsteps started behind you.

even. steady. unhurried. the same pace they always were, and that was so much worse than hurried because the urgency wasn't needed, because he already knew where you were going, and he'd been herding you there for weeks.

you made it to your door.

your hand was on the handle.

his hand closed over yours, the flesh hand, warm and certain, and he reached past you and opened the door himself and held it, and you looked up at him, close, and his eyes were dark and the jaw was set and the corner of his mouth was something fuller now, something that had arrived completely.

"hi," you said, a little breathless.

"hi," he said. quiet. going nowhere.

you went inside.

so did he.

the door to your room clicked shut softly behind you, the quiet enveloping the space like a shared secret. bucky stepped in slowly, his eyes immediately seeking yours—dark, uncertain, flickering with anxious hesitation. your breath caught in your throat, mirroring the uneven rise and fall of his chest. his flesh hand twitched at his side, while the metal one remained still, its plates silent. the tension hummed between you, drawing you closer in tentative steps, like hesitant magnets.

he stopped mere inches away, his gaze locked steadily on yours, searching silently for any sign to retreat. you reached out tentatively, your fingers brushing the collar of his shirt lightly. his eyes widened just a fraction, his throat bobbing with a visible swallow. a small nod from you seemed to ease him, and his flesh fingers lifted slowly to trace your jaw—his warm palm cupping your cheek gently, his thumb stroking the bone with hesitation. your breaths synchronized, shallow and anxious.

your eyes held through it all, his pupils dilating as his lips brushed yours feather-light—testing, with a faint tremble at the corners of his mouth. a quiet whimper escaped you, your body leaning in instinctively, and he sighed shakily into the contact, pressing firmer but still so careful. his tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip slowly before sliding in lazily, exploring your taste with wide-eyed wonder, even as his eyelids fluttered.

his metal hand rose uncertainly, hovering at your waist until your fingers wrapped around his wrist softly, guiding the cool plates to settle there—pulling you closer inch by inch. a gasp punched from him, his cock stirring thickly in his pants, pressing lightly against your belly over the layers of fabric. his eyes darted down briefly, then back up to yours with anxiety, checking for permission. you nodded slowly, your hand sliding up to cup his jaw, your thumb mirroring his stroke on your cheekbone.

the kisses deepened unhurriedly, tongues gliding wet and tender—savoring every slide, breaths mingling hot and intimate. his free hand clenched into a fist before you took it, placing his palm over your breast slowly. the fabric barrier warmed under his hesitant knead, your nipple peaking tightly at the touch. your soft moan vibrated into his mouth, your hips twitching forward instinctively. he froze for a brief moment, his eyes snapping open wide to meet yours, an anxious flicker there until your reassuring gaze held firm, urging him onward.

you tugged the hem of his shirt up deliberately, peeling the fabric off his scarred and muscled torso—exposing the jagged seam where flesh knit to metal, pink ridges stark against his skin. his breath hitched sharply, his body tensing with uncertainty as your fingers traced the edges feather-light, your eyes locked on his through every pass. your lips followed, pressing open-mouthed kisses slowly along the scars—your tongue flicking the ridges gently, tasting the faint salt of his skin.

a shiver rolled hard through him, a low whine escaping his throat. his eyes squeezed shut then forced open to meet yours—vulnerable, an anxious plea shimmering in their depths. his metal fingers tightened fractionally at your waist, his flesh hand fisting the edge of the sheet nearby as you sucked soft marks into blooming red on his shoulder, your teeth grazing the lightest touch. his cock throbbed insistently now, his hips shifting restlessly, seeking friction over his pants.

your hand found his, guiding his flesh palm down to cup your ass slowly—pulling him flush against you, your pussy nestling against his bulge through the denim. mutual gasps traded in the kiss, eyes fluttering but holding hazy contact. he rocked experimentally in shallow motions, his cock dragging long over your folds—your wetness seeping into your panties quickly, soaking the barriers. an anxious tremble ran through his thighs, mirroring yours, breaths panting softly against parted lips.

lips parted slick and swollen, tongues thrusting lazily like a promise of deeper intimacy—marking mouths with gentle nips, sucking the swells until they turned pink and tender. you arched slowly, grinding back with tenderness, your clit catching the ridge of his shaft deliciously—a soft moan from you drawing his eyes darker. his hand squeezed your ass hesitantly until you pressed your fingers over his, encouraging a firmer grip. his cock pulsed hotly, pre-cum leaking steadily, his hips circling in an unhurried rhythm as he learned.

eyes locked with intense intimacy through the haze, his widening each time your pussy clenched slickly against him—uncertain but eager, his breath ragged. you slid your hand up, threading through strands of his hair with a gentle pull—tilting his head to deepen the kiss sweeter, tongues swirling thoroughly. he whined muffled into it, following your lead perfectly, his metal hand gliding up your back in a cool trail that soothed the anxious heat building so slowly.

you tumbled toward the bed together, him hovering over you on braced forearms—his weight careful not to crush, eyes searching yours anxiously for the next step. your legs parted invitingly, guiding his hips to settle between them slowly—his cock slotting perfectly along your pussy lips over the clothes, the forward drag drawing twin shudders. gazes held unwavering, breaths syncing as he ground languidly, the tip nudging your clit with precision.

his flesh hand wandered uncertainly up your side until you captured it, placing it over your breast again—his thumb circling your nipple slowly through the shirt, pinching feather-light at your nod. your back arched softly, your pussy fluttering wetly against his grind, a moan spilling free. his eyes fluttered half-shut in pleasure but snapped back to yours quickly—checking, always checking, that unsure glint softening under your pleased haze.

kisses trailed to necks now, his lips sucking marks of deep purple slowly—first under his jaw, his pulse thundering against your tongue, then blooming hot trails on yours. teeth grazed collarbones tenderly, marking skin red without a harsh bite. hips rolled in synced laziness, the dry fuck building a sweet tension coil—his cock throbbing relentlessly over your clit, your slick drenching the crotch lines mutually.

an anxious pause came as he lifted his head, eyes locking deep into yours— a silent question in their depths, his body trembling above you. you smiled softly, your hand in his hair tugging gently downward—guiding his mouth to your chest, shoving your shirt up to bunch it. his lips latched onto your nipple over the bra hesitantly, his tongue flicking slow circles— a wet spot darkening the lace as his suck pulled gently. your thighs quivered, grinding firmer instinctively but reined back to sweetness.

moans traded low and intimate, his muffled against your breast—vibrating through the fabric straight to your core. his cock jerked hard with each pass over your folds, pre-cum mixing into the slick mess. your fingers moved his metal hand to your inner thigh, spreading your leg wider—its plates gripping firm but careful, thumb stroking the denim soothingly. eyes met again through the veil of pleasure, his anxious wideness at your escaping whine, his hips stuttering briefly until your gaze reassured him.

he switched breasts slowly, lavishing the same tender sucks—teeth scraping the lace in the lightest graze, drawing gasps that made his cock twitch wildly. his body shook faintly above you, unsure eagerness shining in his eyes as you rocked up steadily, your clit grinding his shaft unhurriedly. your hand yanked his hair softly to arch your neck—he marked your throat with purple blooms, his lips lingering in long sucks.

you pushed his shoulders down gently, eyes holding his with hungry but hesitant intensity as he knelt on the floor—his nose nuzzling your pussy over the panties first, inhaling deeply with a shaky breath. his gaze flicked up anxiously to yours, waiting for your nod before his tongue dragged flat and slow over the cotton—tracing your slit deliberately, soaking it further. a loud moan escaped you, your hips lifting slightly—fingers threading through his hair with an encouraging light tug.

he licked broader and more tenderly, his lips sealing over your folds to suck softly through the barrier—his nose bumping your clit with sweet pressure. eyes locked upward constantly, watching every twitch of your face for guidance, his pupils blown wide with the pleasure of your taste filtering through the fabric. his metal hand gripped your thigh steady, flesh pressing your mound in slow circles—learning the pressure that made your pussy clench visibly, dampening further.

now circling your clit with focus, his tongue flicked lazily then lapped flat—suction pulling in gentle drags for delicious friction. thighs trembled mutually, his cock humping the air desperately over his pants, the bulge dark and wet. your whine escalated softly, hand pulling his hair firmer—his eyes fluttered but held yours, the anxious drive pushing bolder into sweet laps until the coil wound tight and lazy within you.

you tugged him up slowly, straddling his lap seamlessly—your pussy aligning perfectly with his bulge, the sodden fabrics sliding easily. mouths crashed together tenderly, tongues in sloppy sweet thrusts—marking lips, necks, and shoulders afresh, your teeth sinking into the scar seam again with slow sucks. hips rolled in synced languid motions, his cock gliding over your folds relentlessly, throbbing against your clit.

hands roamed as guided—yours placing his flesh to knead your breast, rolling the nipple; metal splaying over your ass to pull tighter into the rolls. eyes locked in hazy intensity through every grind, breaths panting shared—his widening at each pulse of your pussy, yours at the hot throb of his cock leaking steadily. anxious trembles chased away by the slow build, moans traded low in wet kisses.**n tension simmered into a sweet burn, grinding in deep circles—your clit grinding the peak of his shaft, folds hugging its ridge. release washed over you first in soft waves, your pussy pulsing to soak your panties in a flood, thighs clamping his hips as a cry muffled against his lips. eyes held through it, his darkening in awe as your body arched beautifully beneath him.

he followed moments later, his cock jerking ropes of thick cum into his boxers—grinding through his shattered whine, body convulsing as his arms crushed you close, trembling hard. gazes locked in vulnerable peak, breaths heaving in sync—sweat slicking skin, marks blooming mutually on necks, chests, and scars.

you collapsed tangled together, his shirtless chest heaving beneath you—scars red from your tender kisses. he nuzzled into your hair softly, lips peppering your forehead and jaw hesitantly—eyes searching yours with lingering anxiety, flesh fingers carding through strands in gentle query. you kissed a scar lingeringly and slowly, hand guiding his to your cheek—thumb stroking in mirror, gaze holding to reassure deeply.

bodies stayed melded close, pants damp and cooling slowly—heartbeats thudding together, breaths evening out in the quiet room. his metal arm wrapped around you in secure cool weight, flesh palm warm at your low back—both lingering in unsure bliss, eyes drifting shut in synced peace, the anxiety finally easing away into profound intimacy.

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the afternoon sun filters through the half-drawn blinds of pope's beachside bungalow, casting warm stripes across the living room floor. lena, his little niece with all seven years under her belt with those big curious eyes and tangled dark hair from her mom's side, perches on your hip like a koala, laughing as you bounce her gently. you're in that sundress he loves—the one with the thin straps and floral print that hugs your curves just right, the hem swishing against your thighs with every movement. your hair falls in soft waves, and you coo at her, making silly faces that have her hands clapping against your cheeks.

pope leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the two of you with that intense stare of his. his eyes—dark, hungry—fix on you, tracing the way the dress clings to your body as you shift lena's weight. seeing you like this, so effortlessly domestic, playing the part of the perfect, pretty thing in his world, it hits him like a rogue wave. that primal urge surges up, hot and insistent: the need to claim you, to fill you until your belly swells with his seed, his baby. fuck, you're addictive, every giggle and sway pulling him deeper under.

lena's reciting some made-up story about pirates and treasures, her voice high and animated, hands gesturing wildly., but pope pushes off the frame, closing the distance in a few strides. 'hey, kiddo,' he murmurs to her, scooping her off your hip with one arm, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. 'go play in your room for a bit, yeah? uncle andrew needs to talk to... this one.' his voice drops on the last words, rough with promise, and lena nods, scampering off.

he turns to you immediately, hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against him. his mouth crashes onto yours, not gentle—deep, devouring, tongue sweeping in to taste you like he's starved. you melt into it, hands sliding up his damp chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle under your palms. he breaks the kiss just enough to mutter against your lips, 'gonna breed you, baby. fill that pretty cunt till it's overflowin', till you're round with my kid. can't stop thinkin' about it—watchin' you with her like that... fuck, you're mine.' the words tumble out, nonsense laced with raw need, his breath hot on your skin as his hands roam, one sliding down to cup your ass through the sundress, squeezing possessively.

you gasp into his mouth, arousal pooling low in your belly, and he kisses you again, harder, teeth nipping your lower lip. his addiction shows in every touch—the way his fingers dig in just enough to mark, then soothe with a stroke; the press of his growing erection against your thigh. 'so fuckin' perfect,' he growls between kisses, trailing his mouth to your jaw, your neck, sucking lightly there. 'gonna pump you full, make you swell up big for me. yeah? my pretty girl, carryin' my baby.' more muttering, feverish whispers as he backs you toward the couch, hands pushing the straps of your dress down your shoulders, exposing your breasts to the cool air.

he drops to his knees without warning, bunching the skirt of your sundress up around your waist, eyes locked on the sight of your bare cunt—already slick, glistening for him. 'look at you, drippin' already,' he rasps, voice thick with hunger. his hands grip your thighs, spreading them wide as he dives in, tongue flat and broad against your folds. he eats you out like it's the finest meal he's ever had—slow, deliberate laps that build to fervent sucks on your clit, his mouth sealed over you, devouring every drop. the wet sounds fill the room, his tongue plunging inside, curling to hit that spot that makes your knees buckle. you thread your fingers through his hair, moaning, hips bucking against his face, but he holds you steady, groaning into your cunt like he's the one getting pleasured.

'andie—oh god,' you whimper, the intensity making your toes curl. he doesn't let up, humming vibrations against you, lips and tongue working relentlessly until you're trembling, close to the edge. when you finally shatter, crying out, he laps it all up, not wasting a bit, his chin slick as he pulls back, eyes wild and satisfied.

you reach for him instinctively, hand sliding down to palm his cock through his jeans, but he catches your wrist, knocking it away gently but firmly. 'nah, baby. not tonight. need to be inside you—now.' his voice is a low command, no room for argument, as he stands, stripping off his jeans and grabbing a condom from the drawer in the coffee table. he rolls it on quickly, but his eyes never leave yours, dark with that obsessive want.

he guides you down onto the couch, flipping you onto your stomach with ease, your sundress hiked up, ass in the air. you feel the heat of him behind you as he positions himself in prone bone, sliding his cock along your slick entrance, teasing before pushing in slow, inch by thick inch. the stretch burns so good, your walls clenching around him, and he groans, bottoming out with a slap of skin. 'fuck, so tight—gonna breed this cunt, fill it till you're leakin' me for days.' more nonsense spills from him, muttered against your ear as he starts thrusting, deep and controlled, his forearm sliding around your neck from behind—not choking, just holding, possessive, keeping you close as he drives into you.

the pace builds, his hips snapping harder, the couch creaking under you, wet squelches echoing with every plunge. his free hand grips your hip, pulling you back onto him, and he peppers kisses along your shoulder, your neck, between grunts. 'addicted to you, pretty thing. gonna knock you up—swell you with my cum, my baby. yeah, take it all.' his words are fevered, breaths ragged, the breeding talk weaving through the haze of pleasure as he fucks you relentlessly, chasing that high.

you're moaning, body arching, the pressure of his arm around your neck heightening everything, making you feel owned, cherished in his rough way. he slows just enough to ask, voice strained, 'can i fill you up, baby? take this off—wanna cum inside, breed you proper.' his hand pauses on your hip, waiting, eyes boring into yours when you twist to look back.

your heart races, desire overriding everything. you reach back, fingers trembling as you roll the condom off his throbbing cock, tossing it aside. 'yes—fill me up, andrew. breed me.' the words are breathy, needy, and it's all he needs.

he surges forward again, bare now, skin on skin, thrusting deeper, faster. 'fuck yes—gonna pump you full.' his forearm tightens slightly around your neck, holding you in place as he chases release, muttering more about swelling you, making you his forever. when he comes, it's with a guttural groan, cock pulsing as he floods your cunt, hot spurts filling you until it leaks out around him, messy and perfect. he doesn't pull out right away, grinding slow to push it deeper, ensuring every drop stays inside.

finally, he collapses over you, kissing your damp skin softly, arm loosening to wrap around your waist instead. 'my girl,' he whispers, nuzzling your neck, the addiction clear in the way he holds you close, like he can't get enough.

the container is still warm. that's what gets him every time — that she sends it warm, which means she times it, which means Robby told her what time his break was and she built it into her evening without complaint. and then she made two.

jack turns the container over in his hands in the break room. his name is written on the lid in her handwriting — not dr. abbot, not even jack. jackie, in blue pen, with a small heart next to it because apparently that is a thing she does and he has never once addressed it; he should address it, he opens the container and thinks better of it.

robby is leaning in the doorway with his own, watching him with the particular expression he gets — not quite a smile, not quite an accusation, something that lives in the exact overlap of both. "she put extra rice in yours," robby says, conversationally.

jack doesn't look up. "okay."

"she never puts extra rice in mine."

"talk to your wife."

"i'm talking to you."

robby takes a slow bite, eyes steady across the room.

"she asked about you, by the way. said you seemed tired last time you came for dinner. wanted to know if you were sleeping." a pause. "are you sleeping, jack?"

jack sets down his fork before he misses her cooking in his mouth, and picks it back up. "fine." he says.

"mm." robby looks at his container. looks back. "she's making that soup you like on sunday. the one with the — you know the one."

"brother." his voice is a heavy sigh, shaking his head, opening his mouth once again before he's cut off.

"she'll want you to come." he says it simply, no edge on it, which is somehow worse than if there were. "you know how she gets when you don't show up. worried."

jack is quiet for a long moment, staring at his container, a small blue heart. "i'll be there," he says, because he always is, because he cannot seem to make himself not be, and robby nods like this is exactly what he expected.

"good," he says.

jack finishes his food, says nothing else, because he doesn't need to. it's the best thing he's ever eaten.

the break room lingers in jack's mind all shift, the warmth of the container seeping into his palms like a promise he shouldn't hold onto. by sunday evening, he's at their door again, the scent of that soup—rich with herbs and slow-simmered beef—wafting out as robby opened the door with a casual nod, clapping jack on the shoulder. 'right on time. she’s been fussing over this all day.'

jack stepped inside, his eyes immediately seeking you out in the kitchen. you were there, apron cinched around your waist, stirring the pot with focused grace. when you turned and saw him, a shy smile bloomed on your face, your cheeks flushing pink. 'jack,' you said softly, wiping your hands on a towel before approaching. you pulled him into a hug, your body soft and warm against his, lingering just a moment before stepping back, eyes darting down from him. jack caught the faint scent of vanilla on your skin, and it stirred something deep in him, his cock giving a subtle twitch in his jeans.

dinner passed in a haze of easy conversation, the three of them around the table laughing over small things—work gripes, a funny story from robby's shift and his residents making a mess. jack couldn't help stealing glances at you, the way your hair fell over one shoulder, the gentle curve of your neck. you caught him once, your gaze meeting his briefly before you looked away, biting your lip with a bashful smile that made his pulse quicken. robby's foot nudged his own under the table, a silent acknowledgment, but robby kept things light, praising your cooking with a warm grin.

'this is incredible, darling. you always know how to make a guy feel taken care of.' you blush again, murmuring a quiet 'thank you' and passing the bread to jack, your fingers brushing his in a way that felt accidental but sent heat racing up his arm.

as plates emptied, the air grew thicker, laced with unspoken tension that had been simmering for weeks—months, maybe. jack felt it in the way your eyes flicked to him when you thought he wasn't looking, in robby's knowing smirks. when you rose to clear the dishes, robby caught jack's wrist lightly. 'hang back for a drink,' he said, voice low and inviting.

jack nodded, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. you returned with whiskey glasses, settling on the couch between them, your thigh pressing tentatively against jack's. the contact was electric, and he could feel the slight tremble in your as conversation meandered to the week's stresses, your fingers tracing absent patterns on your own knee at first, then hesitantly drifting to his.

'you've looked so worn out lately,' you said to him, your voice soft and concerned, leaning in just enough that your breath warmed his cheek. you glanced at robby for approval before adding, 'is there... anything we can do to help?'

jack's voice came out rougher than he intended. 'just being around you both—that's more than enough.' but his eyes betrayed him, lingering on your lips, and you ducked your head, cheeks burning.

robby chuckled, his hand sliding up your arm to tilt your chin toward him. 'hear that, sweetheart? jack's got it bad for you.'

he kissed your then, slow and deep, his tongue exploring your mouth with a possessiveness that made jack's blood heat. you melted into it, a soft whimper escaping, but when robby pulled back, your eyes were wide and glassy, flicking nervously to jack.

'that's my girl,' robby murmured, praising the way you responded, but then his tone dipped, an edge creeping in. 'always so eager, aren't you? even when another man's watching.' you squirmed, pressing your thighs together, but didn't pull away. instead, you reached for jack's hand, intertwining their fingers shyly.

'robby, please,' you whispered, voice trembling with a mix of embarrassment and need. 'jack's been so good... coming over, letting me take care of him.'

jack's chest tightened at your words, the vulnerability in them pulling at him. 'you do take care of me,' he said, squeezing your hand. 'better than anyone.' Robby watched his best friend with his wife, a smirk playing on his lips as he nodded toward you.

"go on, then. show your some of that appreciation. but remember, you're mine—you're just borrowing.'

he wasn't sure who robby was talking to with that claim.

jack leaned in slowly, giving your time to pull back if you wanted, but you didn't. your lips met his tentatively at first, soft and yielding, your tongue shyly brushing his. he deepened the kiss gently, tasting the whiskey and your innocent sweetness, and you sighed into his mouth, your free hand resting lightly on his chest. when they parted, you were breathing faster, eyes downcast.

'that felt... nice,' you admitted in a small voice, glancing at robby for reassurance.

'nice?' robby teased, his hand cupping your breast through your blouse, thumb circling your nipple until it hardened. 'look at you, getting all worked up for jack. my shy little wife, craving another cock already.' the degradation was light, laced with affection, but it made your flush deeper, a soft whine escaping as you shifted closer to jack.

'robby...'

jack's arousal throbbed, but he kept his touch gentle, sliding his hand to your waist. 'you're beautiful like this,' he praised, voice low. 'so responsive. let me make you feel good.' you nodded, biting your lip, and he kissed your again, slower this time, coaxing your open.

robby watched, his own hand stroking over his cock, squeezing to relieve the pressure. 'that's it, kiss all sweetly. you like it when you're treated like an innocent little slut.'

emboldened, jack's fingers trailed up your thigh, under your skirt, finding the damp heat between your legs. you gasped against his lips, thighs parting slightly in invitation, but your shyness held your back, making your movements hesitant. 'jack... is this okay?' you murmured, eyes searching his.

He nodded, far too enthusiastically and almost giving himself whiplash as he rubs slow circles over your panties. 'more than okay. you're soaked, sweetheart. all for us?'

you nodded, hiding your face in his neck. 'yes... but I'm nervous. what if—'

robby cut in from behind, his hands working your blouse open button by button, exposing your bra. 'what if you like it too much? that's what you're thinking, isn't it? my good girl, panting for jack's touch.' he unhooked your bra, letting your breasts spill free, and palmed them gently. 'so pretty. jack, show her how perfect she is.'

jack's mouth watered, and he lowered his head, taking one nipple between his lips, sucking softly. you arched with a quiet moan, fingers threading into his hair. 'oh... that feels amazing,' you breathed, your voice shy but pleased. 'you're so gentle with me.' He layered attention on her tits, tongue flicking, teeth grazing lightly, drawing out your responses until you were trembling beneath his teeth.

'robby, please... touch me more,' you pleaded softly, still avoiding direct eye contact with jack, your submissiveness making the moment stretch with delicious tension.

robby obliged, slipping his hand between your legs alongside jack's, pushing your panties aside to slide a finger into your slick cunt. 'fuck, you're dripping,' he said, pumping slowly. 'all because jack's here, huh? can't help wanting him inside you.'

you whimpered, rocking into his touch. 'i... i do. but only if you say it's alright.'

robby kissed down your neck, praising your obedience. 'it is, baby. you're doing so well, letting him see how needy you get.'

jack added another finger beside Robby's, stretching your gently, and you cried out softly, your walls clenching. 'jack... oh god, your fingers are so thick. it feels so good.'

the praise flowed easier from him now, building the intimacy. 'you're taking us so beautifully,' jack murmured, curling his fingers to hit that spot inside your. you shuddered, your shyness fading into quiet pleas. 'don't stop... please, I need more.'

robby withdrew his hand, nodding to Jack. 'pants off. let her feel what she's doing to you.'

jack stood briefly, shoving his jeans down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking. your eyes widened, a shy hand reaching out to stroke him tentatively. 'it's... so big,' you whispered, glancing at robby. 'can I?'

he couldn't help but groan at your soft whispers, asking your husband if it was okay to touch him. robby had trained you so well.

robby stripped too, his own erection bobbing as he settled back. 'stroke him, sweetheart. show him how much you want it, even if you're blushing like a virgin.' you wrapped your hand around Jack, pumping slowly, your touch feather-light at first, then firmer as he groaned.

'like this?' you asked, your voice small and looking for praise.

'perfect,' Jack praised, guiding your to straddle his lap. you hesitated, skirt hiked up, panties still on. 'i... i'm ready, but go slow?'

he nodded, tugging the fabric aside and easing your down onto his cock, inch by inch. you gasped, head falling to his shoulder. 'so full... jack, you're stretching me just right.'

if jack was a more confident man, he would've asked how much better his cock felt then robby's. he didn't dare at the moment.

he held your hips, letting your set the pace, slow rocks that built the heat gradually. 'you feel incredible,' he said, kissing your forehead. 'tight and warm, made for this.'

robby watched, stroking himself. 'ride him nice and easy, baby. let him see how shy you get when you're full of another man's dick.' the words made your clench, a soft moan escaping as you moved a little faster.

'talk to me,' you whispered, peeking up at jack through your lashes. 'tell me what you like.'

'i like how you squeeze me,' jack replied, thumbs rubbing your hips. 'how you look when you're trying to be brave.' you smiled shyly, leaning in for a kiss as your rhythm steadied.

robby moved closer, offering his cock to your mouth. 'will you suck me while you fuck him, baby? prove you're still mine.'

you took him in, tongue swirling the tip before sucking deeper, your movements careful and devoted. 'mmm,' you hummed around him, the vibration drawing a hiss from robby.

'my good wife, taking care of both of us. jack, you feel that? bet her cunt is fluttering.'

jack thrust up gently, matching your pace. 'yeah... she's close. cum for me, sweetheart—let go.'

you pulled off robby with a gasp, crying out as your orgasm hit, walls pulsing around jack. he followed soon after, spilling deep inside your with a low groan. 'take it all—you're so good.'

robby pulled you off of jack's cock, making a whine escape both your lips, positioning you on his lap. 'my turn now. full of his cum and still begging for more, aren't you?' you nodded, sinking onto him with a whimper, full of jack's cum and not yet coming down from your orgasm.

'yes... fill me up please, i want you both in me!' jack couldnt help his groan as he watched you both, robby thrusting up steadily, hands gentle on your waist.

'you're perfect like this, sharing yourself for us baby."

jack kissed you as robby moved, tongues tangling softly until you shattered again, robby cumming with a praise-laden grunt. 'that's my wife—so sweet, so slutty for us.'

he watched as you collapsed together, moving to lay besides them so he was as close as he could be, not wanting to push his luck anymore, shy smiles all around.

'that was... everything,' you murmured, moving off of robby's cock to nestle between the two men, your husband on one side, his best friend on the other. jack watched as you curled into him, robby's arms around your waist from behind; he held your close, noise buried in your hair, focusing on the vanilla more than the mix of sweat and sex that filled up your married bed.

'couldn't agree more.' robby grinned into your neck. 'round two later?'

you blushed, a smile lifting your lips against his chest. 'maybe... if you both keep talking sweet.'

the couch didn't come up again.

neither of you mentioned it, not the tablet or the notes or the blanket that had been pulled over you at some point in the night by hands you hadn't been awake to see. it went where everything else between you went, into the part of things that had no language yet, sitting alongside the jackets arranged on the desk and the kitchen at four in the morning and the way he'd watched you drink your coffee before he tried his own. you left it there and he left it there and that was enough.

what changed in the days after was the distance.

not the following. that had been constant since shuri's assessment, the steady presence of him behind your left shoulder through corridors and the commissary and the briefing rooms you still attended because the work existed whether or not your life had gotten complicated. the following didn't change. what changed was the quality of it. in the first days it had been close and watchful, always slightly forward-angled, always fractionally between you and whatever was ahead. now it had eased. he walked further back sometimes, not far, never far enough that you stopped being aware of him, but enough that there was actual corridor between you when you turned around rather than the immediate wall of him. it had started to feel less like being guarded and more like being accompanied. those were different things and the difference mattered.

shuri sent framework updates every other day in her clipped shorthand. appetite normalising. less reactive to proximity of other personnel. and then, on the third day: he sat in the communal area for forty-seven minutes this morning. this is new.

you hadn't been there for the forty-seven minutes. sam came to your office door in the late morning with the expression of someone who had witnessed something they couldn't file and had decided you were the only person to tell. he leaned in the frame and said "okay, so i went to the communal room because the game was on, and he was just there. on the couch. just sitting there watching the door. so i sat on the other end and he looked at me for a while, you know how he does, and then he looked at the door again. so i turned the game on." sam paused. "and he just stayed. we sat there for forty-seven minutes. he watched the door and i watched the game and it was fine." he stopped. "it was actually fine. i genuinely don't know what to do with that."

"neither do i," you said.

sam looked at you over his coffee for a moment. "shuri thinks it's progress," he said. "that he's learning to be in a space without it being a whole thing."

"i know," you said.

sam left and you sat at your desk and looked at the wall for a while, thinking about forty-seven minutes and a man you'd known as a series of careful distances sitting on a couch watching a door, and the specific quality of sam saying it was actually fine in the tone of someone reporting a small miracle.

you'd started sleeping better, which surprised you.

by every reasonable measure the opposite should have been true. new responsibilities, no timeline, the ongoing uncertainty of a situation that didn't come with instructions. but the sleep was better in the simple undeniable way of something that was just true, and when you lay in the dark and worked out why, you found the answer quickly and then decided not to look at it directly.

you slept.

on the morning this happened you woke up slowly and in stages, surfacing through actual rest rather than the shallow half-sleep you'd been managing for weeks. the room was grey with early light and the city was starting its day outside and you lay there for a while and let it happen around you, more rested than you'd been in longer than you wanted to count.

then you noticed the corridor. the quality of the silence outside your door had a weight to it that empty corridor silence never had. you'd been learning this particular texture for weeks and you knew it the same way you knew the ventilation cycling and the specific sound of the elevator on your floor. you got up, found your socks in the dark, went to the door and opened it slowly just to see that bucky was on the floor, like a cat. 

his back had been against the door and had shifted forward when it opened, and he was completely asleep, the deep committed kind that left no room for anything else. legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, arms folded over his chest with the metal arm on top, chin dropped so his dark hair had fallen over most of his face and moved very slightly with each slow breath. the corridor's overnight light caught the metal arm in flat dull silver. he was very still and very large and completely committed to being asleep on your floor like this was simply where he was.

you lowered yourself down beside him slowly and crouched close. close had a different meaning now than it had in the beginning. you looked at him, just a person asleep on a floor, the jaw set even now, the scar pale at his temple, several days of dark growth across his jaw, and you thought about the room on the sixth floor and the first day and six feet of careful distance and how much had passed between then and this.

you reached out, your hand coming up slowly, giving it time, and you put your palm against his cheek. he was warm the way he always seemed to be, and the stubble was rough under your palm, and you stayed there a moment with your hand against his face and the corridor quiet around you.

but then he woke up. one moment asleep and the next completely not, and the metal hand came up before he'd finished the transition, the plates already moving, and it closed around your wrist. it closed the way it had been built to close. the plates locked with a sharp mechanical sound and the grip was full and certain and there was nothing in it that registered what it was holding, just bone and skin and the fragility of a person built entirely differently to him.

you shrieked. not a word, not anything controlled, just the full involuntary sound of someone whose nervous system had received information it was not prepared for, sharp and genuine and loud in the quiet of the corridor, and you pulled back on instinct before you'd finished making the sound and the grip didn't give at all, not even slightly, and that was when the real understanding arrived, the cold fast knowledge of exactly what was holding you and exactly how much of yourself you did not have available right now.

the plates had locked with a sharp mechanical sound, the specific sound you'd heard before in that building what felt like a lifetime ago, and the pressure across your wrist was immediate and total and deeply real. not a graze, not a close call. the metal had no give in it, no flex, and the grip had closed around your wrist with the full certainty of something built to hold things that didn't want to be held, and for a few seconds you just breathed and went still and waited, your heart going hard in your chest, the pain already radiating up your forearm in the specific way of something that was going to be a serious bruise.

you looked at his hand around your wrist, then you looked at his face.

he was looking at your wrist. he was fully awake, completely awake and he was looking at his own hand and the comprehension was moving through him in real time and you watched it happen, watched the understanding arrive and spread through his face, and something broke the surface that wasn't the soldier and wasn't anything you'd catalogued before. his brow pulled in hard and deep, a furrow so pronounced it changed his whole face, and he was looking at your wrist and the metal fingers locked around it and the expression on his face had no operational category in anything you'd ever seen from him. it was just the face of a person looking at what their hand had done, knowing with complete clarity what it was.

the plates separated one by one, each one deliberate and slow, and the arm came back to him.

you looked at your wrist, turning it over to see that the marks were already there. the plate-edges pressed into the skin in a pattern that was unmistakably a hand, unmistakably his hand, the geometry of the metal fingers printed across your wrist in red-purple that was already dark and was going to get considerably darker. you rotated your wrist carefully, running the internal check with the detached focus you'd learned for exactly these moments. nothing structural. nothing shifting inside the joint. but the bruising was going to be significant, the specific thorough damage of metal with no give, nowhere for the pressure to go, and your wrist was throbbing already with the particular deep ache of tissue that had been compressed against bone.

you breathed out a sigh and then you looked at him.

he hadn't moved. he was exactly where the releasing had left him and he was looking at your wrist and what was on his face stopped you completely. anguish was the only word for it. raw and total and without any architecture of management built around it, just the thing itself, his brow pulled in and his jaw hard and his eyes dark and fixed on your wrist and the bruise forming across it. he looked like someone who could not look away from what they had done. like looking away wasn't available to him. like he was holding himself inside the seeing of it because something in him had decided that was what was required.

you stared at him for a long moment. you'd been startled and you'd shrieked and your wrist hurt properly, the kind of hurt that was going to be with you for a week, and you looked at his face and you felt the breath go out of you in a long slow sigh that had nothing to do with any of that. because you knew. you'd known from the first second after the grip released, really. he'd been asleep. you'd put your hand on his face while he slept and the reflex that had closed around your wrist was older than everything they'd spent weeks trying to bring him back from, built so deep into him there was nothing between it and the world, no gap for a decision to fit into. you knew that and you looked at the anguish on his face and it felt like blaming a dog for biting you once you put your hand in his mouth. 

"bucky," you said.

he looked up.

his eyes found yours and the anguish didn't go anywhere, just became the thing looking at you, and you held his gaze and you smiled at him. the real one, the genuine one. "it's okay," you said. "you were asleep. i put my hand on your face and you were asleep and you didn't know it was me." you turned your wrist over slowly, showing him both sides. "it's bruised. i'm not going to pretend it isn't. but i'm okay. nothing's broken. it was an accident."

he looked at your wrist, then he looked at your face and then he looked back at the bruise forming across your wrist with the expression of someone who had received information and filed it somewhere marked not good enough.

"don't," you said. he looked at you. "it was an accident and i'm okay."

he opened his mouth. closed it. then he moved, and the moving was the most deliberate thing you had ever seen from him, slower than slow, his right hand coming up with the palm toward you in the open unhurried approach that gave you every possible moment to see it coming, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time and not on the wrist. asking. clearly and silently asking, with his eyes on yours, for the same reason he'd been asking with his eyes for weeks, because the words hadn't always been there and the eyes had been the only available instrument.

you looked at his hand coming toward yours and held your wrist out. his fingers closed around it and you had to close your eyes for a second, not from pain. from the sheer contrast of it, from the specific and total difference between what this was and what the other thing had been sixty seconds ago. his fingers closed around your wrist so lightly you could have pulled free without effort, the pads of his fingers resting underneath, his thumb settling just above the bruise on the skin above it, barely touching, barely there, the grip of someone handling something they had already broken once and were terrified of breaking again. he turned your wrist in the corridor light and he looked at the bruise from every angle, slow and thorough, his face doing the thing it did when he needed to understand the full extent of something he had caused.

he looked at it for a long time.

then he looked up at you and said:

"i'm sorry."

and you stared at him.

you just stared at him because the words came out rough with disuse and low with something so much heavier than anything disuse could account for, and they sat in the corridor between you with a weight that was nothing like the two words themselves, and you were still holding his gaze and your wrist was throbbing and you stared at him and thought you are speaking to me and then thought no, he spoke before, twice, and then thought this is different and you knew it was different, you could hear the difference in the way it came out, the way it wasn't just sound filling a gap but something that had been waiting and had finally come through.

he was looking at you and waiting. his fingers still barely holding your wrist. his face still holding the anguish that hadn't gone anywhere.

you realised you hadn't said anything.

"i know you are," you said. your voice came out softer than you'd intended. "i know. it's okay. it's going to bruise for a while and look worse before it looks better but nothing's broken and i'm fine. i promise."

he looked at the bruise. he looked at his metal hand at his side, the plates still and quiet, and his face went somewhere private and closed and very old. it only lasted a few seconds but you saw it.

"hey." he looked up. you raised your wrist between you, eye level. "still me. still fine. same answer every time you ask."

something settled in him. not all of it, not even most of it, but enough, the particular easing of someone who has taken in the information even if they haven't finished with it. and then, slowly, palm up and eyes on your face, he reached his right hand toward yours.

you put your hand in his.

and you felt it again, that contrast, the thing that made you look down at your joined hands for a moment just to see it, to look at the flesh hand wrapped around yours with a care that was almost excessive, the thumb resting along the back of your hand, not gripping, just present. just holding, the way you'd hold something you were afraid to grip. you thought about the metal hand and what it had done sixty seconds ago and you thought about this, the flesh hand and what it was doing now, and the gap between the two things was enormous and careful and entirely deliberate.

he was gentle with you.

that was the thing. he was being so careful, so deliberately and consciously gentle, like gentleness was something he was actively doing rather than something that happened, like he was aware of every degree of pressure in his own hand and had decided on each one individually. you looked at his fingers around yours and you thought about how much he was capable of and how little of it was being brought to bear right now, and you thought about all the weeks in the room and the corridor and the kitchen and you thought about this specific morning and this specific hand and you felt, in a way you hadn't quite felt before, the full and particular weight of what it meant that he was trying.

you stood in the corridor in the dim overnight light with his hand around yours and your bruised wrist and the morning a long way off yet, and you looked at him.

he looked back. his eyes dark and the furrow still there, lighter than it had been, and the anguish sitting below the surface of his face like something he was carrying rather than showing, and he was holding your hand like it was the most careful thing he'd ever done.

you took a breath.

"okay," you said, quietly. "come on then."

he stood up and brought you with him, gentle and unhurried, before he started walking toward medical with a very clear goal.

he walked behind, not beside you, not in the usual position at your left shoulder. behind you, close, so that you were aware of him at your back the whole way down the corridor. not oppressive, not crowding you. just there, the specific presence of him, and every time you slowed your pace or your feet started to drift toward a different direction his hand found your waist. not grabbing, not steering roughly. just a hand on your waist, light and brief, redirecting you back toward medical with the patient certainty of someone who had decided where you were going and was not negotiating about it.

you tried it twice. the first time was almost automatic, your feet starting toward the elevator out of some instinct to just go back to bed, and the hand appeared at your waist before you'd finished the step and you were back on course. the second time you did it on purpose, just to see, and the hand was there again immediately, just as light, just as certain, and you looked back at him over your shoulder.

he looked at you with dark eyes and raised his chin very slightly toward the medical bay.

"alright," you said. "alright, i'm going."

the hand stayed at your waist until you were through the medical bay door.

where shuri already was. you didn't know how she knew. you'd stopped trying to work out how shuri knew things because the answer was always that shuri simply knew things, it was a feature of her, and she was standing at one of the stations with a tablet in her hand and she looked at your wrist when you came in and then looked at bucky and said "sit" without any preamble at all.

you sat on the edge of the nearest bed.

bucky positioned himself to the left of the door, arms at his sides, watching.

shuri set her tablet down and took your wrist in both hands and looked at the bruise with the focused clinical attention she brought to everything, turning it carefully, pressing two fingers along the inside of the wrist and watching your face. "does that hurt?" she said.

"it's sore," you said. "not sharp."

"nothing structural," she said, more to herself than to you. "deep tissue bruising, significant. it'll be purple by this afternoon." she reached for the cold pack and the wrap without looking away from your wrist. "you'll want to keep it elevated when you can and don't use it for anything that requires a strong grip for the next few days."

"okay," you said.

she started wrapping, efficient and sure, and she said without looking up: "i need to talk to you about him."

you glanced at bucky. he was watching shuri's hands on your wrist with the focused unblinking attention of someone supervising something that had better go correctly.

"he can't hear you?" you said, quietly.

"he can hear me," shuri said, at normal volume, not remotely concerned about this. "i'm going to say it anyway." she secured a layer of the wrap and said: "he's not dangerous. i want to be clear about that first."

"i know," you nodded along, you and shuri seemed to be the only ones not wary of he famed winter soldier.

"but he's also not predictable," she said. "not in the way a person who has full access to themselves is predictable. he's running on something old and something old doesn't always have the context that something current would have." she looked up at you. "so you need to be careful. not afraid. careful. there's a difference there too."

"i know," you said again.

she held your gaze for a moment, the specific shuri look that was making sure you actually knew and hadn't just said it. then she looked back at the wrist. "he's been coming back in pieces," she said. "it's slow. you probably see it more than anyone else does because you're with him more than anyone else is. but it's happening." she smoothed the end of the wrap and taped it. "whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

you looked at your wrapped wrist. "i'm mostly just making him coffee," you said.

"i know," she said, and the corner of her mouth moved slightly. "keep doing that too."

she let go of your wrist and stepped back and looked at bucky, who was still watching from his position by the door with the arms at his sides and the attentive eyes. "it's done," she said to him, in the same normal voice, and she held up your wrist so he could see the clean bandage from where he was standing. "she's fine."

bucky looked at the bandage. he looked at your face. he looked at the bandage again.

"she's fine," shuri said again, with the patience of someone who understood that some things needed saying more than once.

something in him settled, fractionally. you recognised the settling by now, the specific easing that meant he'd received information he could work with. 

you slid off the bed and looked at shuri. "thank you," you said.

"don't thank me," she said, already picking up her tablet again. "just be careful."

bucky fell into step behind you as you left, close and warm at your back, and his hand found your waist briefly in the corridor, not redirecting this time, just there, and then it was gone and he was walking with you toward the elevator and the morning was properly starting around you.

the kitchen light came on low and warm when you walked in.

you went to the coffee machine the way you always did and bucky came with you because that was how this worked now, and you stood at the counter and reached for the drawer with your bandaged hand and he made a short low sound and reached past you and opened it, his body close behind yours, and you looked at the drawer and then at him over your shoulder.

"thank you," you said.

he looked at the drawer, patient and expectant.

you got the grounds one-handed and he was there for all of it, shifting when you needed a different angle, reaching when the carafe was awkward, adjusting the whole geometry of the kitchen around the one-handed operation without making anything of it. you got the machine running and stood waiting for it and his hand came around yours again, the flesh hand, careful and warm, the same as before.

he looked at your wrist. he looked at your face. he looked at your wrist.

"still fine," you said, to the machine.

he made a small sound of acknowledgment.

the machine finished. you poured two mugs and did his the same way you'd done it the first time, matching the colour to yours, the same pale warm shade, and you held it out. he took it in the metal hand because the flesh hand was yours and he had made his position on that clear, and he looked at the mug and then at your joined hands and then at the mug again, working through the geometry, and you looked at the metal arm holding a coffee mug and said nothing about it at all.

"do you want anything in it?" you said. you looked at him sideways. "milk. sugar."

he was quiet, you waited, it was a cute dance you two had started over the days. you'd gotten good at waiting for him, at the gap between him and words that was always worth the time. he looked at your hands, then at the machine, then at you, and his mouth opened and the words came out rough and careful with a small crack in them on the last word:

"i liked how you made it last time."

you looked at him.

he looked back with dark eyes and the set jaw and the faint furrow still between his brows, and there was a full sentence there, a last time in it that meant he'd kept it, that the four in the morning and both hands around the mug and the matching the colour had gone somewhere in him and stayed.

"okay," you said, and you smiled, the small private quick one. "milk it is."

you poured it one-handed and handed him the mug and he took it in the metal hand because the flesh hand was still yours, and he looked down at the mug the way he'd looked at it the first time, and then raised it the same way you raised yours, the same angle and tilt, the muscle memory of a thing learned by watching.

you both sipped on your coffee’s in complete and utter silence. you stood there for a while, just the two of you and the quiet and the city coming in grey at the windows, and you were aware of his hand around yours and the specific weight of the morning, everything that had happened in the last few hours sitting in the kitchen with you, and you thought about shuri's voice saying he's been coming back in pieces, and you thought about the way he'd said i'm sorry in the corridor, rough and careful, like the words had been waiting.

you thought you might try.

"can i ask you something?" you said.

he looked at you.

"what do you think of james?" you said. "as a name. for yourself."

he looked at you for a moment. something moved behind his eyes, some consideration running its course, and then he looked back at his coffee.

"not james," you said, reading it. "okay. what about bucky? does that one feel more right?"

he was quiet, the considering kind of quiet, and after a moment he looked at you sideways, briefly, and away. you took that as close enough to a yes.

"alright," you said. "bucky." you drank your coffee. "i've been reading about you," you said. it was true — shuri had given you access to the parts of the files that weren't redacted, and you'd gone through them carefully, the way you went through everything you thought might matter. "before all of it. before the war."

you paused. "you had a sister," you said.

he went still. not the operational stillness. something different, something that went inward rather than outward, like a word had dropped into deep water and you were both waiting to see how far it went.

"rebecca," you said. "she was younger than you."

the mug in the metal hand didn't move. he was looking at the counter and his jaw was set and his face was doing the closed private thing it did when something was happening inside it that wasn't going to be available on the outside for a while.

"you don't have to say anything," you said. "i'm not pushing. i just thought it might be worth saying out loud. that she existed. that you had her." you looked at your coffee. "shuri says the pieces come back. i thought maybe some of them just need someone to put them in front of you."

the quiet went on. then, very quietly, rough and careful and low: "becca."

you looked at him.

his jaw was tight and his eyes were on the counter and he'd said it the way you said something you hadn't said in a very long time, like finding a word you'd believed was gone and not being entirely certain what to do with finding it. just the one word. just the name, her name, the version of it he'd used, and then silence. 

you didn't say anything. you let it be what it was. after a while you said: "what's your favourite colour?"

he looked at you with a dumbfounded expression. 

"i'm serious," you said. "does anything come to mind?"

he thought about it. you watched him actually think about it, reaching for something rather than processing something, which was different and recognisable. he looked at the window, the grey morning light coming in, and then he looked at your coffee mug.

"blue," he said. one word, careful, like testing the weight of it. then a slight frown at his own answer, like it had surprised him.

"blue," you said. "that's something."

he looked at the mug. then he looked at the pantry, which you were beginning to recognise as a particular kind of look, and he let go of your hand. you turned to watch him cross to the pantry cupboard and open it. he stood in front of it and looked at the shelves with the focused attention he brought to everything, and then he reached up to the very top shelf and came back with a tin.

dark green with gold lettering; expensive. tony had received it three months ago as some kind of corporate gift, put it in the communal pantry because ‘he didn't eat biscuits,’ and everyone had been silently not opening it ever since out of some collective unspoken agreement that it was too nice to be the thing you just ate on a tuesday.

bucky set it on the counter and looked at it. then he looked at you.

"that's tony's," you said.

bucky looked at the tin, head tilted to the side like he could understand better at an angle.

"i mean technically he put it in the communal pantry," you said. "so technically it's communal. but."

bucky opened the tin with the flesh hand, the metal hand holding it steady, and the smell of very good shortbread filled the kitchen immediately, the buttery expensive smell of something made by people who took biscuits seriously. he looked into the tin. he looked at you and then he reached in and took out one biscuit, a round shortbread with crystallised sugar on top, and he held it out, to you.

not the tin, one biscuit held between two finger, patient and straightforward.

you looked at the biscuit and then his expectant expression. 

"are you feeding me a biscuit," you said.

he looked at the biscuit, his expression said yes, clearly, what else would this be? 

you pressed your lips together very hard to contain your amusement at this man, at who you imagined james barnes was, and who this twisted winter soldier had become, and you took the biscuit. it was genuinely extraordinary. you hadn't expected it to matter but it did, the kind of shortbread that dissolved rather than broke, rich and slightly salted and exactly what was needed after a bruised wrist and a corridor floor and a medical bay and shuri's careful voice saying be careful, not afraid. you ate the biscuit and looked at him and said: "do you remember steve? before the war. what he was like."

he reached into the tin and got another one and held it out to you and said: "small."

you took the biscuit. "small," you repeated.

"real small," he said. something in the word had texture to it, something old. "always starting things he couldn't finish."

"and bucky finished them for him," you said.

"yeah." he looked at the tin. "yeah, he did."

you ate your biscuit. he held another one out. you took it.

"do those memories feel like yours?" you said. "when they come. do they feel like something that happened to you, or like something you were told?"

he thought about it, actually thought, not just processed. "like looking through glass that's not clean," he said, after a moment. "i know it's true. i know it happened. but." he paused. "mostly it's far away."

"mostly," you said.

"sometimes it's right there," he said. "and then it goes."

you nodded. he held out another biscuit. you took it, ate it, and said: "do you know what happened? in the building, when the debris hit. do you remember that?"

he was quiet for a moment. "yes."

"what do you remember about after?"

"waking up," he said. "and things were different. like something had moved." he paused. the metal arm made a small sound, a plate shifting and settling. "and then the jet. and then your floor." he looked at your wrist. his jaw went tight. "and then this."

"that part wasn't your fault," you said.

he looked at your wrist and said nothing, which meant he was not going to agree with you about that right now and you were both aware of it.

"he feels bad," he said.

you looked back at him. "who does."

"bucky." he said the name the same way he'd said becca, like something retrieved from a long way down. "about — me taking over. about being gone." his jaw was set and his eyes were on the counter and he said it carefully, each word placed. "it's his. this is all his. and he's — underneath. waiting."

you were quiet for a moment.

"you're all the same person," you said. "everything that happened, everything they built, bucky’s underneath all of it. that's not separate things. that's one person with a lot of things done to him." you paused. "when he comes back, if you're worried about it, i’ll talk to him, might give you both some relief."

you ignored the slight sick feeling that arised at him being gone, at the man you’d gotten close with would retreat back into bucky’s mind at some point and never come back again.

the kitchen was very quiet.

you were standing in the communal kitchen at an unreasonable hour of the morning eating tony stark's expensive biscuits while being fed them one at a time by a man built like a siege weapon who was also holding your hand hostage,and you were getting sad at the idea of the killing machine who’d been kind to you disappearing and the specific full absurdity of it rose through your chest and came out as a laugh. 

not a polite laugh. a real one, surprised, coming up from somewhere low.

bucky looked at you.

you laughed harder. you laughed with your hand over your mouth and your eyes watering, and bucky stood at the counter and watched you with the expression of someone who wasn't sure what had happened but was watching it very closely. the furrow was lighter than it had been all morning and his head tilted slightly and something was happening around his mouth that hadn't arrived yet but was close.

"i'm sorry," you said, not sorry at all. "it's just." you looked at the biscuit and at him and at your joined hands and at the whole situation. "you're feeding me a biscuit."

he looked at the tin.

"like you specifically went and got tony's biscuits and are now feeding them to me individually."

he reached in and got another one and held it out.

you laughed again, the same laugh, and took it, and ate it, and he watched you eat it and then looked into the tin with the focused considering expression of someone taking this seriously, and selected another one and held it out.

"bucky," you said, still laughing. "i can feed myself."

he looked at you with the level dark eyes and the patient expression of someone who was aware of that and had decided it was not the point, and held out the biscuit.

you took it. you couldn't not take it. you stood there with tears of laughing at the corners of your eyes eating tony's shortbread one piece at a time, and it was, without any competition, one of the funnier things that had happened to you in recent memory. the absurdity of it sat perfectly alongside everything else, all the weight of the past weeks, and didn't cancel it out but existed next to it, and that was its own kind of relief.

bucky got another biscuit.

"i'm going to have to tell tony about the tin," you said.

a small thing happened around his mouth. not a smile, not yet, but the territory was close.

"he's going to be unreasonable," you said. "he put them in the communal pantry which makes them communal, but he's still going to be unreasonable."

bucky held out the biscuit.

you took it. you looked at him eating nothing, just standing there feeding you, and you said "are you not having one?" and he looked in the tin and selected one and ate it in a single go, completely straightforward, and you laughed again, softer this time.

"good?" you said.

he considered this seriously. then he reached in for another one for himself.

"that's what i thought," you said.

you put your mug down and held your hand out, the unwrapped one, and he looked at it and set the tin on the counter and put his hand in yours. his fingers closed around yours the same way, careful and deliberate, and you picked your mug back up and stood at the counter with your coffee and his hand and the tin of tony's significantly depleted biscuits between you.

"we should probably put those back before tony sees," you said.

he looked at the tin.

"after," you said. "but would you want to watch a film tonight?" you said. "something easy."

he looked at you. then he gave the smallest, most minimal nod you had ever seen on a person.

"okay," you said. "tonight then."

you finished your coffee. he finished his, and his hand came back around yours when the mug was empty, finding it again the way it always found it now, without looking, without making anything of it, just there. the tin of biscuits sat open on the counter between you and the city came in grey at the windows and the morning happened around you, quiet and ordinary and enough.

natasha had set up the projector before either of you arrived.

you found this out when you walked into the common room that evening and the big screen was already down and the room was empty in a way that felt curated, the particular emptiness of a space that had been arranged rather than arrived at naturally. there was a blanket on the coffee table that had not been there that morning. it was folded in the specific neat way that natasha folded things when she was doing something she intended to appear casual about. you looked at it for a moment and then you looked at the couch.

where bucky sat. 

not at one end or the other. somewhere in the middle, which you'd learned was his preferred placement in every room, never with his back entirely exposed, never too close to an exit to look deliberate about it, and he sat with the metal arm resting on his knee and his eyes moving between the dark screen and the door and you, the three points of a triangle he'd been running since you walked in. you sat beside him, and scrolled through what was available.

you weren't really reading the titles. you were aware of him beside you the way you were always aware of him, the warmth and the specific gravity of a person that large in a space, the way the couch distributed his weight differently to yours, the quiet occasional sound of the metal arm's plates when he shifted. you scrolled and you thought about the kitchen and becca and blue and small, real small, and you thought about the tin of biscuits that was currently sitting on the counter because neither of you had put it back, and eventually you landed on lady and the tramp because it was there and it was easy and sometimes easy was the right call.

you pressed play.

the opening music came on and the screen filled with colour and bucky looked at it with the direct, serious attention he brought to everything, and you settled back against the cushions and let the film start.

four minutes in, his hand came up and found your shoulder.

not carefully, not tentatively. just found it, the hand landing on your shoulder with the calm certainty of someone who had decided where it was going before it left his side, and then the pressure started, gentle and steady and completely without hurry, and you were being moved, just steadily sideways and down, the angle of your body changing by degrees, your shoulder going toward his and your head going toward his shoulder, and the pressure didn't stop until your head was resting against him and his arm had settled around you and then it stopped and stayed. just like before

you looked straight ahead at the screen.

"was that you deciding we were doing this?" you said.

he said nothing.

"right," you said. "okay."

then, with his arm still around you and the film still going on the screen, he reached for the blanket with his free hand and shook it out and settled it over you. he did it one-handed and he did it thoroughly, which was how he did everything — tucking the edge in along your side first, then smoothing the top of it across your lap with the flat of his hand, then checking the edge at your feet, then adjusting the side again slightly, all of it slow and considered and with the focused attention of someone for whom the difference between done and done correctly was not a distinction they were willing to blur. when he was satisfied with it he looked at you, a brief checking look, confirming.

"thank you," you said.

he looked back at the screen.

the projector threw warm soft light across the room and the rest of the tower was its evening self outside the windows and the blanket was exactly as comfortable as it looked and his shoulder was solid under your head and it was, genuinely and without any argument available against it, exactly what the day needed to end on. you'd been fighting the comfortable for about a minute and a half before you gave up and just let it be comfortable.

you watched lady and the tramp.

he watched it and he watched you, the quiet checking that had become so constant you'd stopped registering it as checking and started registering its absence instead, the faint wrongness when a minute went by without it. his thumb moved sometimes against your shoulder, a slow small arc through the blanket, back and forth, and you weren't sure he knew he was doing it. the room was dim and warm and the film played on and you'd mostly forgotten about the day by the time lady was looking up at the big house with the lights in the windows.

the spaghetti scene came on.

bucky went still. not the uncomfortable stillness, not the operational kind. the attending kind, the quality of stillness he had when something had his full and genuine interest, and you felt him go still more than you saw it, the change in how he was sitting, the weight of his attention shifting entirely to the screen. you watched it with him, the candlelit table and the shared plate and the two dogs and the meatball rolling down the strand of spaghetti until they were nose to nose.

then he straightened up slightly, untangled his arm from around your shoulders, and stood up.

you looked up at him. "where are you going?"

he looked at the kitchen doorway. then he walked through it.

you turned back to the screen and listened to him in the pantry. the cupboard, the specific high shelf, the quiet of him moving around in there, and then his footsteps back, and then the couch taking his weight again.

you looked at what he was carrying.

the tin. tony's tin, dark green and gold, considerably lighter than it had been this morning. you looked at it and then looked at him.

"bucky," you said.

he opened the tin. he looked into it with the serious focused consideration of someone taking a task seriously. he reached in and took out a round shortbread with crystallised sugar on the top, and he held it between two fingers and looked at it, and then he looked at you, and then, without ceremony, he put it in his mouth.

not all of it. half of it. the other half sticking out from between his teeth, and he turned toward you with the biscuit and his dark eyes and the expression of a man who had watched a cartoon, identified the relevant information, and was now implementing it with total and absolute seriousness.

you stared at him.

he waited. the half-biscuit was still between his teeth. his face was entirely, completely straight. after a moment he raised one eyebrow.

you laughed.

not a small laugh. the full kind, the one that came up from somewhere low without permission, and you bent forward over your knees under the blanket and laughed with your hand over your mouth and your eyes watering, and he waited with the biscuit and the eyebrow and the total, unhurried patience of someone who had done the maths and was confident in the result. when you came up for air he hadn't moved. the biscuit was still there. the eyebrow was still up.

"you watched the spaghetti scene," you said, when you could, "and that was your takeaway."

the eyebrow stayed up.

you leaned in and bit the other end of the biscuit.

it snapped cleanly and you pulled back with your half and he ate his half and the film was still going on the screen behind you and you were sitting there on the couch with tears at the corners of your eyes and crumbs on the blanket and shortbread dissolving on your tongue, and something at the corner of his mouth was very nearly there.

"that doesn't count," you said. "for the record. completely different category to the spaghetti scene."

he reached into the tin.

"absolutely not," you said.

he put the next one in his mouth.

"bucky."

you leaned in and bit it anyway. you'd made your peace with having no self-control about this. the biscuit snapped, you ate your half, he ate his, and you shook your head at him and he looked nearly, very nearly pleased about something, and then his arm came back around your shoulders and found its position like it had never left and he guided your head back to his shoulder with the gentle steady pressure of a decision already made, and you went, because you had no argument against it and didn't particularly want one.

his thumb started moving again against your shoulder. the slow arc, back and forth through the blanket. the film played on.

after a while his hand moved from your shoulder.

not away. down, the hand travelling from your shoulder to your upper arm, and it stayed there, warm and still, and then after another while it moved again, the same slow deliberateness, coming to rest at your waist over the blanket. not gripping, just there. the weight of his hand at your waist and the warmth of his arm and you looked at the screen and tracked it all with the attention you always paid to him and said nothing.

then he shifted.

the weight of him redistributing, his arm adjusting, the metal hand moving from his knee to the cushion beside you with a quiet sound of settling plates, and you felt the incremental nature of it, the degree-by-degree quality of what he was doing, each small movement given room to be seen and responded to before the next one. his face was close above yours, tilted down, dark eyes and the serious unhurried expression he had for everything he'd decided to do, watching your face at each degree. 

you lay back against the cushions.

he came over you slowly, carefully, with the extraordinary deliberate gentleness that had been running through the entire day, through every touch and every held-out biscuit and every slow arc of his thumb, and he kept most of his weight on the braced arm beside your head, and he was very large and very warm and very close, his face above yours and the metal arm quiet at the edge of your vision and the flesh hand near your waist and the blanket still tucked around you from when he'd done it forty minutes ago.

his eyes were on yours. the whole thing, from the first inch of shifting weight to here, had been watched, and you'd been watched the whole way through, and the watching was asking and the asking was patient and genuine and had none of the winter soldier in it, none of the flat operational quality. just him. just this.

"hi," you said.

the corner of his mouth lifted. small and crooked and there for just a second before it was gone, and it was the first time you'd seen it fully arrive and fully commit to being there, not the almost and the territory adjacent to it, the actual thing, and you held it in the part of your mind where you kept things that mattered and did not make a big deal of it. he lowered his head and pressed his nose into your hair. slowly, the same way he'd done everything today after the corridor, and he stayed there, his face in your hair, and breathed, and the film played on behind you and the city was dark and indifferent outside the windows and the projector light was warm and soft and the tin of tony's biscuits was open on the table and neither of you said anything at all.

you thought about pieces coming back.

you thought about ‘small, real small'. you thought about the kitchen and the voice cracking on ‘last time’ and the hand that hadn't let go of yours for most of the day.

you closed your eyes.

the blanket was warm, he was warmer.

you stayed there, just like last time.

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he'd suggested it like it was nothing.

baz's place, sunday afternoon, the kind of easy lazy day that collected people like loose change and somehow andrew had ended up across from you in the cleared out space of the backyard, and somehow he'd said you spar? and somehow you'd said not really and somehow that had turned into I'll show you which is how he ends up here.

close enough to adjust your stance. which he does; hands on your hips, moving you without asking, tilting your weight forward with a patience that isn't really patience so much as a reason to keep his hands where they are.

"feet wider," he says.

you listen. of course you listen. that's the thing about you that's been quietly making him insane since baz introduced you — you are just all soft edges and easy smiles and genuine attention, like the world hasn't given you enough reasons to be any other way. you don't know what to do with him yet. he can tell. he makes you nervous in the specific way that isn't quite fear. he's going to think about that later.

"okay," he says, stepping back, putting distance between you he doesn't want. "hit me."

you blink. "i'm not going to — andrew, i don't want to hurt you—"

he almost laughs, almost. "you're not going to hurt me."

"you don't know that—"

"I really do." he tilts his head. "come on."

you look at his face, look at his hands, shift your weight uncertainly and it's genuinely the most endearing thing he's seen in recent memory, which is another problem he'll deal with later.

"i don't — can we just do the blocking thing—"

"you're not gonna break me, sweetheart."

"i know that," you say, a little more firmly.

"do you?" he's almost smiling now. "because you're looking at me like I'm made of glass and I promise you I am not." he spreads his hands wide, drops his guard completely, a wide open target and he knows it. "baz ever tell you how many times I've taken a hit? i've been hit by professionals. you're not going to—"

"you're being annoying," you tell him, which is such a you thing to say that it does something to his chest.

"you're too nice," he says, quieter now, head dipping toward yours. "that's your problem. you don't want to hurt anyone. very sweet." A pause. "very useless."

your eyes narrow and your jaw sets.

you hit him.

a real punch, open frustration finally finding its shape, knuckles catching his jaw clean and snapping his head sideways with a soft moan escaping from his lips. The sound of your punch carries across the backyard yet, he doesn't move his feet. Andrew stays turned away for a moment while his tongue moves to the inside of his cheek

You freeze the second after your knuckles connect, the sharp crack of impact echoing in the quiet backyard. your hand throbs—a dull, insistent pulse that shoots up your arm and you stare at it like it's betrayed you, fingers flexing open and closed as if that might undo the damage. andrew's head is still turned away, his broad shoulders tense under the faded t-shirt, and for a heartbeat, you think you've really gone and fucked up this time. he's going to turn around, rub his jaw, laugh it off in that low, mocking way he has, and you'll have to apologize. again. like you do for everything else; bumping into the edge of the coffee table last week, spilling a drop of wine on the counter, existing in a space that's too full of sharp edges and sharper people.

but he doesn't laugh, rub his jaw or spin back with that easy grin baz wears like a second skin. instead, he stays facing away, one hand lifting slowly to press against the side of his face, fingers probing the spot where your fist landed. you see the muscle in his jaw jump under his touch, and something hot and guilty twists in your gut. 'andrew—' you start, voice small and frayed at the edges, already reaching out like you could take it back. 'i’m so sorry, I didn't mean—'

he turns then, slow and deliberate, brown eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in place better than any hold he could put on you. there's no anger there, no reproach, just a faint sheen of surprise, like he's tasting something unexpected on his tongue. the cheek where you hit him is already starting to redden, a shadow blooming under the skin, and he works his jaw side to side, testing it. a low hum escapes him, not quite a groan, but close enough to make your breath hitch.

'fuck,' he mutters, but it's not directed at you. his gaze drops, flicks over your face, your outstretched hand, and then lower, lingering on the way your chest rises and falls too quickly. you follow his eyes without thinking, and that's when you notice it—the unmistakable bulge straining against the front of his jeans, thick and insistent, like your punch flipped some hidden switch inside him. heat floods your cheeks, a rush that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun beating down on the patchy grass. he's hard. rock hard, from that? from you hitting him?

your mouth goes dry, words tangling in your throat as you snatch your hand back, crossing your arms over your chest like that could shield you from the sudden awareness crackling between you. andrew doesn't move, doesn't try to hide it. if anything, he shifts his weight, hips canting forward just enough to make the outline clearer, and his lips curve into something that's half-smile, half-challenge. 'see?' he says, voice rougher now, gravel scraping over the edges. 'told you. not gonna break me.'

you swallow, glancing away toward the fence where the overgrown bougainvillea spills over in tangled pink blooms, anywhere but at the evidence of what your frustration did to him. but he's patient, like always—standing there, letting the silence stretch until it pulls your eyes back to his. the bruise is darkening, a purpling mark that should make you feel worse, but instead, there's this weird thrill buzzing under your skin, mixing with the guilt. he wanted this. goading you, pushing until you snapped. and now he's looking at you like you're the one who's surprised him.

'i—' you gesture vaguely at his face, then lower, your hand hovering before dropping to your side. 'that... you're...'

'hard as a fucking rock,' he finishes for you, blunt and unapologetic, stepping closer until the space between you shrinks to nothing. his hand comes up, not to his jaw this time, but to your wrist—fingers wrapping around it loosely, thumb pressing into the pulse point where your heart hammers. it's not rough, but it's firm, grounding, and you don't pull away. can't, really. 'because of you, sweetheart. that punch? best thing I've felt in weeks.'

his words hang there, heavy and honest in a way andrew cody isn't supposed to be. you search his face, looking for the joke, the deflection, but it's just him; jaw set, eyes dark with something hungry and careful all at once. the air feels thicker now, charged like the moment before a storm breaks, and you realize Baz is probably inside with the others, laughing over beers, oblivious to the shift out here. your free hand twists in the hem of your shirt, a nervous habit, and he notices, his grip tightening just a fraction.

'don't apologize,' he says, quieter, leaning in until you can smell the faint salt of his skin, the hint of sunscreen from earlier. 'you did good. hit like you meant it.' his other hand lifts, hesitating before settling on your hip, mirroring the way he'd adjusted your stance before. but this time, it's not instruction—it's possession, subtle and warm, pulling you flush against him. you feel it then, the hard length of his cock pressing into your stomach through the denim, hot and unyielding, and a shiver runs down your spine, pooling low in your core.

your breath catches, and you tilt your head up, meeting his gaze. he's so close, close enough that you could rise on your toes and— 'andrew,' you whisper, not sure if it's a question or a plea, but it makes his eyes hood, his thumb stroking a slow circle over your wrist.

'yeah?' He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. 'what do you want now? another shot? or something else?'

you don't know. 

or maybe you do, in the way your body leans into his touch, the way your fingers uncurl from your shirt to tentatively press against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under your palm. he's patient, waiting, but the tension coils tighter, his hand sliding from your hip to the small of your back, urging you closer still. the bruise on his jaw throbs faintly—he can feel it, a sweet ache that matches the one building in his groin—and he wants more. wants you to see it, to feel bold enough to take it.

'tell me,' he murmurs, nipping lightly at your earlobe, testing. 'or show me.'

your hand slides up, fingers grazing the reddened skin of his jaw, and he inhales sharply, cock twitching against you. that's all the encouragement he needs—his mouth finds yours, not gentle, but measured, like he's savoring the taste of your hesitation melting away. you kiss him back, tentative at first, then deeper, your nails digging into his shoulder as the world narrows to the heat of him, the way he groans into your mouth when you press harder against the bruise.

your fingers tighten on the front of his jeans, feeling the rigid heat of his cock straining beneath the denim, and something bold surges through you—hot and unapologetic, chasing away the last threads of hesitation. andrew's mouth is still on yours, hungry but yielding, his body pressing you into the fence like he's afraid you'll slip away. but you don't want to slip. you want more of that raw edge he pulled from you, the way his breath hitched when your knuckles met his jaw. with a firm push against his chest, you break the kiss, his lips chasing yours for a second before he stills, blue eyes wide and questioning, that faint bruise blooming darker under his skin.

'come on,' you murmur, voice low and steady despite the thrum in your veins. your hand slides down to lace fingers with his, tugging him away from the fence and toward the shadowed side of the house. the backyard noise fades—baz's laughter filtering through the screen door, the clink of bottles—but it's distant now, irrelevant. andrew follows without protest, his steps matching yours, but you catch the way his free hand flexes at his side, like he's holding back from pulling you closer. he's not pushing, not taking; he's letting you lead, that patient hunger in his gaze turning needy as you duck around the corner, out of sight behind the overgrown hedge and the peeling stucco wall.

the air here is cooler, shaded from the sun, the ground uneven with patches of dirt and dry grass. you release his hand and turn, backing him up against the house until his shoulders hit the wall with a soft thud. he exhales sharply, head tipping back against the siding, exposing the line of his throat where his pulse jumps. 'you gonna hit me again?' he asks, but there's no challenge in it—just a rough whisper, almost hopeful, his hips shifting forward instinctively.

'no,' you say, shaking your head as your hands drop to his belt, unbuckling it with quick, sure movements. the metal clinks, zipper rasping down, and you tug his jeans open, shoving them along with his boxers down his thighs just enough to free him. his cock springs out, thick and heavy, the head flushed dark and already leaking a bead of precum that glistens in the dim light. it's bigger than you expected, veined and curving slightly upward, and the sight of it makes your mouth water, your core clench with anticipation. andrew's breath catches, a small, needy sound escaping as the cool air hits his skin.

you sink to your knees before he can say anything, the rough ground biting into your skin through your jeans, but you don't care. your hands grip his thighs, feeling the muscle tense under your palms, coarse hair brushing your fingers. he looks down at you, eyes black and dilated, lips parted like he's forgotten how to form words. 'fuck—' he starts, but it turns into a whine, high and breathy, when you lean in and drag your tongue flat along the underside of his shaft, from base to tip, tasting the salty tang of him.

'oh god, yeah,' he whimpers, one hand flying to the wall beside his head for support, the other hovering uncertainly over your hair before dropping away, like he doesn't want to presume. he's not grabbing, not thrusting, just standing there, legs trembling slightly as you swirl your tongue around the head, lapping up that precum before sealing your lips around him. you suck gently at first, hollowing your cheeks, taking him in inch by inch until the thick girth stretches your mouth, your jaw aching in the best way.

andrew's hips buck once, involuntary, and a soft, keening whine spills from his throat. ‘please—shit, just like that. don't stop.' his voice cracks on the last word, whiny and desperate, nothing like the controlled taunts from earlier. he's unraveling already, breaths coming in short pants, his cock twitching against your tongue as you bob your head, setting a slow, teasing rhythm. saliva slicks down his length, dripping onto your chin, and you hum around him, the vibration pulling another whimper from deep in his chest.

'you feel so good,' he gasps, free hand finally settling lightly on your shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to show how hard he's holding back. 'your mouth—fuck, it's perfect. i... i need this. need you.' there's no macho growl, no demands—just raw, pleading honesty, his body surrendering to the wet heat of your mouth as you take him deeper, nose brushing the coarse hair at his base. he smells musky, masculine, and you breathe him in, one hand wrapping around what you can't fit, stroking in time with your sucks.

his whines grow louder, more frequent, a string of breathy pleas tumbling out. 'yes—oh, please, keep going. I'm yours, do whatever... ah!' the last one pitches higher when you graze your teeth lightly along his shaft on the upstroke, not enough to hurt, just enough to make his knees buckle. Hh slides down the wall a fraction, thighs quivering under your grip, but you follow, relentless, hollowing your cheeks harder as you pick up speed. orecum leaks steadily now, mixing with your spit, and you swallow around him, throat relaxing to take more.

andrew's head thumps back against the house, eyes squeezing shut as a long, trembling moan escapes. 'gonna—fuck, your tongue, it's too much. i can't... please let me cum in your mouth?' it’'s a question, needy and whiny. his fingers twitch on your shoulder, wanting to serve even now, wanting to touch, to please back—but he restrains himself, hips rolling shallowly into your rhythm, chasing the edge you're building.

you pull off with a wet pop, just long enough to look up at him, lips swollen and shiny. 'cum for me,' you command softly, and that's all it takes. your mouth engulfs him again, sucking hard and fast, hand twisting at the base, and andrew shatters with a broken whimper, cock pulsing as hot spurts of cum flood your mouth. you swallow every drop, milking him through it, his whines turning to soft, grateful sobs as his body shakes, release crashing over him in waves.

when he's spent, you ease off, licking him clean with gentle swipes of your tongue, and he slumps against the wall, chest heaving, eyes opening to meet yours with a dazed, adoring haze. 'that was... you...' he trails off, voice hoarse and whiny still, reaching down to cup your jaw tenderly, thumb brushing your lower lip. no dominance, just quiet service in the afterglow, ready to return the favor if you ask.

the dinner rush had ended an hour ago, but jack's kitchen was still alive with the low hum of cleaning equipment and the smell of stock simmering on the back burner. he stood at the pass, jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow, marking up tomorrow's menu with a pen that had seen better days.

he didn't look up when you came in.

"you're late," he said, flipping the page. a beat of silence. then — a plate slid across the steel counter toward you. something small. perfectly plated. the dish he'd been testing all week, the one he hadn't let anyone taste yet.

he still didn't look up.

"tell me what's wrong with it."

you approach the counter slowly, your waitress uniform—a simple black blouse and skirt that hugs your hips—still carrying the faint scent of the dining room's polished wood and lingering wine. at 24, you're his favorite for good reason: quick on your feet, always with a smile that disarms even the rowdiest tables, and those soft curves that catch his eye when no one's watching. the kitchen feels quieter now, the back door cracked open to let in the cool night air, but the faint clatter from the dish pit reminds you you're not entirely alone. there's a charge in the air tonight, thicker than usual, like the steam from the pots has woven itself into something unspoken between you two.

you pick up the fork, the plate warm under your fingers, and take a small bite. it's rich—tender meat glazed in a sauce that's savory with a hint of spice, paired with delicate vegetables that melt on your tongue. but there's something off, a subtle imbalance in the seasoning that lingers just a touch too sharp. you savor it, letting the flavors settle, aware of his presence like a weight at the edge of your vision.

"it's almost perfect, chef," you say softly, setting the fork down, your voice carrying a hint of nervousness that you can't quite hide. "the sauce is bold, but maybe a bit more sweetness to balance the heat?"

jack finally lifts his head, his sharp blue eyes locking onto yours. at 42, he's all lean muscle from years on his feet, his face etched with the lines of someone who demands excellence. a smirk tugs at his lips, slow and knowing, as if he's been waiting for this exact moment. he doesn't move at first, just holds your gaze, letting the silence stretch until it hums with tension. the pen taps once against the counter, a deliberate rhythm that matches the quickening beat of your heart.

"almost perfect," he echoes, his voice low and gravelly, rolling the words like he's tasting them himself. he rounds the counter then, not rushing, each step measured, closing the distance between you with a predator's patience. the air thickens, charged with that unspoken tension that's been building for weeks—stolen glances during service, his hand brushing yours when passing plates, the way his eyes linger on the sway of your skirt as you weave through the dining room.

he stops just inches away, close enough that you can smell the faint spice on his skin, mixed with the kitchen's warmth. his hand reaches out, not to touch you yet, but to hover near your face, thumb brushing the air as if deciding. then, with deliberate slowness, he swipes a stray bit of sauce from the corner of your mouth. the pad of his thumb lingers on your lower lip, pressing just enough to part them slightly, sending a spark through you. he brings it to his own lips, sucking it clean with a soft hum, his eyes darkening as they stay fixed on yours.

"you've got good taste, sweetheart," he murmurs, the endearment wrapping around you like smoke. "but words aren't enough in my kitchen. i need to see how it sits with you. how you react."

your breath catches, the proximity making your skin prickle. he doesn't back away; instead, he leans in closer, his free hand settling lightly on your hip, fingers splaying over the fabric of your skirt. it's not forceful, not yet—just a claim, warm and steady, grounding you against the counter. the faint clatter from the dish pit fades into the background, but the risk of it sharpens everything, makes your pulse thrum in your ears.

"jack," you whisper, unsure if it's a plea or an invitation, but he smiles at the sound of his name on your lips, small and intimate.

"shh," he soothes, his thumb tracing your jaw now, tilting your chin up. "just relax. let me show you what i mean." his face dips lower, breath ghosting over your neck, not touching yet, teasing the sensitive skin there with warmth alone. you tilt your head instinctively, exposing more, and he rewards you with a soft chuckle, the vibration rumbling against your collarbone.

then his lips brush your neck—light at first, a feather-touch that raises goosebumps. he kisses there slowly, open-mouthed, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin mingled with the faint trace of the dining room's bustle. each press is deliberate, building heat layer by layer, his stubble scraping just enough to make you shiver. "you work so hard out there," he murmurs against your pulse point, lips vibrating the words. "bending over tables, smiling through the chaos. makes a man wonder what else you're good at keeping up with."

his hand on your hip tightens slightly, pulling you flush against him, and you feel the hard line of his body, the evidence of his arousal pressing into your belly. but he doesn't rush; instead, he trails kisses up your neck, nipping at your earlobe before capturing your mouth in a kiss that's surprisingly gentle at first. his lips move against yours with a slow exploration, tongue teasing the seam until you open for him, letting him deepen it. it's intimate, consuming—the taste of him, coffee and spice, mixing with the sauce still on your tongue.

you melt into it, hands rising to grip his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as he explores your mouth with languid strokes. when he pulls back, it's only enough to rest his forehead against yours, breaths mingling. "that's better," he says softly, voice roughened. "now, about that dish..."

he guides your hand back to the plate, his fingers intertwining with yours as he dips them both into the warm sauce. the liquid coats your skin, sticky and inviting, and he lifts your joined hands to his mouth. his tongue swirls around your fingertips first, hot and wet, sucking gently while his eyes hold yours captive. the sensation shoots straight down your spine, pooling heat between your thighs. he moves to his own fingers next, but not before pressing a kiss to your palm, lingering there as if savoring more than just the food.

"see how it clings?" he asks, releasing your hand with a wet pop. "that's what i want from you—clinging, needy, perfect." his free hand slides up your arm, tracing the curve of your shoulder before tangling lightly in your hair. he kisses you again, deeper this time, the sauce forgotten as his body presses closer, trapping you against the counter.

the foreplay builds like a slow simmer, his mouth returning to your neck, sucking marks into the skin that you'll have to hide tomorrow. his hands roam—sliding under your blouse to caress your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your bra. you arch into him, a soft whimper escaping, and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your throat.

"fuck, you're responsive," he breathes, nipping at your collarbone. "my favorite little waitress, all flushed and eager. been thinking about this all shift—getting you alone, tasting every inch." his fingers work open the buttons of your blouse one by one, exposing lace and skin to the cool kitchen air. he doesn't strip you fully, just enough to palm your breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers until it's peaked and aching.

you gasp, hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer. the tension coils tighter, every touch electric, the semi-public setting amplifying it—the distant hum of the exhaust fan, the occasional clink from afar. "jack, please," you murmur, voice breathy, your body aching for more.

he smiles against your skin, dark and promising. "patience, sweetheart. i want to savor you like one of my recipes." he drops to his knees then, surprising you, his hands pushing your skirt higher as he kisses a trail down your sternum, over your stomach. the counter supports you as he hooks his fingers into your panties, sliding them down slowly, inch by inch, letting the fabric drag against your thighs.

exposed now, cool air kissing your bare folds, you feel vulnerable and thrilled. he doesn't dive in immediately; instead, he presses open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, alternating sides, teeth grazing just enough to tease. "spread for me," he commands softly, and you do, feet parting on the tiled floor. his breath fans over your cunt, warm and torturous, before his tongue finally makes contact—a long, slow lick from entrance to clit, savoring you with a deep hum.

"better than any sauce," he mutters, voice muffled as he laps at you steadily, tongue flat and broad. his hands grip your thighs, holding you open while he explores—circling your clit with the tip, then dipping inside to thrust shallowly. the wet sounds fill the kitchen, obscene and intimate, your arousal coating his chin as you thread fingers through his hair, holding him there.

pleasure builds gradually, his pace unhurried, drawing out every gasp and moan. he pauses to kiss your thigh again, looking up at you with hooded eyes. "you taste so fucking sweet, dripping for your chef." then he's back, sucking your clit gently, fingers joining to slide inside you—two thick digits curling against your walls, stretching you with a slow pump.

"j-jack—oh, it's too good," you stutter, hips rocking against his face, the coil tightening low in your belly. he adds a third finger, the fullness making you clench, his tongue relentless now, flicking and sucking in rhythm.

but he doesn't let you cum yet, pulling back with a smirk, lips glistening. "not on my tongue alone. i want you begging for my cock." rising, he captures your mouth again, letting you taste yourself on him—the kiss messy and deep, his hands everywhere, pinching nipples, gripping your ass.

finally, the tension snaps into action. he spins you roughly, bending you over the counter, your chest pressing against the cool steel. the plate is shoved aside, sauce spilling slightly, and he uses it—dipping his fingers in to trace the liquid along your spine before licking it off with hot, possessive strokes. "marked with my flavors," he growls, smacking your ass once, the sting blooming into heat.

"good girl, so ready for me." he frees his cock, thick and veined, rubbing the head along your slick entrance, teasing without entering. you push back, whimpering, and he chuckles, delivering another light spank. "eager little thing. my pretty slut in the kitchen."

with a firm thrust, he sinks in, the stretch intense and perfect, your cunt gripping him tight. he doesn't pound immediately; instead, he rolls his hips slowly, grinding deep, one hand in your hair to arch you back for neck kisses—wet and sucking, marking you further. "feel that? chef's cock filling you up, right where you serve my plates."

the pace builds gradually, his thrusts deepening, the slap of skin echoing. he reaches around to rub your clit, fingers slippery, drawing out moans. "take it, sweetheart—let me ruin this tight cunt."

pulling out, he turns you again, lifting you onto the counter. legs wrapping his waist, he slides back in, face to face, kissing you deeply as he thrusts up, slow and intimate at first, then rougher. he sucks on your neck, whispering dirty praises—"so beautiful like this, bouncing on me, my favorite girl."

he grabs a bit of the meat from the plate, feeding it to you mid-thrust, the intimacy of it heightening everything. 

your orgasm crashes over you in waves, body shuddering as you clench around jack's cock, walls fluttering and milking him deep inside. the intensity pulls a ragged cry from your throat, muffled against his shoulder as you bite down lightly on the fabric of his shirt. he thrusts through it, grinding hard against your clit with each roll of his hips, prolonging the bliss until your legs tremble uncontrollably around his waist.

jack follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, his release flooding you in hot spurts that paint your insides. his arms band tight around your back, holding you pinned to him as he rides out the aftershocks, cock twitching with every pulse. the kitchen air hangs heavy with the scent of sex and spilled sauce, the counter sticky beneath you from the forgotten plate.

he doesn't pull out right away, staying seated deep as your breaths sync in the quiet aftermath. slowly, he eases you down from the high, one hand stroking up your spine in soothing circles while the other cups the nape of your neck. his lips find your forehead first—a soft, lingering press that grounds you, followed by a trail of gentle kisses across your temple, down to your cheek. 'easy now, sweetheart,' he whispers, voice husky but warm, all the earlier roughness melted away into something tender.

you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers threading into the short hairs at his collar, pulling him closer as if afraid he'll vanish. he indulges you, nuzzling into the crook of your shoulder, planting feather-light kisses along your collarbone and up to the sensitive spot just below your ear. each one is unhurried, reverent, his stubble grazing your skin in a way that sends little aftershocks tingling through you. 'you did so good for me,' he murmurs between kisses, lips brushing your jaw. 'took every inch like you were made for it.'

the intimacy wraps around you both like a blanket, his body still joined with yours, the warmth of him seeping into your core. he shifts slightly, careful not to jostle too much, and captures your mouth in a slow, deep kiss—no rush, just the slide of tongues and shared breaths, tasting the remnants of sauce and sweat. your arms tighten around his neck, holding him there, and he hums in approval, one hand sliding up to cradle your face, thumb stroking your flushed cheek.

minutes pass like that, lost in the soft exploration, until your heartbeats slow to a steady rhythm. only then does he withdraw gently, a wet slide that makes you both hiss at the loss. he helps you off the counter, steadying you on wobbly legs, his hands never leaving your hips. 'got you,' he says softly, turning you to face him fully. he buttons your blouse with careful fingers, tucking a stray hair behind your ear before leaning in for another kiss—this one to your nose, playful and sweet.

you lean into his chest, arms looping back around his neck, and he obliges, wrapping you in a loose embrace. his lips ghost over your neck again, not heated this time, but comforting, tracing the faint marks he'll have to explain away later. 'feel better?' he asks, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, a small smile curving his mouth.

'mm, much,' you reply, voice still breathy, nuzzling closer. the distant clatter from the dish pit reminds you of the world outside this bubble, but it feels far away, insignificant.

jack chuckles low, his hands settling on your waist as he sways you gently, almost like a dance. he kisses your lips once more, soft and chaste, before glancing at the ruined plate beside you—the meat half-eaten, sauce smeared across the steel. his eyes sparkle with mischief. 'so, now that you've had your fill... how was the meat?'

you burst into laughter, the absurdity hitting you amid the post-orgasm haze, burying your face in his neck to muffle the giggles. 'jack! you're terrible.'

he grins, unrepentant, pulling you tighter. 'what? quality control's important. can't have my favorite critic going hungry.' he waggles his eyebrows, stealing one last kiss before helping you straighten your skirt. 'but seriously—tomorrow night, we refine the recipe. starting with dessert.'

you leave the kitchen with a smile, legs still a bit unsteady, the promise of more lingering like the best kind of secret.

the earrings were the final touch. you turned in front of the mirror, smoothing down the front of your slinky, red dress, and decided it was good enough. better than good enough, actually. you looked nice.

behind you, in the reflection, dex leaned in the doorway of your bedroom. he'd been there for six minutes, you'd been counting. his sharp and unblinking green eyes track your every movement with the particular focus of a cat watching something it had already decided belonged to it — hadn't moved from you once. his tail was doing that thing where it went completely, unnaturally still, which was somehow worse than when it lashed.

"you're not going," he said.

wame voice he'd used when he introduced himself on your doorstep — smooth, slightly accented, the kind of voice that felt like it was curling around you. except right now it had an edge underneath it that he was working very hard to keep buried.

"dex." you kept your eyes on the mirror. "we talked about this."

"you talked." he pushed off the doorframe, padding into your room on bare feet — silent, the way he always was, the way that still caught you off guard sometimes. "i was present for a conversation i didn't agree to participate in."

"that's not—"

"he's wrong for you."

you turned around. he was closer than he'd looked in the reflection, hovering just inside your space, and the expression on his face made your chest do something complicated. his black ears were flat. not the playful flat he did when he was whining about dinner, or the soft flat when he had his head in your lap on the couch. this was different. tighter. the ears of something genuinely distressed.

"you've never met him," you said.

"i know everything i need to." his tail flicked once, sharp. "he's taking you somewhere that isn't here. that's enough."

"dex—"

"am i not enough?"

the question came out raw — rawer than he'd meant it to, you could tell by the way his jaw went tight immediately after, like he was angry at himself for letting it out that way. his green eyes had gone wide. that particular wide that made your heart do terrible things.

"that's not what this is about," you said carefully.

"then what is it about." not a question. his hands had found the hem of his t-shirt, a nervous gesture he'd never fully shed — fingers worrying at the fabric, claws just barely catching. "i'm here. i do everything. i make your dinners and i fold your clothes and i—" a muscle in his jaw jumped. "i know you. better than some stranger with a nice face could ever—"

"dex." you stepped toward him. "stop."

he stopped. mouth closing. ears still flat.

"come here."

he didn't move for a moment — stubborn, wounded pride warring visibly with the thing he couldn't help being — and then he crossed the remaining distance between you in two steps and sat on the edge of your bed, heavily, like his legs had just decided they were done with the performance.

he put his head in his hands.

"you'll forget about me," he said, muffled. miserable. absolutely wretched in the way only dex could manage, all that sharp feline composure dissolving into something devastatingly soft. "if you find someone. you'll move him in, or you'll move out, and i'll just be — i'll just—"

"dex." you sat beside him. "look at me."

he didn't.

"dex."

slowly, like it cost him, he lifted his head.

you reached up and found the spot — the one just behind his left ear, at the base, where the fur was softest and where absolutely nothing in the world could stop his body from betraying him. you scratched, slow and deliberate.

he went completely still.

the breath left him in a long, shuddering exhale. his ear pressed into your palm, involuntary, helpless, the way it always did no matter how much dignity he was trying to maintain. his tail, which had been rigid, uncurled slightly.

"you are not going to lose me," you said quietly. "one date does not change what you are to me. you understand? this is still your home. you are still my dex."

a long silence. his eyes had closed. the crease between his brows softened.

"...i don't like him," he muttered.

"you don't know him."

"i don't like that you want to." his ear twitched under your fingers. "i don't like the way you said his name when you told me about him. you smiled. you do a specific smile when you're excited about something and you did it about him and i—" he stopped. swallowed. "i didn't like it."

something in your chest ached quietly.

"dex," you said.

"don't." he turned his face away. "don't say it like that."

"i'm not saying anything."

"you're thinking it." he could always tell. it was deeply inconvenient. "you're thinking that i'm being — that it's not my place to—" his tail curled in against his leg. "i know what i am. i know what this arrangement is. i just." a pause. very small. "i don't want him to have what's mine."

the room was quiet.

you kept scratching, slow circles, until the last of the tension drained from him — until his shoulders dropped and his breathing evened and he was just sitting there beside you, warm and sullen and real, radiating reluctant calm.

"fine," he said at last. the word of a man surrendering a battle he'd already lost. he stood abruptly, turning away, and smoothed his shirt down with great dignity. "go. have your date." the word landed like something slightly spoiled. "i'll be here. suffering."

"i know you will."

"i want you to think about that."

"i'll think about it the whole time."

he glanced back at you over his shoulder — green eyes catching the light, sharp and soft at once — and then he walked out. you heard the couch receive him. heard the pointed, performative silence of a creature making absolutely certain you understood the scale of his sacrifice.

you picked up your bag.

you went on your date.

the door clicks shut behind you and you just — stand there for a moment. 

shoes still on. bag still slung heavy over your shoulder. the particular exhaustion of an evening spent performing okayness weighs across your shoulders like lead, pulling at every muscle. you'd known it within the first twenty minutes — his laugh cutting sharp over your words, dismissing them before they could land. that 'joke' about women and ambition, eyes flicking to yours with a challenge masked as charm, waiting for you to bristle or bite back. the endless grind of smiling through it all, nodding at stories that looped back to him, giving chances you'd already burned through because you'd slipped into that slinky red dress, earrings glinting just so, hoping — god, just once — for easy connection. 

for someone to see you without the performance. it wasn't easy. far from it.

then the end: his face flattening into petulance when you sidestepped his lean-in, lips pursing like a child denied a toy. eyes turning cold, confirming the knot in your gut had been right all along — two hours of red flags waving in your face.

you sigh. long and hollow, dragging up from deep in your chest, rattling loose the tension knotted there. you bend to wrestle off your heels — and dex is there. soundless as always on bare feet padding from the hallway, lean frame materializing like shadow given form. his sharp green eyes sweep your face, unblinking, that feline intensity reading every micro-twitch, every sag in your posture. those soft black ears twitch forward slowly from his messy dark hair, tail stilling mid-sway behind him. he reads you now, deep as bone. 

"what happened," he says, voice low and smooth with that faint accent curling the edges, not 'how was it' or 'home early' — straight to the hurt, because his therapy companion instincts sniff it out like blood in water. 

"i'm fine," you murmur, the automatic lie slipping out, throat tight around it. dex crosses the room in three fluid strides, tail tip flicking once before coiling loose. he reaches first for your bag, lifting the strap from your shoulder, easing the weight without rush, setting it precise by the door. then he crouches, long fingers wrapping your ankle steady, sliding off one heel, then the other. he handles them with that obsessive care — thumbs brushing faint dirt from the soles, lining them neat beside the bag like artifacts.

standing tall again, his green gaze locks back on yours, ears perking hopeful yet wary. "what happened," quieter now, laced with that whiny edge he gets when worry gnaws him. something lodges sharp in your throat. 

"he was—" you falter, swallow hard. "it was boring at first. then worse. talked over me, made these... comments. like testing if i'd snap. and at the end, when i didn't kiss him goodbye, he just—" your hand gestures vague, limp, capturing the pettiness without voicing it. "i'm fine. just tired. emotionally wrung out."

his ears flatten a fraction, tail lashing once sharp before he reins it. jaw sets firm, that underlying predator gleam flashing in his eyes — the part beyond the whines and nuzzles, the reminder he's built for protection too. 

"come here," he murmurs, arms opening wide. you don't hesitate. step into him, folding against his lean chest, and dex envelops you completely — one arm banding solid across your back, the other cradling your head to tuck your face into his shirt. no gradual testing tonight, no playful encroachment; just total, immediate surround. his heart thuds steady under your cheek, tail curling possessive around the back of your knee, furred tip stroking soothing circles.

"i know," he whispers into your hair, breath warm, voice cracking soft. a beat of quiet. "i folded all the laundry while you were gone. all of it. even the fitted sheet." 

"the fitted sheet," you echo, muffled against him, a faint huff escaping. "perfectly. first try." his tail tightens playful at your knee. "i'm very impressive when i'm anxious. paced the place, ears pinned back, tail thrashing holes in the rug almost. but it's done. everything crisp, scents mixed with mine now — so you smell me everywhere. safe."

the laugh bubbles up real this time, small and ragged, cracking the exhaustion. it shifts the weight — doesn't vanish it, but spreads it thin across his hold, making it bearable. dex rumbles then, low in his chest: that involuntary purr kicking to life, vibrating through you like a engine warming slow. he catches himself sometimes, ears flicking embarrassed, but tonight? he lets it roll free, deep and steady, chasing your tension away.

you melt deeper into him, fingers threading his messy hair, scratching light behind those sensitive ears. he keens soft — a whiny hitch in his throat — body trembling faint as he nuzzles your temple, claws tipping out just enough to knead gentle rhythms down your spine through the dress. "no one gets to make you perform," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping husky. "not like that. you're mine to care for. mine to make feel good." 

his hands slide lower, palms cupping your ass firm, kneading the flesh as he grinds slow against you — cock hardening thick through his pants, pressing insistent into your belly. the purr deepens, tail snaking up to tease under your skirt, fur tickling inner thighs. "let me erase him," dex breathes, teeth grazing your neck light, not marking yet but promising. "fuck the tired out of you. fill you till you only feel me." 

he spins you gently, backs you to the wall without breaking hold, mouth claiming yours in a deep, languid kiss — tongue stroking slow, tasting your weariness away. claws hook your dress straps, tugging them down to bare your tits, cool air pebbling nipples before his palms cover them, thumbs circling firm. you arch, whimpering into his mouth, and he whines back — needy, obsessive — free hand dipping between thighs to stroke your cunt through panties, fingers pressing soaked fabric right where you ache. 

"wet already," he groans, tail thrashing excited. "for me. always." he yanks panties aside, two fingers sliding deep into your cunt, curling precise to stroke that inner spot, thumb rolling your clit steady. his mouth drops to your neck.

"you smell like him," he whines, voice cracking with raw need, his mouth latches on, sucking hard, teeth grazing as he pulls deep purple hickeys into your skin—marks that scream ownership. one after another, from your pulse point to your collarbone, blooming like violent flowers. his lips roam everywhere, kissing your jaw, your throat, your shoulders, sloppy and frantic. "never leave again. Please.. you're mine. only mine." 

"am i better?" he pleads, lifting his head, eyes wild and vulnerable. "tell me i'm better than that fucker." he couldnt handle his anxious, pretty owner liking someone better than him. 

you meet his gaze, the exhaustion melting under his intensity. “you’re better in every way dex, no one compares to you. you’d never be annoyed if i didn’t kiss you goodnight." 

dex's ears twitch, a scowl twisting his face, low growl rumbling. 'how dare that fucker. annoyed you wouldn't kiss him? he doesn't deserve to breathe your air. i’ll kill him.’

you sigh into his mouth, lips parting, and kiss him deep—tongue tangling with his. he yips in bliss, tail uncurling to lash wildly, but dominance surges. he’s gentle as he takes your dress over, slipping it over your head as he lifts your bra up to latch fangs on your nipple, sucking hard enough to bruise. 'good girl. only kiss me. only me.'

 he drops to his knees suddenly, claws shredding panties aside with a riiiip, face burying between thighs. tongue laps flat over your clit, then plunges into your cunt alongside fingers — lapping your taste like he was starved, faint stubble rubbing against your skin, nose bumping your clit as he whines, "so wet for me. taste so fucking good. better than anything." his tail coils your leg high, holding you open as he sucks your clit hard, teeth grazing light, humming purrs vibrating straight through. his tongue plunges sloppily into your pussy—lapping broad, messy strokes, fangs grazing folds, slurping your arousal like starving. 

"dex— fuck—" you gasp, hips bucking, hands fisting his hair in your grip.

"cum on my tongue," he begs muffled, slurping louder, face soaked glistening. "drown me. show me you need this." fingers pump faster, scissoring stretch, tongue flicking clit rapid. you shatter — thighs quake clamping his head, cunt pulsing floods over his mouth. dex drinks it down, groaning whiny, not stopping till you sag limp. 

then he's up, pants shoved down, cock springing free — long, thick, veined, tip glistening. he lifts you easy, legs wrapping his waist, large, warm hands supporting your ass as he notches and thrusts home slow, stretching your spasming walls inch by inch. 

"fuck," he hisses, bottoming deep, forehead to yours. hips roll languid at first, grinding deep circles, letting you adjust, feel every ridge drag your insides. his mouth finds your tits — sucking one nipple deep, teeth nipping, tongue flicking — while claws prick harmless your hips, holding steady. then his hips are snapping sharp, plap-plap-plap echoing. he growls, spinning to the couch, sitting heavy with you straddling face-to-face. hands bruising your hips, guiding each bounce, cock spearing up ruthlessly. 

you ride hard, grinding down, clit rubbing his base grind-grind. "harder," he pleads whiny, hands spanking your ass. "fuck yourself on my cock. tell me i'm better. beg for my cum."

"better— so much— please, dex, fill me," you whimper, walls clenching vise.

he snarls, thrusting up savage, one hand slapping so hard he leaves a red handprint. you cum again, screaming, cunt spasming floods around him. he doesn't stop — flips you prone on the couch suddenly, mounting from behind, his knees spread wide, cock plunging deeper with each thwack, a pleasant burn created by his balls smacking your clit.

"mine," he whines broken, pounding relentlessly, fingers drawing messy, sloppy circles on your clit. "cum again. again. forget him." round after round — you shatter a third time, fourth, body wrecked shaking, overstimulated sobs mixing moans. dex bites down on your nape, all possessive as he whines and cries soft sobs into your ear. 

you’re too far gone to hear a word. 

"gonna breed you," he begs, hips stuttering. "fill this cunt full. leak me days. never want another." hot jets erupt deep — pulsing, grinding to push every rope in. cum squelches out a squirt with each thrust, but he keeps fucking through it, chasing your fifth orgasm, sixth — till vision whites, mind going soft and blank with the heavy weight of dex pressed into your back, his cum filling you up. 

spent and boneless, you slump, legs and cunt twitching, breaths ragged. you can vaguely feel dex petting your hair softly, kissing your temple as he grinds to push every pulse in. he trembles, purring broken through his release, nuzzling your marked neck as cum starts leaking slow down your thighs, once both of your heartrates settle, his cock slips free. 

he lets out soft purrs at how relaxed and comfortable you are now, all marked up inside and out with him, and waits till your breaths are even, then ghosts silent — tail still, ears perked. hours blur in your fucked-out haze before he curls back possessive, blood-flecked but clean, purring low. "all better now. no one takes you from me."