#mafia!au

but he wasn't. he was a man with a real home. a home that looked like a manor.

he glanced at you as he parked the car. you made no move to get out, to explore. no, you just sat staring, as if you could do nothing else. fine, stare. he had better things to do.

simon pulled your bags from the boot as two of his staff ran over. "when she's done, take 'er to 'er room," he mumbled and tossed them the keys.

they nodded rapidly and continued pulling your things from the boot. as one began taking it to your new bedroom, you continued to stare. five minutes turned into ten, ten nearly turning to fifteen.

there was no telling how long it would have stretched out for if the remaining staff member hadn't pulled open the door. "ma'am," he said, offering you his hand.

you looked at him, took in his polished uniform, his white gloves. he looked like he came with the house, like an immovable painting, glued to the wall.

you placed your hand in his white gloves and let him help you to your feet.

"sorry," you mumbled, taking one look back at the car as he led you to the stone steps. any cracks had been filled but they were still visible, as if intentional.

the entire house was beautiful. the time taken, the careful restoration, had woven its way into every detail. the paintings on the foyer wall were carefully picked out, all fitting the house but no two the same.

"mr riley has picked out a room for you," he said as he led you up the stairs.

picked out a room for you. it came as no surprise that you weren't going to be sharing his room. actually, it was more of a relief. at least you had your own space in this loveless marriage.

you didn't need to ask for a tour; the member of staff was happy to give it. he led you around, pointing out every little detail and giving you a history of the house. you wondered if simon riley had hired him, or if you were right and he really did come with the house.

clearly, this house was his love.

most of the house was covered in sheets. furniture protected from dust in unused rooms. the member of staff cleared his throat and rocked on the balls of his feet. "i hope having a lady of the house means that these rooms are fully utilised," he said and turned to quickly walk away.

you followed him out of the unused rooms, unsure of how you would use them. your future husband didn't look like he'd let you throw parties, fill the rooms with music and laughter. you weren't sure you wanted that, either.

maybe you could find a small room to make your own. a little nook full of books and things to keep you entertained when you weren't playing the part of the perfect wife. you didn't need a lot of space, just somewhere to sit and be alone. maybe with a nice window that overlooked the gardens.

the member of staff took you up the stairs. he pointed out all of the rooms for you, the multitude of unused bedrooms. what could one man need with so many bedrooms?

his office was in the centre of the hallway. two doors kept firmly shut. you could imagine a drop bolt keeping it shut, keeping you out. keeping him in solitude.

the member of staff took you further through the house. several doors separated you from him, from his office. "your bedroom, ma'am," he said and pushed open the door.

you stepped into your bedroom. so far away from home, but this was your home now. a tastefully decorated room, but it felt so lifeless. "thank you," you mumbled to the member of staff as you stepped inside. a whole tour of the house and you hadn't bothered to get his name.

his low bow wasn't really a bow at all. just a way for him to pull the door shut without really entering your bedroom.

your bags were in front of your bed. sitting on the end, you reached for your bag and pulled it open. mostly clothes, a couple of books, and a teddy bear. one of his ears was becoming unstitched and falling away from his face.

laying him on your bed, you searched through your bags for your little sewing kit. it sat in the bottom of your suitcase, in a little tin. a tiny pair of scissors, black and white thread, and a couple of needles. just what you needed to fix mr bear up.

the repetitive motion was soothing. pushing the needle through the ear and through the head in a looping motion until the ear was fully attached to the head again. tying the threat, you cut it, put your sewing kit away and held your bear close.

a tiny piece of home held in your arms. a piece of your life from before. before you came here, before your father became so paranoid. you laid on your new bed, on a mattress too hard for you, on sheets too thin for you to be able to sleep in, and cried.

***

the first thing simon riley did when he bought the house was put cameras in almost every room. even the bedrooms were full of cameras. your bedroom was full of cameras.

he didn't mean to watch you move from room to room. your lips didn't move as you were taken around his house. nothing until you got to your bedroom, until the door was shut. even then, you didn't speak. you just cried after you fixed up that old bear.

body shaking with sobs as you laid in that bed, laid with your bear.

simon changed the camera, watched his staff talk in the kitchen. there was only one interesting topic of conversation in the house; you.

he couldn't read lips, couldn't tell what they were saying, but it had to be about you. nothing else interesting had happened since he bought the house, a year ago. moved out of the shitty apartment he'd grown out of.

you wouldn't have been able to live there with him, not separately. not in your own bedroom. he would've taken the sofa, given you the more comfortable space.

you hadn't asked for this. he just didn't want it to be him.

he checked his texts from price. all of them were about you. the poor little lamb he'd been forced to take as a wife.

you wouldn't be happy here. you'd never be happy here. the crying would stop eventually, but you'd never feel settled, never feel happy.

if he was a better man, he would have left his office. he would have gone to you, asked you what your favourite dinner was, what would make you feel less home sick.

for him, it was chicken soup with a little bit of bread and salty butter. nothing special, just what his mother used to make him when he was sick. half the time it ended up splattered up the kitchen wall when he dad came home in a blind rage. but the nights he got to finish it, got tucked up in bed with a sweet forehead kiss, those were the best.

that sounded like what you needed right now. you just had nobody that could give it to you.

simon switched the camera feed back to you. you hadn't moved, weren't moving. your body was no longer shaking as you slept on top of the blanket with your bear in your arms.

he called one of his staff to throw a blanket over you. you weren't used to the cold in england yet, weren't used to how low the temperatures could drop at night.

his phone vibrated twice on the table. the screen lit up for only a few seconds as a message flashed across the top.

price: get her a new phone

simon responded with a thumbs up. he locked his phone and turned back to his cameras. back to you.

you were going to be so damn lonely in this house. simon didn't know what to do with you. what were you going to do while he worked? what did you do while your brother worked?

at his message request, one of the maids walked into your room. she walked carefully, making sure you stayed asleep. going into one of the cupboards in your room, she pulled out a blanket and laid it over your body.

you stopped shivering, but simon didn't stop watching you. he should have been working, but he was looking at you. you. his future wife.

next

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@dimitrampl

It was an honest accident, you were raised better than this and knew it, too. There was no forethought or malicious intent, but when you heard your name during a conversation you were not apart of, your feet planted firmly in curiosity soil; nearly tripping you to a halt.

You were able to register the hammering of your heart, blood beating with harrowing desperation in your ears like bodiless whispers repeating that single word. Hands turned stiff, cold and clammy; sweat breaking out on your brow only to freeze; throat swelling to a new restriction; feet anchored in place.

Rooted.

For a long moment, all you could identify was paralyzing anxiety that accompanied overhearing what was not meant for your ears; breath shallow, unable to comprehend rational thought while stood outside the penthouse's lounge. You listened to low, docile voices continue their oblivious conversation, but it was as if their words were staggered and muffled, slow to process.

You were stunned. Panicked, mortified, confused, hurt — so very hurt. That seemed to register deepest: you were really, really hurt, yet completely unable to walk away from the exchange.

Curiosity Killed The Cat.

You reprimanded yourself for listening — transported back to childhood during all the times your parents would scold you for eavesdropping around corners or in cupboards. You knew it was wrong, you knew this was a private conversation meant to be shared between trusting confidants, but you couldn't help it — you just heard your name and stopped. It was only natural, right? To feel curious regarding any matter about you that you, yourself, were not apart of?

Curiosity, indeed.

Blinking rapidly, you replayed the words your partner chose to associate with you, and while it might be dramatic, the only other time you could remember this level of such mounting, pressurized fear and anxiety was from about three months ago...

"Yes, baby, I got the bacon."

"And the jalapeños?"

"Uh-huh, the biggest they had."

"Cream cheese?"

"Do you know who you're talking to?" You laughed into the phone's receiver, dodging around a man on his own phone call; missing the way he eyed you up and down. "I got all you need for your little dinner experiment, baby. And some extra snacks."

Bucky laughed down your ear, "Oh, please, don't act as if I didn't see you drooling when we watched Top Chef last night."

"Hush," you snorted gently. "Okay, so, I'm leaving the store now unless you need anything else," you paused, pushing out of the heavy glass doors, hearing him hum, "and should be home in, like, 20 minutes?"

"Which store did you go to? C'mon, I'll come get you — "

"I have legs to walk with, so thank you, but no, thank you."

He huffed, "Well, I'll open the wine to let it breathe. Red's still good?"

"Let's do a white tonight, please."

"Good deal," he mused softly. "Hey, I was thinking earlier — "

"Oh! Hang on a second," you requested, grunting as you stepped off the curb.

"What's wrong?"

"No, nothing. There's just a van slowing down, I don't want to get hit," you chuckled casually, looking up and down the street before crossing. "Sorry, so, what were you thinking?"

"We haven't been to Paris in months."

"Mhm, I'm sure our plants in the apartment are dead by now."

"Oh, I am, too. But how 'bout it, Peach? You, me, all the croissants we can consume this weekend? I'll take Monday off, we can leave tomorrow night."

"Oh, that sounds nice," you moaned, "and we haven't been anywhere since the holidays."

"So, is that a yes?"

"It's a hell yes," you grinned, stepping onto the sidewalk and continuing your venture home. "Do you know what the weather will be like?"

"Uh, well, it's supposed to be kinda overcast but not too cold. Typical spring it looks like," he sounded away from the receiver, navigating his phone. "But does the weather matter if we're in bed the whole time?"

"Oh, no, sir, we're not wasting our time in bed! We did that last time and literally accomplished nothing," you refused with a playful grin. "We're gonna go do shit, okay? Stereotypical touristy couple shit."

"I'll bring the camera and cargo shorts."

"That's hot. I was hoping we could have dinner at that little place we love?"

"I wouldn't take you anywhere else," he easily promised.

"So I think it's — Oh, my God!" Bucky froze with wide eyes when he heard tires screeching; a van coming up to a skidding halt, flurry of voices all yelling but yours rang clear. "No, no, no, hey, hey, what the fuck's happening? Hey! What-What's — hey, hey, hey! Don't touch me! Ow, shit! No! Hey! Fuck, that hurts! Fuck's sake — oh, my God! Ow! Hey! Help! Help! Help me, please! No! Help!"

"Peach! Hey! Answer me! The fuck's going on!? You there? Hey, answer me, baby! Right fucking now, answer me!"

There was a muffled thudding over the phone, and Bucky listened to more struggling, fidgeting, and fighting before a car door slam. Still calling your name, Bucky heard a scrape over the line before a different voice leered from your phone, "James Barnes. On behalf of HYDRA, you're overdue. You've been warned there would be consequences."

"What do you want?" He growled, pacing along the granite kitchen island.

"20 million for our operations network in the harbor, for licensing and transportation fees."

"We agreed to 17."

"We've added an inconvenience fee. Stalking your woman didn't come cheap."

"If you even so much as touch her, I swear to God — "

"We already have her, Mr. Barnes, you're in no position to make any demands. 20 million at midnight, at the pier, or every minute you're late, we'll take from her."

"Don't hurt her, she has nothing to do with our business — "

"Midnight, Mr. Barnes, at the pier — you know where. Don't be late, she looks like she won't last long."

The line went dead after he heard your yelp of pain; learning later your index finger was broken to keep you from wriggling out of your confines. The moment the line cut, Bucky's phone clattered to the granite and he slowly lowered to sit on the kitchen floor, shock coloring his system. This wasn't supposed to happen.

It wasn't that he didn't have the money, quite the opposite — but he and his men already had a plan in motion to take out HYDRA, their org's competition, and this was against all they anticipated. Despite the vast security measures Bucky took towards your safety, it was evident HYDRA took care to plot and struck at an opportune time; since it was a rarity to be completely alone during "deal days". It was a single, simple rule about his job; during times of heightened emotion, tension, business dealings, you usually had some type of... Guard. Chaperone made you feel infantilized. Just someone that kept an eye on things you didn't notice; armed to the teeth "just in case"; and usually drove you everywhere as the streets were too unpredictable. How a single trip to the grocery store just a couple blocks away turned this wrong, this fast — Bucky let his anger heighten.

After a minute to stew in his own guilt and worry, attempting to organize his thoughts around this worst case scenario, Bucky jumped to his feet, grabbed his phone, keys, wallet, and two silver handguns; holstering them both before shrugging on his suit jacket.

He made every phone call he could, gathering the men he trusted most to one of his warehouse(s).

For hours, you were strung up by your wrists in a joint-wracking position while the Brooklyn Mafia formulated a plan of attack. The pain of position was bad enough, but hearing the ways they intended to hurt you was enough to make your stomach curl. You were confused, miserable, dazed, praying to a God who didn't listen.

"Oh, look at that," your captor mocked, holding a thick-bladed hunting knife in hand, "it's one minute til midnight, and I don't see your loverboy anywhere." You sniffled, unable to respond; body tender, spirits not yet broken but definitely stretched thin. He stared out the lone window, tisking and narrating, "Nope, I see not a soul — and considering how protective he is over you, you'd think he wouldn't leave it to chance, huh?"

You whimpered as the clock struck midnight, your lungs tightening with heavy worry. You had tears in your eyes, heart nearly thumping out of your chest, feeling increasingly nauseous. The desire to scream never lessened, just fearing what was to come; the men in the room making you fear for the state of your life, their knuckles cracking. You only begged, "Please. Don't."

The man who spoke to Bucky on your phone laughed, "You can do better than that! C'mon, give me the satisfaction of tellin' ol' James you begged for mercy — but how your pretty little whimpers weren't enough to sway me. I mean, even if you don't, I'll still lie and say you did but it will be so much sweeter if you actually do."

"Please," you shook your head, eyes squeezing shut as if to shut away reality. Maybe if you begged, you could stall the inevitable beating a little longer. "Just don't do this, please, I-I won't — I won't say a word. I'll just go, please, just let me go. Don't do this."

"Oh, honey," he mocked, "it's not our fault he's late, so it's not really us doing it to you." He chuckled as he paced away from you, then directed in a cry, "Lads! Have at her, but leave her face for now — she's still real pretty!"

You listened as he gave commands in Russian, a language you had a bare minimum understanding of after years at Bucky's side; whimpering when the first blow landed to your gut and knocked the wind out of you. The seconds drug by and you felt your resolve begin to crumble, heart operating at a never-before speed that made it feel as if it were beating out of every single pulse point. You struggled in your restraints, but it was futile by how tight they were tied; unable to protect yourself.

At 12:00:32 am, the doors blew open in a resounding blast; concrete crumbling and sprinkling the floor. You cried out as the smoke choked any occupant, coughing through the haze; only barely able to make out certain figures to know Bucky had brought his best men. However, despite the sting from swirling dust and smoke, you saw a lone man stalk through the blasted wall, straight through the fray, and directly up to you.

"Bu-Bucky!" You choked in relief as he reached to untie your feet first. You dangled for only a moment as his metal prosthetic ripped off whatever held your wrists to the metal rack. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God, Bucky, holy shit, baby, please, please, please," you sobbed as he released your confines and instantly caught you on his broad shoulders.

"I got you, Peach, I'm here, I've got you," he promised in your ear, hoisting your legs around his waist so they latched and wrapped his arms around you securely. "Don't let go and don't look up, okay? Hear me, Peach? Don't look up."

You nodded into his neck, only able to cry. Your shoulders were on fire, set ablaze from the hours you were in such a compromising position and your body was throbbing from the distribution of preemptive punches and lashes. There was no fight in your body and no matter how curious you might've been, didn't dare look.

Bucky jolted and jerked slightly as he moved through the fight again, but not a minute later, you were outside in the sobering, brisk spring air. This was the moment you understood how dangerous and fleeting life with Bucky could be, even from a protective distance — making a promise to yourself that if he says take the car, you'll take the fucking car.

And now, here you were, outside the high-rise apartment's lounge, listening to your boyfriend complain about you some months after the whole ordeal. In the weeks since, Bucky's men had a single mission: to eradicate any and everything HYDRA related, including all rumors.

Yet you still didn't feel safe. Not if you weren't around Bucky.

Everything made you jump: the beep of the done-dryer, that spritz of the automatic fragrance mister in the bathroom, the "duh-dunnn" of a loaded-up Netflix. Keys jingling, car horns, the neighbor's barking dog... Everything.

Being around Bucky was just like holding a safety blanket; he was warm, safe, all-encompassing. There was an inherent understanding he would always protect you, and for about a week after your rescue, he laid in bed and around the home with you, being lazy; time taken off work to simply hold you and assure you were safe. Safe in his arms. Safe in his embrace, his presence. Safe at home. Safe with him.

It's not like you meant to be so dependent on him, but it wasn't like you were in control of what brought you comfort; it wasn't a conscious decision you made.

So now... To hear this... To say you were devastated was an understatement. To understand the way you were healing was causing your man grave irritation was beyond comprehension.

Again, you didn't mean to eavesdrop, it just sort of happened. It was still earlier in the morning, but Bucky hadn't been in bed beside you and based on the feel of the sheets, hadn't been there in a while. So, you made some coffee and then ventured around the home in search of your lover; coming upon the lounge and hearing overlapping chatter from within.

You knew it was common for Steve Rogers and / or Sam Wilson to stay late or visit early, so, you weren't shocked by that, but did falter in announcing yourself when you heard Sam ask how you were doing since the kidnapping. He used your name specifically, which made Bucky sigh, and for your curiosity to peak enough to put the breaks on and listen.

"She's just different, man."

"How so?" Sam wondered, Steve tossing a couple bits of trail mix to his mouth.

"She's fucking everywhere. It's like she can't be without me," he chuckled without humor. "I'm serious, she won't go to the gym until I do, waits to have every meal together, won't leave the house if I'm out, and," he scoffed dramatically, "you can forget going to the grocery store or anything. She's even stopped going to work — "

"Didn't you tell her to stop working, like, two years ago when y'all first moved-in together?" Sam deadpanned, leaning his elbows to his knees with curiosity.

"I know I did," Bucky shrugged, "but that's how reclusive she is now. She voluntarily took a leave of absence, didn't talk to me about it — just did it."

"Did she need permission?" Sam asked, but was drowned out by Steve scolding Bucky, "That's a pretty normal response considering what she went through, Buck."

"Yeah? Is it normal that I can't even take a shit without promising her I'll be right back?" Bucky snapped with exasperation; you recoiling from the door. "It's that bad, she's that fucking clingy, man. I go in the kitchen to make dinner, she's there within 30 seconds to 'help' me. I take a shower, she finds a reason to linger in the bathroom — but it's better than before, when she wouldn't even shower by herself. It's just a lot, she's everywhere I look, man. I'm starting to find new reasons not to come home, she's always fucking here — and when I walk in the door, she's on me. I need to fucking breathe, but I can't tell her to stop, she'll get her feelings hurt and then I'm the bad guy."

"Man," Steve laughed, "you can't be the bad guy if you go to her in a calm and collected manner, but you might be jumping the gun a bit. Remember, it's only been a few months. She's still recovering, still healing."

Sam agreed, "What she went through was scary. Physically, mentally — it's not like this is a normal relationship woe she can even talk to her girlfriends about. We're used to it 'cause we've been through that kind of shit, we sign up to be around it with our jobs, but it's different for her."

"Exactly why if I say anything, no matter how calm and collected, I'm the bad guy. I get she's hurting and tryna recover, but Goddamn, does she have to be on me all the time? Be everywhere I am, do everything with me? How do I tell my traumatized girlfriend to — just — back off a bit? Let me breathe?"

Steve and Sam sputtered in laughter, the latter barking, "You don't! You just said it — she's traumatized! Cut the girl some slack, Buck, she's got a lot to deal with!"

"I'm not negating from that fact," Bucky quickly argued, "I'm just trying to say, the way she's clinging onto me like she can't function without me is just grating at my nerves. I just need to breathe and recharge, but I can't tell her that — for fuck's sake."

"Buck," Steve eased, "you're worried Peach isn't gonna listen, but that's her literal superpower. Just communicate, she can't read your mind, but you need to remember how traumatic all of that was for her to experience — she's scarred from that kidnapping, man — and I do mean physically too from them holding her so long. She needs support. Put yourself aside here, Buck, let her cling as much as she needs."

"Is it wrong to ask for time to just recharge?" Bucky asked quietly.

"If you communicate, it's perfectly reasonable to ask for," Sam assured with a small shrug. "And whatever you do, don't tell her you think she's clingy. Chicks hate that; that word is, just, like, taboo or something. Real heavy, negative connotations."

"But she is," Bucky growled quietly, "'s like she's afraid to let go of me 'cause I'll disappear or something."

"Maybe it's her — maybe she thinks she's the one who's gonna disappear," Steve pointed out solemnly, making the room quiet.

Just as you started to back away, Sam mocked, "Oh, noooo, I'm Bucky and my girlfriend loves me too much and trusts me too much and actually feels safe and dependent on me — ohhh noooo! The horror!"

There was a thump, Sam's cried, "Ow!", and Bucky telling him to shut up.

After swallowing thickly and letting his words process, you slowly retreated from the door, trying to settle your breathing as you made your escape down the hall. When back in the kitchen, you whimpered and let the first tears of hot embarrassment fall... The first of many you shed in the hour it took to prepare breakfast for everyone but yourself; appetite long gone. You took Bucky's words to heart, and maybe you were too sensitive, maybe you have shut down, maybe your reclusiveness has turned a fateful corner, maybe you should venture outside again. It wasn't like life just stopped because you got snatched off the street or like that was an option to tick on unemployment forms. Life would always continue without you, best to keep up.

First, you packed an oversized purse with necessities for the day, left at the front door. Next, you fretfully cooked a comical amount of food. Then, you overthought every single thing that Bucky said and settled on feeling embarrassed your boyfriend could ever think such things about you, let alone that he would vocalize such complaints to two men you were friendly enough with!

When the lads came out, you set the table without making eye contact; still lost in thought that they knew details of your worst, lowest moments. They strolled in, drawn by the savory scents and cooed over the options you had made, making you quip while setting pancakes down, "Here, come eat while it's still hot."

"Wow, look at this," Sam smiled brightly, "thanks, Peach!"

You hummed, still avoiding their eyes as you just set the abundance of food to the table. While therapeutic, your sister often scolded you for being a nervous chef, knowing most of whatever you prepared would end up in the trash, freezer, or dog's bowl. From behind you, with heavy skepticism, Bucky questioned, "You... Cooked without me?"

"Mhm," you hummed, setting the coffee pot down to a hot pad on the decorated table, "and I'm going out shopping with Nat, so, eat up, guys, there's plenty. Buck, just make sure any leftovers get put away or something. All right, love you, boys. Bye-bye-bye," you waved them off, snatching your keys and beelining for the door to stuff your feet in a pair of trainers.

"Woah-oah-oah," Bucky left the table, following you urgently with a scowl of confusion, "hey, hey, hey. What do you mean, you're goin' out?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, Buck. Look, I just figured I've stayed in too long, might as well get out and remember life doesn't stop just 'cause I'm sad or scared or whatever."

"Peach — "

"I'll see you when I get home, Buck, okay?" You mumbled, slinging your purse on your shoulder.

"Well, here — hey, hey, hey, wait, wait, wait, hang on, I'll go with you," he moved to grab his trainers.

"No, you don't have to that."

He nodded slowly, "All right, sure, but maybe Steve and Sam would — "

"Buck, hey, I know what happened was terrifying, but I think I just want to be alone right now. I know you guys neutralized the threat, so, I don't need anyone going with me anymore, right?"

His brows pinched and lips overturned, "While that's true, baby, wouldn't you feel better if someone is there with you?"

"I'll be with Nat, I'm not technically alone," you eased, fidgeting with your sunglasses in hand. "I won't be long, you know. I'll be back."

For a moment, Bucky's stomach coiled, remembering the time you didn't come back.

"All right, yeah, uh, oh, wait a second, here, lemme just, uh..." He pulled his wallet out, handing you a wad of big bills. "Here, uh, just — take it all, okay, baby? Actually, know what, here, look, take my card, too, just — this one, yeah," he shoved a plastic credit card in your hand, then chuckled nervously. "Sure about this? Feel okay?"

"I'm okay, Bucky, thanks," you whispered, wanting to believe his concern was genuine and warranted but knowing it was a mask. He didn't see your move coming, this was just a corrective reaction to his initial shock, but it wasn't stemming from concern for you.

"Well, okay, uh... Have fun, call or text if you need me, yeah?"

"Sure."

Bucky leaned in to kiss you but you just opened the door, ready to leave — to escape. He frowned, watching you, barely managing to call a quick, "Love you!" before you were down the front stairs, out of sight.

You didn't return the sentiment, feeling hallow and all too silly returning affection now that you knew he was simply tolerating you. In preparation, your purse stored your laptop, headphones, chargers, and whatever else, so, instead of meeting your friend, Natasha — being just a ruse to avoid Bucky — you started small and went to the local café. You used to frequent it, but times were changed, and yet, they were all the happier to serve you all the same. Getting cozy in the corner, facing the shop's traffic and mapping an escape route, you set up camp and ordered your favorite coffee basically every other hour — letting the day waste away as you caught up on work emails and new muffin flavors.

Might've wasted time on Instagram and Facebook and Pinterest. Got shopping done on Amazon. Browsed through Target's online selection. Checked out the sale items at Kate Spade. Perused Fenty Lingerie because you could.

Before you knew it, a message was coming in over your MacBook from Bucky, asking where you were — why was your location off?

You packed up and with a to-go cup, made the short trek back home; no headphones in, head on a consistent swivel and keys protruding between each finger. Yet nobody so much as gave you a second glance along the way, easing something deep in your gut. When you got home, Bucky was pacing in the living room; staring at his phone and typing, groaning, glancing up, typing again, then doing a double take.

"Where've you been!? Huh!?" Bucky demanded, looking more concerned than angry. "You're late!"

"Oh! Didn't know I had a curfew," you sassed, an honest defense tactic to feeling attacked.

Bucky huffed through his nose, nodding slowly as if reminding and restraining himself. He tried to sound softer but still grit, "You have a nice time?"

"It was okay," you answered evenly. "I'm gonna go to bed after I shower."

Like Pavlov's dog, Bucky felt himself start to follow you, then slowing to remind with furrowed brows, "I have a meeting tonight."

"I know."

He nodded and just watched you go, wanting to ask why you didn't ask him to join like you had so often in the past few weeks.

It didn't stop there; in fact, it got weirder. When Bucky got home from his meeting, he was actually shocked to see you nestled in bed; teetering on the edge of the shared space while snuggling a weighted body pillow. It was a vastly different scene than usual, where you were typically found in bed, reading, waiting up for him. For a moment, Bucky just stared at your darkened form before changing.

When he tried to give you a snuggle, you stirred to life and pushed him away weakly, muttering, "Mh — too hot."

A valid excuse but Bucky felt something thump heavily in his chest when you sleepily nuzzled the pillow instead of him.

The following morning, he was surprised to wake up alone — bordering on panicked as he couldn't remember the last time he woke up in an empty bed. Bucky was usually a light sleeper, and while he got much better rest with you, if you so much as got up to pee, he was usually stirring awake.

"Baby?" He shot upright, eyes shifting to survey around the room, then jumping from the bed in a mild panic and stumbling out to find you in the foyer. He barely got a word in before you were slipping out the front door to go on a "morning run". He wouldn't admit it, but he stood there for a long moment and panted his panic, anger, and confusion out; wiping his eyes of fearful tears and running a sweaty hand through his long locks.

In the following days, Bucky was disarmed by how all of a sudden, you were removed, remote, distant, quiet, gone.

You worked out alone, slept alone, developed a new work schedule, cooked alone — but always left him a plate, though long gone were any cute little sticky notes. Where you once haunted the apartment by never wanting to leave, now, ghosted in and out of it on a daily basis; the warmth you once radiated, now dowsed by a supernatural chill.

Bucky didn't check to see your location was turned back on, needn't be told you never bothered going far from home. In fact, you liked hanging at the coffee shop and luckily, your job let you work from home most days, and the rare times you were due back in the office, it was only about a 20 minute walk. You got better at lying, couldn't even remember the last time you and Bucky had sex, and even now, the last time you had a meal together — let alone had any form of quality time. You didn't text him about your day; where you once might've told him about an adorable dog you saw on the street, now, you only ever texted if either of you asked a direct question.

Food lost appeal, appetite vanished.

Sleep evaded, plagued by nightmares when you did rest.

Interests dulled, passions snuffed, and only fearful, confused anger remained. It showed in the way weight seemed to shift around your body, thinning; the lack of sleep creating bags under bloodshot eyes. Lack of nutrients dried your hair and skin, anxiety made you pick at your cuticles.

Simultaneously, over that time, Bucky grew irritated and short with everyone around him. It reflected in his work, his ministrations and actions, decisions, the way he spoke to everyone; even Steve and Sam getting the brunt of his anger. Without you to support or soothe him, Bucky was on a much shorter fuse who consistently lost his cool; patience stretched far too thin; nothing to replenish him but an ungodly amount of espresso. And when all he could do was watch you hatefully waste away, he became inconsolable. So much so, the two usual suspects approached an outside associate, Natasha Romanoff, after a particularly snappy meeting to plead for her to talk to Bucky.

To their luck, she agreed. Turns out, Nat noticed the changes, as well.

"James," the redhead woman greeted as she strode into Bucky's office without knocking. Her heels clacked on marble tile.

"I know you're my oldest friend, but even you don't have that privilege," he leered, never looking up from scribbling on his desk.

"Which privilege?"

"Entering without knocking."

"Does anyone?"

"No."

"Not even Peach?"

He sounded as if he were speaking to an annoying child, "What do you want, Nat?"

"Just came to check on you, you know, like friends do."

"Hm," he chuckled without humor, twirling his pen in hand before continuing to write, "and what did Peach say to you?"

"About...?"

"Me."

"Someone's full of themselves. I actually haven't talked to her in awhile, I've been meaning to call but she avoids most messages lately."

Bucky paused, the fountain pen's scraping suddenly silent and slowly lifted his head; brows furrowed and mouth set in a firm, straight line. "What?" He seethed pointedly.

"Huh?" Nat wondered, unsure what she did to warrant this mood swing.

"You haven't talked to her? So, you haven't seen her, either?"

Natasha shook her head, "No, not since the incident with HYDRA. But I figured she wanted some alone time, you know, to process and bounce back or whatever." Her eyes narrowed, noting the anger in his stance and radiating around his office. Carefully, she questioned, "Why? What's wrong?"

"She's been telling me that she's hanging out with you for the past couple weeks," he revealed, flesh hand snapping the pen in his grip, making Nat's brows shoot up her forehead. He took a long breath, dropping the remains in a bin and cleaning his hands. "All right," he tried to sound passive, "why'd you come in today, Nat?"

"What's really going on, Buck? I'm kinda worried about you," she questioned softly. "Is it really whatever's going on with Peach? You're this pissed off? What'd she even do? There was a time I thought she could do no wrong in your eyes, so what's up?"

"She just..." He cut himself off with a long sigh. "It's nothing."

"Bucky," Nat gave a pointed look, arms crossing tightly. "You know I'm not leaving until you talk to me. So just fucking say it so we can all go about our days without you threatening to stab everyone in the boardroom."

After several long moments of silent contemplation, Bucky admitted in a thick growl, "She's avoiding me. It's like she's barely home, almost like a ghost. I wanted my girl back, for her to get out and do things again — yes — not never see her again. Now, I'm worried 'cause she's never fucking lied before."

"Something's obviously bothering her," Nat pointed out, wondering when one of the smartest men she knew became so oblivious. "She probably needs you right now, Buck, what she went through was traumatic."

"I can't do it all," he whispered, barely perceived. "I can't be who she needs and run this organization and care for mother all at the same time."

"First, your mother has hired help. Second, Peach just needs you to be you. You know, just be present when you're home," Natasha advised softly. "Listen, instead of taking this out on your business partners," she enunciated with a smirk, "why don't you just talk to her? 'Cause I hear you're bein' a more-than-usual asshole lately. Either ease up or get laid, Buck, 'cause you're taking it out on good, loyal men, and that's how you lose control of business."

"The men can take it."

"Sure, but they shouldn't have to," Nat rolled her eyes. He swept aside any remaining broken pen bits before opening a skinny drawer to his right and selecting an identical one. Feeling ignored, Nat growled his name in warning.

He slammed the drawer shut, "She's lying to me, Natasha! Saying she's with you when she's not... She's gone all the time now, she's not speaking to me, she's always just there but not there and — oh, shit, is this an affair?"

"No fucking way," Nat genuinely laughed. "That girl is so ridiculously in love with you, it's sickening."

"Why lie to me, then?"

"Maybe she didn't want you questioning her...?"

"No shit."

"Well, did you two get into a fight?"

"No."

"Any reason she doesn't want to be home?"

He shook his head with a sigh, "Not that I know of."

"You had to do something."

"Honest, I haven't. She was being all clingy, then one day, a switch flipped and she was just... Gone."

Nat frowned, "Hang on, what was that again?"

"I don't need to hear it, Nat, I know I'm not supposed to use that word, but I don't know what else to call it." He proceeded to fill his friend in on what had been happening in his home, hoping a woman's perspective would help him better understand the shift in your behavior.

"I understand all you're saying," Nat made it a point to start slow.

The pen dropped, Bucky encouraging, "But?"

"But," her eyes rolled, "am I to understand, you think your girlfriend is being clingy because instead of being scared of you — knowing your job got her kidnapped and beaten up — she's instead turning to you as a source of comfort? Because she's probably scared out of her mind to even leave her front door, wondering who's waiting for her — and where?"

Bucky paused for a long moment, muttering, "Oh, my God."

"Yeah, think of it that way! She's afraid!" Natasha snapped. "And probably picked up on your weird energy, so, she made herself scarce."

"I didn't mean — "

"I don't care, it doesn't matter to me. But you should go home and apologize to that sweet girl — she doesn't deserve this."

Bucky paused, "What is 'this' exactly?"

"James. Focus on the present — your woman. Go make things right. We all know you're this big, bad dude — but it's okay to be a little sensitive towards the woman who loves you without condition. I swear to God, Bucky, you lose her, you'll never find someone like her ever again."

Bucky relented, figuring the redheaded Russian mobster was right. She often was, why not now?

The entire drive home, Bucky considered the ways you had changed in the short time since he vented to Sam and Steve about your clinginess. You didn't take meals with him, didn't cook, work-out, or do anything you used to do together. Sex? Forget it. Dates? Nope. Cuddling? No, you're always 'too hot'. And when he thought about it, he remembers seeing the wads of cash he'd leave for you stuffed in his sock drawer — surely trying to make him think it was just another emergency fund he had hidden away. You never spent his money, feeling humiliated by his choice of words.

Clingy...

You didn't text or call him when he was gone, you hadn't even so much as kissed him in what felt like ages... Well, more like you hadn't initiated any kisses...

His heart weighed in his chest as he realized he hadn't even so much as hugged you in days. You were rarely in the house together, and when you were, you were just silent and busy with chores. It was as if you operated on the exact opposite schedule as he did, went to new extents to avoid him, and his heart clenched in his chest.

When he got home, you were caught cooking in the kitchen — obvious that you weren't expecting him. The door slammed and his baritone snap rattled dishware, "Peach!"

You gulped, nervously holding a sauce-covered wooden spoon to your chest. When he rounded around the corner, he found you and slowed down, sagging with relief. In a timid tone, you worried, "What's wrong?"

He panted slightly, rushing, "Needed t'find you."

"I'm right here, you could've called — "

"I know," he relented, charging forward until his heavy arms engulfed you in a tight hug. "Just needed to see you, gotta talk to you, baby, fuck," he whispered as you awkwardly stood there, not hugging him back — wooden spoon haphazardously hanging in the air to the side.

Your voice was muffled by his expensive button-up and impressively meaty pectoral, "What's wrong?"

"You. You're what's wrong."

You tried to push him away, "What the fuck does that — "

"No, no," he pulled back to stare down at you with something only described as worried fondness, still keeping hold of your biceps, "I don't mean it like that, just that... You're struggling. I can see that. But you're not alone, I'm here with you, and I got a little caught up in my head when I realized someone was so dependent on me — it fucking scared me. But then... Then you just shut yourself off and hid away from me, and oh, my God, it's so much worse, baby. Don't do that," he breathed as if wounded, "okay? Don't ever shut me out — don't stop loving me, don't stop talking to me, don't give up on us. I can't read your mind, you can't read mine, it's not an excuse — but we understand better when we trust each other enough to communicate what we require. Right? I'm so sorry I got caught up in myself, I didn't know what you needed, I wasn't listening — but I'm here now, I'm here — I'm not leaving you."

Exhausted from the emotional turmoil you've existed in for weeks, you finally collapsed into his chest and took a shuddering breath; tossing the spoon to the counter in order to wrap your arms around his waist.

"Don't ever stop talking to me, Peach," Bucky whispered, kissing the top of your head; keeping you close. "I'm so sorry, baby, if I — "

"If?" You snapped, pulling back to glare at him through your tears. "There's no 'if' — I heard you, Bucky. I heard you talking to Sam and Steve about how clingy I am."

"I was wrong," he immediately insisted. "I was overwhelmed and tired and just stretched thin, the easiest thing to do is attack those closest to me, and that's you. It's not right, it's the worst I could do to you after all you've been through, and I'm so sorry. I was wrong, you're not the person to take this out on — and I'm so sorry, Peach."

You weakly try to assure, "I don't mean to be... I don't mean to cling — "

But Bucky cut off, "Nah, hey, hey, you cling as much as you want." He caressed your cheek, "Cling as tight as you want, baby, don't let me go. I'm sorry for what I said and the way it made you feel, it was wrong — so fucking wrong of me. You came to me for comfort and safety, I was just so busy in my head, I might've pushed you away, but when you pulled away, I just... I couldn't think. Everything felt so wrong, and I knew it was my fault." He took your face in both palms, promising, "I'm so sorry, Peach."

You shrugged meekly, "It's okay."

"It's not."

"No, but apologizing is a step in the right direction."

He nodded and pet his thumbs down your cheeks, "What else can I do?"

"Nothing — "

"Peach."

You paused to think, smiling shyly, "Movie night?"

"Whatever my pretty girl wants," he confirmed.

"Hm... And get a bath with me?"

"All right... Sure — "

"With face masks."

He sighed, "Okay."

"And mani-pedis."

"Baby."

"You said you were making it up to me, right?"

Through his smirk, Bucky agreed, "That's right... All right, yeah, sure, fine, we can..." He huffed, "We can do all that, Peach, whatever you want."

"I just want you," you told him softly. "I didn't mean to be so clingy. I was just afraid... I felt afraid everyday, just so unsure in your life after what happened. You're the only thing that makes sense to me, Buck, and when I heard you, I just... I guess I realized how dependent I'd become and wanted to give you space. Last thing I want is to smother you or drive you away from me."

"That won't ever happen," he promised softly. "I just didn't handle it like I should've. I'm sorry, Peach, but I'm here now — for whatever you need. Want me to take a few days off, just be together? I'll arrange it. Want to get away for a bit? We can go — "

"I just need you," you whispered. "I can be okay if I have you, but feeling like I lost you? Even a fraction? Buck... James, it was such a shitty feeling, I wasn't sure what to do to move forward. So, I think I just panicked, shut down; thought if I could just get back to normal, you'd love me again — "

"Don't you ever say that, never think that way," he interrupted, holding both your cheeks securely. "I could never stop loving you. Hear me? Never, baby. I just had a bad lapse in my own judgement. Nothing against you, baby. Nothing. So don't ever think that."

You nodded, letting him tuck you into his chest again; perfectly snug under his chin as he coiled his arms around you. He let out a long sigh, his guilt swelling to new heights, but for that present moment, everything seemed okay. Felt okay. Appeared okay.

And you'd both do whatever it took to remain as okay as you possibly could.

clingy baby masterlist

marvel masterlist

You watch him as a mouse watches a hawk, and that’s when you notice the twitch at the corner of his frown. His hand at the back of his waistband, holding something as his eyes sweep the diner, stopping only on the drunk regular mowing through pancakes at the counter and the sleeping unhoused woman in a corner booth. The blood on his white shirt collar. 

Danger! Your brain screeches, but then his crimson eyes meet yours. 

You move before you think, careful but quick steps as you walk past him and open the swinging door to the kitchen. The chef’s in the bathroom, smoking out the window to avoid the rain, so it’s nice and empty. 

“There’s a door just through here,” you say, hands tucked in the pockets of your apron, “Lets out into the alley, which runs all the way down to the next block.”

The man’s eyebrow quirks, and slowly, his frown turns up into a smirk. He lets go of what you know is a gun tucked into the back of his pants, and he comes back around the counter to the kitchen door. He stops in front of you, closer than you expected, and you breathe in sharply. 

From fear or excitement, you aren’t sure, but he smells like spice and cigar smoke, and you have to tip your head back to look up at him. 

“Thanks,” he growls, voice deep and smooth as aged scotch. 

Then, he’s gone, brushing past you and slipping out through the kitchen door. You watch after him for what feels like seconds and an eternity, trying to decide if you’d just experienced a hallucination, before the woman in the corner booth wakes with a start. 

“Coffee!” she croaks, rubbing her throat. “I need coffee!”

You take one last look at the door, decide to forget about the man, and go back to work, knowing you’ll never see him again. 

Which, quickly turns out to be untrue. 

Again, around two in the morning, you’re bussing a particularly disgusting mess a group of morons left after drinking themselves stupider at the bar down the street. There’s more food on the table than there is left on the plates, and as the only waitress on this shift, it is up to you to deal with. Which feels particularly demoralizing after spending over an hour dodging their pinching fingers and leering stares only to get fifty-seven cents and an illegible phone number for a tip. 

You’re busy scraping blobs of ketchup from the sticky tabletop onto a plate when the bell above the door chimes, and you groan inwardly at the thought of more inebriated customers. You don’t bother asking the chef for help—he’s in the back “deep cleaning” the fryer, which actually means watching TV on his phone in the manager’s office until an order comes in.

“Sit wherever you like,” you call, not even looking up, “I’ll be with you in a moment!”

You don’t listen for a response, wincing as a giant dollop of ketchup squirts onto  your finger. It takes you a few minutes, but you finish wiping up and dump the bloody-looking rag behind the counter in the laundry bucket. You clean your hands and tighten your ponytail before grabbing a plastic menu, and you paste on your best please tip me smile. 

Finally, you turn and find him sitting in the booth furthest from the door. 

He’s wearing a suit again, but this time, it isn’t drenched in water and tinged with what you find yourself hoping was someone else’s blood. No, it’s black and well-tailored, probably designer, with a black dress shirt beneath. The top two buttons are undone, hinting at more of those bold, obsidian tattoos sweeping across his chest. His pink hair is combed out of his face with pomade or something, but a stray lock has sprung free and lays against his forehead. And those eyes—shockingly red—rest on you.

Fuck, you wish your work uniform weren’t so ugly. A while ago, the diner had had a retro theme going on, and although that had been long since abandoned, the uniforms seemed as permanent as your apartment’s water damage. It is a polyester, collared dress in an unfortunate gray-green and a zipper that went from the top of your collar to just between your tits. It fits terribly, which you try to hide by using your apron to give yourself a waist, but it truly does you no favors. And now, you have to stand in front of the hottest man you’ve ever seen before in your life while looking like a lumpy potato. 

You approach slowly, which seems to amuse him because that smirk stretches its way across his face once again. 

“Hi,” you say, somehow breathless, “Welcome in!”

You place the menu on the table and before you can slide it over, he takes it, brushing his fingers against yours. A burst of lightning shoots up your arm, and you fight not to yank it back in shock. Suddenly, you want to be anywhere but here, with him and whatever this overwhelming energy rolling off him is, so of course he has to speak and make it all worse. 

“Thanks, doll,” he replies, his voice impossibly rich, “I’ll take coffee.”

You nod for a second too long, as if hypnotized, before turning and rushing to the coffee station. All the while, you feel those red eyes burning into your back, and your stomach seems to flip forwards and backwards in anticipation of… something. When you bring the man the coffee, you also bring a sugar caddy and bowl of single creamers. Again, when you place the mug on the table, he reaches for it before you can slide it over, skin meeting skin in a way that has your cheeks burning. He’s doing it on purpose, you both know this, and you wish your reaction wasn’t so plain on your face. 

Under his gaze, you force yourself to calm down and straighten your spine. He’s probably just here to say thank you for helping him get away from whatever he was running from, and you didn’t need to moon over him like some silly little school girl. He’d drink his coffee and be on his way, leaving you to the dregs of the early morning diner patrons. Besides, judging from the luxury of his clothes and the giant watch on his wrist, this man was wealthy and dripping with power. He wouldn’t look twice at a diner waitress like you. 

The man ignores the creamer and sugar, as you suspected he would, and takes a sip of the black coffee. As he drinks, his eyes find your plastic nametag, and the corner of his lip quirks up. 

“This coffee is shit,” he comments, placing the ceramic mug on the cheap linoleum table. 

You snort, your spark returning. “Were you expecting gourmet?” 

He tilts his head to the side, showing off a jawline sharp enough to cut a diamond as he studies you with interest. 

“Would you like anything else?” you ask, refusing to look down under the pressure of his stare. His smirk widens into a smug grin, his teeth white and his canines almost too sharp. 

“No.” Then, he thanks you by name, and you almost shiver with the way the timbre wraps itself around the word. You didn’t think your name could ever sound like that, something sexy and luxe, but you turn away before he can see you flush once again. He knows he oozes dominance; you don’t need to show him just how much you’re feeling it. 

You finish bussing that corner booth, taking your time to stack the plates and carry them back to the dishwasher. The man watches you, occasionally sipping from his shit coffee or typing intently on his smartphone. You hide spend time in the back, washing the stack of dishes the chef was supposed to get to, and when the bell chimes over the door again, you assume the man has left, bored and interested in better food. 

However, when you finally emerge from the kitchen, it’s to find a pair of night shift nurses sitting at the counter. The man still lounges in his booth, watching as you approach the nurses—two regulars—and take their order. The chef finally emerges to make their food, and you try to ignore the man in the booth as you serve the customers who come in and work on that night’s sidework. You do go over a few times, since you’re still very much at work, but all he does is get a coffee refill, which he sips slowly, always thanking you by name, as if he likes the way it sounds. Or, as if he was teasing you with a joke you didn’t understand.

A few hours later, as the sky turns a light gray-blue and the sun peeks out through the smog, the next shift of waitresses come in. In the three minutes it takes you to punch out and retrieve your ratty coat, the man is gone, leaving a $100 bill in his place. With as blank a face as possible, you cash out his bill and pocket the ridiculous tip, not wanting your coworkers to notice and start asking questions you don’t know how to answer. 

Besides, the tip must be the thank you he came to deliver. Why he decided to stay for over four hours, just watching you work, is beyond you, but now you’re certain this is the last time you’ll see him. 

Except, he keeps coming back. 

At first, it’s only a random night here and there, but within two weeks, he’s coming every night you’re there, arriving just after two in the morning and staying until it’s light out, and you’re almost at the end of your shift. He mostly drinks coffee, and you find yourself brewing a fresh pot in anticipation of his arrival, but sometimes he orders extra crispy fries and picks at them as he frowns at his phone while insisting you help him eat them. Some days, he looks stressed, his tattooed brow furrowed; others, he looks pleased as he keeps his phone in his pocket and watches you serve and do odd tasks, as if you’re his favorite movie.

You wonder how he doesn’t have anywhere else to be—namely, asleep in his bed. Every night, he’s here in what you’re sure is a different designer suit, something unheard of in this area of the city, so you’re sure he’s successful at whatever he does. Which, you’re not stupid… you’re starting to suspect that something is illegal. Given the gun you know he has on him, the blood from your first encounter, and the lethal aura shrouding him like a cloud of electricity. He looks like he should be off, threatening people into doing what he wants with just one sharp, savage glare, not sitting in a shitty diner in a shitty neighborhood drinking shitty coffee. 

But he keeps showing up, and more than that, he asks you questions, which you always find yourself answering. 

What brings a girl like you to a place like this?

A pipe dream of going to college, replaced by the simple truth of needing to survive. 

Are you always working alone?

The chef is here, he just fucks around in the manager’s office unless there’s an order on. 

What do you do in your time off?

What time off? I have two other jobs. 

Little by little, he breaks you open and examines your contents, and you find yourself looking forward to it. You tell him about your parents—both dead—your dream of being an ER nurse, the way you’re trying to teach yourself how to knit. You can’t remember the last time someone saw you like this, and you’re surprised you enjoy it so much. Actually, no, that’s not what you enjoy about your interactions—it’s that he wants to see you. It sends an almost too-hot warmth spreading out through your chest and into your limbs, molten in a way that’s sometimes more terrifying than pleasant, like you might burn yourself out like a trapped inferno. 

As much as he knows about you, you know nothing about him, and you use that imbalance as a way to ground yourself. You’ve tried asking him about himself, and every time, he gives vague answers, eyes darkening like he’s unsure just how much to tell you. You’re just something to pass the time, not something he’s bothered investing himself in. Besides, you know your place—poor, trashy waitress who just keeps her head down, the idea of anything outside of survival too far away to even dream about. This man, wrapped in luxury and power, wouldn’t ever seriously look at you twice. 

There’s no point in dwelling on him as you lay in bed after your shifts, thinking about what he might be thinking about… what he might feel like…

No, there’s no point at all.

He just had a weird thing about you and this diner now, but it would fade. He’d go back to his world, and you’d stay here, fighting off drunk idiots like the ones you were tending to tonight. 

They’d come in almost an hour ago but are still going strong, ordering plate after plate of food while they yell and cackle with each other, banging their hands on the table and sending food crumbs flying. The group sits at the big corner booth two tables down from the man, and although they probably don’t know he’s there, you watch him watch them, his bright red eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted in a deep, chiseled frown. One hand rests on the table, gripping his half-drunk mug, and the other rests tensely on the seat next to him. 

“Hey!” one of the guys—the leader, it seems—waves his hands in the air and points at you. “Hey, girlie, where the hell are those fries?”

“Coming right up!”

The sweetness in your voice is as fake as the sugar in the ketchup you grab from the condiments bar, and you brace yourself before carrying the basket of fries and the red plastic bottle over to the table. The chef has already disappeared back into the manager’s office, so you’re on your own as you deliver the food and brush a brainless smile on your face. 

“Sorry for the wait, guys,” you say, doing your best to look apologetic. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

The leader trades a sleazy, secretive look with his buddies before grabbing you by the wrist, moving faster than you thought possible with the sheer amount of alcohol clogging his blood. You gasp once, and then again when he yanks you down, forcing you into his lap with the ease of a man who’s assaulted many women before. 

“Hey! St—”

He wraps his arms around you, breathes his foul breath into your ear. 

“C’mon, baby, no one else is here. You can relax with us.”

Your stomach twists into a knot of disgust, and you almost gag. His friends jeer as you jerk in the drunk’s grasp, but you can’t get a good angle to elbow him in the gut or chest or anywhere. Any panic is short-lived, giving way to red-hot anger, and you open your mouth, ready to release a tirade of curses, when you’re suddenly yanked free. 

Profanity becomes a squeak as you fly forward and land against something solid, warm, and big. Hands grip your arms, the contact sending fire surging through your body in a way that makes your eyes go wide. Slowly, you look up, but the pink-haired man doesn’t return your gaze or let on that he’s feeling what you’re feeling. Instead, his positively homicidal expression rests firmly on the drunk and his friends. More gently than you expect, the man moves you to the side and steps up next to the table, placing himself between you and the drunks. 

“Gentlemen,” he says, voice low. Dangerous. “Are you truly so desperate to get a pretty girl to pay attention to you that you have to grab at her like infants?”

Most of the group recognize that the man in front of them is as lethal as a grenade after its pin has been pulled, but not the head drunk. No, he just chuckles and shakes his head. 

“Relax man,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “We were all just having a little fun.”

“Fun?”

The pink-haired man chuckles, deep and dangerous. Then, he grabs the drunk’s hand and snaps it back all the way. The crack of bone and cartilage is crisp and clear, and the man’s screams quickly follow, shrill and crazed as he falls out of his chair. The pink-haired man, however, isn’t finished. He grabs the fingers of the hand and bends those back, too, and you swear, the drunk stops breathing, his eyes bulging out of his head as he tries and fails to comprehend what exactly has just happened to him. 

The pink-haired man wraps his fingers around the drunk’s wrist and squeezes, and then he tangles his hand through the man’s sweaty, knotted hair and forces him to look at you. 

“Apologize,” he commands, calm and low.

“S-s-sorry!” the drunk splutters out, not even trying to feign defiance. 

The pink-haired man glances at you as he releases the drunk, and his scarlet gaze doesn’t waver as he addresses the whole group. 

“Put money on the table and leave. Now.”

The men, terrified and humiliated, don’t even fight back. They just empty their pockets of cash, peel their shitty comrade off the floor, and hurry from the diner, barely giving you and your apparent defender a second glance. As the bell trills over their exit, you and the pink-haired man simply stare at each other; you not knowing what to say, and him having said everything he wanted to. 

You should be scared of this display of violence—he literally destroyed a man’s hand with nothing but his casual strength, for fuck’s sake—but you’re not. You’ve never in your life had someone defend you, let alone to that degree. You stare at him like he’s a safe haven… Which means you really, really, need to run the other way. 

After a few seconds of this strange, intimate standoff, your body seems to go into autopilot, and you begin clearing the plates. Then, you think better of it, remember your manners, and look at the pink-haired man once again. 

“Thank you—”

You stop as soon as you start, your cheeks starting to burn.

“What?” he asks, and you look up at him and shrug.

“You’ve been coming in for weeks now,” you say, shoving your hands in your apron pockets, “and I just realized I never asked your name. I’m sorry, that’s so rude.”

The man considers you for a moment, and you can see his thoughts churning before he comes to a decision. 

“Sukuna,” he says, finally. 

“Sukuna,” you echo, and something intense flashes through his eyes before he looks away abruptly. “Well, thank you, Sukuna. Your order’s on me.”

This gets his gaze swinging back to you, eyebrows drawn up in surprise. He opens his mouth, and then closes it, and then opens it again. You don’t realize it, but your eyes linger on his lips, full and dusky pink—it isn’t until he snaps them closed a second time that you come back to yourself.

Wordlessly, Sukuna reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled hundred-dollar bill, and adds it to the pile on the booth table. Then, he’s gone, striding briskly from the diner without a second glance. You stand there, reeling from the whiplash, and suddenly, your breath feels too shallow, like your lungs are too full of something else. 

You want to run after him, to ask him what the hell that abrupt exit was all about. All you’d done was ask for his damn name, which, frankly, you were doing to be polite after he helped you! You didn’t ask him to come to your rescue; hell, you didn’t ask him to come into the diner every night, brooding in the corner and doing his best to make you blush while he uncovered little pieces of you. Sukuna was the one who had initiated all of this, whatever this was, and now, simply learning his name had him running away like a fucking toddler! 

Were you really the only one who felt that? That something when your skin came in contact, that electric surge of raw energy and something else, some deep and feverish.

“Fuck!” you shout, the word echoing back at you from the walls of the now-empty diner.

You reach for the mountain of cash, ashamed of how you’re already doing the math in your head of how many bills you’ll be able to pay on time, when the bell above the door trills. You sigh, preparing a smile as you turn to face the new customer, but your body freezes as Sukuna stalks toward you, lips turned down in a snarl you know should scare you. 

All the words you want to shout at him clog your throat, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t get the chance to utter a single word because in a moment, he’s on you, large hands grasping your jaw so tightly it hurts. And, in another moment, his lips are on yours. 

He kisses like he’s starving. 

You almost trip backward, but he keeps you upright, clutching you with hands that scorch through your uniform. One curls around your waist, and the other tangles in your hair, palm pressed against the bottom of your skull as he consumes your every breath. It’s a mess—lips parting, tongues fighting, teeth nipping—as the tension between you finally snaps, as desperation floods all reason and your veins burn like hellfire under your skin. 

Your arms reach up, wrap around his neck like you’ll collapse without him, and your hands find their way into his hair—impossibly soft for someone with so many sharp edges. You pull, lightly but firmly, just to check if he’s really there and this is really happening, and Sukuna growls against your lips. 

“Brat,” he says, low and quiet, and then he’s picking you up. You wrap your legs around his waist as his hand in your hair goes down to cradle your ass. Your uniform rides up dangerously, but you don’t care. You can’t care, not about that or anything other than just how fucking good Sukuna feels on every part of your body. Of your being. 

And then, it’s over. 

Beneath you, Sukuna’s entire body tenses. You draw back, lips swollen and vision hazy, but instead of looking as kiss-drunk as you, Sukuna seems to glare out the window, jaw tight and red eyes blazing. You start to turn your head.

“What’s—”

He drops you, quickly but carefully, and your head whips back around to stare at him, startled. 

“I have to go,” he grinds out, still looking out the window. Still not looking at you. 

In that moment, something inside you breaks. It’s cruel, really, what he’s done. For what now feels like mere seconds, he’d made you feel like maybe, you were actually worthy of notice. Maybe, you’d actually get the guy and so it was okay that you’d let yourself like him. Let yourself more than like him. 

But no. You were always the wanter, never the wanted, and that made you so fucking easy to play with. 

You want to ask him what you did wrong, but you don’t. Instead, you just nod. 

“Have a good night,” you murmur, and you don’t watch him leave. You just start bussing the table and try to ignore the sound of his footsteps as he walks out of the diner. 

Sukuna doesn’t come back. It takes a week for you to stop glancing up with the bell over the door trills, but it takes three for you to stop brewing that fresh pot of coffee. You go through your shifts on autopilot, and you hate yourself for it. Hate yourself for the ways you let Sukuna carve himself into your mind. Your guard should’ve been up—it’s always up—but sometime in the last few months, you’d let it fall for him. And now you were left with this emptiness you hadn’t even realized was there. 

Some nights, you’ll be cleaning tables or taking out the trash, and you’ll feel a prickle at the nape of your neck, like you’re being watched. And every one of those nights, for just a moment, you hope it’s him. But usually, it’s no one, or it’s a neighborhood creep conveniently reminding you that a girl like you will never end up with a guy like Sukuna. Why would someone like him, rich and powerful and handsome, go fishing in the gutter for someone like you, a girl with three jobs and a shitty high school education?

On the night you decide to stop thinking about Sukuna all together, a different man in a suit comes in. 

When the bell goes off, you’re ducked under the counter, searching for your name tag, which has finally broken after months with a faulty clasp. One brush against it and it snapped, sending the plastic rectangle skidding under a storage container.

“Sit anywhere, I’ll be with you in a moment!” you yell, and indeed a moment later, you give up on the name tag and stand. Immediately, you jump in surprise at the man sitting directly in front of you at the counter, as if he’d somehow figured out exactly where to sit to catch you off-guard. 

Unlike with Sukuna, the danger that radiates off this man makes you take a step back and map out an escape route in your head. The first thing you notice are his scars, silvery lines cutting neatly across his face and neck, as if his skin were a patchwork quilt. His long, blue-gray hair is tied in three messy ponytails, and he gazes at you with mismatched eyes—one the color of the sky right before a thunderstorm and the other the blue of the ocean far enough out that there’s no land on the horizon. He wears a black suit that seems to almost have a blue undertone, and you don’t even need to look closely to see that it’s expensive. 

He grins at you as if he knows you, and dread sinks like a stone in the pit of your stomach. 

“Welcome in,” you say, forcing your own smile and handing him a freshly wiped menu. “Can I get you anything to drink while you look over the menu?”

“I’ll take some of your finest coffee, please!” the patchwork man requests, and you’re surprised at his voice. He’s strangely cheerful, the ghost of laughter hugging each of his words, and it sets you on edge. He’s too casual, too cocky. He is a man who doesn’t feel threatened, and in this neighborhood, a man like that is either stupid or lethal. 

Your instincts are screaming the latter. 

“Coming right up,” you reply quietly, and you hate how you have to turn your back on him to get a mug and the coffee pot. 

“You know, I’ve been meaning to try this place for ages,” the patchwork man says, tapping his fingers on the counter. “One of my friends seems to have become a regular these past few months.”

You freeze, just for a second, but you’re sure he noticed. It’s in the way he keeps talking, the tone of victory edging into his voice. 

“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” the patchwork man chuckles. “The place seems like an absolute dump, and yet…” 

He trails off as you turn around, as if your attention is the end of his sentence. The stone of dread in your stomach seems to double in size, and you scramble for a plan. If you can get this man to order food, then you can get the chef from his nap in the manager’s office. Surely, whatever this man is planning—and he’s planning something, you can tell from the sparkle in his eyes—he wouldn’t do it with a witness. 

“And yet, our food is pretty good,” you finish, grinning in a way you hope doesn’t look like a grimace. You pour the coffee and slide the mug across the counter, careful not to touch his hand. “What can I get for you? We’re serving breakfast and dinner right now!” 

The patchwork man hums, tilts his head to the side. 

“My friend,” he says, drawing out the word like it’s a toy that amuses him. “Sukuna is his name. What does he like to get?”

You’re not stupid, nor are you a snitch, so you keep your face as placid as an untouched pond. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, shrugging. “I’m not sure I know someone named Sukuna. If you want a suggestion, you can try—”

“No?” the patchwork man interrupts, raising his eyebrows. He doesn’t look confused or angry, or even a little frustrated. He looks amused, and you forget to breathe. 

“Nope.” You shake your head, and as you do, you see movement in the kitchen out of the corner of your eye. You start to turn, start to get the chef’s attention, but then the patchwork man says your name. 

And you go still. 

Because your nametag is still missing under the counter.

The kitchen door opens, and it’s not the chef. It’s a giant man, barely fitting through the doorway, who watches you with violent interest, like a hawk watches a fieldmouse before diving. 

The patchwork man says your name again, gleeful like he’s just won a game, and slowly, you face him once again. 

“Let me ask you just one more time,” he says, words razor sharp despite the casual way he speaks. “Do you know my friend Sukuna?”

Your exhale is shakier than you want it, betraying your fear. 

“No.”

For a second, there is silence, and then the patchwork man claps, the sound as sharp as a gunshot. 

“I’m glad you’re lying,” he chuckles, standing up. “That makes this more fun!”

You manage to take a half-step backwards before the giant man is on you, one thick arm banding around your chest and pressing your arms to your sides as the other raises a cloth to your mouth, the harsh stink of chemicals immediately flooding your nose. You buck violently against his hold before bringing your heel up hard. It makes contact with the giant man’s groin, and he grunts in your ear but doesn’t loosen his grip even a millimeter. You try swinging your head backwards to crunch his nose, but the movement is too sluggish, as if you’re moving through jelly. Your vision blurs and goes grayscale, and your nose burns as you breathe in the drugs. You say something, you think, but your lips are too heavy. Your bones go weightless, but your muscles turn to lead, and your body collapses.

The patchwork man laughs as darkness consumes you. 

It’s the pounding in your head that finally drags you through the smog of unconsciousness. It’s as if someone is stuck inside your head, pounding from the inside of your skull as they try to get free. You let out a strangled groan, a painful sound as it drags up your too-dry throat. You try to reach up and rub your neck, a lame attempt at soothing the pain, but something restrains your wrists and forearms, and you suddenly slam back to yourself with white-hot fear. Your eyes rip open, but you have to blink a few times to sharpen your vision. 

The first thing you find is the duct tape binding your arms to the metal armrests of a chair. Craning your neck, you find the same duct tape wrapped around your shins and the legs of the chair. Your whole body jerks out of instinct, but the chair doesn’t budge, and you realize it’s bolted into the floor. You also realize that you’re practically naked, clothed only in your panties and simple cotton bra.

What… the fuck?

Suddenly, you can’t breathe as panic rises like bile in your throat, choking you and kicking your heart into overdrive. Your brain screams at you to escape, but every time you wrench against your restraints, the duct tape rips your skin raw and digs in deeper. You don’t know how long you fight for, only that you can’t free yourself, and when you try to scream, only a threadbare gasp comes out, as if you’ve lost your voice to exhaustion and fear. 

You try to look around, but there’s nothing to see—you’re in a concrete room with no windows, the only light a yellow glow seeping through a small window at the metal door a few feet in front of you. 

As if it senses your attention, the door swings open, and you jerk backward. 

The patchwork man waltzes in, his grin too broad, too white. He drags a chair behind him and sits down on it, not even an arm's length away. Fury boils up, abrupt and hot, and your palms itch with the need to strike the triumph from his smug fucking face. 

“I’m glad you’re awake,” he says, and you press your lips together and give him nothing but a glare. That, of course, only seems to make his smile deepen. He pulls his phone out of his suit jacket pocket and taps the camera. His grin turns wolfish as he speaks. “You and I are going to make a little film to send to our friend Sukuna.”

A thousand and one questions shoot to your tongue, but only one word tumbles out. 

“Who?”

The patchwork man drops his phone to his lap and leans forward gleefully. 

“Yes, oh yes! Keep lying! It’s much more entertaining!” he sneers, mismatched eyes glinting. “See, Sukuna and I have known each other for a long time, and recently, he decided it would be a good idea to steal from me. So now, I’m going to kill him! And you—” he picks up his phone again, “are going to help me do it.”

His face seems to glow with violence, as if the need to hurt lit him from within, your body instinctively tries to curl in on itself for protection. But of course, it can’t—you’re restrained, a giant target practically inviting whatever his sick mind is concocting. 

“I—” Your throat is too dry, and you have to try again. “I don’t know him!”

“Oh yes you do,” the patchwork man growls, suddenly harsh, “He likes you, and he doesn’t like anyone.”

You open your mouth, ready to decry any assumed relationship with Sukuna, but you can’t. Instead of the memory of him running out on you not once, but twice, your lips tingle with the memory of your kiss, searing and possessive. Your cheeks heat with all of the questions he’s asked you about yourself, your life, your dreams, and you can’t refute a thing. 

In your silence, the patchwork man stands and starts recording, the flash on his phone blindingly bright. You try to blink away the white fuzz clouding your vision, so you don’t see the first punch before it connects with your temple, just above your ear. Your head snaps to the side as you choke out a grunt, pain crackling through your skull and down your spine. Distantly, you hear the patchwork man giggling, and then he swings again, this time jamming his knuckles in the softness of your gut, just below your ribcage. The air leaves your lungs in a scream, blood and spit spewing from your mouth as you gag on agony. 

“Stop.” you wheeze, “stop!”

The patchwork man laughter borders on maniac. 

“Hear that, Sukuna?” He sneers, shoving the camera in your face. “Your little plaything is asking me to stop.” He turns his attention to you, grinning. “Tell him how much it hurts, little plaything!”

You aren’t sure what it is—the glee in the patchwork man’s mismatched eyes or the fact that you know you’re being used as bait to lure Sukuna into a trap—but you glare through the pain, spit a glob of blood into your lap, and shake your head. 

The patchwork man looks surprised, just for a second, and then his grin deepens into something truly monstrous. 

“Oh,” he says, “I see why you picked her now, Sukuna.”

The last punch is to your jaw, and as your head snaps around, unconsciousness welcomes you. 

It’s funny how quickly you lose track of time. You drift in and out of sleep, still bound to your chair, sometimes lit by the warm glow outside the door and sometimes not. Your legs and hands have gone numb, your circulation stuttered to a sludgy pace due to lack of movement. You think you’ve been captive for at least three days, but you wouldn’t be surprised if it were longer. 

You’ve made two more videos under the violent directoral eye of the patchwork man. 

For the second, he’d brought a knife. At first, he’d just traced the sharp edge of the knife along your skin, dragging it down the column of your throat and pressing the point against the center of your bottom lip. Then, he’d started slicing, quick, short cuts on your cheeks, your bare arms, your chest, stomach… Deep enough to bleed, shallow enough not to bleed out. You lost track of how many times he’d cut you, but in the aftermath, every movement has the wounds opening like agonizing kisses.

In the third, after the first hit had turned your vision fuzzy, you couldn’t remember what else the patchwork man had done. All you know now is that it hurts when you breathe—broken ribs, probably—and one of your eyes has swollen shut—a gorgeous black eye, you’re sure. At one point, you must’ve started crying, because the patchwork man had shoved the camera in close to your face, and his fingers had crested the peak of your cheekbone, gentle as if collecting something fragile. 

You’ve tried to escape by ripping the duct tape with your teeth, but it’s too thick, and with all the struggling you’ve done, it’s rolled itself into even stronger bracelets. You’ve also tried rocking violently in the chair to rip it out of the ground, but after all of the shots to your head, you can barely handle a few seconds of the movements before getting unbelievably nauseous. 

Fuck, every inch of your body hurts. 

As you dance on the border between consciousness and oblivion, you wonder distantly if you’ll die here. Surely, Sukuna isn’t about to risk his life for a diner waitress he’s known for a few months. That’s the kind of thing a man does for a soulmate, a grand gesture from a romance novel where the man saves the girl he’s spent the past 400 pages loving. Sukuna and you… shared one kiss, that yes has branded itself on your soul, but still… You can’t hope that he’ll save you because you know he won’t. It would be idiotic, truly, especially if he’s as important as he’s increasingly seeming. 

You’re not worth it.

Your head lolls to the side, greasy hair falling in a sheath against your face, and you start counting down from 100. It’s something you’ve been doing to pass the time, to try and hold onto your sanity the longer you stay here. 

100…

99…

98… 

97…

bang!

You pick up your head, staring at the door with a frown. Was that a gunshot or a door slamming shut? After a few seconds with no sound, you swallow on your too-dry throat and resume counting. 

96…

95…

94…

93…

BANG!

You jerk in the metal chair, now certain that the sound is a gunshot as it draws nearer. You open your mouth, draw in a deep breath, but then snap your lips closed. If you scream, and the person shooting isn’t a friend, you don’t want to be on the other end of their gun. But, then again, if you don’t scream, and the person is a friend, they may never find you. You don’t—

BANG!

The sound is too loud, a bullet all on its own wreaking havoc inside your skull. 

BANG! BANG! BANG!

It’s a stream of gunfire now, and you realize not only that more than a few people are shooting, but that they’re shooting close to you. Bursts of light snap through the window as gunfire ignites, and you start ripping against the duct tape bindings, desperate to simply put your hands over your ears. 

It’s too loud—far too loud—but you can’t free yourself, and the duct tape just digs deeper into your skin, pearls of blood beading up along the bands of pink, shiny-raw skin. 

The door slams open, and you squeeze your eyes shut. You’re ready for the patchwork man to end your life, especially if the enemy is on his doorstep; you just don’t want to see it coming. 

But then Sukuna says your name.

You open your eyes slowly, scared that you’re hallucinating, but slowly, your vision adjusts and he is right there. 

You open your mouth, but instead of words, all that comes out is a broken sob. 

Sukuna, clad in black clothes and tactical gear, holsters the guns in his hands and takes a step toward you. Then another, and then he’s on his knees, cupping your face with his hands, his crimson eyes darkening with every wound he finds marring your flesh. 

“You—”

You try to speak, but your throat is too tight, and silent tears stream down your cheeks, their salt stinging your open wounds. Sukuna’s hands are tense against your cheeks, muscles electrified with restrained rage, and you find yourself leaning into his grip. 

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Sukuna promises, and you nod, days of exhaustion slowly raining down on your shoulders. Your body, finally in the presence of its safe haven, stops dulling the pain and all you can do is hurt. Your body seems to fold in on itself against the holds of the duct tape, and the only reason your head stays upright is Sukuna. 

Your vision grows hazy, flickering in and out like a camera trying and failing to focus. You think you mumble something, but it hasn’t formed into a word yet. Fuck, you’re tired. So… tired…

“Fuck,” Sukuna growls, “Fuck, I need you to hold on, okay? I need you to stay awake, okay?”

You think you nod, because Sukuna pulls one of his hands from your head and gets to work. He pulls a knife out of his pocket and starts sawing through the duct tape, freeing you in less than a minute. Without the support, however, you slump forward, and Sukuna catches you in his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. For him, it’s an embrace—for you, he’s just a solid place to land. 

“I’m going to carry you out of here,” he whispers, his warm breath tickling your ear. “I am going to get you somewhere safe, and I am going to take care of you.”

You smile against the soft fabric of his shirt, and he picks you up like a bride, sweeping one strong arm under your knees and the other under your back. You curl into him naturally, pressing your face against his chest. In addition to spice and cigars, he smells like gunsmoke. You wonder if this is a dream, if you’d passed out from your concussion and couldn’t wake up, and your unconsciousness had decided to be kind. 

Sukuna holds you firmly against his chest as he stalks down a corridor. A few times, you open your eyes, but instead of your surroundings, you look at him. At the obsidian black tattoos snaking up his neck and lining his jaw. His expression is full of rage, but beneath it, you see worry. Fear. Relief. You think about reaching up and touching his cheek, but your limbs feel loose and distant, and besides, you feel so warm tucked against him. 

More gunshots erupt nearby—you think, nearby, but everything is starting to sound waterlogged—and Sukuna swears under his breath. You turn a corner too fast, the world whirling around you, but he doesn’t notice as he starts barking orders to people you can’t see. You try to steady yourself, try to breathe slowly, but the fluorescent lightbulbs lighting the concrete corridor are too bright, and you taste pennies on your tongue. 

Get me out of here! 

The thought is so loud, so demanding, that it pounds against your forehead and refreshes your tears. 

Get me the fuck out of here!

“Sukuna?”

He stops mid-word, his eyes snapping down to you. The ferocity in his gaze makes you flinch, and his eyes widen for a second before he injects softness into his expression.

“Take me home?” you whisper, your voice rough from lack of use. 

Sukuna stares at you a moment, an indecipherable storm raging behind his eyes, and then he nods once. Twice. 

“Yes,” he says, and that’s enough for you to let the world spin away into a blur. 

You aren’t unconscious, but you’re close, cheek tucked against Sukuna’s chest as he carries you out of the patchwork man’s fortress, a reinforced warehouse  on the fringes of the city. Sukuna’s grip tightens on you with every step, not enough to hurt, but enough to know that you won’t slip away from him again. When he gets to one of the black SUVs waiting outside the warehouse, he doesn’t let anyone else touch you as he loads you into the backseat, laying you flat on a waiting blanket. To everyone’s surprise, Sukuna doesn’t then get in the passenger seat. Instead, he climbs in the back with you, pulling your upper body into his lap so he can hold you. When his men hesitate, he snaps at them, ordering them to pull their heads out of their asses and get you the fuck out of there. 

As the SUV finally speeds back into the city, Sukuna keeps his arms wrapped around your small form, now clad in the blanket, quietly ordering his man in the front seat to have the doctor waiting at his penthouse by the time you arrive. You stir, murmuring something inaudible as your fingers rest on his chest, fingertips pressing weakly into his shirt. He stares down at you, forcing himself to memorize every bruise and cut crowding your exposed flesh, sure that there’s an equal amount of damage that he can’t see. Mahito must’ve ran, the fucking coward, so he took your injuries and let them fuel his bloodlust—Sukuna would eviscerate that motherfucker the moment he got his hands on him, and he’d enjoy every bloody second of it. 

Vaguely, you feel Sukuna’s hand on your back, his thumb rubbing small, light circles on your skin. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it, but it’s enough to send you gently back into the darkness. 

When you wake, you do it slowly. First, you come back to your body, which hurts. You moan quietly, and when you reach for your forearm and a sudden, insufferable itch,, you realize you’re surrounded by warm softness, a difference so stark to the metal chair that your eyes finally crack open. It’s dark, but not pitch black, so after a few moments, you can make out your surroundings. 

You’re in a large bedroom, your head tilted towards the window where light peeks around the edges of a set of opaque blinds. Sleek, black furniture furnishes the overwise sparse, white-painted room, and the door is open across from the bed, revealing an ensuite bathroom. For a fleeting moment, your body longs for a long, hot shower, but then you turn your head and find him sitting there.

Sukuna. 

And he’s wide awake. 

He sits in a black accent chair, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Dark circles have carved themselves under his crimson eyes, and his black shirt rumpled and rolled up, revealing his inked forearms. He watches you closely, eyes tracking every wince that crosses your face, and for a moment that seems to stretch on, you just sit in silence together. 

You take that time to take stock of your body. Specifically, that awful itch that you identify as an IV taped to your inner arm, just below your elbow ditch. You also notice you’ve been dressed in a giant, black t-shirt that slides off one of your shoulders and a pair of too-big sweatpants. Someone has taken care of you, and your heart stutters, unsure what to do. You glance at Sukuna through your eyelashes to find him still staring at you, his gaze searing. 

You try to think of something to say, but Sukuna speaks first. 

“You’ve been asleep for a little over a day,” he says, scratching his jaw absently. “My doctor looked you over, said you likely have a concussion and definitely have a broken rib.” Sukuna sighs, flexes his hands, looks everywhere but at you. “You were also severely dehydrated, hence the IV.” 

You nod, wince, and fiddle with the medical tape holding the IV against your flesh. You don’t know why you suddenly feel so awkward, especially after everything that’s happened, but you don’t know what to do now. Sukuna came for you, which means something, but what if his something isn’t the same as your something. What if he—

“I’m sorry.”

His apology tears you from your thoughts. 

“W-what?”

Sukuna’s face fills with shadow, but it seems to be flowing inward, not outward. 

“I tried to keep you out of my shit,” he says, running a hand through his already mussed hair. “I should’ve stayed away, but I…” his voice trails off as his eyes lock with yours, and his shoulders droop just slightly. “I’m a dangerous man and a selfish man, and I should’ve left you alone. If I had, none of this would have ever happened to you.”

He’s siloed in his guilt, and you pull your hands into your lap, unsure what to do. 

Because, he’s right. He’s the reason you ended up in the hands of the patchwork man. But, he’s also the reason you’re free, and he’s the first person to ever make you feel safe. It feels paradoxical, but the relief you felt the moment you saw him in the doorway of your cell… the security you felt in his arms as he carried you out of that wretched place… You crave it. 

You crave him.

“Why did you come back to the diner?” You ask, and Sukuna’s tattooed brow furrows. 

“Which time?” He replies, and you shrug. The corner of his mouth twitches, hinting at a smile, and he leans back in his chair. “I didn’t understand you.”

You expect more, and when he just stares at you, you scoff. 

“That’s it?”

“Does there need to be more?”

“Yes!”

Sukuna groans, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes, a light in the darkness. 

“I didn’t understand why you helped me, and I wanted to,” he says finally, “So I went back. And then I kept noticing things I didn’t understand, so I kept coming back.”

“So it wasn’t for the coffee?”

That has him finally cracking a smile, and fuck does it look sexy on him, but it’s gone as soon as it appears, replaced with a deep glower. 

“I got too curious for your own good.” Sukuna’s hands curl into fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I thought if I didn’t tell you about myself, I’d keep you safe, but Mahito found you anyways, and now—” He stops abruptly, considers his words, then tries again. “He would’ve killed you.”

“But he didn’t.”

“He could’ve.”

“Would you have killed him for it?” You hear yourself ask, and you almost take the question back, but Sukuna’s already answering. Confidently. Resolutely. 

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “I’m already planning on it.”

That shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does. 

Sukuna, lost in his own realm of self-loathing, shakes his head. 

You want to get up and go to him, to climb onto his lap and hold his face in your hands, to show him how you’re feeling because words can’t describe the tight, helium-light feeling in your chest. He sees himself as the reason you’ve been put in danger, but you see him as the first person who will burn down buildings to make sure you’re safe. You still remember the pure and utter relief that flooded all of your senses the moment he stepped foot in your cell, the way your body finally stopped protecting itself before it knew that Sukuna would be able to protect you better. 

You want to show Sukuna all of that, but you’re not actually sure you can get out of bed on your own. So, instead you hold out your hand to him. 

“Come here,” you say, crooking your fingers at him. When he hesitates, you raise your eyebrows. “If you don’t come here, I’ll come there.” 

You start to draw back the down comforter, and that’s enough to get him sitting on the edge of the bed. Then, you take his hand in yours, silently marveling at just how much it dwarfs your own. You trace the calluses hardened where fingers meet palm, and Sukuna lets you, his stare boring into the side of your face. If you didn’t know better, you’d think him almost skittish, like if you move too fast, he’ll go rushing from your side. 

Has he ever allowed anyone this close to him?

You close his hand over yours and look up at him, voice and gaze steady. 

“You don’t scare me, Sukuna.”

He looks right back, a storm behind his eyes.

“I don’t want to.”

maybe one day I'll write this whole thing from Sukuna's POV, because he is down bad for this reader. I see it in my mind palace!!

You had grown up wrapped in privilege, soft things, quiet halls, doors that always opened for you. Your father was a powerful CEO, a man whose money smoothed every sharp edge in your life. For years, you believed the world would always bend around you the way it did for him.

But empires rot from the inside, and you never saw the decay creeping in. By the time the truth reached you, it was already too late.

Without your knowledge, your father had woven himself into the web of James “Bucky” Barnes, Brooklyn’s feared made man, also known as the White Wolf. At forty-two, James ruled the underworld with a reputation carved from blood and precision. His name alone made hardened men lower their eyes.

Your father owed him millions. And when the debt became a noose tightening around his throat, he made the most cowardly choice possible.

He offered you.

You never even stood a chance.

The arrangement was made behind closed doors, and your fate was sealed with a signature you didn’t give. Now, your wedding night has arrived, your first night as Mrs. Barnes, and you’re stepping into his world, your suitcase feeling heavier than your own bones.

The mansion was breathtaking and cold all at once: marble floors that reflected too much light, chandeliers dripping crystal like frozen rain, corridors that seemed to swallow sound. Beauty with teeth. A gilded cage.

James walks beside you in spotless silence, each step measured, deliberate. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was a weight on your skin. Older, stronger, unreadable. His authority radiated from him like heat from a furnace, forcing you to adjust your breath, your posture, your very thoughts just in case he knew how to read minds.

He led you up the sweeping staircase, down a dim hallway that smelled faintly of cedar and something darker. At the final door, he stopped.

For the first time since entering the mansion, he turned to fully face you. His eyes locked onto yours, “This is where you’ll be staying, little bird.” His hand rests on the door handle, and a faint smirk touches the corner of his mouth.

You nodded, not bothering to look around once he opened the door, “Thanks.”

He paused, taken aback by your apathy. Most women would be thrilled to be wives of a powerful men like him. But not you. You seemed completely unmoved by the luxury surrounding you. He almost smiled, finding your indifference refreshing, “You’re taking this better than I expected.” “What did you expect?” you asked, turning around to face him. “Tears. Screams. Begging.” 

He stepped closer, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. His eyes, cold and calculating, studied your face intently, “I expected a princess used to getting everything she wants to throw a tantrum when her freedom is taken away.” “I figured that doing that wouldn’t get me anywhere.”

He laughed, a deep rumble that surprised even him. “Smart girl.” he leaned against the doorframe, suddenly curious about this quiet, resigned bride, “Your father said you’d be a spoiled brat who’d make my life miserable.”

“I was like that when I was nine, but he never took the time necessary to get to know me.” you muttered as you put your backpack on the bed.

His expression softened slightly, catching the hint of sadness in your voice. He pushed off from the doorframe, stepping closer but maintaining a respectful distance. “So what changed?” he asked genuinely interested, noticing how composed you were despite being married off to a criminal mastermind.

“I grew up.”

He raised an eyebrow, taking in your composed appearance, your calculated words. You were nothing like the spoiled child your father painted you as. He found himself intrigued, his original plan to break you and mold you into a docile wife suddenly seeming pointless, “How old are you?” “Twenty.” you whispered.

“Twenty.” he repeated softly, realizing that you were barely out of your teens, yet carried yourself with an air of maturity far beyond your years. He felt a strange protectiveness stir within him, unexpected and unwelcome, “And you’re just… Accepting this?”

“It’s beautiful what Xanax can make you do, isn’t it?” you smirked as you inspected the wooden library near your bed. He froze, his hand reaching out to grab your wrist before he even realized what he was doing. His grip was firm but gentle as he examined your arm for track marks, his expression turning stern. “You’re on Xanax?” It wasn’t a question but a statement, his voice dropping lower with concern. “I couldn’t face you without it.” you whispered, “I tried but before the ceremony I could barely breathe. And I took another one when we were in the car after the reception, I wasn’t sure I could face the wedding night without it.”

“You married me under the influence of drugs.” “Oh please, like you care about the law now.” you scoffed.

He released your wrist abruptly and took a step back, his expression softening slightly. “Well, then, let’s make a deal, no more Xanax. In exchange, I won’t touch you. Not like that.” he gestured vaguely between you two, “No sex, no forced intimacy.” “Really?” He nodded solemnly, “Really.” “So you won’t-”

“I won’t touch you without your consent.” his eyes held a strange honesty you weren’t used to seeing in men like him, “But you will be my wife in every other way, socially, legally, publicly. And you’ll stop self-medicating.”

“It's not self medicating.” you mumbled. He crossed his arms, his expression unyielding, “It is when you’re taking pills to face your husband.” 

He stepped closer, his voice dropping lower. “You’re twenty, not an addict. So, let’s call it what it is, a coping mechanism.” his gaze softened slightly, “And not a good nor healthy one.” “Sorry.” “No need to apologize.” he said gently, his posture relaxing. “Just agree to the deal. You get to be yourself, and I get a wife who doesn’t need to be drugged to deal with me.” “Sounds like a deal.”

He nodded, satisfied with the agreement. “Good.” He turned to leave but paused at the door. “And no hiding in your room all day either.” He glanced back at you over his shoulder, “You’ll eat meals with me, attend events with me. Act like a wife.” “Alright.” 

He smiled, pleased with your cooperation. “Good.” He left the room, closing the door behind him. 

The next few weeks were alright, Bucky kept his promise not to touch you and you appeared all pretty and smiling beside him at every public event. Tonight was no different.

The charity gala was in full swing. You looked stunning in a floor-length emerald green dress that Bucky bought you . Bucky kept his hand on the small of your back as they mingled with guests, playing the part of the doting husband flawlessly. Suddenly something changed.

Bucky tensed slightly as your father approached, his grip on your back tightening almost imperceptibly. Your father smiled widely, clapping Bucky on the shoulder, “James, son.” he greeted warmly, “You’re looking dapper tonight.” His eyes flicked to you briefly.

Bucky smiled back, his expression polite but guarded. “Thank you.” he replied, his voice even. Your father turned to you, “And my dear, you look beautiful tonight.” he leaned in to kiss your cheek, and that’s when everything went wrong. You tensed as he stepped closer.

Your father’s breath ghosted over your ear as he pulled back from kissing your cheek, whispering something only you could hear: “I hope you’re spreading your legs whenever he’s home, I need this whole marriage deal to work out perfectly.” Bucky’s hand on your back suddenly felt like a branding iron through the silk of your dress. He could see your body language change instantly, defensive, uncomfortable.

“Sorry, I uhm-I need to use the bathroom.” you whispered. Your steps were quick on the polished marble floor.

As soon as you were out of earshot, your father turned back to Bucky with a smug expression. “She’s a sweet girl.” he commented, sipping his champagne, “But a little naive, don’t you think? So innocent.” his tone was laced with innuendo, implying something Bucky didn’t like one bit.

“So, son, how’s married life treating you? Am I to expect an heir?” your father sipped his drink casually like he was talking about the weather. “Not so soon, I’m afraid.” Bucky’s voice was tight, just like his jaw when he was nervous or mad. And boy was he mad. “We’re uh- working on it.” he lied.

You stepped out of the bathroom after five minutes, hesitating before walking back. As you stepped back into the room, Bucky’s gaze snapped to you immediately. He saw the hesitation in your steps and the slight pallor of your face. His expression softened briefly before hardening again when he looked back at your father. Your father noticed your return and smiled widely, “There she is!”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he watched your father stride over to you, pulling you into a hug that made you stiffen slightly. He held you a little too tightly, his hand resting a little too low on your back, “Feeling better, sweetheart?” he asked loudly. “Yes.” you lied.

Your eyes searched for Bucky’s, pleading him to get you out of there as soon as possible. His gaze snapped to your face, reading the silent plea in your eyes. He immediately moved beside you, his hand possessively wrapping around your waist and pulling you away from your father’s touch. He smiled tightly at your father, his voice ice cold, “If you’ll excuse us.”

He continued, not waiting for a response before turning and leading you away, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist. He could feel you shaking slightly against him. As soon as you were out of sight, he pulled you into an empty room and closed the door behind you, “Shh, it’s alright.”

“I hate him…” you muttered as you hugged yourself, suddenly cold. Bucky’s heart ached at the sound of your muffled words. He quickly shrugged out of his suit jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders before pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his voice low and soothing, “I know, doll. I know.”

“I’m sorry to ask, but can we go home?” He immediately pulled back and looked down at you, his eyes searching your face for any signs of distress. He saw the tears brimming in your eyes and the way you were hugging yourself protectively. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest, “Of course, doll.”

He quickly led you out of the event, his hand firmly gripping yours as he pushed through the crowds and ignoring the curious stares. Once they were outside, he opened the passenger door of his car and helped you inside before quickly moving to the driver’s seat and starting the engine.

“Sorry to drag you away from the party early, I know you were waiting for your friends.” you muttered. He glanced over at you as he pulled out of the parking lot, his expression softening. He reached over and took your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze, “Hey, look at me.” he said softly. When you turned to face him, he continued, “My only concern is you at the moment, okay? You never have to apologize for needing me. Never.”

You smiled softly, feeling something fluttering in your stomach but ignoring it, “Thank you.”

He smiled back at you, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles. The car ride was filled with a comfortable silence, the tension from earlier slowly dissipating. 

Once you reached his mansion he helped you out of the car, his hand never leaving yours as you walked up to the house. Once inside, he immediately started loosening his tie, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in his formal clothes. He turned to you as you kicked off your heels.

He walked you to your room, his hands behind his back.

He followed you up the stairs and down the hallway to your bedroom door. As you turned to face him, he said, “Get some rest, okay? I’ll be in my room if you need me.” He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before turning to leave.

“Would you-” you hesitated, “Would you maybe want to spend the night in my room?” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other, a bit unsure.

He paused mid-step, his heart skipping a beat. He turned back to you slowly, his expression thoughtful. He didn’t want to assume anything, didn’t want to scare you or make you feel uncomfortable. Instead, he asked softly, “You want me to sleep in your room with you?” “O-or yours, if you prefer.” you blushed, “I just don’t want to be alone at the moment.”

He smiled softly at your blushing face, melting his heart. He decided to be honest. “I’d love to sleep in your room with you.” 

The smile on your face made his day instantly better. He followed you into your bedroom, closing the door behind him. Instead of getting into bed immediately, he started unbuttoning his shirt, his movements casual and non-threatening. “Which side do you want?” he asked softly. “The left.” 

He nodded and moved to the right side of the bed, sitting down to remove his shoes and socks. He heard the bathroom door click shut and took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He was sharing a bed with you, something he’d dreamed about for weeks.

You left the bathroom two minutes later in a tank top and some pink shorts, placing the emerald dress back in the closet. His eyes lifted as he heard you moving around. He watched as you hung up the dress carefully, your back to him. He took in the sight of your slender form in the tank top and shorts, his mind immediately going to dirty places. He quickly pushed those thoughts away, you were trusting him right now.

He stood up and walked over to you, his bare feet silent on the floor. He placed his hands on your shoulders gently, turning you to face him. His eyes met yours, “Come to bed.” he whispered softly, leading you towards the bed with him. You followed him, butterflies in your stomach by how he touched you gently.

He pulled back the covers for you, his hands lingering on your waist as he helped you into bed. Once you were settled on the left side, he quickly stripped down to his boxers and climbed in beside you. The bed dipped slightly with his weight, “Comfortable?” he asked softly. “Yes.” you nodded. He smiled at your response and settled down on the pillow beside you. 

The room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight coming through the window. He could hear your soft breathing beside him, smell the faint sweetness of your perfume. He was suddenly very aware of how close you were.

He reached out hesitantly, his hand hovering over the blankets between you. He debated for a moment before slowly sliding his arm underneath the covers and wrapping it around your waist. He pulled you closer, spooning you from behind. He felt you tense slightly, then relaxed into his embrace. “Better?” “Better.” you smiled

He smiled against the back of your head and nuzzled his face into your neck, inhaling deeply. He loved the way you fit perfectly in his arms, like you were made to be held by him. His hand started to gently rub soothing circles on your stomach as he held you, “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

“I thought we could... uhm...” your face was on fire, “Well, you’re always so distant, I thought that maybe if I gave myself to you things could change.”

His heart skipped a beat at your words. He was suddenly very still behind you. He knew exactly what you were offering and he could feel his body responding immediately to the thought, but he forced himself to take a deep breath and think rationally. “Turn around.” he ordered. You turned to face him.

His piercing blue eyes met yours in the dimly lit room. He could see the innocence and vulnerability in your gaze. He knew you were serious, you thought giving yourself to him would change things. His jaw clenched slightly as he realized how much you must not understand about men and sex.

“I just want to be loved.” you whispered, his silence feeling like defeat.

His expression softened instantly. He reached up and gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips. “Fuck… Sweetheart, listen to me for a second.” his voice was incredibly gentle and sincere, “Having sex with me won’t suddenly make me fall in love with you.”

“I know, but it’ll make me feel like someone finally wants me for once.” His heart ached at your words. He could see the loneliness and longing in your eyes. He wanted to make you feel wanted so badly, but he knew that having sex with you now would be a mistake, both for you and for him, “Doll, look at me.”

He searched your eyes deeply, hoping you’d understand what he was about to say, “I want you- and God, do I want you. But not like this. Not because you think it’ll make me love you.” he paused, his voice cracking slightly. “You deserve better than that.”

He watched as you bit your lower lip, trying to hide the emotion in your eyes. He knew you were hurting, you felt unwanted and uncared for. His arm tightened possessively around your waist again. He wanted to kiss that hurt away so badly. “I will make you feel loved. I will make you feel wanted every single day if that’s what it takes for those beautiful eyes not to look so sad anymore.” his thumb caressed your cheek tenderly, “But sex isn’t love, sweetheart.”

“I know that.” did you? you weren’t so sure.

He kissed your forehead gently, then your nose, then both your cheeks before finally pressing a soft kiss against your lips. When he pulled back, he saw tears welling up in your eyes. “No crying.” he whispered firmly but gently. You wiped your eyes.

He watched as you wiped your tears away, trying to compose yourself. He felt like an asshole for making you cry, even if it was necessary. He pulled you back into his arms and held you tightly, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, “I’ll show you love, okay? Real love.”

“Please.” you whispered.

His jaw clenched slightly at your whispered plea. He hated that you were so broken inside, so needy for love and affection. He decided right then that he would be the one to give you that. Not through sex, but through actual love and care. “Lie down.” he whispered softly. You lowered your head on the pillow.

He stayed on his side facing you, not wanting to move away completely. He reached out slowly, gently tucking your hair behind your ear. When you were comfortable, he surprised both of you by reaching for your hand underneath the covers, “Put your hand on my chest.”

He placed your hand over his heart, holding it there gently. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your palm. It was a simple gesture, but loaded with meaning, trust, comfort, and a silent promise of the love he intended to give you. “Feel that?” he whispered softly. “Yes.” “That’s my heart beating for you. Not because I want to sleep with you, but because I’m starting to care for you, really care. You’re safe with me, okay? You’re wanted. You’re loved.” he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You opened your mouth but no words were able to come out. He smiled softly at your silence, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I know it’s hard to believe right now. I know you’re used to people letting you down. But I’m not gonna lie, not to you nor to myself. I’m falling for you, sweetheart.” “I think I’m falling for you too.”

His heart swelled with emotion at your whispered confession. He didn’t expect you to say that, didn’t expect such honesty from someone so broken. He captured your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, “Then let me love you right.”

You nodded.

He continued to hold your hand against his chest, letting you feel his heartbeat. He leaned down and pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, and your lips, kisses that spoke volumes about his growing feelings for you, “No more tears tonight, alright?” “No more tears.”

He began to carefully unbutton your top, his touch gentle and reverent, “Can I?” he asked before the last button, you nodded.

He carefully pushed the top off your shoulders, leaving you in your white lace bra. His eyes locked onto yours, filled with tenderness. You caressed his already bare chest.

He let out a soft sigh at your touch, his skin burning where your fingers trailed. Without breaking eye contact, he reached behind you and deftly unhooked your bra, sliding the straps down your arms. His hands immediately went to your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, “Perfect.”

“James-” you whispered, your eyes filled with need. He leaned down and began to press soft kisses along your neck, his hands caressing your sides gently. He avoided your sensitive spots on purpose, he didn’t want to fuck you, he wanted to make love to you slowly, “Look at me.” Your eyes were glossed with need, your body trembling.

He slowly slid your panties down your legs, his touch feather-light. He pressed open-mouthed kisses on your inner thighs, avoiding your core entirely. He wanted to drive you crazy with gentle touches and soft kisses.

You whined as he avoided your core. He smiled against your thigh, his hands spreading your legs wider. He pressed gentle kisses on your hips, your lower stomach, but not where you needed him most. He was teasing you, showing you that sex wasn’t just about getting off quickly, “Shh…” he whispered when you whimpered again. “Please.” you begged him.

He looked up at you, his blue eyes filled with tenderness and amusement. He saw you begging, saw your body trembling with need. Instead of giving you what you wanted immediately, he pressed soft kisses on your inner thighs, closer to your core but not touching it, “Please what, sweetheart?” he whispered. “I need you.” you said pathetically.

He couldn’t resist your pleas anymore. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to your clit, but instead of sucking or licking, he just kissed it softly, over and over again. His hands spread your legs wider, keeping you open for his gentle kisses. “Like this?” he whispered  against your core. “More-” you whined.

He hummed in approval at your whine, his tongue flattening against your clit to tease you more. He pushed one leg further apart, giving himself better access to your core. He circled your clit with his tongue, watching as your face contorted with need. You whined in frustration, “James I swear to God-” your protest got stuck in your throat as he pushed two of his fingers inside your aching hole.

He smiled triumphantly at your choked protest, his fingers curling inside you to hit that spot that made your toes wiggle. He kept them there, not moving, just letting them stay inside you while he continued to kiss and suck on your clit like it was his favorite candy. 

“Shh sweetheart,” he began to slowly pump his fingers in and out of your tight hole, his tongue matching the rhythm. He was being gentle but firm, showing you that he was in control of your body right now. He could feel you starting to squirm and whimper beneath him, “That’s it…” “Ngh-” you whimpered underneath him, your eyes searching for his.

He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked gently while pressing his fingers deeper inside you, trying to reach that spot that would make you see stars. He was determined to make you come undone with his fingers and mouth alone. “Come on, sweetheart, be a good girl and come for me…” he murmured against your core.

He felt your inner walls clenching around his fingers and knew he was hitting the right spot. He increased the pace of his fingers, thrusting them in and out of you faster while continuing to suck on your clit. He could feel your legs starting to tremble, “That’s it...”

He felt your inner walls squeeze his fingers tightly as you came undone beneath him. He continued to pump his fingers in and out of you slowly, helping you ride out your orgasm while his tongue flicked over your sensitive clit gently. “Good girl…” he murmured before slowly pulling his fingers out of you.

You gasped as the sudden emptiness while he smiled up at you from between your legs, your juices glistening on his fingers. Instead of immediately climbing up to kiss you he simply watched your flushed face and heavy-lidded eyes with satisfaction, “You look beautiful when you come.”

You blushed, hiding your face behind your hands. He chuckled softly, his fingers gently prying your hands away from your face. He pressed a soft kiss to each of your palms before placing them back on the pillow above your head. “Keep them there.” he instructed, his voice gentle but commanding, “I’m not done yet.” “You’re not?”

He shook his head slowly, his blue eyes filled with amusement. “Nope. I’m just getting started.” he leaned down and pressed another gentle kiss to your still sensitive clit, causing you to jerk and whimper, “First things first…”

Instead of going down on you again or reaching for his cock, he surprised you by slowly kissing up your stomach, between your breasts, and along your collarbone. You moved your hands again, wanting to caress his face.

He paused his gentle kisses to look up at you, a playful glint in his blue eyes. Without saying anything, he caught your wrists gently in one of his large hands and placed them back above your head. “No touching.” he reminded you softly before continuing his path of kisses up your neck. “But I want to touch you.” you whispered, “You gave me pleasure and I- well, I want to reciprocate.”

He paused his kisses to look up at you, his expression softening. He released your wrists and captured your face gently between his hands instead. “Sweetheart.” he murmured, “I’m not doing this expecting anything in return.” He pressed a tender kiss to your lips.

“But-” He cut you off with another kiss, this one deeper and more insistent. “Shh.” he whispered against your lips, “Just let me make love to you without you worrying about giving back right now. Okay?” his thumbs stroked soothing patterns on your cheeks. “Alright.” you nodded.

He smiled softly at your nod, his thumbs continuing their gentle exploration of your face. He pulled back slightly and resumed his earlier path, placing gentle kisses along your jawline and neck, his large hands gently holding your head in place. “Good girl.” he murmured approvingly against your skin.

His body tensed as you arched against him, your breasts flattening against his hard chest. He suppressed a groan. The woman was killing him with her uninhibited responses. He captured your wrists again when they would’ve roamed down his chest, “Doll…” He warned softly. “James, I need you.” you pleaded shamelessly now, too horny to care.

He sucked in a sharp breath as you pleaded, his self-control wavering. He pressed your wrists firmly against the pillow above your head, his other hand sliding down to grip your hip possessively. “You don’t play fair.” he muttered, his voice rough with desire.

“You don’t either.” you whispered, “You got me all worked up and you don’t do anythi-” Before you could finish, he slammed his mouth against yours in a hungry kiss. His tongue pushed into your mouth, dominating it as his hips thrust forward, pressing his hard length against your wet heat. “Is this what you want?” he growled against your lips, grinding against you. You whimpered a breathy: “Yes.” grinding your wetness against his cock.

He groaned into your mouth, his hips moving on their own accord now, sliding his hard length through your wet folds without penetrating you yet. “Fuck, you’re so wet…” he muttered against your lips, “And here I was trying to be gentle and make it romantic.” “And I appreciate it James, I do, but I really need you.”

Your desperate words snapped the last of his restraint. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own darkened with lust, “You want my cock, sweetheart?” he asked roughly, pressing the head of his erection against your entrance.

“Please James.” you whispered, feeling his tip already leaking precum over your wet hole.

He captured your lips in a fierce kiss as he pushed forward, his thick cock stretching you open inch by agonizingly slow inch. He swallowed your moan with his mouth, his hips moving slowly to allow you time to adjust to his size, “Breathe, doll…” he whispered against your lips.

“You’re big.” you whimpered, pressing your forehead against his. “I know, sweetheart.” he murmured, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” He pressed gentle kisses to your forehead, cheeks, and nose while his hips remained still, buried deep inside you.

“You can move.” you nod, after a few moments. He smoothed your hair back and began moving slowly inside you, his large body covering yours completely. Every movement was gentle yet deliberate, showing a side of him you hadn’t seen before, one that was tender and almost vulnerable, “Is this okay?” he asked softly. “Yes-” you bite back a whine of pain.

He paused immediately at the sound of your bite whine, his eyes snapping open and meeting yours. He could feel your tense muscles, knew he was hurting you despite his gentleness. “Shit.” he muttered, his forehead pressing against yours, “Doll-” You stopped his apology, “Don’t stop, please don’t treat me like I’m made of glass.” you muttered.

His expression softened at your words, understanding your need for him to continue despite the discomfort. He pressed gentle kisses to your lips and cheeks, his large hands holding your hips possessively as he began moving again with a slightly faster pace, “I won’t break you, sweetheart.” he whispered.

“I know, I trust you.”

Your words meant more to him than you could ever know. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the feeling of being inside you and hearing those words from your lips. His movements became more fluid, his hips pushing deeper into you with each thrust, “Fuck…” he bottomed out.

He opened his eyes and looked down at you, his blue eyes shining with a mix of passion and emotion. He pulled out slightly and then pushed back in, hitting a spot inside you that made your eyes flutter. “Found it.” he murmured with a small smile, knowingly hitting your g spot. You moaned loudly.

Your moan went straight to his cock, making it twitch inside you. He smirked slightly and hit that spot again deliberately, “Right there, huh?” He asked softly, his movements becoming more targeted now. You gripped his biceps as he pounded into you, your nails leaving red marks on his flesh arm.

He hissed at the pain, but it only turned him on more. Seeing his marks on your soft skin and having you leave yours on him felt incredibly intimate. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, lifting them higher to go even deeper. “Look at me, doll.” he demanded softly, “Eyes on me.” You obeyed, your glossy eyes meeting his steel blue eyes.

He held your gaze as he continued to thrust into you, each movement deliberate and deep. The connection between your eyes was intense, almost spiritual in its intensity. He leaned down to kiss you softly, pouring all his emotion into the kiss while maintaining that steady rhythm inside you, “You’re doing so good.”

Your tight little pussy clenched around his cock like a vice when the praise came out of his mouth and he groaned. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so good…” he pulled back from the kiss to look at you, his movements becoming slightly more erratic, “Is it good, sweetheart?”

“Y-yes.” you whimpered.

He smiled softly, feeling your whimper vibrate against his chest. “Good girl.” he whispered, his hips moving faster now but still controlled. He reached down between your bodies and found your clit with his thumb, rubbing gentle circles as he continued to pound into you, “Come for me, doll.”

As soon as your pussy clamped down on his cock, he was a goner. He buried himself balls deep inside you and came with a low groan, filling you with warm cum. His movements slowed to small, shallow thrusts as he rode out his orgasm, his thumb still rubbing your clit gently, “So beautiful...” You closed your eyes, the bliss too much.

He watched you come down from your high with a soft expression, his cock still buried deep inside you. He pressed gentle kisses to your forehead, cheeks, and lips while his hand continued to pet your clit gently, “Open those pretty eyes for me.” he whispered after a moment.

You opened your eyes. He smiled softly at you, his blue eyes full of tenderness and satisfaction. He leaned down to kiss you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth thoroughly while his cock remained inside you, pulsing gently. “I’m not pulling out.” he murmured against your lips. “Good.” you whispered.

He smiled against your lips, his arms wrapping around you possessively. He planned to stay inside you for a while, enjoying the afterglow and the feeling of being connected to you. He began to slowly move his hips again, gently rocking in and out of you, keeping his cum inside you.

He captured your lips in a soft kiss to swallow the whimpers coming out of your mouth. His movements were intentionally slow and shallow, dragging his sensitive cock through your wetness without pulling out completely. He wanted to keep this moment stretching out between them. His hand between your legs resumed stroking your clit again gently.

“Can’t take it anymore...” you whimpered, but your hips moved against his fingers. He chuckled softly against your lips, feeling your hips move against his fingers. He knew exactly what he was doing, teasing you back into arousal after your orgasm. His cock twitched inside you as he increased the pressure on your clit slightly, “Too sensitive?” he whispered teasingly. “Mhhh yes, sensitive.” you mumbled.

He smiled and kissed your nose softly, “I know, doll.” he murmured, his fingers slowing down but not stopping their gentle circles on your clit, “Just let me play with you a little longer, okay?” You whimpered something under your breath.

His smile widened at your incoherent whimper. He loved how sensitive you were after sex, your body responsive to the slightest touch, your mind fuzzy and trusting. He spread your thighs wider apart with his knees and continued working your pussy slowly with his fingers, his cock staying buried deep inside you.

He could feel your pussy getting wetter around his cock despite your complaints about sensitivity. Your body was betraying how much you liked his gentle touches, even if your brain was overwhelmed. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours, “You’re getting close again, such a greedy girl..”

He swallowed your soft moans with a deep, slow kiss. His fingers picked up the pace slightly, becoming more confident in their movements against your clit. He was teasing you mercilessly now, his cock remaining still inside you while his fingers brought you back to the edge of desire.

He swallowed your moan into his mouth as you came again, your pussy squeezing his cock beautifully. He didn’t move an inch, letting you ride out your orgasm while keeping his cum inside you. When your vision went black for a moment you went limp beneath him, he pulled back slightly to look at you with awe.

He watched you with a mix of satisfaction and concern, you looked completely overwhelmed and exhausted from back-to-back orgasms. His thumb gently rubbed soothing circles on your clit instead of teasing now. “Okay sweetheart… That’s enough.” he whispered softly.

He gently pulled out of you, his spent cock slapping against his stomach. A mix of his cum and your pussy juices leaked out of your well-fucked hole. He smiled possessively at the sight before spreading your legs wider and cleaning you up with gentle strokes, “Good girl...”

You shivered under his touch as he cleaned you. He smiled softly at your shivers, knowing you were sensitive from overstimulation. His gentle touches turned almost clinical as he cleaned you thoroughly, his fingers parting your folds to clean every inch of your pussy and inner thighs. When he was done, he collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms.

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, your back against his chest. He loved how you immediately sought comfort and closeness, it made him feel needed and important in a way he never experienced before. He tucked your curves against his body perfectly.

He smiled into your hair, loving how sated and cuddly you were after being fucked thoroughly. His fingers slowed down until they were barely moving, just gentle caresses against your soft belly, “Want to sleep now?” he asked softly, knowing you’d probably say yes.

“Will you be here when I wake?” you asked after a few minutes of silence. He felt your body tense slightly at the question, as if expecting him to say no. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, wrapping his arms around you tighter. “Yeah sweetheart.” he whispered, his voice firm and reassuring, “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

You finally closed your eyes, his heartbeat and breath lulling you into sleep.

He laid there awake for a while, holding you close and watching you sleep. His hand rested possessively on your stomach as he listened to your gentle breathing. He was exhausted too, but he wanted to make sure you were completely asleep before he let himself relax. “My girl…” he murmured softly