now on your knees, head spinning, you try and steel yourself. you only just managed to take him in your cunt, the whole that was meant for fucking, and no matter how much nik insists that such a pretty mouth was made for pleasuring him too, you're not so sure.

"try, for me, dorogya." he coos, and you look up to see the softness in his eyes, the comforting reassurance and encouragement.

its not just lust, not just the man eager to get his dick wet in a tight willing throat, its meaningful. 

your man, your dominant, wanting to encourage, to see you grow. he knows you can do it, know you can take what he gives you and you can make him proud, make yourself proud.

you'd balked when he brought up throat training, not from lack of interest, no. 

your dreams were plagued by the thought of your gullet being stuffed full of nikolai's cock, his thickness making it's home in your whore throat and repurposing your hole for choking instead of something so silly as speaking. 

night after night he came to you, fuzzy around the edges, the context always a little different, but one constant remained -- your dreams always felt complete when his dick buried itself in your throat and you felt it deep, deeper than it could ever reasonably go.

so, with your dreams and desires nestled in your mind, you take a deep breath and decide to be brave for your papochka.

"okay." you whisper. you flutter your eyelashes up at nik, knowing he's about to give you his length but wanting to rile him up further regardless. if you tease, he'll be harder, will want to feel the back of your throat before your ready, just how you want it. "i need to choke on you, papochka, need to feel it."

the words have barely left you before he's spurred into action, yanking down your jaw and feeding his cock inside, inch by heavy inch sliding across your slick tongue. 

you open as wide as you can, take deep breaths through your nose and focus hard, on being the most eager, willing, receptive little hole you can manage to be. 

but even then, it's not long before nikolai meets resistance, the little hitch of hesitation, the barrier at the back of your throat that is just waiting to be conquered. 

"that's it, nice and deep kotenok, almost there."

the syllables are tight, ripped from his throat as he clings to what little restraint he has left. 

you force your eyes to remain fixed on his, the educational videos nik had shown you in the form of his favourite porn flickering through your mind. good girls keep eye contact, good girls look up to their man, good girls stay reverent. 

you're rewarded with the delicious sight of him, his expression shifting between pride and awe, pleasure and something altogether more feral. stubbled lips snarls, his brows meet and his teeth grit, and as he holds himself in your mouth, you feel yourself buzz with accomplishment, even though your true test has not yet begun. 

nik holds the base of his cock with the scarred hand that isn't still fixed to your head, gives himself a shake as he tries to force his way through. 

he knows its not from a lack of willing, knows his sweet girl wants to give him everything even though her body resists. but where the flesh refuses to obey, he will bend it to his will, one way or another, his control of his girl so absolute in both mind and body.

"deep breaths, sweetheart." his words are sweet but still commanding, his lust and affection warring to come out on top. "is a lot, hmm?"

you nod, as much as you can when your mouth is impaled and your head is so tightly controlled, and grateful tears start to form at the corners of your eyes. you love everything he gives you, and the little droplets burst free filled with emotion and the evidence of your exertion, your dedication to taking him all. 

"so much to take for such a little girl. now imagine how much longer it was when I wasn't as big hmm?" 

the words hit you in the fucking gut, the reality of such a statement and how it plays into the twisted little way your mind works sends you reeling. 

you pull off nik sharply, not all the way, not enough to be a bad girl, just enough to let out a strangled gasp of delight.

"fuck--" you choke, but your reprieve doesn't last before nik is finding his way back between your lips.

"but you prefer it like this, nyet?" he asks, almost tauntingly, and you know he can see the way your body shivers and your cunt slickens. "hmm. all is as it should be. if i were still young man, you wouldn't be able to take it all." 

your head begins to spin again, not just from the difficulty breathing as your throat is jammed up, but from how much you need the man before you. older, wiser--fatter in his older age and all the better for it. 

he looks like the quintessential old perv--lustful smile and hungry eyes, imposing figure that's full in all the right places, and a dirty, depraved fucking mind to top it all off. 

it has been only few weeks since your professional friendship turned sexual, but you knew from the moment you laid eyes on him, thick fingers wrapped around a spanner, hair slicked back and stomach spilling over his trousers, that you were completely, irrevocably in love.

"wouldnt do, not being able to fuck my new pets throat." nik tsks, a hand tapping at your cheeks.

he pushes now, his impatience showing until his efforts are rewarded with that little pop, and your lips attaching to his base like they know they're coming home.

and then it's so hard to breathe, between the cock filling every millimetre of your throat and the fat that covers your nose all the way up to the top of your head. there's no way to take anything that isn't your papochka. thick, hairy thighs flank you on either side, a gilded cage, an extra weight keeping you in place.

now, with your ultimate goal achieved, your mouth in its rightful place at the bottom of your papochka's cock and your body tucked underneath him, you finally feel that which you've only felt in those prophetic dreams 

peace.

all resistance gone, anything else but him fading into the miasma of nothingness.

The closer 7PM rolled around, the more you could barely keep yourself still.

You tried that yoga routine you'd wanted to try a hundred times, but kept missing whatever the instructor was saying. You tried reading but couldn't make any of the words stick to your brain, reading the same sentences three times over before putting it down on the coffee table. You made yourself some tea, took a shower—your everything shower—your entire skin care routine, and did a hair mask. Nothing could keep your mind from running through the guiltiest thoughts, how Robby might react when he got back from the hospital. You couldn't even keep dinner down. The leftovers sat mostly untouched in the bowl beside you, the sauce going cold while the clock on the stove clicked closer and closer toward shift change.

At 7:45PM, the front door opened.

You'd heard his long, tired sigh before you saw him, and placed yourself casually on the couch, flipping a page in the same book you'd barely absorbed earlier that day, legs tucked beneath you.

Robby appeared in the archway a second later, shrugging his backpack off onto the upholstered bench by the door before toeing off his shoes. He peeled the navy Figs top over his head as he walked, leaving himself in his gray long sleeve and those cargo pants he always wore to work. He looked exhausted.

He didn't say anything when he came over to the couch. He just dropped down beside you and pulled you into him immediately, one arm wrapping around your waist before he buried his face against your shoulder and let out another long exhale.

"Hey," you said softly, arms sliding around his shoulders as you leaned into him automatically. You kissed his temple. His hand tightened on you a little before tugging you over fully into his lap.

The position had the nerves in your stomach fluttering, remembering this exact seating in a Ford F-150 less than twelve hours ago.

Your hands moved to Robby’s face, thumbs brushing along his scruffy jaw as you looked down at him. He looked so tired that for a second you considered waiting until tomorrow. Maybe you'd let him shower or eat first. Get a good nights sleep first. But you promised, and you also just knew better.

"Michael…" you whispered, "I have to tell you something."

"So it's Michael today, hm?" he murmured, tilting his head up to kiss you gently on the mouth. One hand moved up your back slowly, resting there.

You sighed into his gentle kiss, hoping to god it wasn't your last. When you pulled away, about to bring your hands off his neck, his own hands reached up quickly, catching your wrists before you could get too far. He held them against his chest, brows pulling together immediately.

"What is it?" he asked very seriously. His brown eyes were fully focused on you now, all the exhaustion from a second ago suddenly honed onto your face, his hands warm around the boney joints of your wrists.

"I—" you started, and then stopped, pushing your lips together, thinking of the right words. "I got a ride home from Jack today…and…we…"

His head flinched back, blinking quickly like his brain was filling in the rest before you could even finish the confession.

"You and Jack what?" he asked, but there was already a steady drip of venom in the words. His jaw clenched hard beneath the beard, mouth pulling tight under his mustache as he stared up at you. You could practically see him piecing it together already, his eyes flicking over your face waiting for you to deny whatever conclusion he'd jumped to.

"I'm sorry, Michael." you said, clenching your fists uselessly, "we were just talking—and then—he kissed me and we—" you shut your eyes tightly, "I slept with him."

Robby slowly released your wrists from his hold, and your hands felt cold from the sudden loss of his touch. He leaned his head back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. Your hands went to his shoulders, pawing at him, fisting the gray undershirt in your fingers.

"I'm sorry—" you pleaded again, hearing your voice start to shake. "I'm so sorry, I should've asked you, I know but—"

He sat up suddenly, forcing you off his lap in the process. The movement wasn't rough exactly, but there was nothing gentle in it either. Barely any touch at all.

Then he stood, and started pacing the room.

You watched him walk past the coffee table, one hand dragging over his mouth, then the back of his neck, then down to his hip before he turned again. His socks made almost no sound against the hardwood, the TV reflecting every move faintly across the dark windows behind him. He paced around in front of you for a few minutes. You felt helpless, just watching, waiting.

"Michael—"

He shook his head, lifting his finger to silence you, eyes squeezing shut as he kept walking around.

He came to an abrupt halt, finally turning toward you. His hands came together in front of his mouth almost like he was praying, thumbs pressed hard against his lips before he dragged them downward and pointed them vaguely in your direction, like he was trying to force words out in the correct order and couldn't manage it.

"What exactly did you think was gonna happen here?" he asked.

"I—I don't know." you answered honestly, "I thought he was just going to take me home, and then he started talking about the arrangement, why he never gave in and then, it was just a fucking mess and—god, Michael, I'm so—"

"So you fucked him? He started saying sweet words and you slept with him? Where?"

You swallowed dryly. "It wasn't like that—"

"Where?" he snapped.

"Parking lot."

His eyes crinkled in a sort of sarcastic smile as he nodded, bringing his hands up to his face to drag down, sucking in a deep breath.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath. "Jack."

"I didn't mean for it to happen."

"Not really the point," he snapped.

You flinched at the tone.

He noticed immediately too. You saw it in the way his eyes squeezed shut for a second before he brought his hands to his neck, pulling at his shoulders before dropping them again—restless, agitated.

"Look at me and tell me honestly you thought this was okay."

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

Robby gave another short nod to himself, humorless. "Yeah."

"I know I crossed a line, and I'm so—"

"A line?" he repeated, finally looking at you fully now. "Honey, this whole thing only works because there are lines. Rules! Trust!"

You could tell he was trying very hard not to let his voice rise in octave, a sharpness to it, a forced quiet.

"I let a lot slide. Probably too much lately." He pointed vaguely toward you, frustrated. "Flirting, teasing, picking favorites. But this arrangement works because I know what's going on. I know who's touching you. I know you're safe. I know nobody's getting weird ideas in their fucking heads."

"He doesn't have weird ideas—"

"How the hell would you know?" he shot back immediately. "You think I haven't watched people in that department getting a little too attached lately?"

Robby laughed once through his nose and shook his head, walking again. "And him. Of all people."

"He was upset."

"Oh, don't do that." Robby pointed at you sharply. "Do not start defending Jack Abbot to me right now, because I swear to god that is gonna make this so much worse."

You looked down at your hands instantly. He stood there staring at you for a long second before speaking again, quieter this time.

"You know what the really shitty part is?" he asked, voice threaded with anguish and almost humor, as if it was laughable. "I came home just wanting you. That's it. Whole fucking day went to hell, a patient died on me because I didn't insist on getting her checked while her husband coded. We had more West Bridge reroutes, one of my interns passed out during a trauma, and all I wanted was to come home and hold onto you for five goddamn minutes, even after the conversation this morning."

Your eyes burned immediately.

"And instead I walk in here and find out you've been sneaking around behind my back."

"Michael—"

"Enough." His jaw tightened again. He looked at you then, tired more than angry now, which somehow hurt worse.

"You are the one good thing I had," he said plainly. "And now I just… how am I supposed to trust you?"

Your tears had begun to fall in earnest streaks down your face now, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

He sighed, shaking his head, before turning away.

And one word rang in your head as the bedroom door slammed shut.

Had.

You were the one good thing he had.

The rest of the night, the following days… were some of your worst in a very long time.

Robby hadn't said much to you at all, his silence unbearable. That night, after the argument, he just said he needed some time to think, and the following days only gave you more time to think too. More time for your brain to chew itself apart.

He even started picking up extra shifts at the hospital, offering to take some of Al-Hashimi's workload, which left you alone in the house most of the time. You didn't go out much either. Part of it was because you barely wanted to be seen. Another part was because every dollar spent felt wrong now. It was Robby's money. Robby's house. Robby's groceries in the fridge. Robby's money that bought the expensive shampoo in the shower that needed a refill.

You felt awful— guilty. You didn't know what to do. You felt like you'd ruined something so good. Something built on the things you'd broken. Trust, understanding, connection. You didn't know what Robby was going to say, if he'd ever say anything, if things would ever go back to normal. If you'd have to move out and find somewhere to live, a job, make new friends. It was so overwhelming.

Your brain just wouldn't stop running.

You'd sit on the couch with an untouched coffee in your hands, staring through the sliding glass doors into the backyard while the steam slowly disappeared from the mug. The TV would be on and you wouldn't realize three episodes had passed because your mind had wandered somewhere else entirely. You'd wonder where you'd even put your clothes if he told you to leave. Whether you'd need boxes. Whether you still had your old suitcase somewhere. You'd wonder if you'd have to call somebody and then remember there really wasn't anybody to call.

Sometimes you thought about what Jack was up to. If maybe you should call him. But you also knew better. You wondered what it was like when the two of them saw each other when the shifts changed at the start and end of the day. Jack was one of Robby's closest people. He often said he didn't have friends, but that was a lie. Because Jack was one of his best friends. And you'd probably ruined that for him.

One morning a week later, you woke up to an empty bed again, and stared at the ceiling for an hour.

Your eyes burned as you thought about what your life had turned into. You'd woven it into Robby's in ways you hadn't even realized until he wasn't here. You used to walk into the kitchen and find him drinking his black coffee out of his I ❤️ Pittsburgh mug, hair a mess and plaid boxers askew as he read the morning paper. And now you'd wake up and reach your hand over the mattress, searching for his warmth before remembering he was sleeping in the guest room. You'd find yourself wanting to text him a funny part of the show you'd been binging, thinking he'd like it, wanting to save an episode til he got home, before remembering he probably didn't want to hear from you.

It hurt so badly.

Robby usually made things feel quieter in your head when things were hard. You never had to wonder where you stood with him before this. You never had to question if he wanted you. And when you weren't sure about something, he'd be there. He'd tell you where to sit for your evening binge of The Office, tell you what to add to the Instacart order while you sat beside him scrolling through recipes for the week, his hand rubbing slow circles against your thigh. Always soothing and sweet.

Half the time you didn't even realize there was anything other than this. You and him. How he was your assurance, your guide. How he knew what you needed even if you didn't. You remembered when he'd wander into the kitchen while you cooked and steal bites from the cutting board before nudging your hip with his and pointing toward the island stools because he'd already decided you'd done enough for the night. He'd slide a glass of water beside you because he'd noticed you hadn't touched yours in hours. He'd hand you one of his coziest, old collegiate sweatshirts before you even registered you were cold. He'd pull you into his lap when your leg started bouncing too much, fingers threading through your hair while he read over charts in the evenings, kissing the top of your head absentmindedly.

Tiny things that built and built until they became routine, until they became normal, until they settled into every corner of your life so completely that you'd stopped noticing them one by one.

And he wasn't even your boyfriend.

You needed to get out of bed. You needed to do something with yourself. All this moping, waiting, hoping, crying— it was getting to be too much. You were a grown fucking woman, after all. You'd made a mistake. You needed to get yourself together.

Because this was getting ridiculous.

You'd spent the last week moving between the bed and the couch and the kitchen and then back again, carrying your sadness around the house so much your body felt sluggish now. Heavy. Your eyes still had that swollen feeling from crying too much, your head dull from sleeping at weird hours and barely eating enough to count as meals.

You sat up and shoved the duvet off of yourself.

Pulling open your dresser and digging out some workout clothes, you threw on your cutest set. One you knew you'd feel good in. Or at least one you'd bought because Robby said you looked good in it and right now that felt close enough. You went into the bathroom, did your skincare, tied your hair back, brushed concealer beneath your eyes because you were tired of looking sad every time you caught yourself in the mirror. You threw on mascara, tinted lip balm, brushed your ornery eyebrows as best you could before heading back into the bedroom.

Looking around, you finally saw it all for what it was.

The water glass still sitting on the nightstand from three nights ago. One of Robby's sweatshirts hanging half off the dresser chair. Clothes piled on the floor. Moisturizer and makeup sitting open on the bedside table with a pile of tissues. The duvet was twisted up from days of crawling back into bed halfway through the afternoon.

You stared for a few seconds, and then turned and grabbed the hamper.

You pulled the sheets off and wrestled the duvet cover from the insert, getting tangled in the stupid thing halfway through and swearing under your breath before finally shoving it all into the washer. Then you got out your basket of cleaning supplies and kept going.

You swept. Scrubbed. Wiped down counters. Lit one of the candles sitting forgotten in the cabinet beneath the sink. You cleaned every inch of the apartment for the next few hours, your playlist blasting from your phone as you moved from room to room. The smell of lemon cleaner and laundry detergent slowly replaced the stale, shut in feeling that had settled over everything this past week.

And it helped.

A lot, actually.

For the first time in days your brain wasn't sprinting ahead of you. It only cared about what was directly in front of you: fold this towel, wipe down this counter, put this away. It felt like one of those corny montages in a movie where the girl finally gets her shit together.

Once the bedroom was looking refreshed with clean sheets and the comforter pulled smooth across the mattress, you blew out the candle you'd lit and headed out of the apartment.

And started to run.

Your lungs were burning by the time you'd made it a few blocks from the house.

God, it had been a while.

Not just the last week while you'd spent your time curled up on couches and under blankets feeling sorry for yourself. A long while. Before the accident, probably. Before your ex had started making little comments like: You really wear that out for a jog? Don't you think those shorts are a little much? You like people looking at you or something? Which then turned into him not wanting you to run at all.

Funny how things happened like that, how things changed so slowly you barely noticed them happening at all. Funny how easy it was to change yourself little by little until you looked up one day and realized you'd stopped doing things you used to love.

Robby had been the opposite.

Hell, the set you had on right now had been his choice. The memory flooded your minds' eye, of you standing in front of one of those giant Lululemon mirrors when he'd taken you shopping for a weekend away. You remembered tugging at the waistband and shifting your weight from foot to foot while you stared at yourself a little too hard. You remembered pulling lightly at the sports bra, uncertain about the way it sat against your chest, turning sideways and then back again.

Robby had been sitting outside the fitting room on one of those little upholstered benches, his arm extended across the back. He'd looked so pleased with himself as you walked out. Blushing and eyes alight with mirth. You missed that look on his face, it made you realize as your chest pulled tight. The way he'd look at you like that, all warm and entertained, like he'd stumbled into something good and still couldn't quite believe it was his. How he'd made you put on a fashion show in the hotel room when you'd gotten back of all the things he'd gotten you that day. The bliss of when all clothes were forgotten for the hours that followed.

Your sneakers slapped the pavement of the sidewalk while the late morning air filled your chest and scraped your throat. Your old running playlist that you never deleted blasted in your ears, the sky a pretty clear blue. Everything was so pretty today, even if you didn't feel the same. You looked around at the tall buildings reflecting the light of the sun, people bustling around on their lunch break, the world moving even if you felt like you'd been motionless for days.

You slowed a little as you approached the crosswalk ahead, coming to a stop at the corner and pressing the little crossing button with the heel of your hand. Your chest rose and fell hard now, sweat gathering beneath the band of your sports bra and sliding slowly down your spine.

You suddenly felt your phone vibrate in a quick, succinct alert in the waistband of your bottoms. With two fingers, you slid it from between your skin and the fabric, pulling it up to your face. You had to lift your other hand to shield the screen from the glare blinding your view.

Your stomach dropped. A text message appeared on your lock screen.

Jack Abbot: I think we should talk.

The little speaker beside you crackled to life. "Grant Street. Walk sign is on to cross Grant Street."

You barely heard it.

You didn't look up from your phone, staring at the text.

What the fuck was he thinking?

Your eyes stayed locked on the message while your brain immediately started spiraling ahead of you again, filling in spaces that didn't have answers yet. Had he talked to Robby? Did something happen?

You stepped out into the street to cross, and heard someone shout behind you through the muffle of your music in your ears. At first, you hardly registered it, filing it away as background noise of the city, until they were really shouting louder, close behind you.

"Watch out!"

Your head jerked up, and for a split second you didn't fully understand what you were looking at, but as you turned to the left, your eyes widened.

A bicyclist was coming straight toward you, moving fast enough that you could hear the tires humming against the pavement. His eyes had gone wide beneath his helmet, panic written all over his face as his hands yanked hard at the handlebars, trying to turn away from you.

Trying and…failing.

Because before you could react, the front tire slammed into your leg with enough force to knock your balance off its axis, something hard—a handlebar—driving sharply into your side and stealing the air from your lungs. Your phone went flying out of your hand as you fell, stomach lurching into your throat.

The sky tilted, world spinning as concrete rushed to meet you.

Fuck, that hurt.

You heard yourself groaning somewhere through the ringing in your ears while the world slowly blinked back into focus, sunlight too bright when your eyes finally cracked open. Your cheek was pressed against rough pavement, tiny grains digging into your skin.

As you brought your hand up to the bump forming on your head, you saw bright red staining your fingertips.

"Miss, are you okay?"

"What?" you murmured thickly.

You blinked hard and looked up. It was a man standing over you in a suit and tie, young, slicked back hair and clean shaved face, his brows pinched together while he crouched beside you.

"Let me take you to the emergency room, we're very close—"

"No—no, I'm fine!" you nearly shouted, syllables jumbling and coming out too fast as his words finally reached you.

But the second you tried sitting up, pain shot through your head so hard your face twisted and you sucked in a breath.

Hands were suddenly under your arms.

"Easy," the man said. "Easy."

Another pedestrian had come over now too, helping pull you up carefully while your feet tried finding solid ground beneath you.

Everything around you felt too loud. You could hear the bicyclist cursing somewhere nearby, people talking over one another, tires hissing over pavement, a car horn farther down the street. The bike itself sat twisted awkwardly near the curb.

As things slowly came back to you, you remembered his face right before impact, eyes wide beneath his helmet. Now he just looked furious. His arms were thrown out while he pointed at somebody nearby, shouting over everyone else.

Your head was splitting.

And suddenly you realized you were being walked quickly down the block by two sets of worried hands, the red Emergency Room looming ahead.

Oh, fuck.

"Promise you won't tell him?" you pleaded, gaze boring into Samira's brown worried eyes.

She was perched on the rolling stool beside you, one foot hooked around its base, hands folded loosely in her lap. The curtain of the triage bay swayed faintly in the draft of someone rushing past outside. Voices overlapped in the hallway: patients, doctors, Lupe's voice on the loudspeaker in the waiting room.

She frowned, clearly debating it over in her head, but nodded anyway. "Yeah, okay. Okay."

She looked over her shoulder toward Santos at the computer as she typed into your chart. Something passed silently between them before she turned back to you.

She slipped back into doctor mode while pulling gloves on. "Let's get neuro checks going. Did you black out at all?"

You frowned.

"I...don't know." you said, memory a little cloudy. "I think so?"

“Okay.” Samira nodded once, calm and focused, her penlight flicking briefly across your pupils again before she instructed you to follow her finger. “Any nausea? Neck pain? Dizziness?”

You shook your head slowly, though even that made your skull ache a little.

“And we’re gonna get a CT just to rule out any bleeding,” she continued. “Probably draw some blood too.”

"Woa, Samira—" your stomach twisted instantly. "I don't need all that, if I go back there he's gonna see I'm here—"

Around your finger, the pulse ox clipped tighter every time your heart rate climbed, the monitor beside you already chirping intermittently over nothing more than nerves. Leads had been stuck to your chest at some point while you'd still been dazed on the way in, wires trailing down beneath the thin blanket over your lap. The whole thing felt wildly overblown now that you were sitting upright in a bed.

Samira's expression softened as she leaned forward. "We'll keep you hidden," she said softly before looking over at Santos again, knowingly. The resident nodded back, and quietly went out into the hall.

Samira rolled the stool closer, sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile. "Do you wanna tell me what's going on?"

You actually didn't.

Your eyes dropped to your hands instead, fingers picking at the edge of the thin hospital blanket spread over your lap. You tried figuring out how to phrase it right, how to explain something so humiliating without sounding ridiculous. Spoiled. Childish. You felt like a little like the dog that bit the hand feeding it.

"He and I are just..." You swallowed. "Having some issues."

Samira's brows pulled together slightly. Her warm brown eyes studied you intently, flickering over your expression that you tried to keep hidden.

"I was..." your voice got smaller, "I was bad."

"Bad?" she echoed carefully.

You shook your head a little, frustrated with yourself already. "No, I just—I did something stupid and now things are weird and—"

The curtain suddenly got yanked open so hard the metal rings shrieked across the track.

Dana stood there holding it wide, chest rising fast like she’d run the whole way from the desk. Behind her, Robby barreled in so quickly he nearly clipped the stainless steel side tray with his hip, already yanking the stethoscope from around his neck as he moved toward you.

"What happened?" he demanded immediately.

"I'm fine—"

"What happened?" he repeated sharply, already reaching for your face. Dana stayed at the mouth of the curtain, a flat look of disappointment written across her features. You knew she was biting her tongue from chirping Thought you could hide or somethin' angel?

"Head strike from bicycle versus pedestrian. Witness said she didn't get up right away." Samira reported, looking at Robby. "CT head's already ordered. Neuro checks too."

"Jesus." He breathed as his hand brushed carefully through your hair near the tender spot along your hairline, fingertips searching around the injury.

"Deep breath for me, honey." he said.

You did, heart skipping at the pet name but as soon as you felt the glimmer of hope, it was wiped away when pain shot through your side, making your face twist in a grimace.

"Okay." His eyes closed briefly. "Okay. Let's add a rib series too."

You felt sick suddenly. Not physically sick—though your stomach was still flipping on itself, your head still throbbed…but…you felt sick like that thick, churning guilt that had been with you all week.

Because he looked so scared.

There were still faint marks pressed into the bridge of his nose from his glasses. His dark hair was flattened in strange directions, probably from one of the scrub caps used in surgical procedures. He smelled like coffee and hospital sanitizer and the stale air of the ED, like he'd probably barely sat down all day before getting called in here to deal with you too.

Samira squeezed your knee once before backing toward the computer. "I'll be back."

Dana gave you one more long look before following her out, and the curtain fell shut again.

The bay got quieter after that. Not quite silent, it was never truly silent in the emergency department.

Robby was still staring at your face, and you realized he had put his gloved hand on yours where it rested on the bed.

You'd missed the simple touch of his hands. When one would rest at the back of your neck steering you through crowded hallways, or when his fingers tapped absentmindedly against your thigh during movies, the way his hand would slip beneath your shirt when he was feeling cheeky. You missed finding him within the walls of this hospital, the strange comfort of him existing in an entirely different world when you came into the orbit of the ED. The way you could pull him out of the darkness for a while.

"I'm sorry," you whispered finally.

His eyes flicked to yours immediately.

"What?"

Your throat burned. Like you'd swallowed a hot coal down it, tightening around the lump. "I'm sorry," you repeated, pulling your hand away and twisting it into the other in your lap now. "I didn't mean to come here and make things worse and I know you're busy and after everything already I just—"

Robby's hands wrapped around yours once again, "Don't be sorry, honey."

You looked up at him, blinking a little, "You're not mad?"

"About you getting hit by a bicycle?" he said, huffing a little disbelieving breath, "Why would I be? I just care that you're safe."

Your chin began to wobble in earnest.

"Oh, honey—"

"I thought you hated me now."

"Honey—"

You couldn't help the wracking sob that came from your chest, his hand reaching for yours again even when you tried to pull away, but he held fast. Your face dropped, chin ducking until it almost hit your chest.

Finally he let go of your hand only to wrap his arms around you, kissing the side of your neck as he held you close, "Why would you ever think that?" he whispered into your hair.

"I was bad. We haven't spoken in days."

It felt so childish, so stupid when you said it. Especially when it came out like that—weak, wobbly and wet with tears.

He pulled away just to look at you.

"You are not a bad person, honey," he murmured softly. "You maybe behaved badly, but that does not make you bad. I'm sorry I haven't been very good at this either." He lifted his hand, and you leaned into it as it cupped your face, brushing beneath your eyes and collecting a tear there before it could run. "Hey, listen to me."

He lifted your face, making you look at him straight on. Your face felt hot and swollen, cheeks wet with streaks. You sniffled as you looked at him now. His eyes were so kind, so worried and sweet. You felt like you didn't deserve any of it.

"You are my best girl, I will never ever think you are a bad person." he said. "Things got confusing, and I've been… avoiding it, avoiding you...and I'm sorry."

Your hands reached for him automatically then, gathering the black sleeve beneath his scrubs in your fists and holding on. You'd spent days sleeping without him, sitting across rooms from him, pretending not to notice every place where he wasn't anymore, and now that he was here your body seemed to remember him before your brain did.

"How is your head, honey?" he asked, tilting his own while he looked at you.

"Hurts." you whined a little, your voice meek and small.

"Yeah?" it came out hoarse and sweet, and so gentle. You'd heard his voice go soft like that before, late at night with his mouth close to your ear, and the memory flushed through you for a second before disappearing again beneath the throbbing ache in your skull and the warmth of his hands still holding your face.

He moved to rest his knuckles against the top of your forehead, sliding down your cheek, feeling your temperature.

"You're alright, honey." he said. He pulled away then and immediately shifted back into work, reaching for his stethoscope and slipping the earpieces in before pressing the bell lightly against your chest, listening to your lungs, your heart, checking you over all over again with that same focus he'd walked in carrying.

When he leaned back again in front of you, he threaded his fingers together in his lap, and looked up at you.

"Stay here for a few tests, okay?"

You nodded.

"Hey."

You looked up.

"You're my best girl. Always. Nothing has changed between you and me. I just... I needed some time, is all."

Your eyes burned all over again. Wiping your face with the back of your hand, your voice came out like a croak: "Promise?"

He came in close then, inches away, and whispered, "Promise."

Then he kissed you gently.

It felt so warm that it almost hurt. Your skin tingled beneath it, his mustache rough against your face, and his breath smelled like coffee, like the coffee from home, like mornings in the kitchen and evenings on the couch and every little thing you'd spent the last week missing.

When he pulled away, there was an odd look on his face. Fluttering your eyes to look at him better, you watched a sad smile pull his lips, his eyes ful of something you weren't quite sure how to read. But before you could try, he was turning away and standing, heading for the curtain opening.

"Dana is going to bring you back here, okay? I'll be close by."

You nodded, your lips still tingling a little from his touch.

Rolling through the ED surrounded by people who recognized you at every turn was a form of torture. Dana did her best to bat people away whenever they'd come jogging up beside the hospital bed she insisted on keeping you in— asking questions, peering over shoulders, trying to get a look at you. She actually let Langdon walk alongside you for a few steps, checking in, fingertips grazing your cheek in a quiet assessment as he asked if you were okay before someone called his name from across the department and he was pulled off toward an incoming trauma. Samira kept a quick pace on the opposite side of Dana, answering for you when others pressed in too close.

Your exam room must have been on the exact opposite side of triage with how long it took to get there, the route stretching on past curtained bays and supply carts and past the central station where screens flickered with patient lists and tracking boards.

“South 7, straight ahead, almost there angel,” Dana said on your right, and you let yourself sink back against the thin mattress, the metal frame cool against your shoulder as the hallway finally began to narrow.

"Woah, woah, woah, what happened here?"

His voice alone was enough to send your heart rate spiking, the monitor clipped to your forefinger breaking into an erratic rhythm that filled the space between you. You saw Samira glance up at the numbers, then back at your face, and then her gaze shifted forward to Jack Abbott standing directly in front of the bed in full camo SWAT gear, vest strapped across his chest, radio at his shoulder.

"Abbot— move it or lose it." Dana barked.

He must've known better than to fight her on it, because he slid to the left of the gurney, holding onto the metal bars as your eyes widened at him.

"What's going on, sweetheart?"

"I—um—well—I—"

“Bicyclist versus pedestrian,” Dana cut in, already steering you through the doorway into South 7. You heard Jack let out a baffled huff of breath.

"I'm fine—really—"

“She hit her head on the way down,” Samira added as she reached for the wall computer and woke the screen with her badge. “Passerby reported she didn’t get up right away. GCS fifteen on arrival here. No active vomiting, no seizure activity, no focal neuro.”

She glanced at Abbott while her fingers moved over the keyboard. “We’ve got a non-contrast CT head ordered. She’s got a frontal scalp laceration at the hairline and localized tenderness.”

You lifted your hand without thought, not even realizing you’d hit your head that hard. Your fingertips pressed into the sore skin and came away tacky, faintly red.

Dana locked the gurney into place while Samira continued, voice clipped and clinical. “However, she had some left lateral chest wall pain with palpation. Robby added a rib series and chest X-ray to rule out nondisplaced fractures or pneumothorax. CBC and CMP are pending. We’ll repeat labs if needed.”

Jack exhaled slowly beside the bed, jaw working before he looked at you again. “You feel okay?”

You nodded, but it was small and unconvincing, your knees drawing up toward your chest.

He glanced back up at the resident. "I want to be updated on every change or test result.”

Samira’s brows lifted slightly. “Robby is already on—”

“Appreciate it,” Jack cut in, voice tight. "Go see if she can skip the line for X-ray."

Samira gave him a flat look that said she understood exactly what he was doing and didn’t approve, but Dana nudged her toward the door anyway, and a second later the room emptied, leaving the hum of the monitor and the faint rattle of the vent overhead.

"You shouldn't be in here, Jack," you started, "this is all so insane, I didn't even mean to come in, I was out for a run and—"

“Is your heart rate always in the one twenties,” he asked lightly, “or is that just when I walk into a room?”

You stared at him. He gave you the smallest tilt of his mouth, trying for easy, trying for normal.

“Sinus tachycardia,” he added, nodding toward the monitor. “Very dramatic. Don't tell me you do it just for the attention."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help the little tilt of your mouth. "Why are you here, Jack?"

"I go into the field in case of any injuries."

“You and your weird hobbies.” You shook your head, teeth catching on your lower lip. Then, you asked: “Have you talked to Robby?”

Jack’s hands tightened on the metal guardrails before he clipped them down, the sound loud in the otherwise quieted room. “He doesn’t really seem to want to.”

“I’m not surprised,” you said, voice thinning.

“Are you two—” He stopped himself, cleared his throat and stuffing his hands into his cargo pockets. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “How did the talk go?”

You looked at him then, “How do you think?”

He pressed his lips together, his weight shifting back and forth on his feet.

You sighed, shoulders folding in. “I’m sorry. It’s been… it’s been really hard. Today was the first day he’s even spoken to me since.”

“Jesus,” Jack muttered, eyes flickering to the door for a second. “If I’d known…”

You shook your head again. “It’s what I deserve.”

He looked up sharply at that, anger flickering across his face. “No, it is not. He should talk to you. He should—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

“You should go,” you said quietly, not meeting his eyes. “I’ll be here a while. And you shouldn’t be in here with me right now.”

Jack whispered your name.

“It’s okay,” you said gently, even though your fingers were twisting the edge of the blanket. “I’m okay. Just… go, please.”

He nodded, and as if he didn't trust himself to say anything else as back himself away until he was leaning against the door for a second, steadying himself.

Then he pushed back into it to leave, and Robby appeared.

Your stomach twisted on itself.

You watched as the glass exam room door had barely opened halfway before the two of them met eyes. Robby’s expression tightening immediately, brown eyes lifted toward Jack with something flat and hard sitting behind them. Jack, meanwhile, didn't seem bothered at all. He looked up at the other attending and paused.

"Labs back yet?" Jack asked easily.

You wanted the bed to swallow you whole. Heat crawled into your face while your fingers hooked around your legs, palms damp against your shins. You couldn't even bring yourself to look at either of them for long.

Robby nodded only once, stiffly, "Everything is good."

“That was quick,” Jack said.

Robby didn’t answer.

Jack let the silence sit a second before adding, “Glad to see the lab actually listens to some of us.”

Robby just looked at him, expression still flat, then pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped past him without another word.

He moved automatically, slipping his stethoscope from his neck once again while checking the monitor above your head, fingers brushing your wrist before he listened over your lungs, then your heart. Familiar, routine motions. You lowered your eyes to your lap because Jack was still standing there, still in the doorway, and now he was letting the door swing shut behind him instead of leaving.

Nobody said anything, and it made your heart leap into your throat even harder.

The cool metal of the stethoscope touched your chest and Robby's eyes lifted briefly to your face before he pulled it away.

“Not really helping my exam, Jack,” he said, voice clipped.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Jack shrug.

“Can't help it.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I'm distractingly handsome.”

Robby scoffed under his breath and shook his head.

"I think the three of us need to talk." Jack said seriously.

“Not now,” Robby snapped immediately. “I've got patients to worry about, and you should go get that looked at. Make yourself a chart.”

Your head turned toward Jack so fast your neck protested.

“Nah, don't need the paperwork,” he said casually. His eyes found yours and softened just a little. “I'm fine,” he said, tilting his head toward his shoulder. “Just a graze, sweetheart.”

He turned a bit so you could see it—the back of his camo jacket at the top of his left shoulder had gone dark red and splotched, fabric torn open in a thin line.

"You were shot?" you gasped.

"Shot at." he corrected, "I'm alright."

Before you could say anything else, Robby's fingers tipped your chin upward.

You knew exactly what he was doing, you knew this routine. Penlight already in his hand, checking your pupils again, watching for nystagmus, for delayed reaction, for anything off.

Still, your body reacted before your brain did.

Maybe it was because he'd barely touched you all week. Or because he'd spent days keeping distance between you like there was a line painted on the floor. Maybe it was because suddenly today he'd touched your face, your wrist, your shoulders, your hair, all under the excuse of medicine, and your stupid brain wasn't separating any of it anymore.

Your heart rate climbed again, the monitor immediately tattling on you. Its beeping rose in rhythm, its oxygen levels warning for over activity.

“And here I thought I was special,” Jack sighed dramatically.

Robby clicked off the penlight, and said flatly: “Go home, Jack. We're good here.”

"Not so fast," Jack said, dragging the syllables.

Both you and Robby paused, looking over at him. His face had gone serious, the graying curls a bit of a mess as he looked between the two of you, swaying on his feet like he always did.

"I have a proposition to make."

Robby stood a little straighter, folding his arms over his chest. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means… " Jack looked between the two of you, and your eyes were wide, worried, nervous for whatever came next. "I want to make an offer."

"An offer?" Robby echoed flatly.

Jack nodded. Your brows pulled together, uncertainty clouding your brain.

“No,” Robby said immediately.

“You haven't even heard what I have to say." Jack rebutted, "Why don’t we ask her?”

“Because she’s concussed, Jack.”

“Sweetheart—” Jack started, smile sliding back into place like armor as he looked down at you.

Robby moved before he could finish. He stepped up to the foot of your bed, placing himself squarely in front of you, cutting off Jack’s line of sight entirely.

“This is not the god damn time for this, Jack,” Robby said evenly, “Whatever it is you have to offer, it can wait."

The monitor hummed behind you.

“She’s going to X-ray,” Robby continued, thumb hooking over his shoulder at you. “If you want to talk, we can talk outside."

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

You couldn’t see Jack anymore, just Robby’s back, broad and immovable between you. Whatever expression crossed Jack’s face, it was enough that Robby gave a short nod and stepped forward, hand landing briefly on Jack’s shoulder as he guided him toward the door.

Through the glass you watched them, close enough to read the tension in their posture even if you couldn’t hear a word. Robby rigid, jaw tight. Jack leaning in, saying something low and serious. It felt strange watching two grown men argue about you like you weren’t ten feet away. Part of you burned with humiliation, feeling like a child. Another part was too tired to care. Your head throbbed, your ribs ached every time you shifted, the room too bright.

You laid back in the bed, closing your eyes.

Eventually, when the door opened again, it was only Robby. He was pushing a wheelchair through the frame, his expression set into neutral nothingness, but you could see the downturn of his mouth, the frown he wore as he came to the bedside.

"Everything okay?" you murmured as he helped you into the chair.

“Yeah, honey,” he exhaled. “That man’s got some nerve.”

“S’probably why he likes getting shot at on the weekends.”

Robby chuckled a little at that, and your heart warmed as he said: "Yeah, probably."

After all the tests, all the re-checking and the overdramatic X-rays and CT scan, you were finally getting into the car with Robby after what had turned into a very long shift for him and an even longer day for you.

He shut the door of his steel gray BMW with more care than usual. He didn’t often take it to work, preferring the bike whenever he could, but tonight the car felt quieter, contained, easier. The hospital parking lot lights hummed overhead as he started the engine.

“That all felt… kind of silly,” you said gently, trying to keep your tone light, though the thought of going home and slipping back into the routine of the past week made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with bruised ribs.

Robby glanced over at you as he pulled out of the lot, the evening sky behind him pale blue, the sun already dropped behind the buildings. In the height of summer the light lingered without color, stretched thin across the horizon. He wore that tired smile he often did after a long shift, soft but worn.

“Just had to make sure you’re okay,” he said quietly, his voice a deep rasp of exhaustion. “What do you want to listen to?”

You reached for the screen and put on one of your favorite playlists, hesitating only a second before you did. It felt like a small olive branch. On any other night it would have meant takeout on the couch, his arms around you while you watched more reruns. It felt almost normal. He drove mostly in silence, eyes forward, one hand resting loose at the bottom of the wheel, deep in thought in that way he often was after work, and you told yourself that this, at least, was something steady.

Halfway home, stopped at a red light, he turned toward you.

“Honey, are you happy?”

You blinked at him and reached up to lower the music until the car fell quiet except for the hum of the engine and the distant sound of another car passing through the intersection.

“What do you mean?” you asked softly.

His eyes shifted back to the light and then to you again, as if he was weighing the words before he let them out. “I want you to be happy.”

You opened your mouth and then closed it again.

What you had with Robby, before the mess of this past week, had been the only steady, good thing in your life. Every road you’d taken had led you here. There had never been a clean formula for you, no simple checklist of school, job, marriage, children. But life had shown that that was never for you, no matter how much people said it like it guaranteed anything. They never talked about this— finding someone who felt like home without needing the rest of it. They never explained the peace of being taken care of and trusted and guided, about wanting the safety of his control and the way he made decisions with you in mind, the way he steadied you without diminishing you. After everything—your parents, the accident, your ex—this had been the thing that made sense. It had been everything.

You let your shoulders sink back into the leather seat, your gaze resting somewhere beyond the windshield, the quiet answering him before you did.

When he looked over again, something vulnerable in his expression forced you to speak.

“Nothing in my life has ever compared to what I have with you,” you said gently. “I’ve been upset this past week because it felt like that was slipping away.”

He nodded once as the light turned green and eased the car forward.

“I am happy with you,” you added after a moment, your voice steadier now. “I’ve never felt so taken care of, so seen and understood. I made a mistake, and I know I’m paying for that. It’s just…”

He leaned over slightly, eyes still on the road, and took your hand in his. His thumb pressed into your knuckles in a slow, grounding squeeze.

“You really scared me this week, Michael,” you said.

He brought your hand up and pressed his mouth to the tops of your knuckles. “I know.”

"You've never been like this before, avoiding me, barely talking. We live in the same house but it felt like… you were… like a ghost."

He looked over at you briefly, "I felt a little like one."

Your brows pulled together at that, a different kind of ache settling in your chest, not biting like your ribs or throbbing like your head, but heavy all the same. Worse than the guilt, the shame of everything. You dipped your head, your voice barely above a whisper when you spoke:

"I'm so sorry I did this to us."

He shook his head, more firmly this time, coming to another red light and finally turning fully toward you.

“We are a team,” he said, his voice low but steady. “As long as you want to be one, it’s you and me. I shouldn’t have shut you out. What happened…it caught me off guard. It made me scared for things I didn't realize I was afraid of. It made me realize how much I’ve invested in you— in us. Made me see how much I care.”

You reached up with your free hand and cupped his face, your fingers sliding into his dark hair, scratching lightly behind his ear the way you knew he liked.

“Me too,” you whispered.

His hand moved up and down your arm slowly, reassuring, until the light turned and he eased the car forward again, the quiet between you no longer sharp but thoughtful, settled, waiting.

When you pulled into the driveway a little while later, neither of you moved right away. The engine hummed beneath you while the headlights washed over the garage door and the shrubs along the front walk, throwing long shadows across the siding of the house.

But when you reached for the door, he stopped you. Your eyes lifted immediately towards him, a question between your brows, but something on his face made your skin rise in goosebumps. The crease that had lived between his brows all week had disappeared. There was no tension pulling at his mouth anymore, none of that exhaustion sitting around his eyes. His face had gone still, settled into something calmer. His arm rested across the center console between you, stopping your movement without effort, his brown eyes holding yours from only a few inches away.

“I want you to go inside and take a shower,” he said quietly, his voice low beneath the softened music and the idle hum of the car.

Your pulse gave a hard thud against your ribcage.

“I want you to use your special body wash. The perfume we picked out together.” His head tilted slightly. “Do you know the one I mean, honey?”

You swallowed. “Yes, Robby.”

His gaze stayed on your face for another moment, watching you carefully, and something curious moved through his expression at your answer, at the way you were already sitting a little straighter without realizing it.

“I’ll be back in about thirty minutes, okay?” he said. “I’m gonna grab us dinner.”

You nodded.

“Give me a kiss.”

The request was gentle, and yet, your stomach dipped.

You leaned over automatically, pressing your mouth to his. He made a soft sound against your lips and his beard brushed warm and prickly against your skin.

“Okay,” he murmured after he pulled back. “Go on.”

You nodded again and reached for the handle, suddenly far too aware of your own body, of your heartbeat, of your hands, hoping desperately that he couldn't see the way nerves had started jittering all through you as you climbed out of the car.

A long, hot shower later with your rose-scented body wash, your Maison Francis perfume misted along your neck and the skin of your inner wrists, you sat very still in the living room.

Your hands worked slowly through your hair, gathering it and plaiting it down your neck before coming to rest against your bare knees. Your brain felt a little fuzzy now, close to the way it felt after sitting in warm water too long, sleepy and a little hazy. It always started like this. The feeling of cotton slowly gathering in your head before you finally stopped fighting it. The smell always started it— pulling at the quiet place inside of your head, unraveling all your busiest thoughts, your deepest worries.

When the front door opened, you didn't even flinch. You just waited, your eyes heavy lidded and chin tilted down. Through your lashes, you saw the tips of his socks appear in front of your knees.

And then a thick, broad hand came down beneath your chin and lifted your face.

His eyes found yours immediately. Deep brown, those little lines around them digging in at the corners--crows feet people called them. You never thought they looked like that. They looked like years of laughing, of smiling, of joy worn into skin.

You smiled up at him.

"Hi, pretty girl." Robby said softly.

"Hi."

"How are you doing?"

You hummed softly. "Really good."

"That's good." He smiled. "I'm gonna go put these away and I'll be back, okay?"

You nodded. His thumb brushed lightly over your cheekbone before he let you go again, and your shoulders lowered with a quiet exhale you hadn't realized you'd been holding.

You watched him from where you sat as he moved into the kitchen and unpacked the reusable grocery bag. You caught a glimpse of jar of pasta sauce, a box of noodles and vegetables laid across the counter one by one. But you didn't move towards him, didn't bother trying to help. You knew what he wanted from you right now, what he needed. And you'd give it to him. Because it felt right-- to be here, to be in your place with your knees buried in the rug, your body bare and exposed for him.

When he finished, he poured himself a glass of scotch and walked over to the couch. He sat with a long exhale sinking from his chest. The coffee table had been moved, just like always on nights like this, pushed off against the wall so he had a clear view of where you sat.

He settled deeper into the cushions, taking a sip of his drink before setting the glass down with a soft click against the coaster.

"Come here, honey."

You crawled, very slowly, until you were just in front of him. No touching, no reaching for him. Just… in wait.

He leaned forward, taking one finger and letting it graze down your face.

"You are so pretty, my best girl." he whispered. You smiled at that, your brain melting down little by little. "Are you going to be good for me?"

"Yes, Robby," you murmured back.

He smiled a little at that, before leaning away again, and taking another sip of his drink.

"Safeword?"

You licked your lips, "Pickleback."

"And when you can't talk?" he asked, voice muffled in the top of his glass.

"Two snaps."

He smiled, exhaling with bared teeth as the drink went down his throat, "That's a good girl."

When he leaned forward again, you could smell the whiskey on his breath as he said: "We have some things to go over, honey."

Your eyes lifted to him, and he nodded reassuringly.

"It's okay, just need to adjust some rules going forward. You know why?"

You nodded.

"Go ahead, tell me."

"Because I was a—" You stopped when his head tilted slightly, that tiny shift enough for you to catch the correction. "I acted badly."

"That's right." he said, and his hand returned to your face, tracing slowly along your cheek, your jaw. It felt good, this touch, this connection, as he drew lines in the sand and on your face.

"We've been a little confused lately, both of us, huh?" he murmured, "we're going to fix that tonight."

"Yes, Robby."

When he leaned away, he tilted his hips up a bit, and you could just make out the bulge within his cargos.

"Show me that you want this—you and me, this thing we've created together. Show me that you want me."

You hesitated.

"You can touch," he murmured, giving a small nod before lifting his glass again.

Your hands lifted to his legs, a little shaky now. You cupped his knees first, almost testing it, feeling the warmth of him beneath the fabric of his cargos. He inhaled deeply, head tipping back against the couch for only a moment, though his eyes never left yours. Slowly, you let your hands slide higher, fingers tracing up his thighs until they reached his lap, and you carefully began undoing his belt, pulling down the zipper before easing the fabric lower.

Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his briefs, finally cupping his growing length as he shifted beneath your touch. He hissed a breath through his teeth, knees widening slightly to make room for you.

Pulling him from the confines of the briefs, your fingers moved with care, wanting him to feel every gentle tug of your hand, wanting him to understand what you were trying so desperately to say without saying it. You watched his face as you bent down, lips brushing a soft kiss against the tip, and his shoulders lowered with a heavier exhale, though his hips gave the slightest movement toward you.

The hand not holding the scotch lifted and tucked a nonexistent strand of hair behind your ear, fingers settling against your jaw as his thumb brushed your cheek.

“You make me fucking crazy,” he whispered, voice rough around the edges now. “Do you understand?”

You nodded.

His hand tightened slightly against your face and your fingers twitched where they held him. “Words.”

“Yes, Robby,” you murmured. “I understand.”

"Do you understand that I like to share you, but under my terms?" he asked quietly, eyes holding yours. “That you and I—this—we—come first?"

Your hands traveled up and down his cock, feeling it twitch and harden and warm to your touch like velvet.

You nodded again, 'Y-yes, Robby."

"So why did you do it?"

Your brain was a little too foggy to make out a real answer, so all you said was: “He has pretty eyes.”

“Yeah?” Robby chuckled softly, already knowing there was more to that answer. “I’ll bet he was a good kisser too, huh?”

You nodded, "Yes,"

You knew where this was heading, and even though you knew you might not like every part of it, you let him keep leading you forward. Because you trusted him.

"Did he feel good inside you, baby?"

You bit your lip, wriggling as your pulse jumped, but you nodded. Your hands had begun working faster, twisting and reaching down to fondle his heavy balls.

His lip curled, "Words."

“Yes."

And then he moaned a little when you used a little bit of his precome, slathering it over his tip.

"Can I please use my mouth, Robby?"

"Not yet—tell me how he felt—did you come?"

The pulse that had been hammering in your chest was traveling south, blood surging in humiliation, in want, nearly painful between your legs.

“He felt big,” you admitted quietly. “And... yes.”

“How many times?”

“Once.”

He smiled at that. "Aw, only once? So he didn't get to see you whining and begging, did he?" his tone was proud, knowing, even though his voice was threaded with hunger, "When you beg for me to stop making you come over and over?"

"No, Robby."

You were leaning in, mouth agape, nearly drooling at how much you wanted him in your mouth— needed him. Needed to show him how much you wanted him. How it didn't matter what you'd done with Jack, didn't matter right now because all you wanted was him, the man in front of you, who knew you better than any of them. All you wanted was Robby's closeness, his attention, his praise.

"Go on, you can use your mouth now," he said gently, letting go of your face, "good girl answering my questions."

You moved down onto him immediately, your mouth already warm and waiting, and both of you let out helpless sounds at the contact of it around the smooth, velvety tip of his cock. Something rough cracked out of his chest at the feeling of your lips gliding down his member, your own noises swallowed as you glanced up at him through your lashes. He had leaned back into the couch now, mouth parted, eyes closed.

"Oh, fuck," he moaned.

You moved eagerly, bobbing your head to chase more of those sounds, his praise. Your jaw unhinged to accommodate the wide breadth of him, nose never really reaching his belly that was covered in wiry hair where his shirt had ridden up. Your fingers curled into the fabric and pushed it higher. He let out a breathless little laugh at that, understanding immediately before pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it somewhere beside him.

When he looked back down at you, his breathing had gone uneven. He gathered your hair into his fist, just guiding your rhythm. “Easy, easy,” he murmured, steadying your pace. “There you go, honey. There you go. I know you missed me.”

You hummed pleasantly, eyes rolling back at the feeling of the tip of him brushing the back of your throat.

"All the way down now, okay?" he coaxed. Your lashes fluttered a bit, hollowing out your cheeks. "That's it."

You could feel every ridge and vein pushed up against your soft palette, your tongue flat and soothing to the underside as you breathed through your nose.

"Now you listen."

Oh, fuck. You knew that voice. It was like your brain, once ridged with memories and thoughts—wants, needs, fears—had gone smooth and mushy, every sharp edge softening until there was only him. His eyes on you. His voice. His pleasure and wants. When he got like this, voice rough around every syllable, lower and gruffer and cracking just slightly, it fully submerged you into that head space you only ever found with him.

Your eyes, though a little watery, found his as he held you down.

"You are mine." he growled. "I don't care about the title—girlfriend, boyfriend, partner, whatever—you are mine."

His voice was lethal, his lip curling. He held you down on his cock firmly, and you breathed through your nose. This wasn't just bruised pride or irritation from what had happened, but fear, you realized. Fear of losing you, of losing this. And the best way he knew how to face fear was with control. And you'd give him everything every time.

“I’m in charge of who you kiss, who you flirt with, who gets your attention. Who fucks you.”

Your jaw had begun to ache, a deep soreness settling in, but you sat through it, wanted to, welcomed it, because your brain had gone soft and smooth, every thought slipping through your fingers before it could fully form.

"There will be no more playing with anyone else for the next month." he said sternly, pushing you down his cock a little further until your nose pushed into his belly. Your mouth constricted a little at the fat tip of him reaching into your throat now.

"And you will not come for the next month, either." he growled.

Your brows pulled together, and he mirrored the look with a pout, "“Oh, honey.” His thumb traced slowly along your hairline. “I know.”

He gave you a little smile, something gentler finding its way into it. “I know you don’t like hearing that. But it's what you need."

He pulled you up his cock, and when you were free you pulled in a quick breath, chest rising sharply. You felt the spit from your mouth slipping down your chin a little, but then his face lowered, nose brushing against yours before his mouth found you. He kissed you deeply, mouths slotting against one another with growing urgency, both of you breathing unevenly into it as his tongue slid against yours.

When he was done, he used the hand that was in your hair to push you back down into his lap, your lips opening obediently around his cock, pushing it deep into your mouth. He thrusted a few times, letting his balls slap lightly against your chin, and then he was holding you down again. Your mouth watered around him, drool pooling over your tongue, onto your lips as your eyes fluttering shut. The pulse between your legs had climbed to a throbbing, but you did nothing for it. You knew better.

"Everything we have—everything you've let me build with you…" he groaned, and then reached down, fingers brushing your face before his thumb and forefinger found your nose, and held it closed. "…is because of me. Because we chose it."

"Even this—" he breathed, and your eyes widened a bit as your head became fuzzier, your lungs began to beg for release. It only lasted a second before he was pulling his hand away, easing you from his slick coated member. You heaved in deep breaths when he brought his face down to yours, kissing you again before he demanded: "Say thank you—"

"—Thank you—" you gasped.

"Fucking hell that's so good—" he moaned. The kiss was breathless, wet, urgent as you let him have it, your mouth open, tongue awaiting his.

"More—" you moaned the next time he pulled away.

"Yeah?"

You nodded.

"Not too much," he whispered, but there was a smile on his face, so soft and warm you almost could feel tears coming. He obliged your request, pushing you back down onto his throbbing cock, fucking your throat in earnest until he held you down once more, holding your nose for a little longer than the first time, until you were spluttering around him.

"Fuuckkkk," he groaned even louder, and finally pulled you off entirely, his hand cupping your face, your chin held in the crux of his palm as he squeezed your cheeks. Your tongue dipped out to collect the drool that had been slipping from your open mouth, and you could feel your pulse jumping, your inner thighs sliding together with the amount of arousal you'd created for him.

“Okay, okay,” he cooed, petting your head with his other hand, “deep breaths. Deep breaths, honey. How are you doing?”

You hummed, breath still uneven and quick, chest rising against him while you tried pulling air back into your lungs. You nodded.

“Good,” you murmured.

"What a good girl you are," he murmured, pressing a fat, wet peck to your lips before his hands were tucking under your arms, and you rose with him from the couch.

Your legs automatically wrapped around him, and you couldn't help the way your hips undulated against his belly, as your body moved on something like instinct, all want and need and nothing else. The sensitive, slick skin of your core brushed up against the thick tuft of wiry hair at the base of his member, making you moan. Your mouth found his neck, suckling just above the jugular. And your hands felt disconnected from you entirely, wandering over him without thought, fingers curling into his hair and scratching lightly against his scalp as you held onto him. You could hear him chuckling fondly under his breath at your desperation, one arm circled around your middle while the other hand kept smoothing over your hair, down your back, petting and reassuring. He just kept whispering I know, I know.

Soon, you were being laid onto the bed, his groans about his back rumbling warmly against your ear as he lowered you down onto the soft duvet. He stayed over you for a moment, his weight pressing you pleasantly into the mattress, chest warm against yours, the heat of his skin making your limbs feel loose and floaty.

"You with me, huh?" he cooed, smiling down at you. His hand still hadn’t left your hair, fingers combing through it in slow strokes that kept your thoughts soft and drifting like clouds. You nodded, tilting your face to kiss him again, your lips lingering against his while he stayed laid over you.

“Why don't you turn over for me?” he murmured eventually, sitting back.

You obeyed without thought, rolling onto your stomach over the comforter. Your sore muscles pulled as you stretched your arms over your head, a little whine slipping from your throat before you folded your arms beneath your cheek so you could look back at him over your shoulder.

He was looking down at you with open affection, completely bare, peppered hair dusting his chest and stomach, thick around the base of his length. The sight of him sent another pulse of warmth through your body, your hips wiggling restlessly against the mattress before you could stop yourself. As if in answer, his cock jutted out in excitement for you too.

Robby let out a low breath through his nose, gaze dropping to your ass as his hands spread over you, kneading slowly, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh before he pulled you open. Your moans filled the room along with the sticky, embarrassing shlick of your lower folds being spread and opened as he looked at you.

"What a mess you've made, honey," he said softly.

“Please…” you whimpered, pushing your hips back into his palms without thinking.

“Please what?” he asked, and you could hear the smile in his voice even before you looked back at him.

"Touch me, please," you whispered.

"I am touching you." he teased back.

Then, while he held you open, you heard the wet gather of spit in his mouth. Your eyes opened wider just in time to see it fall, warm and thick against your skin above your slit before it slid downward through your folds and over your clit. You mewled at the feeling, your body jerking, the neediness and desperation no longer able to hide. Your mind felt smooth and fuzzy, your body begging for some form of release, hanging onto every brush of his thumb, the feeling of his cock twitching against you too.

"You'll take what I give you, and what will you say?" he asked, and finally, his thumb swept over your pussy, tracing the trail of spit down to your clit.

The sound you let out could've been heard by the neighbors.

"Thank you!" you moaned.

He nodded, his thumb still tracing you, your folds so sensitive it had your hips moving, rolling back, searching for more.

"You're welcome, honey," he said, and then moved off the bed, his hands finding your hips and yanking them up so your face was pushed down into the bed, your knees propping you up.

You gasped at the first feeling of his mouth on you. Flat tongue, prickly beard—it was wet and hungry and needy as he cupped his tongue against your clit, flicking the tip of the wet muscle until he was flattening it again and licking all the way up to the skin between your openings. Every lick and kiss sent shocks through your spine, and you moaned loudly into the duvet, fists clutching at it desperately. Your eyes had rolled to the back of your skull, mouth hanging open at the pleasure of it.

Without thinking, your knees spread wider for him, toes curling at the feeling of his tongue working deeper between your folds, licking until his lips closed around your clit. The gentle suction made your stomach jump violently.

"Taste so fucking good, honey," he murmured against you, voice vibrating directly through your body while his hands spread your ass even wider. “Did Jack eat you out, baby? Did he get a taste?”

Your brain lagged badly behind the question, and all you could do was moan. But a quick whack! to your thigh had you jumping, remembering he had asked a question.

"No!"

He hummed low in satisfaction before diving back in, mouth wrapping around you again while his tongue flattened and dragged upward. You couldn't stop moving against him now. Your hips rolled helplessly into his face, chasing the pressure every time he eased away even a little.

"Oh—oh, fuck—Robby, please—" you begged, hips wildly chasing the friction. His tongue moved with you, moving between long strokes and suckling your clit, his hand coming up to just gently prod into your pussy, the teasing of the pad of his thick finger enough to make that cresting wave of an orgasm roll closer and closer. Your moans had turned into cries, like a cat in heat just mewling his name, begging and begging for more, even if it sounded more like gibberish with the state your hazy brain was in.

"Mmmm—Robbyyy— right there—"

And just as you were about to crash into the wave, orgasm swelling, thighs shaking, ready to scream out in pleasure—

He stopped.

He pulled away, his hands going back to grip your ass. The loss of it had you crying out loudly, hips bucking uselessly while you petulantly kicked at the bed.

He tsk'd his tongue at you, and when you peered over your shoulder, you saw him shaking his head, "Don't you remember what I said, pretty girl?"

You whined miserably, thrashing on the bed, earning another smack high against your thigh that left heat blooming under your skin.

"No coming for a month." he said very sternly.

And then, to your dismay, he went back in. His tongue flattened, tracing over your swollen skin in lazy strokes while he slurped softly at the arousal gathered like a basin of nectar, obscene wet noises filling the room. Your whole body clenched around nothing, orgasm trapped inside you now, throbbing painfully close without ever breaking.

You whined again, but stopped your thrashing, burying your face into the bed.

"Remind me why you're not allowed to come, baby," he said softly, kissing your clit gently.

You jumped at the contact, voice muffled in the bedspread: "M-bad girl."

When you peeked an eye over your shoulder, he was shaking his head gently at that. "Not a bad girl," he said, and licked a stripe up your pussy again, and you felt your walls constrict, begging for something, anything.

The ache inside you deepened. Every slow drag of Robby's tongue pushed you right back toward the edge again until your stomach felt tight and shaky.

And then he pulled away again.

You wailed in protest, dropping your hips to the bed, and kicked your feet. Your body felt tense with the need of release, muscles tightening and loosening and tightening again.

He climbed over you then, mattress dipping and you felt his cock rest in the curve of your ass as his mouth came down to your ear.

"You are not a bad girl, honey," he murmured, nipping at the top of your lobe, "you are my best girl, say it now—"

"Mmm…yr…" you sighed weakly, too distracted by the drag of his cock between your cheeks to force the words out properly. He chuckled a little, and pulled back just to look down at his cock wedging itself into the cleft of your ass.

"I'm going to fuck you now, okay, honey?"

You nodded adamantly, and then realized what he meant as his thumb traced down your vertebrae, lower and lower until it pressed gently against the tight ring of muscle there.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god.

“S'alright,” he murmured as if reading your thoughts. “Remember last time? You were so good. Just gotta relax for me, okay?”

You did remember it, in some distant memory your brain was trying to scrounge up now. He had been so gentle, and you'd promised him he was the only one who could have your tight little hole.

His hands flattened along your back, massaging gently until one wrapped around his cock, the other reaching for the lube in the bedside table. The cool slickness made goosebumps break across your skin immediately, a soft hum slipping from your chest with your next breath.

Robby prepped himself, fisting gently along his cock, and he started by just tracing it along the seam of your folds, collected your slick, pooling arousal, making you let out another simpering sigh at the feeling. You knew better than to beg for him to fuck you there—once Robby had something on his mind, he would take it. And you were always so eager to give whatever he wanted.

When his cock pressed ever so gently into your hole, you squeaked a little.

Immediately, he folded himself over your back, pushing his hands so they could come up under your body and flush your spine to his chest and belly. One of them came up under your chin to hold you even closer.

“Breathe in,” he said softly.

You obeyed automatically, lungs filling deep while his weight pressed you down into the mattress.

"Breathe out."

Again, you did as you were bid. Your breath left you shaky and uneven. He hadn't moved yet.

"One more time, honey, deeeep breath—"

He joined you this time, both of you inhaling, chests expanding together, and then—together again—you both exhaled, and he notched the fat tip of his length into you.

"Ah-ah-ah—" you gasped.

"Keep breathing baby," he cooed, his bicep coming closer to your face, your chin tucked into the crook of his elbow.

“Keep breathing, baby,” he cooed against your temple, arm tightening around you while your body strained around the stretch. Your muscles trembled violently at first, trying to resist before slowly, slowly beginning to give. All you could really focus on was his voice, the warmth of him around you, the deep drag of air into your lungs. By the time his hips settled flush against you, your hands were clutching hard at his forearm.

He kissed the side of your head, his breath a little ragged as he moaned at the tight feeling of your muscle around him.

"S'all mine, huh, honey? My pretty girl, my pussy to play with. My ass to take."

All you could manage was a weak whimper.

"Say: im your best girl, Robby, go on now—" he whispered.

“I—mmm…” you moaned when he pulled out barely an inch before easing back in again. "I'm…"

"Mhm, that's it, use your big girl words now." he softly urged as he pushed back in, only gently beginning to saw his hips. He was hardly moving at all, just a soft lull of movement to ease you into it.

"I'm y-your best girl…" you gasped, mouth hanging open, eyes fluttering as he pulled out even further, and pushed back in again.

"That's it, that's a good girl—" he groaned, and like he couldn't help himself, his next thrust in was rougher, and your eyes bulged a little.

He kissed the corner of your open mouth, "Okay?"

You nodded quickly, one hand reaching back blindly for him until your fingers tangled in his hair. He held you tighter in response, his breathing growing rougher against your cheek while his hips started moving in earnest.

"What a good girl, letting me fuck her little ass, huh? Only mine, this is all mine—"

“Yes—yes, yes—” you tried to answer, but every word dissolved into moans because his thrusts were getting harder now, faster, driving deep enough to make your entire body shake with each one. Soon, the room filled with wet slapping sounds and the strained noise of both your breathing. Heat kept building low in your stomach again, strange and different this time, tingling down your spine and making your thighs tremble uncontrollably.

"Robby—"

"Hmmm?"

"I—mmmm ohhhh I feel—"

"What do you feel, honey? Tell me, tell your old man—"

"Might—might come—like this—"

"Is that so?" he asked.

You nodded desperately, licking at your lips, your eyes squeezing shut at the feeling of the pressure. Your fingers tightened into his hair, nails scraping along his scalp.

“Don't you dare,” he growled into your ear, his breath hot as his teeth bared against your cheek. “Hold it.”

"Noooo—"

"Yes."

The firmness in his voice made your stomach clench hard. Even while he kissed your ear gently afterward, his hips kept snapping faster against you, driving you right up against that unbearable pressure again. It felt so odd—a tingling in your spine, though your pussy pulsed so hard it was nearly painful with neglect.

"Robby!"

“I'm gonna come, baby, fuck—hearing you moan my name like that—Jesus you're so fucking tight—my best girl, my good girl—don't you dare come—”

Tears gathered hot in your eyes from the intensity of it, your whole body wound tight around the orgasm he wouldn't let you have. You weren't upset. You just needed. Needed him. Needed something.

Suddenly, he was pulling out from your ass with a quick dip of his hips, and you let go of his hair to heard him letting out the loudest groan, deep and wrecked from his chest, the sound of his fist against his wet cock, the spluttering of ropes of come up your back.

You laid there, pussy throbbing, your orgasm lost, your muscles tight and loose all at once at the loss of him.

A second later he rolled onto his back and pulled you onto his chest immediately, chest heaving in breaths of relief. His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye where a tear had slipped free.

"I know, I know," he cooed, "C'mere."

You curled into him bonelessly, burying your face against his neck while your body slowly came down from everything. His skin was damp and hot beneath your cheek, your limbs still trembling every now and then. Across him, you could hear the soft rustle of tissues when he reached for the box beside the bed and started carefully cleaning your back.

“Here,” he whispered after he was done. You opened your eyes blearily and tilted your chin down to see him holding your water bottle up toward your mouth, thumb already resting against the straw so it wouldn’t wobble.

You hummed in appreciation and took a few small sips, throat still dry, lips swollen and warm.

“There you go,” he murmured.

When you were done, you sighed and let your cheek settle back against his chest. Your fingers wandered lazily over him, tracing little circles into his skin while his heartbeat knocked steadily beneath your ear.

His arm tightened around your shoulders, pulling you closer still before he pressed a careful kiss to your forehead. “How are you doing, honey?”

You hummed sleepily. “M’good.” Your lashes fluttered against the skin of his throat before you tipped your face up just enough to ask quietly, “How’re you?”

"I'm good."

You kissed into his beard once, then again, little absent-minded presses of your mouth along his jaw until your lips brushed softly against his. “Talk to me,” you murmured.

He sighed. "I missed you."

You smiled faintly, lids feeling heavy, your brain still a little fuzzy, "I missed you more."

He grinned fondly, his hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face. "Why don't we watch something for a bit, I'll go make some dinner."

"Okay,"

“Do you wanna come sit with me in the kitchen, or stay here?”

You shook your head immediately against him. “I’ll come.”

“Okay, honey.”

It took you a minute to convince your body to cooperate enough to climb out of bed. Your legs still felt loose and shaky beneath you, and there was a lingering heaviness between your thighs every time you moved, a pulse that kept reminding you of the events of the night. Robby hooked an arm around your waist to steady you while he dressed you in a pair of his boxers and a big sweatshirt. Eventually, he slid on his own shorts and you followed him out towards the kitchen.

The house felt different now in the aftermath, softer in the evening light, the lamps automatically turning on with the darkening hours. You climbed onto one of the barstools of the kitchen island with your water bottle clutched in both hands while Robby moved around the kitchen barefoot.

Your body still felt warm and heavy in a way that made you want to curl up somewhere close to him and stay there. And every now and then he drifted back toward you without seeming to really thinking about it, leaning in to kiss the top of your head or rubbing your neck gently while the pasta boiled behind him. At one point he'd put the kettle on, and handed you a mug of peppermint tea.

Time passed slowly as you sipped at it while he cooked, watching him take care of you. The windows over the sink had gone completely dark, kitchen lights soft against the granite counter tops. Finally, when everything was done, he plated the food and brought it to the small round dining table.

"C'mere," he said again, beckoning you with his fingers, the other hand patting his thigh.

You climbed onto his lap without hesitation, your spine settling against his chest while his arm wrapped loosely around your middle. He fed you slowly between bites of his own food, twirling pasta against the fork before bringing it to your mouth while you sat warm and pliant against him, sipping peppermint tea between bites.

Neither of you spoke much, but it didn't feel necessary. This was exactly what you needed: him, taking care of you, feeling needed and wanted. You, being taken care of and shown how special you were to him.

By the time you'd wiped your mouth and your tea was empty, the ache of your body had softened low and manageable.

Robby had turned on an episode of The Office, settling the two of you back onto the bed beneath the comforter. You tucked yourself against his side, one of his arms beneath your neck so his hand could stroke through your hair. The television light flickered blue across the room, catching against the planes of his face every time you looked up at him.

"Can I ask you something?" you said quietly.

His fingers paused briefly in your hair before starting again. “Of course.”

"What did Jack say today?" you said carefully.

Robby sighed softly through his nose.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you assured him quickly. “I was just curious.”

He shifted then, turning toward you more fully so he could dip his chin and look directly into your face. His gaze studied your face, flitting over your eyes, your lips, your hair as he continued pushing his fingers through it. And then, landing his soft brown eyes back on you, he said: "He wants something that's a bit more complicated than he thinks."

Oh?

Your eyes brows threaded together in uncertainty.

Robby leaned down and kissed the tip of your nose gently before pulling back again. “Let me just…” He sighed again, dropping his hand from your hair to rub his thumb along your shoulder beneath the blanket. “I need to talk to him again first. Clarify some things before you and I really get into it. Is that okay?”

You nodded slowly, though your teeth had already found your bottom lip. Your eyes drifted back toward the television, but you weren’t really watching anymore, your thoughts beginning to move in circles.

His finger hooked gently beneath your chin and guided your face back toward him.

“Hey,” he whispered.

You looked up at him again.

“We’re good,” he said softly. “More than good.”

Something in his expression tightened, vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be around anyone.

“You’ve been really patient with me this week,” he continued quietly. “And I appreciate that more than I think I’ve said. I’m sorry again about all of this. About shutting you out. You mean so much to me, honey. I want this, I want you. More than ever before.”

You cut him off before he could keep spiraling, leaning forward to kiss him softly.

“It’s okay, Robby,” you murmured against his mouth. “I’m sorry too. You and me. Always.”

His eyes closed briefly at that. Then, he smiled and breathed deeply into the kiss. He rolled over you slowly until he was hovering above you again, broad shoulders blocking out most of the television light while the muffled sounds of the episode kept playing somewhere behind him.

a/n: i don't think i've ever loved writing a story quite the way i've loved writing this one.

nothing good grows here has lived in my head for a long time now, long before i everrr posted the freaking hcs or the first part. there is so SO much behind these characters, even if aerion is ooc sue me!!!!, that you'll probably never see all at once. this has been, without question, one of my biggest passion projects.

He did not care about subtlety. He never had.

He was waiting for you at the altar in crimson and gold.

The colors of his house, but also the colors of himself, the Brightflame, they called him, and he looked it. His doublet was crimson silk embroidered with gold thread in patterns of fire, his cloak the deep red of dragon's blood, his eyes vivid violet against the warm tones of his dress.

The ceremony passed in a blur of words, lights and the weight of a hundred eyes upon you. You remembered speaking your vows, your voice steady even when your hands trembled. You remembered the brush of Aerion's fingers against yours, the way his eyes never left your face. You remembered the septon's voice, sonorous and slow, and the moment of silence that followed the final blessing, as though the whole sept was holding its breath.

Then Aerion kissed you, a deep, long kiss instead of the chaste, ceremonial kiss that protocol demanded, enough to make the assembled lords and ladies murmur and chuckle and, in your uncle's case, let out a bark of approving laughter.

When he pulled back, his mouth curved into that familiar, insufferable smile, and he murmured against your lips, "Wife."

"Husband," you replied, and the word felt strange and new but not unwelcome.

The feast came after.

But first, there was the gift.

He presented it outside, in full view overlooking the Blackwater, in front of the assembled guests, with theatrical flourish that was entirely characteristic of him. A ship, he announced, newly built and newly blessed, waiting in the harbor to carry you wherever you wished to go.

"Her name is the Storm's Eye," he said, and his voice was quieter now, meant only for you despite the crowd. "Do you know why?"

You shook your head.

"Because it is always calm in the eye of the storm." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that still surprised you. "You carry the storm in your blood. I have seen it. But you deserve a place of calm as well. A place where the winds do not touch you."

You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat. "You named a ship after a metaphor."

"I named a ship after my wife." He said it simply, as though it were obvious. "The metaphor was incidental."

The ship was beautiful, from what you could see of her in the harbor below, sleek and well-made, with a crew already aboard and sails the deep gold of a sunset. The Storm's Eye. Your ship. Yours and his, to take you across the Narrow Sea and beyond, to the Summer Isles and wherever else you wished to go.

You did not know what to say. So you kissed him instead, right there in the courtyard, and the crowd cheered.

The feast began at dusk.

The great hall of the Red Keep had been transformed, the long tables draped in cloth of gold, the torches burning bright in their sconces, the air thick with the smell of roasted meats, spiced wine and fresh flowers. Musicians played, their melodies weaving through the noise of conversation and laughter. You sat at the high table between Aerion and your uncle, and for the first hour you barely had a moment to catch your breath: toast after toast, well-wisher after well-wisher, lords and ladies approaching to offer their congratulations and their carefully worded flatteries.

Aerion drank with them all. He was in high spirits, his laughter coming easily, his hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing whenever a particular lord droned on too long. You ate what you could, smiled until your cheeks ached, and tried to memorize the feeling of it all: the warmth, the noise, the strange suspended joy of the day.

Then the dancing began.

Aerion claimed the first dance, as was his right. Then the second. Then the third.

"You will wear yourself out," you told him, half-laughing as he spun you through the steps of a lively reel.

"I am inexhaustible," he replied, entirely serious. "And I intend to dance with my wife as much as I please."

He was a good dancer, which should not have surprised you. He moved with the same careless grace he brought to everything else, leading you through the steps with a confidence that made it easy to follow. When the music slowed, he pulled you closer than was strictly proper, his hand resting low on your back, his breath warm against your temple.

"You are staring at me," you murmured.

"I am admiring you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

"Staring is vulgar. Admiration is a husband's duty." He tilted his head, his eyes tracing over your face with an attention that made your skin heat. "I am merely fulfilling my obligations."

You laughed, he grinned, and for a moment you forgot the crowd, the noise, the weight of the day. There was only the music and his hand in yours and the strange, unfolding realization that this was your life now: this man, this dance, this improbable, inexplicable joy.

The toasts and shouts mellowed as the evening wore on. The older lords retreated to their wine, the younger ones to their flirtations, and the dancing continued in a more subdued fashion. The musicians shifted to slower tunes, melodies that spoke of love, longing and the bittersweet passage of time.

You were standing at the edge of the hall, catching your breath after a particularly energetic dance with your uncle, when Valarr approached.

He was dressed simply, in the red and black of his house, his dark hair neatly combed, his expression composed. He looked tired, you thought. Or perhaps that was only your imagination, projecting onto him the weariness you yourself had been carrying beneath the joy of the day.

"May I have this dance?" he asked gently.

You glanced at Aerion, who was deep in conversation with Daella and Rhae at the high table. He did not see you. Or if he did, he gave no sign.

"Yes," you said. "You may."

Valarr led you to the floor just as the musicians began a new song. It was achingly slow. His hand settled at your waist with the lightest of touches. Your hand rested on his shoulder. You began to move.

Neither of you spoke. This was familiar. This was a thing you had done a hundred times before, in this very hall, to songs not so different from this one. Valarr had always danced with you at feasts, even when you were young and clumsy and likely to step on his feet. He had never complained. He had only smiled, that quiet smile that was meant just for you, and guided you through the steps with a patience that had made you feel safe.

You remembered the first time.

You had been twelve years old, awkward in your first proper gown, terrified of making a fool of yourself in front of the court. He had found you hiding behind a pillar, trying to make yourself small, and he had taken your hand without a word and led you onto the floor.

"Follow me," he had said. "I will not let you fall."

You had followed, and he had not let you fall.

You remembered the time he had taught you the steps. You had practiced together in the library after lessons, moving between the bookshelves, counting the beats under your breath while he hummed the melody. When you had finally mastered it, he had bowed to you with exaggerated formality and declared you the finest dancer in the Seven Kingdoms.

"The finest dancer in the library, at least," you had corrected.

"The finest dancer anywhere," he had insisted, and his eyes had been bright with laughter.

You remembered the feast to celebrate his sixteenth nameday, when he had been expected to dance with every noble daughter in attendance and had instead spent half the evening dancing with you. The lords had grumbled. The ladies had whispered. He had not seemed to notice, or care.

"You are neglecting your duties," you had said, glancing at the line of disappointed partners waiting at the edge of the floor.

"I am dancing with my friend," he had replied. "That is not neglect."

That had been the last gesture of rebellion against his duties. The last floundering against the weight of the Crown.

You remembered the winter feast, the one where the fires had burned low and the hall had grown cold, and he had given you his cloak without a second thought and insisted he was not cold at all, even though his hands had been shaking when he took yours for the next dance.

"You are a terrible liar," you had told him.

"I am an excellent liar," he had corrected. "You are simply too perceptive."

You remembered a thousand small moments, a thousand kindnesses, a thousand times when his presence had been the only thing that made the Red Keep feel like home. The books he had shared with you. The speeches he had rehearsed in front of you. The way he had leaned into you when his mother died, silent, shaking, trusting you to hold him steady.

You remembered the kiss. The only one. The one he had given you to satisfy your curiosity and soothe your fears. You remembered the bracelet on his wrist, the one you had woven with your own hands and he still wore even now, even as he danced with you on your wedding day.

The music swelled, something mournful and sweet, and Valarr's hand tightened on yours.

"You dance well," he said quietly. "You always have."

"You taught me well," you replied.

He shook his head. "You never needed teaching. You only needed someone to remind you that you already knew."

You moved together through the steps, and it was effortless. You did not stumble. You did not miss a beat. You had learned this dance long ago, the two of you, and your bodies remembered it even now, even after everything.

"I am glad," he said after a moment, and his voice was very soft, very careful. "That you will see the world. The Summer Isles. Essos. All the places you used to read about in those books I brought you."

"You brought me far too many books," you said, and your voice nearly broke on the words.

"There is no such thing as too many books." He smiled, but it was fragile, easily shattered. "I want you to see it all. The markets of Lys. The temples of Volantis. The beaches of the Summer Isles, where the sand is white and the water is clear as glass. You used to talk about it, do you remember? You would sit by the window and point at the ships in the harbor and say, 'One day I will sail away on one of those.'"

"And you would say, 'Then I will wave to you from the shore.'"

"Yes." He swallowed. "That is what I would say."

The music was winding down. You could feel it in the slowing rhythm, the way the melody curled in on itself like a flower closing its petals at dusk. You did not want it to end. You wanted to stay here, in this moment, suspended between past and future, between what could have been and what was.

"You will be happy," Valarr decided.

"I will try," you promised.

"No." He stopped moving. The music continued around you, the other dancers swirled past in a blur of color and light. His hand was still at your waist. His eyes were dark. "You will be happy. You will be happy because you are strong, because you are brave, and because you have a heart that does not know how to give less than everything. And he..." He glanced toward the high table, where Aerion was watching you now with an unreadable expression. "He will give you the world. I know he will. He would be a fool not to."

"Valarr…"

"I am saying farewell," he murmured to you. "For now. Not forever. I could not bear forever. But for now." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, so brief and light you almost did not feel it. "Go. Live. See the world. And when you return, I will be here. As I have always been. As your friend."

Your eyes burned. You blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall, not here, not now, not in front of the whole court.

"Thank you," you whispered. "For all of it. For looking out for me. For being the best friend I could've asked for. I would not have survived this place without you."

"You would have," he said. "You are a Baratheon. Surviving is what you do." He released your hand, stepping back. "But I am glad I was there."

The music ended. The other dancers began to drift back toward the tables, their laughter and conversation filling the silence that the melody had left behind. Valarr bowed to you, a formal bow, the bow of a prince to a princess, correct and proper and utterly, devastatingly wrong.

"Until we meet again," he said.

"Until then," you replied.

He walked away.

You stood alone on the dance floor for a moment, the echoes of the music still ringing in your ears. Your chest ached with a grief that felt both old and new, a wound that had been healing and reopening in cycles for as long as you could remember. You had loved him. You would always love him, in some small way. But that love was no longer the center of your world. It was a memory now. A beautiful, painful, precious memory.

You turned.

Aerion was watching you from the high table. His expression was curious, awaiting.

You walked back to him. You climbed the steps to the high table and took your seat beside your husband. His hand found yours beneath the table. You held on tight.

"You danced with him," Aerion said.

"Yes."

"Are you all right?"

You considered the question. Were you all right? You had married a man you had not expected to marry. You had said farewell to the man you had once thought you would spend your life with. You were leaving behind everything you had known and stepping into a future that was vast and uncertain and full of possibilities you could not yet imagine.

"I think," you said slowly, "that I will be."

Aerion nodded, as though that were exactly the answer he had expected.

"Good," he said. "Because I did not buy you a ship only for you to spend the voyage weeping into your pillow."

You laughed. A startled, genuine laugh that surprised you both. "That is remarkably unsympathetic."

"I am a remarkably unsympathetic man." He leaned closer, his mouth brushing your ear. "But I am also a patient one. And I will be here. When you are ready. When the grief has faded and the memories have softened and you are able to look at me without seeing him."

You pulled back, studying his face. He was serious now, the playfulness gone, his violet eyes steady on yours.

"I do not see him," you shook your head. "When I look at you. I only see you."

Surprise flickered on his face, or perhaps relief, or something deeper that he would never put into words. Then he smiled, that slow, insufferable smile that you had come to know so well.

"In that case," he said, rising and offering you his hand, "I believe we have a wedding night to attend to. And I have been very patient."

You took his hand. You let him lead you from the hall, past the cheering guests and the raised goblets and your uncle's booming laughter, past the musicians who struck up a final, triumphant chord, past the doors that closed behind you and shut out the noise of the celebration.

a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

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The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.

They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.

When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.

“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”

Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”

“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”

Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.

He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.

You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.

I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-

Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-

You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.

If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?

I am not circling you like a shark-

Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.

You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.

That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.

You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.

But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.

Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish. 

Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.

You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.

It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.

The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.

“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”

Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“

“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“

The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.

She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.

You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.

It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother.  Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.

You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.

Which is why you don’t know what to do now.

Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.

Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.

The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘

He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-

“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”

You frown, and Dean pauses.

“In a good way.”

“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”

“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“

He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.

But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.

“Me neither.”

“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”

“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.

“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”

And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.

He doesn’t really remember.  

“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”

Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”

You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.

Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.

You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.

Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.

Not you.

You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.

The asshole doesn’t make it easy.

He makes it impossible.

“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.

His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.

“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.

“Okay.”

“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”

 “I’ll come get them later.”

Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.

“I got ice cream.” He mutters, gaze locked onto yours. “’S gonna melt.”

“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”

“I’m going to distract you from work-“

“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.

“Dean-“

“C’mon.” He moves you in front of  him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”

You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.

There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.

You need to get away from him.

You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.

Which leaves one solution.

Avoid Dean.

Avoid him like he’s the plague.

You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.

If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.

But it’s not working.

You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.

It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.

Not dying.

You’re not strong enough to kill it.

This is the feeling of love being tortured.

Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.

You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.

Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.

There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.

That’s part of the problem.

None of them are Dean Winchester.

But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-

“Where the hell are you going?”

You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”

“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”

“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.

He doesn’t look amused.

You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.

He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.   

“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.

“Maybe.”

“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”

His brow furrows. “Napped.”

“For how long.”

“Long enough.”

“That’s not an answer-“

“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.

“Out.”

“Out where.”

You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”

Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.

He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.

But you don’t think he will.

Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.

“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.

“N- No.”

“We got drinks here-“

“I know.”

He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”

“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.

But Dean doesn’t leave.

He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.

“I’m goin’ with you.”

Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“

“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”

A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“

“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”

Oh.

He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.

Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.

So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.

“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”

You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.

You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.

Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.

And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.

You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.

“Dean, where are we-“

“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”

You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“

“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”

“It’s-“

“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”

There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“

“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“

“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“

“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”

“Dean-“

“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”

You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“

“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“

“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.

But he does.

Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.

You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.

Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.

You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.

He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.

For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.

“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”

You nod—you didn’t blame him  in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.

“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.

“What?”

“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”

“I- I can stay?”

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.

“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“

“I was going to the bar.”

“Without telling anyone?”

“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“

“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”

He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.

“You kissed me.”

You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.

He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.

“No, I- I’d remember that-“

“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”

Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.

“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.

If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.

Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.

It’s guilt.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”

“Dean-“

“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“

“Dean-“

“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“

“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.

You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.

“Stop grinding your teeth.”

Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.

“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.

“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“

“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.

He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.

“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”

Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“

“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”

“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“

“I kissed you back.”

“Did you mean it?”

His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“

“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”

“The internet?”

“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.

“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“

“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“

“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“

“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“

“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”

Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.

“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”

“And- And the love-“

“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“

“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“

Dean moves before you can think.

One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next  his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.

You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.

It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.

He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.

Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.

“Careful.” 

You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.

“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.

There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.

He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.

You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.

Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.

“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re unbelievable-“

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”

There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.

He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.

“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”

“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.

“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“

He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.

“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“

“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“

“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“

 A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.

“De- Dean-“

“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”

Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”

“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.

Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”

You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.

“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”

Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“

“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”

“You- You never-“

“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.

You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.

“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”

Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.

You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.

Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.

You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.

He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.

Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.

“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.

You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.

“I- I’ve been patient-“

 “Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”

Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.

You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.

“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“

You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.

“Please, please, please-”

“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”

“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.

“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”

You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.

The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.

Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.

“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”

You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.

Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.

Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.

Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.

You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.

“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.

You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.

For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.

Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.

He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.

A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.

You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.

“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“

Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.

“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“

His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.

Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.

You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.

Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.

“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”

You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.

Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.

“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”

You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.

“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.

He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”

“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”

“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”

You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.

“What the fuck-“

“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”

You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“

“No, you don’t.”

“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“

“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”

“List works for Sammy.”

“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“

“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”

You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.

His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.

“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.

Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”

You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give  me twenty dollars.”

“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.

That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.

Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.

Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.

You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.

But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.

“No.” He chastises, and you pout.

“I wanna put you in my mouth.”

“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“

“Why not-“

“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”

You frown. “I know that.”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.

You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.

“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”

Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”

“I am my age-“

“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.

“A sexy way?”

“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“

Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.

Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.

“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“

He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.

“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”

You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”

He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”

“Do you want the real answer to that?”

“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.

A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.

“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”

The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.

Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.

“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“

He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.

You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.

“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.

You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.

Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“

“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“

You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.

You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.

“I’m gonna move, alright?”

You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.

“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”

You nod, and his lips twitch.

“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”

Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.

“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”

“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“

“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”

“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.

He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.

“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“

“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“

He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-

“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“

You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.

You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.

And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.

Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.

He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.

He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks. 

 It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.

Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.

“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”

You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.

He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.

When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.

First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.

Dean. You need to be near Dean.

He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.

“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”

You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”

“And I woulda earned that.”

“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”

Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.

“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”

You like it.

You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.  

✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

you whine, though it's muffled from his digit. he spanks you again, and again, and again.

"i thought it was so fun when you went out with your friends while i was on a job," another hit, "i thought it was fun when you put on a short dress and let other guys look at you," another hit.

this one's different, though, because his voice cracks on that last sentence, his chest giving a heavy shake.

"popey, i'm sorry," you whine, but he's merciless. he smacks you again and again and again, relentless in his pursuits.

"'m sorry, angel, hurts me more than it hurts you, y'know that?" he croaks, and tears stream down your own face. "hurts me that my girl doesn't listen."

"i'm so sorry, popey, i won't do it again," you whine, and he kisses your poor, bruised ass.

"good girl, that's what i like to hear," he continues to kiss, to smooth his hands over your flaming skin. "need you safe. dunno what i'd do if something happened to you while i was away. don't think i would make it."

you squeeze your eyes shut, heart clutching as you take in his words.

"'m gonna go get your lotion," he starts, lips moving along the skin of your ass. "lay on your stomach for me when i get back, hm?" you nod, and he continues. "gonna rub your lotion into this sweet little ass, then i'm gonna eat you pussy, 'kay?" he asks.

Three lines. That's all the local paper allows for the personals section, which is a relic from another era that you didn't even know still existed until you were flipping through the classifieds looking for a vintage bookshelf and your eyes snagged on the column header.

SEEKING CONNECTION

You'd laughed at first. Then you'd read a few. Then you'd read them all, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with your tea going cold in your hands, and something small and sharp turning over in your chest.

The ad you eventually submit reads:

Married woman, mid 30s, seeks interesting conversation and perhaps more with a like-minded gentleman. Discretion essential. If you enjoy good food, dry wit, and don't mind a woman who can out-drink you — I'd love to hear from you. Reply to Box 64.

You pay for four weeks in advance and feel sick the entire drive home.

Because here's the thing about being married to Captain John Price.

You love him desperately and completely, in a way that has settled into your bones over the better part of a decade and become indistinguishable from the architecture of who you are.

Adore the way he smells—stale cigar smoke and sandalwood and old gun oil, a combination that should be repulsive and instead makes you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there. Love his hands, broad and scarred and capable of violence you'll never fully understand, and how gentle they are when they cup your jaw or fix the clasp of your necklace.

And you melt for the rumble of his voice on the phone at two in the morning when he calls from whatever godforsaken corner of the world he's operating in, tired and tight-lipped but always, always asking about you first.

You love him, and he loves you, and it hasn't been enough for a long time.

Not because the love ran out, because he did.

John Price gives everything to his work. Every deployment bleeds into the next. The gaps between homecomings stretch longer—three weeks become five, five become eight, eight becomes ‘I don't know yet, love, I'll let you know when I know’.

And when he does come home, he's there but not there; hollow-eyed and distracted, reaching for his phone at dinner, falling asleep on the sofa before nine, making love to you the first night with a desperate urgency that fades by the third morning into perfunctory kisses on the forehead and an apologetic mumble about an early briefing.

Someday, you stopped asking when he'd be home six months ago; stopped leaving the porch light on four months ago, and you stopped wearing the nice knickers three months ago because what was the point again.

Two months ago, you realised you'd gone an entire week without hearing his voice and hadn't noticed until Thursday.

That's when the panic set in. Not the sharp, clean kind, but the slow, creeping kind. The one that makes you lie awake at three a.m. staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is it, if this is what the rest of your life looks like. A nice house in Hereford with a well-maintained garden and a husband who exists primarily as a name on a bank account and a voice on the other end of an increasingly rare phone call.

You don't want to leave him. The thought alone makes you nauseous.

You just want someone to see you again.

John finds the newspaper three days after he gets home from a six-week deployment in eastern Syria.

He's not snooping; he's looking for the TV remote, which has migrated into the crack between the sofa cushions again, and his hand closes around the folded section of newsprint wedged beside it. He pulls it out, intending to toss it on the coffee table, and his eyes catch the circle of biro ink around one of the small ads in the personals column.

John reads it, and then again.

Then he sits down very slowly, the remote forgotten, and stares at the far wall for a long time, connecting puzzle pieces like his life depends on it, which it very well does apparently.

Married woman, mid 30s. His wife is in her thirties.

Dry wit. His wife is the driest, sharpest-tongued woman he's ever met. It's one of the first things he fell in love with—the way she could dismantle a man's ego with a single raised eyebrow and a well-timed "Bless your heart, love".

Can out-drink you. He's watched his wife put away Whisky Sours at the SAS Christmas do with a composure that made seasoned operators look like lightweights.

Discretion essential.

John sets the newspaper down on his knee. His jaw works and his eyes don't leave the wall.

And he doesn't confront you.

Not over dinner nor in bed that night when you roll towards him and press a kiss to his shoulder—a habit you've kept even through the worst of the distance, even when you're angry with him, even when he doesn't deserve it.

Instead, he waits, and he replies to Box 64.

The letter that arrives for you a week later is postmarked locally. Plain envelope, no return address. Inside, a single sheet of paper, handwritten in a bold, slanted script you don't recognise.

I enjoy good food, better whisky, and I've never met a woman who can out-drink me, but I'd enjoy watching you try. Friday, 8pm, O’Malley’s on St. George's Lane. I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh. — J

Your hands are shaking when you finish reading it, and you have to sit down at the kitchen table and press your palms flat against the wood to steady yourself.

You could throw it away. No. You should throw it away. This was a mistake—a stupid, reckless, selfish mistake born out of loneliness and too much wine and that ugly, gnawing ache in your chest that flares up every time John leaves.

But John has left again. Three days at home, then a call from Kate Laswell, then a bag packed and a kiss on your forehead and a quick ‘Be back soon, love’ and the sound of the front door closing and the silence that rushes in to fill the space he used to occupy.

You read the letter once more.

I'll be the one who looks like he doesn't belong in a place that posh.

Something warm and reckless curls in your stomach, and you hate yourself for it, and you fold the letter into the pocket of your cardigan and carry it around for three days before you decide you’re going.

Friday night. O’Malley’s.

You arrive twenty minutes early because you're a control freak in crisis, and you take the farthest booth in the corner because your back needs to be against a wall and your eyes need to be on the door—a habit you picked up from your husband without realising it.

You order a gin and tonic to give your hands something to do, and you check your reflection in the blank screen of your phone for the third time. You look good, like you tried again—not the kind of effort you make for John when he comes home, all desperate and over-polished, but a quieter kind; wearing your favourite dress with subtle makeup and your hair done the way you like it, not the way you think someone else wants to see it.

You look like your old self, and that's terrifying, because the whole point of tonight was supposed to be about being someone else.

When your wedding ring catches the light as you reach for your drink, and you stare at it for a long moment, the slim gold band John slid onto your finger nine years ago with steady hands and unsteady eyes, and you don't take it off.

You should, but you can’t, and you did say you’re married.

Eight o'clock comes and goes. Five past, then ten. You're about to convince yourself you've been stood up, which would be both a relief and a humiliation, when the pub door opens and a man walks in, and every nerve ending in your body fires at once.

Because the man standing in the doorway, scanning the room with those sharp, assessing eyes, is your husband.

John is wearing civvies. Dark jeans, a black henley pushed up to his elbows, boots that have seen better days.

He looks like he came straight from the base, which he probably did. His hair is freshly cut but his beard is full, and there is a tiredness around his eyes that you can read from across the room, the same bone-deep fatigue he carries home from every deployment and tries to hide and fails.

He spots you and your stomach plummets.

Meanwhile, his expression doesn't change; not a flicker. He holds your gaze across the crowded pub, and then he walks towards you with the kind of unhurried, deliberate stride that you've seen him use in exactly two contexts.

When he's approaching a superior officer, and when he's about to do something that no one in the room is going to enjoy.

Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth. Your hand tightens around your glass until your knuckles ache, and every instinct in your body is screaming at you to run to the bathroom, to the car park, to another country, but your legs won't cooperate, because Captain John Price is walking towards you and you have never in your life been able to move when he's looking at you like that.

He reaches the booth, stops, and looks down at you. And a beat of terrible, electric silence follows.

Then he smiles, though not the tight, exhausted smile he gives you at the front door when he's been gone for weeks, but something warmer, something almost boyish, and then he slides into the seat across from you, settling in with an ease that makes your blood run cold.

"You must be Box 64," he says casually, calm, like he's meeting a stranger for the first time, which is insane, because he is your husband and he is sitting across from you at a pub where you came to meet another man and he knows. He fucking knows.

"John—"

"John," he repeats, tasting the name like he's hearing it for the first time. Then he extends his hand across the table. "That's right. Pleasure to meet you."

You stare at his outstretched hand, then at his face, and back at his hand.

"John, I can explain—"

"Nothing to explain." He keeps his hand where it is, steady and patient. His eyes don't leave yours. "I'm J. You're Box 64. We're here to have a drink and see if we get on. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? What your ad said?"

Your mouth opens and something inside you dies a little, along with the words in your throat; anything but one.

"John."

"You gonna leave me hanging, love? Already?" He nods at his hand, one eyebrow raised, and there is something in his expression—beneath the calm and the performance—that you can't quite read.

It's not anger, not even hurt. Something closer to resolve, like he's made a decision about tonight and he intends to see it through, and nothing you say is going to alter the trajectory.

You take his hand, shake it weakly.

His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and he gives one firm shake before releasing you. Then he flags down the barmaid, orders a whisky neat, and turns back to you with that same easy, unreadable smile.

"So. Tell me about yourself."

You stare at him owlishly.

"I—I don't—" You can feel heat crawling up your neck, your throat tightening with the precursor to tears. "John, please, can we just—"

"Tell me," he says again, and his voice is gentle, but his eyes are steel. "What do you do? Where are you from? What made you put that ad in the paper?"

The last question lands like another slap, even though his tone doesn't change. You swallow hard, your fingers wrap around your glass for something to anchor to.

He waits for you to answer; patient as a sniper in a ghillie suit.

"I'm—" You exhale shakily. "I'm from here. I live in Hereford. I'm—" Your voice threatens to crack, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it steadies. "I'm a teacher."

"A teacher." John nods, like this is new information and not something he's known for the better part of a decade. "What age?"

"Year four."

"Year four. That's—what, eight? Nine?" He takes a sip of his whisky. The barmaid left it quietly and shot you a look like she sensed the tension. "Brave woman. I've faced insurgents with less fight in them than a nine-year-old with a grudge."

The laugh that escapes you is wet and startled and completely involuntary, and John's eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the mask slides back into place.

"What about you?" you ask carefully, because two can play this game, and if he's going to make you sit through this surreal performance, you might as well commit. Your voice is still unsteady, but there's a spark of something underneath the fear—defiance, maybe, or the stubbornness that made you put the ad in the paper in the first place. "What do you do?"

"Military," he answers briskly, which is what he always says at parties and barbecues when civilians ask, offering nothing further.

"What branch?"

"The kind that doesn't let me talk about it." He leans back in his seat, one arm resting along the back of the booth leisurely and looks at you with an expression that's half amusement, half something hungrier. "I travel a lot. Gone more than I'm home unfortunately."

"That must be hard," you reply, and you mean it in a raw way that has nothing to do with the roleplay and everything to do with the long years of lonely nights and unanswered phone calls sitting between you.

John hears it and you watch it land. A brief tightening around his eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw before he takes another slow drink.

"It is," he says quietly. "Harder on the people who wait, I'd imagine."

Your breath catches. You look down at the table, at your ring, at the condensation pooling around the base of your glass.

"Yeah," you whisper. "It is."

The silence that follows is different from the others. Not tense or loaded. Just heavy, in the way that true things are heavy, settling between you like something solid.

Then John clears his throat. "Another round?"

You nod, not trusting your voice, and he waves the barmaid over again.

The second drink loosens something.

Maybe it's the gin, perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation, but somewhere between your second and third drink, the fear recedes enough for you to actually talk.

And John—your husband, who has spent the better part of a year giving you monosyllabic answers over dinner and falling asleep during films—is talking back.

He's always been charming. It's how he got you in the first place, at a mate's wedding eleven years ago, when he cornered you at the bar and spent forty-five minutes making you laugh so hard you snorted champagne up your nose. Though you'd forgotten what it looks like when he aims it at you with intent.

John asks about your students and listens to the answers. He asks about the book you're currently reading and offers an opinion on it that tells you he's been paying more attention to your nightstand than you thought. He tells you stories from deployment that are carefully scrubbed of classified details but still make you laugh; the kind of stories he used to tell you when you were dating. Absurd, self-deprecating, designed to make you think he's funnier than he is.

He is funny. You'd forgotten that, too.

"You've got a nice laugh," he says at one point, swirling his whisky, and the way he says it, like an observation, like he's hearing it for the first time, makes your stomach flip.

"Don't flatter me, J." The letter feels strange in your mouth, this thin fiction stretched over the truth of him. "I'll think you're after something."

"Maybe I am." He holds your gaze and doesn't smile. "That a problem, love?"

Your mouth goes dry.

Three drinks in, you're leaning across the table towards each other, and his hand is resting on the tabletop close enough to yours that your little fingers are almost touching, and you're telling him about the time one of your Year Fours brought a live frog to class in his lunchbox and it escaped during maths, and John is laughing—really laughing, with his head tipped back and his eyes creased—and for a vertiginous moment, you manage to forget.

You forget that this is a performance; that your husband is sitting across from you pretending to be a stranger because you put an ad in the newspaper looking for someone else. Everything except the sound of his laugh and the warmth in his eyes and the way he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room, which is how he used to look at you all the time, before the deployments ate him alive and left you with the husk.

Then his eyes drop to your left hand, and the warmth doesn't leave his expression, but something sharper slides in alongside it, like the glint of a blade edge, and then he reaches across the table and takes your hand, turning it over in his.

His thumb presses against the band of your wedding ring, holding it there.

"You know," he says, and his voice is still easy, still conversational, but there's a new undercurrent to it that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up, "if you were really going to go through with this little adventure of yours—"

He taps the ring once with his thumb, clicks his tongue.

"—you probably should've taken this off first."

The blood drains from your face. The pleasant haze of gin and good conversation evaporates in an instant, replaced by a cold, lurching clarity.

"John—"

"Bit of a deterrent, love. Even when you mentioned it in the ad." He's still holding your hand, still running his thumb over the ring, and his expression is unreadable—not angry, not hurt, just steady, the way he looks when he's holding a position and waiting for something to break. "Any bloke worth his salt would've clocked that you're not really in it five minutes in."

Your eyes are stinging. "I wasn't going to—I would never have—"

"I know." He replies simply and releases your hand. "I know you wouldn't."

The lump in your throat is enormous and razor-edged, and you have to look away at anything that isn't his face, because if you keep looking at him, you're going to cry in the middle of this pub and he will never, ever let you live it down.

"I'm sorry," you manage, barely a whisper. "John, I'm so sorry, I didn't—I was just—"

"Don't."

You look back at him. He's leaning forward now, strong forearms on the table, and the mask is gone. All of it, the J performance, the first-date charm, the controlled amusement. And underneath is just your husband. Looking at you with an expression that is not anger, that has never been anger, that is something far worse.

Guilt.

"I should've been home more," he murmurs; too honest for a pub on a Friday night. "I should've—" He stops, his jaw clenches before he tries again. "I should've given you a proper life. A family. A husband who's actually fucking present. And I didn't, and you—"

He gestures vaguely at the booth, the pub, the entire premise of the evening.

"—you shouldn't have had to do this to get my attention."

The first tear slips down your face before you can catch it. You swipe at it furiously with the back of your hand before the barmaid, who has become somewhat intrigued by whatever is happening at your table, can clock it.

"I wasn't trying to get your attention," you lie, and you both know it's a lie, and his mouth twitches; not quite a smile, something more tender and much more broken.

"Yeah, you were." He reaches across the table again and takes your hand, properly this time, threading his fingers through yours and squeezing. "And it worked."

You let out a breath that's half laugh, half sob, and squeeze back.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The pub buzzes around you. Glasses clinking, conversations flowing, some '80s song you can't name playing from the speakers. And you sit in the middle of it, holding hands across a sticky table, and the nine years of silence and distance and loving each other badly feel, for the first time, like something that could be survived.

"I need the loo," you announce eventually, because your mascara is probably wrecked and you need thirty seconds of privacy to pull yourself together before you dissolve entirely.

John releases your hand with a nod. "Take your time, love."

You slide out of the booth on legs that feel slightly unsteady with gin and adrenaline, and make your way to the back of the pub, past the bar and down the short corridor to the ladies'.

It's a single-stall bathroom. Small, clean enough, a lock on the door that you click shut behind you before bracing your hands on the edge of the sink and staring at your reflection in the mirror above it.

Your eyes are bright and glassy. Your mascara is, as predicted, smudged. You look wrecked and flushed and alive in a way you haven't in months, and you hate that it took this—a dating ad and a Friday night charade—to put that look on your face.

You run the tap and press your cool, damp fingers against your closed eyelids. Breathe. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish your drinks, go home with your husband, and figure out the rest in the morning like adults who have been married for nearly a decade and know how to have a difficult conversation.

You're drying your hands when the lock clicks.

You freeze. Your eyes snap to the door in the mirror's reflection as it opens, and John slips inside and closes it behind him with a soft, definitive click of the lock.

The bathroom shrinks to nothing.

He fills the space. Not just physically, though he does that too, broad shoulders and solid frame taking up far too much of the small room, but atmospherically. The air changes when he's this close, gets heavier and becomes charged, like the pressure drop before a storm front.

"John, what are you—"

He moves. One step, then two, and then his big hand is flat against your lower back and he's pressing you forward, gently but firmly, until your hips meet the edge of the sink and your palms catch the porcelain on either side.

His body moulds against your back. Chest to spine, hips to arse. One hand sliding from your lower back to your waist, gripping and anchoring, while his other forearm braces against the wall beside the mirror.

You can see him in the reflection; towering behind you, head dipped, mouth hovering at the shell of your ear, and your breath stutters at the look on his face.

"Gonna make you remember why you married me, darling," he mutters into your ear, and his breath is hot and damp on the side of your neck, sending a shiver cascading down your spine. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling your arse back against the hard line of his cock already straining behind his zipper.

"John—"

"Shh." His lips graze the spot beneath your ear. No kiss but a warning. "You wanted to be seen, love. I see you."

His hand slides from your waist to the hem of your dress and drags it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your hips until you're exposed from the waist down. The cool air of the bathroom hits your bare thighs and makes you gasp.

"John, we can't—We're in a pub—!"

"Should've thought about that before you went looking for a date, shouldn't you?" His voice is rough and threaded with something dark and tender at the same time, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down your thighs in one smooth motion. They pool around your ankles, and he doesn't bother removing them fully—just leaves them there, tangled between your heels.

"Anyone could—"

"Door's locked." His hand trails up the inside of your thigh, calloused fingers dragging against the soft skin, and you bite your lip to keep the sound that wants to escape inside. "And you're going to be quiet for me, aren't you, hm?"

You hear his belt buckle. The clink of metal, the drag of leather through belt loops, then the rasp of his zip, and your hands grip the sink so hard your arms tremble, because the sound alone is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing in anticipation.

"Nearly a decade of marriage," he murmurs against the back of your neck, and his free hand slides between your thighs from behind, two thick fingers dragging through your supple folds, finding you already embarrassingly wet. He lets out a low, dark sound of approval that vibrates against your skin. "And I let you forget."

His fingers circle your clit once and your hips buck back against him involuntarily.

"That's on me," he continues, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that makes your toes curl in your pumps. "My fault. My fucking failure. Not yours."

He presses one thick finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with a slow, curling thrust that makes your breath hitch and your walls clench around him. He groans quietly and his forehead drops against the back of your head.

"'M finally gonna put our baby in you," he declares, and the words are rough and raw and utterly certain, a promise sealed against your skin. "Should've done it years ago. Should've given you that. Should've given you everything."

He withdraws his fingers and you whimper at the loss with a needy, desperate sound that you'd be mortified by in any other context, and then you feel the blunt, plump head of his cock pressing against your entrance and every other thought in your head goes static.

"John—" you mewl. John pushes in slowly.

He stretches you open around him with a fullness that borders on too much, and the sound that tears from your throat is muffled only because you clamp your hand over your own mouth.

More than a decade and his fat cock is still enough to make you go stupid.

"Fuck," John breathes, his hips flush against your arse, buried to the root, and his grip on your waist is bruising. He doesn't move yet just holds there, letting you feel every inch of him, letting your body adjust around the thick, throbbing weight of his cock.

Then he starts to move, and it's not the perfunctory, tired sex you've been having for the past year. The kind where he finishes quickly and rolls over and you stare at the ceiling and pretend you came.

This is John Price. The real one, the one you fell in love with. The one who backed you against the wall of your old flat on your third date and made you see God by eating you out through your knickers before he'd even taken anything else off.

He fucks you deep and deliberate, one hand gripping your hip while the other wraps around the front of your throat lightly; his fingers curled against your pulse point, feeling the frantic beat of your heart against his palm.

"Look at yourself," he orders, and your eyes—which had screwed shut at some point—fly open to meet his in the mirror. Pupils blown.

The sight of it is obscene. Your dress bunched around your waist, his thick forearm braced beside the mirror, tendons flexing, his body curved over yours, and the slow, powerful roll of his hips driving into you from behind with a rhythm that's making the mirror rattle against the wall.

"That's my wife," he grunts, and his reflection's eyes are fierce and fixed on yours. "Mine. Not some fucking stranger's from a newspaper ad."

You can't speak, only feel his cock dragging against your walls, his hand on your throat, his chest solid and warm and present against your back for the first time in what feels like forever.

He picks up the pace; harder and deeper thrusts, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small bathroom while his ragged breath puffs against your ear. And then his rough hand leaves your throat to reach between your legs, flicking your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make you bite down on your own fist to keep from screaming.

"Quiet," he reminds you, and the bastard sounds smug. "You want the whole pub to know what I'm doing to you in here? Huh? Want them to know ‘m fucking my wife?"

You shake your head frantically; cunt fluttering and squeezing his shaft, because dirty talk from John Price is its own kind of sweet torture.

"Then cum for me quietly, love. Right now."

A few more hard, precise thrusts with his cock dragging inside your quivering cunt, massaging that spot that keeps swelling inside you, and you shatter.

The orgasm rips through you so violently that your knees give out, and the only things keeping you upright are the sink under your hands and John's arm locked around your waist. You clamp your teeth into the heel of your palm and muffle the cry that wants to tear out of you, your walls clenching and fluttering around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.

"Christ—fuck—" John's hips stutter, his rhythm breaks, and he buries himself deep—so deep—and holds, his cock kicking and pulsing inside you as he cums with a low, guttural groan pressed into the curve of your neck.

He spills himself empty inside you, balls throbbing with each little jerk of his hips. Hot and thick, deliberate this time. No condom, no pulling out this time, and the significance of that isn't lost on either of you. His hips roll lazily through the aftershocks, working every precious drop into your messy cunt, and his hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, pressing flat.

"There," he murmurs, and his voice is wrecked and satisfied, unbearably tender. "That's where it belongs."

You're shaking. Your entire body is trembling, your legs are useless, and there are tears streaming silently down your face that have nothing to do with pain.

He stays inside you for a long moment; breathing, his lips pressed against the nape of your neck, beard scraping your skin, his hand warm on your lower stomach. Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, and you feel his cum start to leak from you immediately, warm and slick against your inner thighs.

He reaches down, picks your knickers up from around your ankles, and slides them back up your legs with an almost clinical efficiency. When they're settled back into place, he pats your arse once, light and proprietary, and tugs your dress back down.

"There we go," he says, like he's just helped you with your coat. "Good as new."

You let out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your forehead dropping against the mirror.

"How about a 'thank you,' love," he adds while he tugs his softening cock back into his jeans, and when you lift your head and catch his eyes in the reflection, the smug satisfaction on his face is so thoroughly, infuriatingly Price that you want to slap him and kiss him simultaneously, "for stuffing your pretty cunt full of my cum, hm?"

"John."

"Mm." He presses a kiss to your temple, achingly gentle after everything he just did to you, and reaches past you to turn on the tap. He wets his hand and wipes beneath your eyes with his thumb, cleaning up the mascara.

"Ready to leave, love?" he asks, straightening up and buckling his belt with the same unhurried ease he does everything. "Or would you like another drink before your husband takes you home?"

Your legs are still shaking, his cum is slowly but surely soaking into your knickers, and your heart is so full it might crack your ribs.

"N-No," you manage, small and hoarse. "I'd like to go home now, John."

He looks at you, really looks. And there is nothing left of the J performance, not the Captain Price mask, just John, your husband. The man who drove to a pub on a Friday night not to punish you but to remind you both of what you'd almost let slip away.

"That's my girl," he replies softly.

He unlocks the bathroom door, checks the corridor, and guides you out with his hand on the small of your back. You walk through the pub on shaking legs, past the booth where your half-finished drinks are still sitting, past the barmaid who gives you both a knowing look that you pretend not to see.

The night air hits you like cold water when you step outside, and you suck in a breath that fills your lungs properly for the first time in hours.

John pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the fob, and opens the passenger door for you without a word. You climb in. He closes the door, rounds the bonnet, and slides into the driver's seat.

Neither of you speaks on the drive home. His hand rests on your thigh, squeezing gently every other minute, and your hand rests on top of his, your fingers tracing the ridges of his calloused knuckles and the band of his own wedding ring, which he has never, not once in nine years, taken off.

When he pulls into the driveway, the porch light is off. You haven't left it on in months.

John kills the engine. Sits for a moment, looking at the dark house.

Then he turns to you, and his voice is quieter now, stripped of the previous smugness, the heat, the performance. Just the raw thing underneath.

"I will do better."

No grand speech or a promise wrapped in flowers and apologies and all the things you've heard before and stopped believing. It's four words, plain and blunt and offered without decoration, and they land heavier than anything else he's said tonight.

You reach across the centre console and take his face in both hands, and you kiss him slowly, like you have time, because you're going to make time.

"I know," you whisper against his mouth.

--🩷--

Pope couldn't believe he had your fingers linked through his, waiting on your parents' doorstep. It was their 30th wedding anniversary and you had asked him to accompany you as your "boyfriend".

You couldn't handle being asked why you were single and your family (and you had a big family) each trying to set you up with their friend / co-worker / dog walker / ex... you couldn't figure that last one out.

When you'd asked Pope, he wanted to say no. He hated people, wouldn't know what to say, and someone might recognise him as a Cody. He couldn't do that to you. But you'd said, 'pleaaaase, Andy,' and looked at him with those big eyes, so here he was. Pope was deeply in love with you, and he would do anything for those eyes.

You shuffled nervously next to him, and Pope gave your fingers a reassuring squeeze. You knew what that meant. You're safe. I've got you. I'm here. You tried not to feel the butterflies that bloomed in your stomach. It was just pretend.

The door opened with a squeal from your mom, and a reserved but warm welcome from your dad. He shook Pope's hand with both of his. Pope approximated a smile and tried not to crush his fingers. Immediately your mom fell in love. You could see her making the eyes at him - skinny jeans with thick thighs and an amazing ass. Black button shirt straining across his chest and biceps. Sunglasses tucked in his shirt pocket.

'Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Andrew.'

Pope tried not to react to the word but, despite knowing it wasn't real, it crackled down his spine like lightning and struck his cock. It twitched slightly in his jeans. What he'd do to be your boyfriend. Your husband. Your baby's father... nothing turned him on more than the idea of that.

Pope had difficulty with erections before he met you. He could barely get it up and had no reason to. The occasional sex workers Smurf arranged for him was already a fucked up situation in itself. Pope usually instructed them not to talk, roughly used them just long enough to empty his balls into them, then kicked them out with an intimidating snarl of, 'you better leave now.'

But you. Not with you. Pope couldn't remember a day in months that he hadn't fucked up into his fist and spilled on his stomach, imagining you moaning his name - sighing softly as you gave him a fucked-out smile from underneath him, kissing his neck. Everything would be different with you. Pope knew that. He knew that he could make you so happy... so safe... so full of his cum.

All Pope wanted was for you to call him your boyfriend. He wanted to murmur to you, 'say it again'.

Instead he managed an uncomfortable half-smile. It seemed to have been sufficient as they were ushered into the garden.

Your mom raised her eyebrow at you and winked. 'Very tall and brooding.'

'Mom,' you hissed. You were still linking fingers, and Pope could very much hear. His jaw flexed slightly, not enough that anyone looking at his blank, controlled face would see. But you saw.

Pope found it overwhelming to be passed round your family, and and spoke very little, but they all seemed to like him anyway. Either that or they were terrified of him.

You had practised questions together, like how long have you been together? 11 months. Where did you meet? Deran's bar. What are your intentions with my daughter? Pope's eyes had flicked to your dad's face at the joke, and couldn't answer with the things that came to mind.

Open every door for you. Slam you up against them. Take long walks down the Boardwalk. Lay you down in the sand and eat you out for hours whilst you watched the moonlight on the waves above his head. Pay for the most expensive dinners. Press you up against his truck in the restaraunt parking lot, hands in your hair, guiding your hips against his, and kiss you until your lips were swollen and everyone was staring. Movie nights where you fell asleep on the couch, head against his chest. Keeping his fingers down your panties through each and every film, just gently playing with your clit as you watched. Rubbing against it slowly, feeling you get wetter and wetter. Not bringing you to the edge, no, he wouldn't give you enough friction for that. (Not unless you begged him). He'd just play to reassure himself that you were there. Tuck you into bed at night. Slide in at 4am after a job and pull you close to him. Wrap his arms around you and smell your hair. Kiss your neck and gently sneak his hand under your sleep tank to squeeze your tits as you slept, his hard cock brushing against your back. Whisper how much he loved you as he pounded you into your shared mattress, your fingernails scratching down his chest until he bled. Make you tell him how you were his and only his, that you couldn't survive without him, that you loved him, you loved him, you loved him...

'Marry her then give her my babies.' Pope said.

There was silence for a second. Then everyone laughed.

'Atta boy,' one of your uncles said, slapping him on the back. 'I like this one,' one of your cousins winked at you, then looking at Pope under her eyelashes.

Pope's face barely changed, but he squeezed your fingers again, and couldn't fully understand why everyone was laughing. You weren't, though. You weren't laughing at all.

You looked up at him and, of course, he was already staring at you. Pope's eyes changed then. They softened, ever so slightly. Your lips parted as you considered his answer. Pope's eyes dropped to your mouth for just a second too long. When he looked back up to meet your eyes, you felt them again. Those ridiculous butterflies. It was just pretend, you reminded yourself.

Another of your uncles made a noise like he was throwing up. 'You two make me sick! Young love.' He rolled his eyes performatively. 'Best get on with the celebrations so these two can get back to bed.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, John.' Your dad looked horrified at the mention of his daughter's sex life, shaking his head.

But you noticed Pope had stiffened, ever so slightly, at the presumption. No, at the suggestion. You were concerned he was uncomfortable.

'He's only joking, Andy, I'm so sorry.'

Pope looked down at you with what could only be described as bedroom eyes. 'I'm not,' he murmured.

--🩷--

It had turned dusk. The afternoon had been nice for you, seeing all of your family, and having a few glasses of fizzy champagne. Pope had nursed a whisky all afternoon, so he could drive you home safely.

You were gathered around the fire pit at the end of your parents' lawn. The flickers of amber light danced across Pope's face. His dusting of freckles, sun-kissed skin and hazel eyes looked so beautiful in this light. When he turned to smile at you, the expression only reserved for you, the butterflies hit again. Hard.

''you cold?' Pope murmured, rubbing your arm. You had shuffled closer and closer to him as the heat dropped. Pope's body was always very warm, and it was an excuse to move closer.

'A little,' you admitted.

'I should have brought my jacket,' Pope growled, really disappointed in himself. He usually thought of everything, to the point he drove Craig and Deran nuts.

'What? No! I should have brought mine,' you laughed softly. God, he loved that sound.

Your family were all spread out now. Small lantern lights had been strung across the trees and music spilled out into the garden from somewhere inside.

'C'mere.' Pope pulled you onto his lap, so your back was against his chest, and wrapped his arms around you. Your breath caught, and Pope heard it. He wasn't sure what had made him so brave. Pope had felt your shoulders bump every now and again throughout the afternoon, and had carefully committed each to memory so he could replay them over and over when he couldn't sleep.

But this... this was different. Intentional. Deliberate.

You looked down at his arms, tightly wrapped around your middle. His corded forearms and large hands crossed over. You leant on a diagonal so you could look at him. Big mistake.

Pope was even more beautiful up close. Your faces had never been inches apart before. His soft, auburn curls brushed against your cheek. You could smell his cologne, gently heated on his neck's pulse point. Pope's guarded and serious expression softened when he met your eyes and you melted.

'Thank you for this,' you whispered.

Pope didn't say anything in return. He couldn't. He just squeezed you a little tighter and closed his eyes for half a second.

You made sure you were still looking when he opened his eyes. You could see the flecks of gold within them and watched his pupils dilate. Heat bloomed in your chest.

You hesitated. 'Andy, I-'

'Who wants to play cards?' John shouted, coming over with a pack of cards.

Groans of protest echoed from around the garden, but a lot of your family drifted over. You turned back around and shot a smile at your uncle. Pope felt like his insides had been carved out. He was desperate to know what you were going to say.

--🩷--

Poker turned out to be a problem in two ways. The first was Pope easily taking everyone's money. He anticipated every move from every player after counting cards in his head. It wasn't intentional, but it came easily for him. He just knew how many players with the hands they had and by the tells they gave away how to manipulate the game.

If your family weren't so intrigued by this talent, they'd be pissed at losing so much money. (They were later once they got home).

The trouble was with playing on the big garden table. No one had even batted an eye at you sitting on Pope's lap. However you both had to keep leaning forwards to place your hands down or move chips.

Every time one of you had a move, you had ended up bent forwards on Pope's lap. Pope would lean his chin on your shoulder, his arms still wrapped tightly around you, with his cards off to the side - not that he cared whether you saw them or not.

Your back settled against his chest whilst other people took their turns but whenever you or Pope did, your hips moved across Pope's pelvis. Pope hoped you weren't noticing how often you were brushing against his cock, but he did hold you a little tighter around your waist.

Of course you noticed. You felt Pope become turned on, a slight rise in his jeans. You had tried not to think about it too much. To get off him and sit somewhere else would have been suspicious. So you stayed, slowly and repeatedly having to grind against him.

Pope felt embarrassed, so unbelievably embarrassed, that he was hard but there was nothing he could do. After a while, there was nothing he wanted to do.

You felt so good against him. He tried not to tighten his grip around your waist too much, not to grab your hips in his big hands and guide you against him.

It became a loud secret between you that you both tried desperately not to acknowledge. Pope bit his lip, straining uncomfortably against his jeans.

You felt yourself get wet.

Your dress was scrunching as you moved back and forth. Not so much that anyone could see, but enough to make your panties rub across the rough denim.

It didn't help that you felt him grow harder because that just made it feel even better.

There was no escape.

Every time one of you shifted forwards, Pope's hard cock rubbed against you. It felt so good.

You knew it was just a human reaction for Pope, that it probably had nothing to do with you and would happen regardless of whoever was sat on him, but you couldn't help but hope.

You had dreamed of this for months... sitting on top of Pope. But you would be looking down into his big puppy dog eyes. Kissing down his warm, sensitive neck and along his jaw line. Drawing a low, rumbling groan out of his throat. Pressing yourself up against him and lining yourself up against him. There would be no denim and no panties. He'd whisper that he couldn't take any more, and beg you to let him inside...

This wasn't helping. You were terrified of leaving a wet patch on Pope's jeans. Even if he didn't notice or feel it soak through onto his skin (which he totally would), your family would see it once he stood. Fuck.

You leant forward a little too far and felt your clit touch the top of his hard cock. Your clit against his swollen, now weeping, head.

You tried not to visibly stiffen, act like everything was normal in front of your audience, but fuck it felt good.

You thought you heard a whimper from behind you. It was quiet; so quiet that no-one else will have heard it but you. But you heard it.

Pope bit his lip so hard he drew blood and looked up at the sky.

He knew that you were aware by now, which was humiliating in and of itself, but he could feel, actually feel, you getting wet.

Pope's heart raced. You were getting so wet and worked up over him. This was his to keep.

The denim, stretching across his angry, desperate cock, was slowly dampening against his bare upper thigh and boxers.

Pope thought about his pre-cum and your wetness meeting in the fabric of his boxers and melting into each other.

He audibly swallowed and tried not to move an inch. Pope never wanted this to end.

But were you... grinding on him?

It felt like each time you moved, you pressed down a little harder, moved your hips further forward then drag them slowly backwards.

Did you not know what you were doing to him?

Of course you did. But in that moment, it didn't matter. There wasn't a garden filled with lanterns and soft talking. There wasn't your whole family playing an easy game of poker and laughing. There wasn't an anniversary or presents or cake.

There was only Pope's body. Your fake boyfriend. The heat of him, the way he smelled, his arms wrapped tightly around you. The thick thighs caging yours inside, his kindness in going along with this for you, even though you knew it made him feel uncomfortable. There was only where your bodies joined.

Maybe this is all you'd ever have with Pope. All you'd ever get.

He seemed oblivious when you flirted with him, and you'd never seen him with a girlfriend. You figured he just wasn't interested in a relationship, or at least a relationship with you.

But right now, in this moment, he was yours... and it was quite clear he wanted you.

You couldn't help yourself. You chased the feeling, pressing yourself down a little lower, and exaggerated your movements to and from the table. Pope was definitely trying to stifle whimpers now. You teased them out of him as you pushed your pussy down onto his cock.

You felt it twitch. Just once.

You turned a small moan into a cough.

The fewer the players left, the more often cards were put down. You had folded but Pope was still in the game. Of course he was.

It felt like he was purposefully angling his pelvis up into you as he moved. Pope felt guilty about this. You were his friend and you trusted and felt safe with him. He tried to stop, he really did.

But then you made a little movement, a small circle with your hips, and it was game over.

He was going to cum.

In front of all of these people, in front of the girl he loved, and all of her family.

You heard his breathing change, and felt his chest work a little harder, a little faster.

You didn't know whether to help him or swirl your hips harder into him.

You felt another twitch, and then a larger pulse.

You could hear the blood rushing in your ears.

To anyone else, it looked like Pope was murmuring to you. Pope was actually murmuring to himself. 'Ahh... no... uhh fuck... p-please let me... just a mmmmf a few more... uh nooo.'

You felt all of his muscles go rigid around you, his thighs tightening and lifting. Pope pushed himself up against you, unmistakable now, and made small rocking movements. His cock was starting to feel sore, it hurt how much he wanted you, and twitched again. You couldn't breathe. 'Oh God... fuck... I'm-'

'Who wants another drink?' John clapped Pope on the back.

All of Pope's muscles gave way and he scrunched his face so hard he turned red.

Teetering on the edge, the edge he so desperately wanted, but was trying with everything he had not to fall off.

One slight movement from you and it would have all been over.

Pope managed it to pull it back, sweating, then answered your uncle. You felt strangely disappointed. You were aware that this was a strange thing to feel disappointed over. Your fake boyfriend not cumming in his boxers underneath you in front of your family was probably a good thing.

But you would have liked it.

You could have convinced yourself that Pope wasn't just a kind friend, that he did want you, enough to orgasm in secret at your parents' 30th anniversary party.

Pope tried to regulate his breathing as his orgasm faded. His cock was slowly softening from the sudden interruption and the reality of the situation came crashing down.

You were his friend, who he had genuinely wanted to warm up, and who trusted him implicitly. Pope valued that trust like an heirloom.

Maybe it was for the best, then, that he hadn't blown his load into his jeans and made your thighs sticky.

It was easier for him to be disappointed than to hide the wet patch as he said goodbye to your family.

Besides, Pope thought, if he wanted to cum between your legs, he wanted it the right way. He wanted you looking into his eyes, fingers in his hair, moaning his name and begging him for it.

Fuck... he was getting hard again.

--🩷--

But if Bucky’s good at cleaning up, you’re good at making messes. There’s always a little wrapper empty can on your desk—Bucky always throws it out for you—and you tend to wait until you can smell it to change your sheets. You’ve been wearing the same bra for two weeks, and you have one pair of heeled boots where the sole is coming apart, but they still work, so you’re still using them. You had to throw out your last laptop, because five coffee spills were apparently too much for it to handle. People don’t hand you weapons anymore, after Nat gave you a dart gun for safety and you ended up shooting yourself in the thigh. Tony has an extra robot for your apartment.

But Bucky cleans it anyway, whenever he gives you the look, and finds his way back into your bed.

“Don’t know how it’s this bad every time,” he’d muttered a few weeks back, folding your towels with a small frown.

He didn’t need to do that. You wish he wouldn’t. It’s domestic, and it makes this—you and Bucky, though there isn’t really a you and Bucky—feel far too real.

You’d shrugged, watching him move around from the bed. “I spend every day cleaning up your messes, Barnes. That’s where all the energy for this,” You’d mad a sweeping gesture around the room. “Goes.”

“Hey.” Bucky had given you a mockingly stern look and pointed finger. “I haven’t done anything, for like a month.”

“Steve hasn’t done anything in three years.”

“Yeah, but the last thing he did was become a war criminal, doll. That had you on overtime.”

“And who did he become a war criminal for?”

Bucky had rolled his eyes. “Shut up. And the last thing I did wasn’t even that bad.”

“You punched the governor.”

“He called you a whore.” Bucky had glared down at your trash. “I woulda done worse, if I didn’t know it would come back to bite your ass.”

You’d sighed. “Bucky-“

“And I never mean to make mess for you.” He’d muttered, giving you an almost puppy-like look, and you’d wanted to vault off the bed so you could wrap yourself around him and never let go. “Just happens. If I was in charge, we’d all be on perfect fuckin’ behavior, all the time.”

“Well, thank you.” You’d given him a soft, gentle smile, and he’d relaxed slightly. “And I’m not mad about it, Bucky. It’s my job. And I’m good at it.”

“You are.” He’d said under his breath, his tongue flicking out between his lips, and his words had sounded like they were mostly for himself. “Use a lot of pretty words, when you do it. Could make a man jump off a cliff just by asking him to believe the wind would catch him.”

You’d blinked at him, having no fucking idea what that meant, but Bucky just continued, his voice raising back up.

“But I make it harder-“

“No, you don’t. It’s not your fault people are dumb and don’t understand how brainwashing works.” You’d given him a pointed look. “And nothing you do could be worse than the Nat Burrito-Stripper-Arson incident. And she never cleans up my room for me.”

Bucky’s lip had twitched. You’d counted it as a victory. “I’m gonna do your laundry too.”

“What a gentleman.”

“Only for you, doll.” He’d shrugged, and gone back to his self-inflicted mission.

That was one of the ways he picks up the pieces. Even if he doesn’t love you, Bucky really does care about you. So much. It’s one of the reasons this can’t happen. You don’t know what you’ll do if you lose him forever. 

But the look is getting more pleading. Shining blue eyes on yours, raised brows that have a question and a promise, something dangerously close to hope all over his handsome features. 

You don’t know how to say no to him. You’ve been trying to get better at it, but you also love him, and want him always. So you’re not quite there yet. 

When you smile at him, the recognition flashes over Bucky as his jaw clenches, he blinks once—which, for Bucky, is basically jumping with joy—and turns back to his conversation with Steve and Sam. 

You both have to get through the rest of the night. One of Tony’s dumb little cocktail parties that’s mandatory, for a united front, and neither of you will be able to escape. You’d tried once, and that’s the only time you’d almost gotten caught. Steve had gone looking for Bucky because it was Steve, and Tony had gone looking for you because apparently the head of PR needed to be easily accessible.

You and Bucky had made promises that time, too.

“That was…” He’d looked at you over the kitchen counter that morning, his words slow and measured. “Close. Last night.”

You’d hummed, staring down at the coffee in your mug. It had long gone cold. You’d been clinging to it and pretending to drink it for an hour, because it gave you a good excuse to wait for Bucky. But it was bitter. And a little shitty, because Tony had been fucking with the machine again. 

“We shouldn’t do that again.” Bucky had muttered, and you’d only nodded. “I don’t want to get caught, and then have Steve and Stark down our necks-“

“I know.” You’d whispered, forcing your gaze onto his. And that was a different look, in his eyes. Further away. Untouchable.

Reminding you that, at the end of the day, Bucky’s not yours to touch or have or wait for. Just like you don’t have a good enough reason to be his.

“That was the last time.” You’d said it like it didn’t rip you in half, and Bucky had nodded.

“Alright. Good.” He hadn’t walked away. You’d wish he would. 

You could’ve fallen apart again in peace, if he had.

“Are we still good for the whole aquarium thing tomorrow?” He’d asked, and you’d shrugged.

“It’s a team event. I organized it. You have to be there.”

“Yeah, but, uh-“ Bucky had cleared his throat, his tongue flicking out between his lips, his gaze dropping to the kitchen counter. “I was kind of plannin’ on just following you around.”

God. He kept saying things like that. All the fucking time, and it was a little cruel, but you know he didn’t mean it be. He had—has—no idea that you dream about him and feel colder when he’s not there and look for him in every room, even when you know he’s not going to be there. Just in case, you always look.

He’d muttered your name, and you’d just given him a small smile.

“As long as we look at the jellyfish.”

Bucky had nodded slowly. “Jellyfish. Got it.” Then he’d smiled. A wide, toothy, real smile that so few people got to see. You don’t know how you earned Bucky’s smile-list. 

You know you’re never going to risk your spot on it. So you’d smiled back, and said nothing else because the words might transform into I love you.

After he’d left the kitchen, you’d dumped the coffee down the sink, and sworn to yourself that that, the close call, was really the last time.

It’s been six more last times since then. There had been the last time at the aquarium, and the last time after a meeting, three last times on random days where nothing had happened, but you’d caved anyway, and the last time when he’d shown up at your door after a mission, and you’d taken him in without a question.

And now it’s seven last times.

But this one, this one for certain, will be the real last time. To save yourself, this has to be the real last time. 

So you might as well make it count. 

You drift through the rest of the party, smiling at the people Tony tells you to smile at, shaking hands and making soft-edged jokes about your job, keeping Bucky in your periphery because you can’t fucking help yourself. You tell yourself it’s to see when he gives the signal, but in reality, it’s because you need to see him. Need to torture yourself every time a pretty woman glides over to his side and touches his arm—never the metal one, they never touch the metal arm and it makes you hate them—because maybe he’ll change his mind and want her instead. 

It would be a mercy, in a way. Take away the torment of knowing you’re going to have him, then need to leave before morning.

You always leave before morning. The only time you’re allowed to linger is when you’ve fucked in the daylight, and you start talking like nothing’s happened at all. It breaks you a little more every time.

But you still go. You love him, and you don’t have the strength of all the gods and heroes around you, so you always go.

The night starts to die down. Couples drift off with their hands tangled together, or they drop onto the couch and give each other little smiles—the kind that tells you that, to them, they’re the only two people into the world—and you stand in the corner, alone. 

Bucky gives you the signal, as he moves to the door. Two hands casually behind his back one gloved palm splayed open.

Five minutes, before you can follow him.

They’re the longest five minutes of your life. You chew on the ice at the bottom of your glass until your fingers are sort of numb, but you don’t really care.

Bucky will warm them up.

It’s hard not to run to his room, when you know he’s waiting. For you. 

Bucky’s waiting for you.

You’ve barely even knocked on the door when it swings open, and Bucky pulls you inside.

There’s no foreplay. There’s never foreplay, because that would imply something intimate and sacred. 

But this is sacred. Only to you, but all the same. Every single second Bucky offers you is holy. To him it’s just hunger. A god starved, asking you to leave him an offering while you’re still in his favor.

That’s what this is supposed to be. You’re supposed to kiss with teeth for a minute, then you’ll fall to your knees to please him. He’ll take a fist full of your hair and guide you up and down his cock, fucking your mouth until you’re choking on him and moaning, before he pulls almost all the way out, and cums.

He never settles for only cumming in your mouth or on your tits. He has a habit of angling himself perfectly so that you swallow half of it, and the rest spreads everywhere. Then he’s supposed to drag up into another violent kiss, and fuck you however he wants.

But that’s not what’s happening.

This kiss is longer. Deeper. Bucky’s mouth almost fully overtakes yours, his tongue pressing on you lower lip until you open for him, and then he’s running it over your teeth and down your throat, like he’s trying to plant himself into you. His hands are handling you softly. Holding you at the curve of your back and pressing your body right into his, until all you can sense is Bucky. All you can hear are his slow grunts rolling through you—born from only kissing you—and all you can taste is the whiskey on his breath, that he probably only drank because Nat handed it to him, and he’s scared of her. And you can smell his cologne, and when your eyes flutter open for half a second you can watch his nose bump yours, and feel-

You can feel Bucky everywhere. The hand that’s not holding you is starting to trail over your thighs, closer to where you’re aching for him, and-

This isn’t right. You’re supposed to get on your knees, and then earn him fingering you back. And you try to pull away and sink down, but Bucky just tugs you right back up, and slams his lips back over yours.

“Bucky,” you gasp, pushing a little on his chest because this isn’t supposed to be about you. “Wait-“

He stops immediately, his furrowing in concern. “Are you o-“

“I’m okay.” You mumble, playing with the fabric of his shirt. “You didn’t do anything, Buck, I just- I’m-“ Supposed to isn’t right. That makes it sound like he makes you, and he doesn’t. “What about you?”

Bucky frowns, his hand still resting on your thigh. “What about me?”

“You’re- You know.” You flush, keeping your gaze firmly fixed on your hands as your voice drops to a whisper. “Blowjob.”

He relaxes against you immediately, and you don’t get it. You’ve done something wrong. You’re supposed to be serving him.

And you definitely don’t get his low chuckle, or why his expression is so soft when he tugs your hair back, forcing your gaze onto his.

“We can skip the blowjob tonight, babygirl.”

That’s not fair. He can’t babygirl you right now. “But-“

“Look, I-“ He sighs, shaking his head at something you don’t understand. “I know you wanna, and I don’t not want it, you’re- Jesus, you’re so fucking good at that, but tonight, lemme take care of you. Please.”

That’s not what this is about. And he said tonight like there will be more nights, and there will be, but you’re not supposed to acknowledge that. 

But he said please.  

And he pulled out the babygirl.

You nod, the movement smaller than you want it to be, and Bucky grins.

“Good. Alright- Yeah.” He presses another perfect, too-soft kiss to your lips. “Tell me what you want.”

Whatever he wants. As long as Bucky’s offering it, you want it.

You don’t think he’ll care for that answer. 

“I- I dunno-“

“Yeah, you do.” He’s kissing a line down your throat as he speaks. That’s not fair either, because it makes your head fuzzy, and you forget how to lie. “C’mon, doll. Tell me what you want.”

“You.” 

Your answer slips out without thought, and you’re lucky. Bucky doesn’t read into it. He just groans, and you feel his bulge twitch slightly against you. 

His hand slides up to cup your pussy, right over your underwear, and you moan lewdly into his ear.

“So fucking wet already.” He mutters against your neck, and you nod a little stupidly in agreement. “C’mon. Be creative. Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

He slaps your cunt once, and your nails dig into his shoulders as you try to stay upright. “Bucky-“

“You can do it, babygirl. Anythin’ you want, just tell me and I’ll get it for you.” Bucky starts to rub his palm back and forth, and you might fly out of your skin. “Use all those pretty words you’ve got, tell me.”

That’s his Sargent voice. 

You don’t know how to disobey his Sargent voice.

“I want you to touch me.” You whisper, and Bucky’s eyes shoot back up to yours. “With the metal arm. Until I can’t fucking stand. Then toss me around. And catch me. And taste me, fuck-“ You’re turning yourself on, and Bucky’s blown-out, lustful gaze isn’t helping. “I want you to taste me, Bucky, you- you do this fucking thing with your tongue all the time and I love it and I want it on me and shit-“

Bucky mutters your name in a low warning, but you’re on a roll, and you don’t know how to stop.

“I was to cum on your face, because sometimes it- Fuck, it gets caught in your beard and that’s so hot, and then I was you to fuck me stupid and hard and rough, and keep touching me, don’t stop touching me, Bucky, please. I want to feel it, baby, I need to feel you tomorrow, please.”

You take a long, heavy breath, and maybe you pushed it too far. He’s just staring at you. What if he’d expected you to say something gentle, and you said that. What if that was a test, and you failed it. And Bucky wouldn’t test you like that, but he’s still staring at you, and it’s a hungry, borderline animalistic stare, but he’s not moving or speaking or-

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He mutters, and it’s almost a growl. “I need you to promise me you’ll tell me if it’s too much.”

You nod, trying not to show your eager desperation on your face. “I promise. Please, Bucky. Please.”

His throat bobs, his metal fingers slowly hooking around your panties. “Hold on.”

Your arms wrap around Bucky’s neck right as his fingers shove into your cunt, and he hadn’t lied.

He’s giving you exactly what you asked for.

Not a single part of your instructions gets neglected or ignore. Bucky seems to have given himself a mission to follow them, and he already knows what you like, and this might kill you.

He starts with the touching. Your underwear is ripped off with your entire dress, and tossed into a far, unimportant corner of the room. A metal finger pushes right into your cunt, pumping in and out, faster and faster until you’re moaning. His palm still rubbing right against your clit, his fingers never slowing, and you can feel it, already you can feel the pleasure in your core-

“Want more, doll?” 

You moan at Bucky’s voice, right in your ear, and grind down onto his hand. 

His chuckle is dark, and you know he understands. “Yes, ma’am.”

Two fingers. You’re so fucking full and it’s only two fingers, but he’s moving so fast and your knees feel weak, your nails scratching and clawing at Bucky’s neck to remain on your feet-

“Let go,” Bucky mutters your name in your ear, and you’re a little worried he can read your mind. “I’ve got you.”

He’s got you. Bucky’s got you.

Your orgasm hits you with a heady warmth that spreads everywhere, over your nerves and into your mouth as a you moan, right to your fingers as you cling to Bucky, and your legs give out. 

He catches you. He’s got you, and his touch is so gentle as he continues to roll your clit between his thumb and forefinger, pushing you right back up to the edge.

“Bucky,” you whine, shivering slightly as he kisses over your collarbone. “I- I’m gonna cum again-“

“Hold it.” He mutters, and you squeak as he fucking pinches your clit. “You’re cumming on my face next, babygirl, and you need to be ready-“

“I am ready-“

“Nah.” He draws back up, giving you a grin that can only be described as wicked. “Not for what I’m plannin’ with you.”

Your eyes widen, but Bucky’s already moving on. 

Tossing you down onto the bed, barely giving you a second to settle before he’s prowling over you, shoving your thighs apart and looking at your dripping pussy with something impossibly close to awe.

“So fucking wet for me, doll.” He mutters, shaking his head. “I can’t- You’re a damn angel, letting me taste you-“

“Bucky,” you whine again. It’s dangerous, how easy he does this to you. “Please-“

His grip on your thighs tightens, as you start to grind up into the air. “Need you to stay still. Can you be good for me and stay still?”

Oh, God. “Yes,” you whisper, and his grin is dangerous. 

“Yes, what?”

You hate it when he does that. There’s nothing in the world that’s going to stop you from giving him what he wants, and he fucking knows it, too. 

Asshole. Handsome, perfect, stupid James Barnes is an asshole, and you’re going to give him exactly what he wants. 

“Yes, sir.”

“There you go.” Bucky hums, running two fingers between the puffy lips of your cunt. “Good girl.”

He dives down before you can think of something smart to say. Then thinking flies out the window all together, because he’s going to make you fly out of your skin and fucking ascend. 

He’s doing the tongue thing. Bucky’s doing the tongue thing, right against you, over and over as he eats you out like it’s the end of the fucking world if he doesn’t. Working you into a frenzy on your clit before dropping to your cunt and tongue-fucking you until you’re humping his face. He’s not trying to restrain your movements. Given how he’s groaning, and his hips are jerking against the bed, he’s liking how your thighs are squeezing his head and you’re writhing below him.

And you’re so close. So fast, you’re right back on the edge, and the heat building is a little different, and fuck, he’s so fucking good at this, why is he so fucking good at this-

You make a high sound that’s supposed to be a warning, but just comes out a raw sound of need.

Bucky understands. 

And he doubles down. 

A new coil in your stomach snaps, when Bucky’s tongue presses flat on your clit, rolling it, and this orgasm is hot and wet. You’ve never been this wet in your fucking life, and never been the wet from before until you met Bucky, but this is different. This like a flood between your legs, and your back is arching off the bed as Bucky keeps his face pressed right against your sex, and you feel a little molten and gooey as it fades, and you’re not sure what just happened, but it felt good.

“You squirted.” Bucky’s voice is low as he rises back up, and he has to be reading your mind. “Shit, I fucking knew it- You’re always so wet, and- That was beautiful, babygirl, tasted to fucking good, wait-“

His lips crash right over yours, and you moan a little stupidly as you taste yourself on his tongue. You’re already limp on the bed, and it feels like heaven, but Bucky notices and draws away.

“You sure you want more?” His question is genuine. And if you tell him to stop there, he will.

But you can see your release, glinting on his dark stubble.

You’re this far gone anyway.

“More.” You whisper, and Bucky’s eyes flash. “Please, Bucky. Need more. I can take it, please-“

It’s a good thing he kisses you when he does. You were embarrassingly close to crying.

It’s another long, slow, fucking passionate kiss. You’re pretty sure this night is a dream. You don’t want to wake up.

“Still got you, babygirl.” He murmurs against your lips. “Gonna take good care of you. You still want it, uh, rough?”

You nod, your head already clear of all thoughts but Bucky, and he lets out a long breath, pressing one last kiss to the space between your eyes as he draws back up. 

You don’t know why, but you thought he’d flip you over. Maybe spank you a little before spreading your ass cheeks open and fucking you like an animal from behind.

He doesn’t move from about you. Bucky strokes himself a few times—his own clothing long joined yours in rags on the floor—lining up at your entrance with a deep breath.

You’re getting one last chance to push him away. 

You don’t want it.

And when he sees that, something in Bucky seems to snap. You ask for rough. He promised it.

Rough is what you get.

Bucky slams into you with one movement, not bothering to give you time to adjust before he’s fucking you at a brutal pace, his cock driving deep enough to hit your cervix and press right against your g-spot, setting you on fucking fire. He’s holding himself over you with the metal arm, his gaze locked on yours as he watches himself cleave you open, and you have to close your eyes, or you’ll lose your mind. There’s something too deep in his gaze, and it’s going to drive you insane. Being filled up and fucked until you’re drooling, all while Bucky groan pure filth above you, is more than enough.

“Taking my cock so fucking well, you were made for me, doll, made to be fucked so good- Look at me.” Bucky growls, grabbing your jaw, and there’s no more hiding. Bucky’s eyes are dark and hungry on yours, and you can feel him everywhere as he splits you open. “Open.”

It takes one squeeze of your jaw for you to understand, but then you’re obeying without thought. 

“Let me hear you.” Bucky groans, his dick slamming right into that deep part of you. “C’mon, make all your pretty fuckin’ sounds for me babydoll-“

You let out a high, loud whine, and Bucky grins, the bed squeaking as his pace picks up. 

“Good girl.”

You were already sensitive from his mouth and fingers. And that’s enough. You fly back over the edge with a weak sound, your pussy squeezing and fluttering around Bucky’s cock, and somewhere far in the distance you can hear him roar your name as he slams home. 

It sends another, smaller aftershock orgasm through you again. It’s going to hurt to sit tomorrow. 

Good.

Bucky has the same habit when he cums in your pussy that he does with your mouth. Pulling just far enough out that he’s still pumping you full of him, all while allowing the rest of it to dribble down your thighs and onto your ass. The only difference is that with this, he’ll roll his cock right back into you, letting out a long groan as his brow drops to your shoulder.

You don’t know how long you both lay there. Bucky’s cock still filling you up, everything about him everywhere around you, your head lost in a daze of Bucky. So fucking good, and warm, and—in this stolen moment—yours.

Bucky takes a long, ragged breath, and slowly pulls out, leaving you a little aching and empty.

“Stay here, baby.” He mutters, and you hum. You’ll have to go soon. 

For now, you’re indulging yourself. 

Bucky’s cleaning up after himself, just like he always does. A warm, wet washcloth between your legs, and a kiss to your inner thigh that’s far too gentle. A little water and chocolate that he sits you up to eat, holding it out and glaring until you take it.

You sigh. “Bucky-“

“You need it.” He grunts. “You know you need it.”

He wasn’t wrong. You’re still a little lightheaded, and he’s left bruises on your hips that you love, and you know Bucky hates. He thinks they’re hurting you. It doesn’t matter that you asked him for it, he’s still going to hate them. 

He doesn’t know you fucking cry, like some pathetic, lovesick idiot, whenever they fade. To you, they’re proof he touched you. 

But you still take the water and food. Bucky wants you to, and you’ll do anything for him.

You’ll even participate in the dance where he crawls back into bed, pulls you into his body with his arms around your stomach, and presses a kiss to your shoulder. The game you both play where you pretend this is really the last time, and that you’re not going to be gone the moment Bucky’s asleep. It’s an odd game. He’s holding you because he’s pretending he’ll care if you go. You’re letting him because you want him to make you stay. You leave because you have to, if you want to survive. Bucky doesn’t stop you, because right now—if you ask either of you—that was the last time.

It won’t be. You always say it is, and you both know you’re far from the last time, but you also know that one day, there will be a last time. And it will break you, and Bucky won’t clean you up, and then you’ll just have to… Keep going.

And this is the worst part.

Bucky’s breathing is even behind you, and his body is relaxed. He’s done his part, and fallen asleep. Now you have to do yours, and leave. This was the last time—and even as you think it, you know it’s not the truth, but you have to pretend it is—and now you have to leave.

You start by trying to squirm away from him, but Bucky’s muscles flex, and suddenly you’re pinned tighter to his chest. Then you try to roll, and his legs tangle into yours. Prying arms away just makes him drag you closer. Trying to scramble quickly ends with him half on top of you.

This isn’t how the dance is supposed to go. 

You’re supposed to just leave. Without a fight, or resistance. Bucky’s supposed to stay asleep as you gather your clothing and slip out the door. He’s supposed to bunch all the blankets in his arm to replace where you’d been, and breathe out a little sigh of your name that makes you cry in the shower a few hours later.

He’s not supposed to be looking at you, when you roll over in his arms. 

“What are you doing?” You whisper.

“Tried to fuck you good enough you couldn’t walk away.” He mutters, watching you so fucking carefully. Like he’s afraid you’ll turn into nothing but air if he says the wrong thing. “Guess I shoulda known better.”

“Bucky-“

“You never stay.” He scans over your face, something painful in his eyes you don’t want to stare at for too long, or you’ll start crying. “Nothin’ I do is ever enough to make you stop leaving.”

“I leave because you never ask me to stay.” You whisper, and Bucky sighs.

“I never ask you to stay cause I think you want to leave.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You’re staring at each other, and being the first one to move—away or deeper into Bucky—is the most terrifying thought in the world. You could leave, and this will be the last time. And you’ll lose him. You’ll stay, and he’ll want you now but not later, and you’ll lose him. You’re going to lose him, because there’s no world where something this good just happens, and you want to stay but the most important thing about this has been never losing Bucky-

“If I ask you to stay,” Bucky mutters, tracing metal fingers carefully over your cheekbone. “What would you say? And before you answer,” he adds in a rushed tone. “I want to tell you something.”

You frown at him, your confusion obviously written all over your face, and Bucky sighs. 

“I’m not telling you because I’m tryin’ to make you stay. If you wanna go, you’re free. Won’t drag you back, no matter how much I want to.”

“Bucky,” you whisper, and you’re lying down, but you’re still a little dizzy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“I love you.” His words are soft, but firm. Certain. And the world might have stopped moving. “I don’t know a lot, you know I don’t, but I know I love you. I’d do anythin’ for you, and that includes letting you go. If that’s what you want.”

“Bu-“

“Wait,” he shakes his head, holding your gaze. “I do want you to stay. If that’s what you’ve been waiting for, if that’s all I’ve had to do, then I love you,” he says your name, and the world must have stopped. This can only have happened because the world stopped, and everything dies, and now you’re in heaven. 

But Bucky’s warm and strong around you. And he feels real. Looks real. Tastes real, still lingering on your tongue.

You swallow. You have to speak slowly, or this might all slip through your fingers. “Are asking me to stay?”

“Think so.” He gives you a small, slightly nervous grin. “And let me love you. Be my girl. You know, if you’ll have me-“

“Of course I’ll have you.” The words fall out of you like you’re a waterfall, spilling into the river, but that’s just how this is. There’s gravity, so of course the water goes down. You love Bucky, so there’s no world where you don’t have him. 

Bucky raises his brows. “Of course?”

You nod, trying to ride the wave of frantic confidence, not allowing yourself to look anywhere but Bucky. “Yeah. I- I love you too.”

It’s good to say. You’ve spent so long choking on it, and now it’s free, and you can breathe so easily. You’d forgotten what it was like, to not be strangling yourself with your own secret. It’s like having a fruit after years of only eating ash.

But Bucky’s just staring at you with wide, deep, blue eyes, his lips parted and fingers still so carefully on your cheek.

He looks a little like an angel.

“You sure?” His voice is hoarse, but there’s something soft under it, and it’s the same thing you can feel in your heart.

Fear. Of losing something you’ve barely even had. 

But you want it. And Bucky wants you. 

So there’s nowhere else to go. All you have to do is stay here.

“Yeah,” you give him a small smile, and his grin splits his face. “I’m sure.”

You’ll talk later. For now Bucky just pulls you further into his body, and kisses the top of your head. In a way, that was the last time. And the first. 

Because you stay.

All through the night, and a long, long, long while after, you stay.

End Note: how many times do I have to write something like this before it happens to me?

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You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.

Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.

The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.

It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.

“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.

You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.

Bucky.

James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.

In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.

But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.

You do love him.

Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.

At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.

That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.

But Bucky likes to ruin your life.

It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.

You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.

“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.

James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.

“My… Mother.”

He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.

“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.

“I did say that.”

“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”

Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”  

“What-“

“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”

You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”

There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.

You don’t succeed.

But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.

Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.

Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.

So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.

You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.

Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-

No.

Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.

You’d rather have the gloves.

“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”

You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”

“Okay?”

“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.

“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”

“Hm.”

“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”

“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“

“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”

“Told you, nothing-“

“What.”

Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.

With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.

“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”

“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.

“Yeah, I thought you did.”

“Then why’d you ask-“

“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”

Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.

You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.

There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.

He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-

You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.

But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-

You need a date.

It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.

Which leaves one option.

Dating apps.

There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.

They won’t see. None of them will see.

And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.

“You never tell me about your family.”

Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.

“You never ask.”

His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”

“So?”

“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”

“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”

“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”

“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”

“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”

“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.

He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.

“Why?”

“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”

“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”

“She doesn’t adore me-“

“She adores you.”

He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”

“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”

You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“

“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.

He’s not making that part easy, either.

“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”

“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”

You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.

“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.

“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”

“My favorite flower-“

Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”

“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”

“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”

You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.

If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.

“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.

You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.

“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.

They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-

You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”

Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”

“Yes, sir.” You drawl.

Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.

“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”

“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”

Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.

“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”

He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.

“James, are you-“

“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”

You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.

It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I

Sweetheart.

You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.

You really need to find that date.

It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.

Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.

The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.

Hence, the dating apps.

It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.

But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.

Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.

Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.

You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.

You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.

James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.

You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-

Located thirty feet away.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.   

Fucking- Fuck-

You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.

Next photo.

Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.

Which means-

You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.

Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.

He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.

You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.

Your thumb drifts a little to the right.

You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.

And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.

You scream, and throw your phone across the room.

Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.

“Are you-“

“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.

You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.

He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.

Like he can sense you, he looks up.

Your eyes meet.

And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.

Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.

“But- I can help-“

“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”

“Steve-“

“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.

“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.

“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“

“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.

Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.

Barely.

Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.

It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.

But he matched with you, too.

He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.

Bucky’s not the type to do that.

He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.

But you’re pretty sure you do.

This is making your head hurt.

Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-

Your phone buzzes.

Message from James.

You throw your phone again. He knows.

Death is looking lovely right now.

Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.

“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.

“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.

“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”

“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.

“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”

You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“

“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“

“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.

“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”

You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”

“But you’re not.”

Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.

“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“

“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.

“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”

You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.

Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.

And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.

“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”

Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.

But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.

You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.

Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.

And Bucky.

Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.

Almost.

He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.

“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”

He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.

You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.

Like nothing ever happened.

But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.

Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.

“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”

You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”

Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”

“I know. I’ve read the about page.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”

“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.

“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“

“I’m aware.”

“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”

He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”

It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.

But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.

“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”

Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.

“By everyone.”

You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.

Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.

You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.

When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.

His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.

“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.

“Thank you.”

He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”

“I’ve been told-“

“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.

You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-

“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“

“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”

He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.

You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.

Endlessly and uselessly love it.

Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.

It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.

You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.

You are resting.

By catching up on emails.

There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.

Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.

Not a mistake.

Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.

You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.

When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.

You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.

“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.

“Hey.”

“What’re you-“

“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”

You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”

You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“

“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.

Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.

“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.

“You’re not my boss.”

Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”

Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.

“James…”

“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.

“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“

“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.

He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.

Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.

“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”

You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.

And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-

No.

You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.

He brought you flowers.

To apologize for breaking your heart.

Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.

“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”

“Bucky-“

“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.

Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.

“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“

“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”

You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you meant it?”

You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.

“Could you?”

“What?”

“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.

“Ja-  Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”

“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”

“Is it you?”

“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“

You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“

“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”

He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.

But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.

“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.

“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”

“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”

His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”

Oh.

What.

Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.  

You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.

“You read my messages, right?”

You shake your head, and he groans.

“I- I’m sorry-“

“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“

You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“

“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”

You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.

He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.

Bucky follows you.

Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.

And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.

“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”

Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.

“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”

He tenses around you. “Don’t?”

“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”

Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“

“Bucky-“

“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.

“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“

“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“

“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.

Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.

“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.

Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.

“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.

“You.”

“Me?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.

“What about me isn’t nice?”

You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”

“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”

“You don’t mean it.”

Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“

“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”

You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”

“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“

“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.

“James-“

“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.

Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”

You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.

“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”

“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”

“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”

You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.

“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”

And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.

But-

“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.

“Okay-“

“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”

You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“That a problem, doll?”

“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“

Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.

You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.

And nothing has done it justice at all.

Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.

One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.

The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.

Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.

His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.

“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.

“Bucky-“

“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”

You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.

But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.

“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.

“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.

“How long-“

“The same.”

“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“

You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.

Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.

“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“

“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”

His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“

“Then show me.”

Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.

“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.

He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.

“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”

“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”

You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.

“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”

You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.

“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.

“Yeah. Yes. Please-“

He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.

“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”

You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.

“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”

“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“

You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.

“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.

It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.

Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.  

“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”

Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“

“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.

You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.

“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”

“You- You didn’t-“

“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”

You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.

“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“

Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.

“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”

His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.

Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.

“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”

You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.

“Trust me?”

“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.

“Good girl.”

Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.

Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”

You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.

“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”

“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”

Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.

“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”

He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.

“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“

“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.

“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.

“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”

“Wha- Bucky-“

He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.

“Bucky, come back-“

“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”

You scowl. “James-“

“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”

He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.

“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Strip.”

“Like, completely?”

“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”

He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.

But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.

Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.

Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.

“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.

“Please?”

Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“

“It’s polite-“

“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”

You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-

Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.

“Next time?”

He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”

You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.

And he’s just watching you.

Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.

You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.

Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.

“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”

“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“

“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“

His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.

Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.

“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”

You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.

“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”

You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“

“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”

If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.

“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”

“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“

He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”

You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.

“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”

You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”

“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”

There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.

“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”

“You’re- You’re touching me-“

“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”

He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“

“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”

“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”

Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”

“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.

Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.

“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.

“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“

“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“

“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.

“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.

“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“

“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.

Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.

“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”

You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.

With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.

Being fucked by him might kill you.

It’s a risk you’re willing to take.

“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.

“Hi.”

“You still in this?”

You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“I’d like you to say it-“

“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.

It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”

You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.

“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”

You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-

“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”

He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.

“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”

You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down. 

“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”

“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“

You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.

He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.

Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.

“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.

Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.

“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“

Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.

This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”

You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”

You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.

Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.

“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”

You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.

And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.

Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.

His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.

Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.

“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”

You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.

Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.

“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”

You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”

He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”

You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.

“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.

“But you’re so pretty when I do.”

He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.

He’s going to treat you well.

“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”

“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”

Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”

You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.

And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.

This is different.

Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”

You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.

He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.

“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.

“Are you-“

“Yes- Fuuuuck-“

You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.

Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.

“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“

The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.

Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.

“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”

Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.

You might have already lost your mind.

“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.

The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.

“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.

“You gotta stop doin’ that-“

“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“

His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.

You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.

“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”

“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“

“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”

He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.

“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”

Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“

His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.

“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”

There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else. 

“Ye- Yes.” 

“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”

“I- I was-“

“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”

“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“

You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.

Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.

“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”

You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.

“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“

He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.

“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”

“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“

“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”

You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.

“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”

He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.

“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”

“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.

“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.

“Buuccky-“

“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”

And he does.

Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.

He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.

He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.

Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.

“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“

You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.

“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.

You nod, shaking with the need to snap.  Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.

“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”

Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.

Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.

There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.

He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.

Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.

“That wasn’t too-“

“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.

“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.

For a second, you just watch each other.

And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.

He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.

He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.

You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.

He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.

“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.

“I know.”

“I was serious, about all of it-“

“I believe you.”

Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.

It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.

To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.

“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“

“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”

It wasn’t the first time you two had broken up, wouldn’t be the last, it was just different this time. At least for you, and you know Ghost could feel it. It was normal for Ghost to be in and out of jail since you first met. Sometimes he’d let you know when he was getting out, you’d be waiting with your hands stuffed in the pocket of your oversized hoodie and rocking on the balls of your feet as the gates slowly pulled apart with him standing there, letting him hold you close until you couldn’t breath. Or he’d just randomly pop by your house to check on you like he hadn't been away from you. Make sure the bills are paid, not holing yourself in like you’ve done in the past. Kiss you till you were in a fit of giggles. Find yourself somehow half naked, legs spread open as he pushed his fat cock tip inside you, your fingers interlocked with his till he’s all the way inside. He’ll mumble against your shoulder, something along the lines of, ‘missed you honey, jesus, ‘ve miss you.’

But this time Simon got sentenced to 5 years.

Who would’ve known it would go by so slowly? Taking the time to make calls, go visit, put money on his books— all built to irritation— longing.

Why did he have to keep putting you in these situations? Why couldn’t he just be happy with you? Love a normal life, not take these “jobs” that would land him in prison. Unfulfilled promises building up through the time you’ve known him, your best friends telling you that the man was helpless, worthless.

But even through a phone call, in the countless letters he’d send to you, when that man was closer than anyone else in your life— Simon Riley had been your rock. Still was.

How could a love you felt was everlasting, unwavering, become so fragile? Or was it always fragile, waiting to break with every time Simon landed behind bars. A crack forming every time you stood outside waiting for him, holding your life still waiting for him to catch up to you.

You suck in a breath, attempting to sound stronger, “You’re not supposed to be calling anymore Ghost. we’ve already broken up—.”

“—Don’t. Don’t say tha’ t’me dovie. Please,” he sighs, wiping a hand down his face. “Y’Just need a little more time, yeah? Sort this all out—“

“—I can’t keep doing this Ghost! I- I have a life to live and I can’t keep waitin for you… ‘s not good for me. You know that.”

Of course the man does, he’s the one who told you that long ago. Maybe the second time you'd come to visit him, tears falling down your pretty face he couldn't wipe because of the glass that separated the two of you. It was too much pulling and pushing when it came to Simon being there, you never really understood what Simon did exactly, you just knew he was good enough to not get long sentences and good enough to you. So helpless with the way he’d treat you so gently, careful, you could only help but to fall in love with him. You’d put your hand to the glass, mumbling, ‘S okay, you’re good company.’

Not good enough, clearly.

Simon’s lips press together in a line. Heart twisting with every word you say. This must be some karma for all the shit he has gotten away with. A domino effect to this, only a matter of time before he lost the most precious thing in his life.

“[+]- baby-“

Your voice is strained, shaky, “—I have to go now, Ghost. Don’t call anymore, please.”

You toss your phone to the side of the bed as it ‘clicks’ closed. Your vision becomes blurred as the clock slowly ticks. Your best friend, Nina takes a seat beside you rubbing your shoulder, “It's better this way [+], you can finally move on with your life now! He was holding you back from what you were meant to be.”

And what was that exactly?

You’d been fresh out of highschool and started working your ass off at any job you could find, gap years becoming longer, the days swiftly passing by faster than you'd expected. Maybe hanging out with your friends when they had the time, but they all had high hopes. Dreams brighter than the eye could see, and every year passed felt like you were being left behind. Just until you met Simon, who suggested you'd just give community college a try, try out some electives for the hell of it. He was good at that, taking your hands in his and telling you could do anything even if it went to shit, Simon was always there to pick up the pieces. Helped you move out of your parents, gave you a connection to get a better job, paid for everything so you didn't have to worry about it. All you had to do was chase that feeling you'd been yearning to have just like everyone else, let him love you so sweetly. You were cared for, more than anyone in your life had done for you. But without Simon beside you, what were you supposed to do?

All you'd been dreaming of was a life with him in it. It made your stomach turn into knots, pressing your face deeper into the pillows as you painful sobs left your throat.

— . ୨ ♡ ୧ . —

“Fuckin ‘ell, they’ve started a riot inside the prison.”

There's commotion on your way home, police filling the streets and the trains platforms, busy cars beeping and flying down streets, people rushing back to their homes in the early evening. You’d thought it was something nowhere near where you lived, until you'd seen the headline in the tv of a gallery window broadcasting the news. Ghosts prison in bold letters at the bottom of the screen as the new anchor described what was happening. But it was all in one ear and out the other. They didn't know who started it, but prisoners were attacking officers, prisoners attacking each other, loud yelling heard from outside the facility. Your heart quickly pounded, it's just some crazy coincidence, right? Things like this happen, it's rare, but they happen. It’ll calm down soon enough and hopefully no one dies.

Coming home… isn't as dreadful as it used to be. You're used to your new apartment, much smaller but affordable. The neighborhood isn’t so bad either. Your friends convinced you that you needed a fresh start since your last phone call with Ghost. The apartment was filled with old memories, now you could make new ones in a completely different space. And you have, letting your friends drag you to bars and dating events, the movies– even doing fucking potery (which isnt half bad as youd thought). And it works. For some time, it really does work. You've gotten yourself some fish in a very nice tank next to the window in the cramped living room, new bedding, a refurbished couch from facebook marketplace after selling the old one for cash. Decorations are still the same though, soft magentas and blues fill the space along with the few plants you talk to while you water them.

It's nice to imagine not being lonely.

That gnawing feeling that no one understands you gets to you after spending so much time pleasing your friends, trying to be the person they expected you to be. You sit on your couch with a huff, you can't help but think maybe this was all stupid, you were being the bigger person, no? Being an adult like everyone wanted you to be, dump the guy who got money the best way he knew how even if it meant illegally, happily date some stuck up doctor or lawyer who’s settling but your friends seem to like him, an inch away from marriage, a few blocks off from being some stay at home wife. Your kids becoming your life because you just don't know how to live yours, with a husband who only seeing you as a trophy–

It only made you miss Ghost more.

Made you miss his big arms around you, the way he’d kiss you and tell you just how smart you are. Remind you of how much you've grown, your hard work paying off. You feel so jaded on days like this, thumb scrolling through your private photo album full of pictures you swore to your friends had been deleted. You nibble at your nail, eyes wandering through the countless photos you took together that were on your phone, the ones of you smiling while the ends of Ghosts honey brown eyes crinkle as he looks down at you. Or the ones of him laying on your chest, your fingers going over his ivory blonde hair, the ones playfully biting your chin while you were tipsy. You miss it, all of it, the good and the bad. What would it take for you to have that back–

You hear your front door knob twist, rattling. Not uncommon, there have been a few times your neighbors have drunkenly tried to get in. Thankfully they truly meant no harm, just a couple college girls walking across the hall to their flat on a late Saturday night.

It was Tuesday.

Goosebumps shoot up when you hear the lock to the doorknob ‘click’ open. You swiftly hide beside the couch, ducking your head behind your knees to get smaller. You can hear the top lock unlock, dread washing over you. Of course someone was robbing your place while you were in it, everything in your life was about to be gone at the drop of a hat. You can feel the lump coming up your throat trying to be quiet.

You can hear heavy boots hitting the floor, the door locking behind the stranger. A deep voice too familiar hitting your earways.

“Swee’art, know you're ‘ere, don’t have t’ hide from me.”

Your stomach flips, head shooting up from behind the side of the couch. And he’s there. In the flesh.

Ghost takes off the black cap he had on, eyeing the space, where your keys and shoes were in the entryway. The little framed artwork on the walls, the few jacks that hung on the coatrack he recognized, he lets out a breathy grumble, “When Johnny told me ya moved, I really couldn't believe what I was hearin. If y’wanted to move, I could've helped with tha. Doesn't matter if we've ‘broken up.’”

“How would you even–”

“You know finding you would never be an issue [+]. Doesn't ever matter where I am.” he shushes you, finger gesturing to the room, “Your friends got you in this place though. Very nice ‘f them dolly.” he says sardonically.

You're still taking him in, and of all things, he’s in uniform as if he’d just gotten off a rough shift… as if he worked at the prison. White button down and black tie under a black pullover, but it's stained in blood, his hands still have blood on them. You can see his bruised knuckles from across the room. A fresh yet light graze on Ghosts scarred face that you can see as he looks at the picture and knickknack filled end table. The uniform is undoubtedly not his, you can't even begin to imagine how he could have escaped, and got all the way here without getting caught.

You manage to stand, hands gripping the arm of the couch to steady you. You try to gulp down whatever feelings you have, “Y-you shouldn't be here.” you manage to squeak out.

You can practically hear the smirk on his lips, his back still turned to you, fingers brushing over one of the pictures, “No shit love, just…. needed t’ see you. Had to.”

Ghost lifts the frame that's been dancing between his fingertips, holding it for you to see nodding, “Came out nice.” He turns to look at it once more, brown eyes softening, it's a picture you'd been hiding under your bed, finding it while looking for a hiding shoe. Only pulling it out because you remembered it was there and it- well it just fit. Meant to be there. One of you and Simon’s face is nearly stone cold, that ghost of a smile on him, but he’s holding you so close, you couldn't help but throw your head back and laugh, hand on his chest. Simon's enchanted by you, still, even with you so close, "You're gorgeous, you know tha?”

You bite the inside of your lip, watching him take a step forward while you take one step backwards.

“Bet I've done your head in tonight. Heard that shit on the news, didn't you? Real shit shows goin on down there. Some ‘f those muppets are beatin the shit out ‘f each other before I took off.” He cracks his neck, shoulders relaxing, “Needed t’release some anger ‘s all it was doll. Swear. Couldn’t let you see tha side f’me.” he takes a beat, “Scared ‘f me?”

You should say ‘yes’, scream and do the right thing. Have him turned into the police. He’s pulling at your heart strings though, stupidly. You only give him a small shake of your head. “Good,” he exhales in relief, tension in his shoulders relaxing, “Good honey, that's good.”

You pull at your sleeves, words falling from your lips before you can catch them, “Why did you come here?”

Simons head tilts to the side, analyzing you. “Said I’d give you some time t’think it over, yeah? Would’ve given you more time, but I- ha- when I heard about you goin on dates, found yourself a new flat— couldn't believe it. Wanted t’ see for myself that you moved on. I think I'm pretty good at startin a fight, bloody hectic gettin out of that shit show.”

He talks as if it were some fond memory, you don't even realize he’s getting closer and closer to you, “But then I get a look at you for the first time in six months, not too far from ‘ere. That shop on the corner, ‘nd for someone whos been out ‘nd about, you don't seem all that happy.”

Your mouth opens to speak but nothing comes out, frustrated that he’s right. But if you so easily just let him crawl back to you, everything you’d done would’ve been for nothing. You’re still the hopeless girl everyone still takes you for. Easily swayed by the riptide, and a part of you knows you are. You know this life is scary, worse when you’re constantly being pressured to be something. Can’t help but lean into whatever people think is best for you because you’re too scared to do anything else.

“Fuck, you can’t just come here trying to rectify things like nothings happened. I don't- I can't be pushed and pulled just because you feel like it!”” You pry your eyes from the blonde, eyebrows knitted together.

“I’m not askin for tha, if you don't want to get back together, ‘s fine. But you've gotta tell me to my face. Can break up with me over the phone, it can't be too hard to say it's over now.”

You feel your entire body stiffen at that. It's like Simon asking you to pull your own heart out and give it to him in his hand. You can't even feel the air in your lungs. Your hands ball into fists at your sides. Maybe that was the one thing keeping you sane this entire time. The thing that was grounding you– that you knew you loved him above all else, and he loved you. To let that go–

You hear him draw out your name gruffly, each one of Ghost's slowly stalking his way towards you, making you quickly take steps further back further, tripping over your own feet.

“Don’t.” You protest, almost in a whisper.

His jaw tightens, lowering his head to catch your line of vision, your back hitting the wall, “Confirm it for me, tell me you hate my fuckin guts and you can’t stand the sight of me anymore. Tell me you loathe the idea of me bein around you! Won't have t’see me ever again [+].”

It's a threat, but it feels like another punch to the gut, your full lips quivering and your eyes becoming misty.

You feel his rough hand hold your jaw, lifting your head to finally look at him. Tears rolling down the hills of your cheeks. “[+].” Simon pleads your name, desperate for anything you were willing to give him. Even if it were rejection.

Your eyelids fall shut, choking on a sob, your nose damp, “I can’t. I don’t wanna say it! W-why can’t you ever just be here with me?”

Simon can only thumb your tears away, cupping your ace in both his hands.

The older man lets out a breath through his nose, “[+] I know it's my fault swee’art, I know I shouldnt’ve left you alone like this. Hate that I'm the reason you’ve felt like this. ‘Nd I’m sorry [+], truly I’m sorry baby. I’m just tryin to provide for you. You should get anything you want. ‘S my job to get it for you.”

Your frown deepens, shaking your head, “I don’t need any of that though-”

“--But you deserve it lovie.” the back of his fingers caress your cheek, Simon could see the world in your brown eyes. The man would do anything for you, anything. And if that meant robbing few banks and ending a few lives, inciting a riot to run off and be here with you– he’d do it again. Would divide the earth for you. Find every and any way to give you the life you deserved, you were everything.

Continue to be everything.

And Simons not afraid to admit that he’d do it all over again if that meant he could be in this exact moment with you. Simon saw you as the exact woman men would go to war for. And the blonde has done it, killed for you more time he can count. And yet, you didn't see him as evil, you still let him touch the exact person that was his savior- his heaven. As if you’d washed his sins away with that sparkle in your eyes alone. He rasps, “Worked out some things for you dove, promise. No more pulling you back ‘nd forth. I'll be right ‘ere, right where I 'm supposed t’ be.”

Your hands grip onto his shirt, leaning into his touch. Those brown doe eyes meet his, you hiccup, “Promise?”

“God, I promise love. I promise.” he says, ever so certain.

Simon's thumb gently rubs over your upper lip, His eyes flicker from your eyes to your lips, “Can I?”

You give a small nod, the blonde’s lips gently meeting yours. Tender and long awaited. Butterflies fill your stomach, his nose brushing against yours, you can feel the dry blood rubbing onto your face from his fingers. He pulls away, just for a moment to get another look at you, hypnotized. He kisses you again, one that send sparks flying around the room. Quickly turning from slow to fiery and frantic. You let Simon ta mi ke you in his arms, letting him swipe his tongue over your lips for access and opening it. Your tongue's intertwining while his hands travel down your back to your ass, your arms wrapping around his neck. Simon takes a hand full in his large hand and squeezes it that makes you moan into his mouth.

Your eyes shoot open, pushing him just enough, “Wait Simon,” You pant, gripping his shoulders, “I-I’m on cycle.” gripping his broad shoulders.

Your boyfriend hands come to your hips, gently, letting his fingers find their way beneath your shirt to trail your skin. “Can take our time then,” His lips brush against your neck, brushing your pretty curls behind you, “What do you want to do, dove, tell me.”

You shudder, melting into his touch, “Want to, wanna do it with you.”

Only makes Simons harder, leaving a kiss on your neck, “We’ll stop whenever y’want, ‘kay? ‘S all up to you.”

You don’t even know how he gets you to the floor, your face in his chest while he spreads your pussy lips open, your pussy sheened with your slick and blood, Simon lets out a low groan at the sight, “Always been so pretty lovie,” thick digits dampening rosy red to his purple and blue knuckles as they push into your gushing entrance. You hiccup of ‘no’ while he slowly starts to pump his fingers inside you, but the man only tsks. Spreading your thighs further apart, he thrusts his fingers faster, he nudges his head softly into yours, “Should look at how good you're takin it baby, pretty cunts throbbing for more.” It's messy, every squelch your pussy makes as Simon works you open, your needy moans filling the air.

You grind your hips into his and he sickeningly drags his fingers out of you, whining his name, while he spreads his fingers, strings of your remnants dripping down them, “So fuckin wet, you see this shit?” You can feel the end of Simon’s lip curving upward, giving your pulsing bud a smack. Then another, harsh, your body jolted in his hold.

“Aangh! Simo- oh!”

He scissors his fingers back inside you, using his other to snack around you, his hand squeezing and kneading the swell of your breast, your eyes rolling into your skull, you grip his wrist but he’s relentless with you. You let out a throaty moan, “Wait- hck- wait!”

“No, you take it.” He lets out a low groan, watching the way your hole sucks his digits further inside, “Show me just how much you missed your loving man.”

He curves his fingers inside you, pressing against that sticky sweet spot that has you cumming with a gasp.

Simon rides your orgasm out, giving your pussy slow thrusts till he slides them outside, running his messy fingers through your glistening folds, “You forgot didn’t you, wanna hear you tell me you’re cumming.”

Your eyes are glazed over, panting, you feel the heat roll all over your skin, shyly, “No- just- shit. ‘S just been a-a long time.”

Of course it has, the thought only makes Simon's length stiffen in his pants, rock hard against your thigh. He lays you on your back, towering over you as he slips off the stained shirt he had on. Simon's fingers find their way into his mouth, tongue lapping up the blood and cum that painted them.

You chide, “Simon!”

His eyes lower down on you, fingers clean and he lifts your plush thighs back, is sandwiched between your pussy lips, “Wonder how many times you’ve cum thinkin ‘f me dovie, hm? Ten times? Twenty?” He murmurs.

“I-I don’t know.” Your eyes avert around the room, it only makes the man want to tease you more, grinding into you.

“Probably more than tha, yeah? Heh, Fucked yourself dumb till you couldnt think, didnt you?” his voice drops lower, has your pussy tingling, he squeezes the globes of your ass, “Such a good girl. Should’ve broken out sooner, shit- give your cunny what it needs.”

You let out a whine, shimmying your hips for any friction, your claw at his tattooed forearms. Simon lets the crown of his length roll against your dripping hole, dampening with your slick, “I knooow dove, gonna give it to you.”

Your boyfriend lifts your shirt to your mouth, tits dropping out. “Bite it for me, ‘s gonna be a tight fit.”

And you’re too sexy like this, needy, wanting, only thinking of Simon, sprawled out just for him. His head looks to the side as he fucks his way inside you, ears nearly becoming shot at the way your velvety walls wrap around his girthy member. His canines are on full display, dizzy, goosebumps coming on his skin as he nuzzles his cock inside you, “Fuckin hell baby, you’re makin me crazy.”

You let out a muffled keen, letting the blonde hike your legs up higher, press you further into the floor. His muscles flexing while he sledgehammers through each tight rings of your pussy. You keep clenching down on him, hard, trembling and tears pricking your eyes. Simon coos, dabbing away the dampness under your eyes, “You’ve got it honey, biiiig stretch f’me darlin.”

You only let out a squeal, the perfect ache filling your cunt as he drops his thick cock inside you with a thud, breeder balls smooshed against your thighs, deeper than you can even remember him being the countless times he’s fucked you. You can only sob out, feel the way his pre smacks! against your insides. The man is stuffing you full, pornographic moans and groans filling the space every time he bottoms out inside you.

Giving you every reason to move into a better place with him, your neighbors will hate you by tomorrow. The brutal slapping of your skin against each other could easily be heard through the thin walls.

“S-so deep inside me Si! So full- nngh!”

“Yeah honey? Hck- w-where do y’feel me?” He licks his pink lips, watching as your hand stumbles down your stomach, cock drunk, hovering the spot of the small curvature that forms every time he drills his tip inside you. “‘S perfect [+], you’re so fuckin perfect.” Simon’s hand covers yours, lasting your fingers with his and pressing down on the bulge.

Your pussy’s squeezing him dry, drool threatening to drip out the corner of your mouth, second set of lips puffy. Widening and stretching with every rough pound Simon gives you, streaking his pulsing coral pink length with red down to his blood along with your slick. “Missed you darlin, fuck, always been all mine. Hah- Only want you baby.” He angles his cock so right inside of you, your hips rolling on their own in his calloused hands. Your back arches off the floor, curls flattening on the hardwood as your lashes flutter shut, “Fuck- cummin- I’mcuming- mmmph!”

Your body’s still feverish as you hit your high, milking Simon for everything he’s worth, sparks running through you.

“You alright pretty girl? Hm?”

“So gooood! Anngh- F-feels so good Si.” Your words aren’t even registering to your head, limbs feeling boneless,

Simon snickers, hand coming up to cup your face, slow, traveling up your tummy, through the valley of your chest, brown nipples so hard in the air, up your neck to your face, “Shit, You’ve gotta breath lovie, remember?”

No, no you don’t, but you only nod, a small ‘oh’ turning into a long keen, the pad of his thumb rubbing around your sensitive clit, the way he’s still stretching you out. Your quivering hole around his being cock, tugging him into his orgasm.

He’s fucking himself into your snug walls hard, feeling every glob of that thick seed filling your womb to the brim.

“Simon?” you purr out his name and he lets out a low groan in response. A filthy thwack! into your slippery pussy, turning you into a complete mess.

“Hck- Yeah dovie?”

“Want you to hold me.” You hiccup.

The blonde doesn’t waist a second, wrapping his arms, around you, your legs hooking around his waist. His lips leave little bruises up your skin, “You love me Si?”

Simons feverish, his pupils blown out as he lets his fingers wrap around your neck, dragging you into a sloppy wet french kiss.

“I love you doll,” another kiss, “I love you fuckin much [+], bloody hell, love you.” his free hand roam your flesh, abs tightening as he slowly rocks into you, heavy, massaging your walls in a way your toes curl. Nails racking up his scarred back as you cry his name over and over.

The sound of police sirens in the far distance.

a/n: 0/10. I was so frustrated trying to write this and I still don’t like it. Like it’s so much expository dialogue but I’m not good at writing regular dialogue. I’m sorry for posting bs after not posting for so long

Aerion was completely integrated into your life. His jackets were a permanent fixture draped over the back of your kitchen chairs, and a spare phone charger that definitely wasn’t yours was always laying by the table in the living room.

You’d find yourself lying in bed late at night, your eyes burning from the glare of the screen in your dark room, staring at his face on FaceTime while he complained about a boring lecture or his annoying family.

Whenever he would come over, you two would often argue over what stupid movie to put on just for you both to ignore it.

It was wild how naturally you adapted to being with him in real life. On campus, the shift was just as obvious. It was no longer just you and Tanselle in Davis's class. Aerion would consistently leave his friends baffled as he walked past his usual row just to slide into the seat beside yours.

He’d steal your pens just to draw in the margins of your notebook, his shoulder brushing yours every time he leaned in to whisper a mocking comment about anyone that was bothering him.

He was still the same to everyone else, completely aloof and dismissive, but with you, he was different. He’d steal your drinks without asking, take a sip, and complain it was way too sweet before drinking the entire thing anyway.

When the air conditioning in the class got too cold, he’d blindly throw his jacket over your lap, his arm lingering on the back of your chair.

You grew used to the constant scent of his expensive cologne and the way the side of his thigh always pressed firmly against yours under the desk.

You talked about everything. You knew his habits and he knew yours. You knew his humour and the specific way his jaw set when he was frustrated. You were hanging out constantly, sharing every little detail of your life to one another.

Your chat history was an endless loop filled with a lot of bickering.

Aerion 🎱: where are you

YOU: At the library studying???

YOU: Like i said i would be??

Aerion 🎱: stop studying come out

Aerion 🎱: im by the fountain

YOU: Noo i have a quiz tmrw go away

Aerion 🎱: i brought your usual from the cafe

YOU: Ru srs

Aerion 🎱: im holding it right now

Aerion 🎱: you have 2 minutes before i finish it

YOU: OK CHILL

YOU: Omw dont finish it pls

But through all of it, you never actually talked about what this was. There was no label. You had just slipped into this comfortable routine without a single thought.

Until tuesday night.

You were sitting across from him at a dimly lit pasta place a few blocks away from your apartment. It was a crowded spot, the kind of place where the tables were small and forced you close together.

You were mid laugh, reaching over the table to stab a piece of chicken from his plate with your fork, while he watched you with an amused smirk.

“Hey, sorry to bother you,” a voice suddenly broke your bubble.

You blinked, your fork hovering in the air as a guy from a nearby table stepped up to your booth. He was rubbing the back of his neck, looking a little nervous, oblivious to the way Aerion’s smirk instantly vanished.

The guy looked directly at you. “I just saw you from over there and thought you were really pretty. I was wondering if I could maybe get your number?”

Your fingers froze around your fork. Your brain went blank for a second, and your usual response started sliding out of your mouth before you could even think.

“Oh, no, sorry, I have a–”

The word boyfriend died right in your throat.

A sudden wave of realisation hit you. Did you have a boyfriend? You and Aerion text all day, you call each other every night, you eat dinner together... but he had never actually asked you out properly. He had never said the words.

Technically, you guys weren’t even dating. He wasn’t your boyfriend.

The silence stretched between the three of you, turning incredibly heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Aerion lean back slowly in his seat. His posture went rigid, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek.

Shaking off the sudden thought, you forced a tight, polite smile and shook your head at the guy. “Sorry, I’m just… yeah. But thank you.”

The guy caught the terrifying form radiating from Aerion, and mumbled a quick “oh, okay, my bad,” before bolting back to his friends.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, your heart doing a weird thud against your ribs. You swallowed hard, slowly lowering your fork back to your plate, trying your best to act normal. But when you finally gathered the courage to look back across the table, Aerion’s eyes were locked dead onto your face.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The background noise of clinking glasses and chatter was drowned out by the heavy atmosphere hanging over your table. Aerion picked up his drink, taking a slow sip, his gaze never once wavering from your face.

“What were you going to tell him?” he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous tone.

You moved your fork around your plate, trying your best to look unbothered. “What do you mean? I told him no.”

“Before that,” Aerion corrected, “you started saying ‘I have a…’ and then you choked. What was the rest of that sentence?"

A flush of heat crawled up your neck. You couldn't tell if you were embarrassed or just annoyed that he was backing you into a corner. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” he countered, a stubborn edge bleeding into his tone. He tilted his head, studying the way you purposely avoided his eyes. “Were you going to say you had a boyfriend?”

You finally snapped your gaze up, meeting his head-on. “Well, I couldn’t exactly say that, could I? Because I don’t.”

Aerion blinked. The bluntness of your response caught him off guard.

“You’ve never actually asked me out,” you pointed out, mumbling slightly. “Technically, I’m single. So I couldn’t use you as an excuse.”

The silence that followed was weighed down by a sudden realisation on his part. Aerion sat back, processing your words.

He was so used to having your undivided attention, so accustomed to the seamless way you had a space in his routine, that he hadn't even realised he left a massive hole for any random guy to step through. And clearly, the mere thought of anyone else having a claim on you made him feel sick.

He licked his lower lip, his expression hardening with profound determination. “Fine.”

“Fine?” you repeated, raising a brow.

“This saturday” he paused, the casual drawl returning to his voice, though his eyes remained focused on yours. “I’m picking you up at eight. We’re going on a proper date.”

You tried to suppress a smile, biting down on your inner cheek. “Are you asking me or ordering me?”

“I’m telling you,” Aerion said, a familiar smirk finally returning to his lips. He reached across the small table, his fingers lightly brushing against your wrist. “Because I’m not dealing with another dumbass trying his luck with you.”

Your heart gave a soft, fluttery jump against your ribs. You looked down at his hand resting against your skin, the warmth of his touch sending a pleasant shiver up your arm. Even when he was being demanding, it was impossible to ignore the warmth hidden beneath his pride.

“Okay,” you murmured, looking back up to meet his gaze, a small smile breaking through. “Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t be,” he promised.

Saturday arrived, and you spent the entire afternoon vibrating with a mix of excitement and nerves. You had spent way too long picking out a dress, styling your hair perfectly, and checking your reflection in the mirror until you were completely satisfied with your makeup.

By 7:55 PM, you were sitting on your living room sofa, your purse resting on your lap, ready to go.

Right on cue, your phone buzzed in your palm. You scrambled to open it, expecting a text from Aerion saying he was outside, but it was a message from Tanselle.

Tanselle #cantsing#plsstop: let me see the fitttt

You smiled, typing back quickly.

YOU: [IMAGE ATTACHED]

YOU: Waiting for him to get heree

Tanselle #cantsing#plsstop: and just like that im gay

YOU: LMAO pls

Then the clock struck 8:00 PM.

Five minutes passed. You figured he was probably stuck at a red light. You checked your phone, but the screen remained completely blank.

Ten minutes. Sitting back against the cushions, the minutes began to tick away, and the excitement began to fade. You unlocked your phone and opened his chat, typing out a quick message.

YOU: ru here yett?

Twenty minutes. Your text didn’t even get a response. You tried calling him, but it didn’t ring.

A sickening mix of disappointment and fury flared up in your chest. The memory of him sitting in front of you just a week ago, arrogantly demanding to be your boyfriend, suddenly felt like a joke. You had actually trusted him to show up, and he was ghosting you.

“Fuck this,” you muttered to yourself, powering off your phone.

You weren’t going to sit around waiting for him. You were already fully dressed up. You were going to get food, with or without him.

Slamming the apartment door behind you, you walked down the hallway and took the stairs down to the complex parking lot. You did a slow, sweeping scan of the rows, half hoping to spot his car pulling in, but the asphalt was completely empty of any familiar vehicles.

Your jaw clenched. That was the final straw.

Your favourite diner was only about a ten minute walk down the main street, and a giant plate of comfort food sounded infinitely better than dealing with Aerion right now.

The air was cooling down, but your skin was boiling. Every step you took on the sidewalk felt like an exclamation point to your rage. The sheer humiliation of it was what burned the most—you had spent hours getting ready, only to be left sitting on your sofa like you were nothing.

You had barely made it two blocks from your complex when the distinct, low purr of an engine sounded right behind you.

A sleek car slowly crept up to the curb, matching your exact walking pace. The passenger window rolled down, revealing Aerion gripping the steering wheel.

He called your name out, “get in,” he said, his voice laced with a frantic edge. “Please. Just get in the car.”

You stopped dead in your tracks, turning on your heel to glare at him. “Go away.”

“I’m sorry, just let me explain,” he pleaded, leaning across the center console so his face was closer to the open window, keeping his foot lightly on the brake to match your steps as you started walking again. “Don’t do this. Just hear me out.”

“Hear you out?” you snapped, your voice rising as the frustration boiled over. “You’re twenty minutes late! I sat there like an idiot while you ghosted me. You don’t get to–” you let out a furious exhale. “Just go back home.”

Aerion licked his lips, looking seriously desperate. Because he was driving slowly along the busy street, the cars behind him were struggling to pass through. Within seconds, a line of blinding headlights began to stack up. A loud horn echoed through the street.

Aerion didn’t look back, unbothered by the massive traffic he was single handedly creating.

“Aerion, you’re blocking the road,” you hissed, your cheeks flushing at the mortification as several people on the sidewalk turned to stare at the scene.

“I don’t give a shit,” he shot back, slamming the car into park, completely ignoring a barrage of angry honks. His unyielding eyes locked onto yours. “I’m not moving the car until you get in. Let them honk.”

Realizing his stubbornness was boundless and that your public humiliation was only going to get worse if you stayed on the sidewalk, you let out a livid growl. You tore the passenger door open, slid into the leather seat, and slammed it shut.

“You’re fucking unbelievable,” you muttered, instantly turning your body toward the window, folding your arms tightly over your waist.

Aerion didn’t say a word. He immediately stepped on the gas, turning sharp left into a parking lot a block away. He pulled into a secluded space beneath a large tree.

Before he could even open his mouth, you turned on him, your brows furrowed. “You have a phone, Aerion! It takes exactly two seconds to type a text that says ‘I’m running late.’ But you couldn't even do that. You clearly didn’t–no, don't care about how long I sat there waiting for you.”

“I do care,” he insisted, his voice cracking slightly with raw vulnerability. He held up his phone, tapping the screen before shoving it into your hands. “But my dad called. Look at the screen.”

You looked down at the glowing display. Open on his phone was a text thread from his dad. Your eyes scanned the messages stretching across the last hour.

It was a brutal barrage of stern texts, culminating in a string of missed calls and direct orders demanding Aerion handle his brother Daeron's latest legal mess immediately.

Aerion was stuck on a group call with his father and some legal person all the way from 7:28 to 8:02 PM.

“I couldn’t hang up on him,” Aerion murmured, his eyes searching your face, begging you for forgiveness. “The second he let me off the phone, I didn’t look at my notifications. I just went straight to my car and drove to your place. When I saw you weren’t there, I tried calling back but you didn’t pick up.”

Looking at the undeniable proof on his screen, the knot in your chest slowly began to deflate. He wasn't lying. He looked exhausted and terrified that his family problems had ruined his chances with you.

You slowly handed the phone back to him, letting out a long, shaky breath, though you kept your posture guarded. “I’m sorry your dad’s putting you through this. But I wish you spared at least a second to tell me.”

“I know,” he said softly, leaning in a fraction closer, his gaze fixed entirely on your eyes. “I messed up. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know what to say. Glancing down at the dashboard clock, it was already creeping past 8:30 PM.

“What about the restaurant?” you asked, shifting in your seat and breaking the quiet. “We’re late. They probably gave our table away to someone else.”

Hearing the softer tone in your voice, Aerion reached forward and turned the ignition on. The engine roared back to life and he shifted the car into drive.

“What about it?” He casted a brief glance your way as he turned the steering wheel to pull out of the lot. “They know my family. That table isn’t going anywhere.”

As it turned out, he wasn’t exaggerating. When the two of you arrived, the hostess didn’t even look at the clock. The moment Aerion stepped in, her eyes widened slightly, and she immediately gathered two menus.

“Right this way, please.”

She led you both past the main dining area to a secluded table in the back, tucked away and bathed in the warm, golden glow of a low hanging chandelier.

But the moment you slid onto the plush velvet seat, Aerion stopped before sitting down across from you. He patted his pocket, his brows drawing together as if he just remembered something urgent.

“Wait,” he murmured, “I have to go back to the car. I left something in the console.”

Before you could even reply, he turned around and disappeared back through the restaurant lobby.

Your stomach instantly dropped, another wave of disappointment washing over you. You sat alone at the table, feeling completely out of place.

You automatically assumed Maekar had called him the second he stepped out of the vehicle, and now Aerion was going to stand in the parking lot for another twenty minutes handling it while you sat here by yourself.

A few minutes passed, each second stretching like an eternity. You were about to go look for him when a shadow fell over the table.

You snapped your head up, about to question him but the words died on your lips.

Aerion was standing there, holding an absurdly large bouquet of fresh white roses mixed with your favorite delicate florals. He looked slightly flushed, a rare hint of self consciousness in his eyes as he carefully placed the massive arrangement on the seat right beside you. The sweet, rich scent of the flowers immediately engulfed your senses.

You were going to speak but he slid into the seat across from you and reached into his pocket, placing a small, sleek black velvet box onto the table. He pushed it forward until it tapped gently against your water glass.

“Did you think I was making another call?” he asked gently as he read the lingering tension on your face. “I had to hide them in the trunk so you wouldn’t see them on the drive over.”

Your heart did a brutal flip against your ribs. You reached out, picked up the box, and opened it. Resting inside was a gorgeous, delicate gold ring, its band intricately designed to perfectly match the silver rings he always wore on his own hands.

“To make it official,” Aerion explained, leaning forward, his gaze locking onto yours intensely, making your breath hitch. “No more confusion. I’m yours, you’re mine.”

A massive, sweet smile broke across your face. You tried your absolute best to bite your lower lip and fight it down, wanting to contain your excitement, but it was pointless.

“A massive bouquet and a ring?” you giggled, lifting the delicate band out of the box and slipping it onto your finger. It fit flawlessly. You held your hand up, admiring the way it caught the warm candlelight before looking back at him.

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend or trying to marry me, Aerion? You are so extra.” You teased, though your heart was beating with a dizzying speed.

Aerion let out a low laugh, the last of the tension shattering as he reached across the table, wrapping his hand firmly over yours. “It suits you.” He spun the ring around your finger, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and softness that was reserved just for you.

The drive back to your apartment was filled with anticipation. The sweet scent of the white roses filled the car, resting safely in your lap as you kept twisting the new ring around your finger.

Aerion drove with one hand on the wheel, his other hand resting firmly on the center console, palm up. You slid your fingers into his, and he immediately locked them together, his thumb tracing slow strokes over your skin all the way to your apartment.

When he parked, he didn’t give you a chance to reach for the flowers. He grabbed the massive bouquet himself, keeping his other hand anchored to the small of your back as he guided you up the stairs and down the quiet hallway to your front door.

You unlocked the door, stepping into your apartment. You turned around to finally take the arrangement from him, but Aerion simply bypassed you, setting the heavy bundle down on the table in the living room.

The front door clicked shut behind him, locking you both in.

The atmosphere in the room instantly shifted, thick with magnetic tension that made your pulse hitch.

Aerion stepped right in front of you, crowding you until your back met the cool wood of the door. He rested one hand flat against the wood beside your head, trapping you in.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, searching your face. His gaze traveled deliberately down your dress before snapping back up to lock onto your eyes. “It took everything in me to sit through dinner without doing this.”

A breathless smile formed on your face, your heart doing a violent thud. “Really? Thought you were just staring at the menu.”

“I wasn’t looking at the menu,” he muttered, a soft gleam in his eyes. His free hand reached up, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck, his thumb tilting your chin up.

He leaned down, closing the remaining distance to capture your lips in a deep kiss.

Heat shot through your entire body. Your hands instantly flew up, tangling desperately into his soft hair, pulling him closer. Aerion let out a low groan against your mouth, his hand leaving the door to wrap tightly around your waist.

He pulled you flush, removing any space left between you until you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your own.

The kiss quickly escalated. His tongue slid past your parted lips, tasting you with a hunger that made your knees weak.

Without breaking contact, his hands slid down to hook firmly under your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up from the floor.

You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you across the short distance of the room, seamlessly setting you down onto the cushions of the sofa.

He hovered over you, his forearms bracing his weight on either side of your shoulders. The sheer happiness of the night finally overtook you. You let out a muffled giggle against his lips.

Aerion paused, backing up just a fraction. He looked down at you, a massive, soft smile breaking across his own face.

“What?” he whispered, his chest heaving as he laughed softly against your mouth, his nose playfully nuzzling yours. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing,” you gasped out, laughing properly now as you wrapped your arms securely around his neck, pulling him down a little closer.

He chuckled warmly as he leaned down to kiss you again.

This time, it was different. It was sweet and messy. You both kept laughing in between kisses, your lips bumping together clumsily as Aerion peppered them all over your face.

“Stop, I can’t breathe,” you giggled, pressing your hands flat on his chest, though your fingers were still gripping his shirt.

“Do you know how bad it tastes?” you ask Jack, leaning against the kitchen counter while he cooks you breakfast for dinner, which is also his actual breakfast.

“Well, I mean, I’ve never drank it,” he replies, his eyes fixed on the pancake in the pan.

“So don’t tell me to calm down!” you mumble through gritted teeth. “Seriously! Everything I read online says it’s fucking disgusting, and everyone in that freaking parenting class said they gagged!”

Now that you’re 27 weeks pregnant, your OB-GYN has scheduled you for a glucose test. Apparently, you go in, down a nasty, sugary drink, wait an hour, then do a blood test to check for gestational diabetes. Everyone’s warned you the drink is absolute shit, and Jack’s been trying to get your mind off of it for the last ten minutes.

“Then chug it,” he says, handing you your plate of pancakes. “It’ll be over faster that way. Also, I said to try to calm down, I didn’t order you to.”

You roll your eyes.

“What happens when I gag mid-chug?” you snap back.

Jack lets out a soft sigh of frustration and turns off the stove while he plates his own breakfast.

“I don’t know, sweetie. Do you want me to go with you?”

You only slept with Jack for the first time two weeks ago, but he and you have gotten so close over the course of your pregnancy that you were debating asking him to be present at the birth even before you had sex with him. What’s some company at the glucose test appointment?

“You’d do that?” you ask sheepishly.

Jack nods and ushers you to the table, pulling out a chair for you before sitting beside you.

“Yeah, I mean, you said it’s Thursday at 8:00. You can just meet me at the E.D., and we’ll go up. Usually don’t get out of there until 7:30 anyway, so this works out,” he says, all nonchalant, like he’s not giving you everything you’ve ever wanted.

“You’re gonna put ideas in my hand, Jack,” you murmur, half joking, keeping your eyes fixed on your food.

“What, the idea that I care about you and that baby?” he asks. “Thought it was already obvious.”

He smiles at you, and you almost want to blurt out that you’re pretty sure that by the time your baby comes, you’ll be hopelessly in love with him.

“I like to get affirmed,” you murmur in response.

“Oh, yeah? Words of affirmation is your love language?”

You nod, smiling.

Jack leans back in his chair, matching your soft smile. “I’ll make a note of that.”

//

“Hey, baby mama!”

You look up from your phone and into John Shen’s eyes.

“Hi?” you murmur, a little confused.

It’s currently 7:28 AM, and you just sat down in one of the free chairs to wait for Jack to buzz you into the E.D.

“I’m Shen. I work with Abbot,” the man says. “He mentioned you once or twice.”

“Oh,” you say, reaching out a hand to shake Shen’s. “That’s sweet of him.”

“Plus, I noticed him sneak you in here a few weeks ago.”

For some reason, you want to laugh, but instead stifle it, pursing your lips together.

“I can buzz you in, let you wait in the break room. It’s less crowded,” he offers.

“Yeah, that’d actually be really nice,” you say, smiling genuinely when Shen holds a hand out to help you up.

Shen leads you through the entrance and into the E.D., where Jack, who was explaining a patient’s situation to Robby, takes notice. 

Robby’s in the middle of a sentence when Jack spaces out, watching you follow Shen toward the break room.

“Anyway, I’ll put McKay on him,” Robby finishes. 

Jack doesn’t respond.

“Jack?”

“Hm?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. McKay. That’s good. Uh, good luck today,” Jack murmurs as he heads toward the break room, where Shen is now walking away, seemingly ready to go home.

“The hell did you do?” Jack demands, speaking softly and trying not to sound accusatory.

Shen raises his eyebrows and holds in a laugh.

“Found your baby mama out there while I was leaving and offered her a quieter place to wait for you,” he replies, trying not to take too much pleasure in Jack being in whatever fucking state this is.

“...Oh. Okay, that’s… I’ll see you tonight.”

He walks past Shen and opens the door to the break room, finding you at the table, your chin resting on your hand.

“Hey, sleepy,” Jack greets, shutting the door behind him.

“Hi,” you murmur, blinking to keep your eyes open. “Shen’s nice.”

Jack lets out a soft scoff. “Yeah, he’s alright. Um, you ready?”

You nod and push yourself out of the chair. God, did the bump get bigger overnight? He swears it did.

“Is she moving much this morning?” he asks softly as he leads you toward the elevator as quickly as possible in hopes of avoiding any stupid questions from nosy co-workers this early in the morning/this late at night.

“Just a little. Usually don’t wake up at 6:00 AM for doctor’s appointments,” you say with a yawn as the two of you step into the elevator.

He just nods in response and leans against the wall next to you, his eyes fixed on your stomach.

“Wanna tell her hi?” you ask softly.

Over the last two weeks, Jack’s gotten a little more comfortable touching the bump. Touching you—your arm, your back, your side, your leg, your tits, your ass—that’s easy for him. But touching the bump, something so full of life, yet not quite fully formed, and something you made completely on your own, has always felt almost intrusive. 

A father wasn’t part of the equation when your baby took root in your womb, and he isn’t quite sure yet what his role is here beyond fucking you at your whim and taking care of as many other needs as possible.

He’ll sometimes mindlessly caress the side of your bump with the back of his hand while the two of you sit in bed, yet still, he worries that he’s overstepping. There are moments when he lies awake, anxiety about stepping into the life of a woman who deliberately chose to be a single mother seeping into his heart. 

Just placing his hand on your belly reminds him of everything he hasn’t had the wherewithal to process yet, like the guilt for wanting more than he thinks he’s worthy of, the fear that you’ll decide you’re better off on your own, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, the title of your partner, the title of your daughter’s father could truly be his. 

But you’ve offered, you’ve invited him, and you look like you need some reassurance before heading into this nerve-racking appointment, so he feels okay bringing his palm to the side of your bump and rubbing his thumb back and forth until the elevator dings and the doors open to the OB-GYN floor.

He sits next to you in the waiting room, looking at all the art on the wall that’s supposed to resemble female anatomy, but tastefully. He’s actually pretty sure you have one of these prints in your downstairs bathroom.

There are other pregnant women in the waiting room, all at various stages. There are also a few women Jack guesses are here for the GYN side of things rather than OB.

He’d done a rotation in obstetrics in medical school. He knows how the appointments work from a medical standpoint, but he never thought, especially after losing his wife, that he’d be the guy sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair, watching a woman’s gravid belly rise and fall with each breath she takes, taking note of every kick or poke visible from the child within.

But it’s you, and you’re so strong, and you’re going to be the best mom, and he can get past his shock if it means he’ll help you through one of the arguably scarier appointments necessary during a pregnancy.

The nurse calls your name, and when you and Jack step into the hall, she hands you a urine sample cup.

“Bathroom’s on the left, and then we’ll be in exam room four, second to last door on the right,” she tells you, smiling.

You thank the nurse, who Jack swears he recognizes, then he gets led toward your exam room, where he’s told to wait for you.

The nurse doesn’t leave him alone. She fills in the rest of your paperwork while he tries to get comfortable on the plastic chair beside the exam table.

“Funny question,” Jack says. “Did you ever work nights in the emergency department?”

The nurse doesn’t look up, but she nods.

“Dr. Abbot, right?”

Hearing her voice less cheerful helps Jack place her.

“Anne Roberts.”

She nods again. “Happy to see things started looking up for you, Abbot.”

He furrows his brow in confusion, then it dawns on him. Anne only started working in the E.D. around the time he came back to work after his wife died. He could really only focus on patients for about three months. It’s like everything else faded around him, and whatever patient he saw.

It feels good for someone to think Jack’s the father of your baby. He has the instinct to correct Anne, but instead doesn’t. That’s your decision. He’d put his name on the birth certificate in a heartbeat.

“Thanks. You, too. I bet OB-GYN’s a hell of a lot more cheerful than what goes on downstairs.”

Anne shrugs and clicks her pen closed. “It usually is. I’ll be back in a few minutes to get her the Glucola.”

Then she’s gone, but you’re back from the bathroom before Jack has a chance to stew on any of what Anne said.

“God, aiming in those cups just gets harder every time,” you joke as you get situated on the exam table.

Jack smiles softly at the comment and reaches out a hand, resting it on your knee.

“Feel okay today?” he asks.

You nod. “For the most part. Besides my hips hurting a little more today, but that isn’t a symptom of gestational diabetes.”

He frowns upon hearing you’re in any kind of pain, his hand on your knee, squeezing gently.

“Can I do anything?” he asks softly, his voice just a little husky. 

You fight back a smirk, and he continues.

“Come to my place when you get off work today,” he says, not quite an order, but not really leaving you much room to reject his offer either.

You nod, and then Anne comes back with the Glucola in hand, along with blood-drawing supplies.

“Alright, so before you drink this, I’ll draw your blood to get your baseline,” Anne begins explaining as she sets everything up.

You hold your arm out in Anne’s direction, but keep your gaze fixed on Jack.

“I’m lucky I finally have a distraction for this part,” you murmur softly, covering his hand on your knee.

“Just a little pinch,” Jack says softly, his voice reassuring. “Then it’s over.”

Anne makes quick work of drawing your blood and puts everything away, then hands you the drink.

“It’s best to chug it and get it over with,” she advises.

You take the drink from her, then give Jack a skeptical look, but he just nods and squeezes your knee again in encouragement.

You unscrew the lid and bring the bottle to your lips, chugging it down in its entirety.

When you’re done, you gag softly and hand the empty bottle to Anne, who’s checking her watch for the time.

“Alright, 8:22. I’ll be back at 9:22 to take your blood again, then you’re good to go.”

You thank Anne, and she’s gone, leaving you alone in the room with Jack.

“I definitely hyped it up in my head, but it was still pretty fucking gross,” you tell him, your hands going to gently apply pressure to your aching hips.

Jack narrows his gaze as you massage the ache in your hips.

“How bad do your hips hurt, baby?” he asks softly, all the concern in the world evident in his voice.

You shrug. “Like a six. I’m just being a baby because you’re here to baby me.”

He laughs softly, a huff through his nose. “Six is still higher than I’d like.”

“Hm. What do you suggest?”

“You’ll see when you come over tonight,” is all Jack says.

You smile at that, and there are a few moments of silence before you softly ask, “What if I fail the test?”

Jack sighs and takes both your hands.

“Then you do the three-hour test,” he says softly, his eyes fixed on yours, hopefully coming across as encouraging. “Failing the one-hour test doesn’t mean you have gestational diabetes, baby.”

“I know, but what if I do have it?”

He shrugs. “Then your OB will put you on a treatment plan, and you’ve got me one house away if you ever need anything.”

You suck your cheeks in and nod, then let go and sigh. The idea of Jack being only one house away is comforting, yet also not. One house away is farther than you’d like him to be.

“We never really picked that conversation back up, y’know, about where we’re going,” you say softly, trying to keep the nervousness from hitting your tone.

When you made the joke about Jack’s nude yoga, that kick-started round two, and it seems the conversation has been put on the back burner for the last two weeks. 

Fine, if you weren’t pregnant with a sperm donor’s baby, but you are. You don’t have time to tiptoe around.

Jack keeps his gaze on you, and he nods his head, just once.

“Uh, I just… I’m having this baby in thirteen weeks, and I’m excited to do it. It wouldn’t be happening if I weren’t. I just… If I’m going to be doing it alone, I need to be fully alone. I can’t be in bed with you, then go be a mom by myself.”

He nods along as you speak and squeezes your hands again.

“If you’ll let me, I’ll be there. Whatever you need or whatever she needs. I’ve been…thinking about switching to days,” he says, speaking low. “You’re gonna be in the third trimester next week, and you’ll need someone.”

Hearing him bluntly say it, that you’ll need him, doesn’t make you insecure in your abilities because that isn’t how he meant it. It’s factual; you’ll need help in some form. You were either going to call your mom or your best friend, but for some reason, Jack helping you makes more sense to you in your head. There’s just an unexplainable need for him inside of you.

You sit there, on the edge of the exam table, your eyes fixed on your joined hands, and fight back tears.

“Be there how?” you ask, your voice warbly.

You know exactly what you want him to be there for, but you feel the need to hear him say it, say he wants it, that he’ll be there with a smile on his face.

Jack stands from the chair he’d been sitting in and looks at you, keeping his hands in yours. “I’ll be there, in bed, with you, so you can easily wake me up at 2:00 in the morning and ask me to make you pancakes. I’ll be there to drop you off and pick you up from your baby shower. I’ll be there to put the furniture together for the nursery. I’ll be there when you go into labor, and assuming you’re comfortable, I’ll be there when you bring this perfect baby girl into the world. Plus, I’ll change all of her diapers.”

The last part makes you laugh. You pull your hands away and wipe your face.

“I want you there for all of it,” you murmur softly, nodding to emphasize how much you mean this. “I wanna bother you about midnight cravings and watch you argue with an instruction manual while you put her crib together. And I want you to hold my hand when I have her.”

Jack nods and leans forward to peck your lips, bringing his gentle hands to cradle your face. “Then I’ll be there. That’s where I wanna be.”

You sniff and peck his lips again, then tell him softly, “I’m gonna tell you I love you before she’s here.”

Jack’s eyebrows raise, but you peck his lips again, which he takes as you not wanting a reply. He pulls back and kisses your temple, then sits behind you on the exam table, one leg bent and pulled in, the other dangling off the edge. He puts his hands on your hips and gently massages, watching over your shoulder as you online shop for more baby clothes until Anne comes in to take your blood again.

Once that’s done, the two of you are on your way, heading out the main exit rather than the emergency department exit in the interest of avoiding nosy co-workers once again.

//

When you get home, there’s a small gift box by your front door. It’s on top of the small table you leave out for late-night DoorDash or Grubhub delivery people.

You untie the Christmas ribbon and find a key inside the box, as well as a note.

“Spare key for you. Also, sorry about the Christmas ribbon. It’s all I had,” is written in Jack’s handwriting.

You drop your things inside and change into comfier clothes, then throw a few things into a bag, and just as you’re about to leave, you double back for the pregnancy pillow Jack bought you last week.

The walk across the lawn is quick. Jack watches the whole thing through the window, but he gave you the key today, so he wants you to use it.

When he hears it twist in the lock and the door open after it, he pretends he didn’t see you coming.

“Planning a sleepover?” he asks, smiling as he takes the pillow and your bag from you.

“Don’t tell me you were going to make me walk back home after making the ache in my hips go away,” you quip, following him to his bedroom, where he puts your things down.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, walking over to you, putting his hands on your hips.

“Before you fix me up, can I raid your fridge?” you whisper just when he leans into your neck.

He laughs softly, then leans back and nods.

“Can I make you anything?”

You shrug. “We’ll see.”

Jack ends up making you a grilled cheese with a side of scrambled eggs, not too weird.

You eat at his kitchen table, and he joins you with his own plate of eggs and toast. He never thought he’d see the day, but he’s looking forward to working the day shift, eating steak or spaghetti with you around this time rather than breakfast, unless of course, that’s what the baby wants.

When you’re done eating, Jack takes both your dishes and puts them in the dishwasher, then comes up behind you and leans down, his hands caressing your sides, finally squeezing your aching hips.

You moan softly as his fingers press into the meat of your hips, just scratching the surface of alleviating your ache.

He leans forward and kisses the juncture of your neck and shoulder, which pulls another soft sound of pleasure from you.

“You look so beautiful, y’know that?” he whispers against your skin, working his fingers into your hips. “Pregnancy looks good on you.”

Your breath hitches, and you lean your head back, exposing your throat to Jack, who takes full advantage, kissing you there, skating the line between simply kissing and sucking on your skin and leaving a mark your boss would glare at you over. 

“Yeah?” you whisper softly, your eyes shutting as you let Jack fully invade your space. 

He nods against you, his hands squeezing your hips again before going inward, gently cupping your bump. 

“Mhm. And y’know what, baby?” he husks right in your ear. “I wanna show you how good I think you look before I go to work.”

Your eyes slowly open, and you watch Jack’s hands move from your belly to your breasts, just gently holding them. You glance at the time on his watch. It’s 5:42. You’ve got a little less than an hour before Jack leaves for work, plenty of time for him to fuck the ache out of your hips.

“How’re you gonna do that?” you ask, your voice soft and breathy.

Jack hums thoughtfully and kisses your cheek.

“You want a shower?” he coos in your ear, his fingernails gently scraping over your nipples through your thin shirt, pulling soft moans from your throat.

Before losing his leg, Jack loved fucking in the shower, holding his girlfriend against a wall, water cascading over their bodies. After losing his leg, that part of his sex life was gone. Even with the shower chair, he didn’t feel it was feasible. 

He did end up doing it with his wife a few times, but she was never the biggest fan of shower sex to begin with. Fine, Jack thought. There are worse things that came with the amputation.

But last week, you were brushing your teeth in Jack’s bathroom after eating a few too many pickles while he brushed his teeth after waking up. You mumbled around your toothbrush, “Can we try fucking in the shower chair sometime?” as you nodded to the aforementioned chair.

You were so nonchalant, and the fact that you even brought it up to begin with was enough to make Jack’s head spin.

He nodded his head, and the subject was dropped until today.

Now, your eyes widen, and a grin spreads across your face as you turn your head to look at him. “Yeah?”

Jack nods and kisses your jaw before straightening up and pulling your chair back to help you up.

You follow him to the bathroom, but he doesn’t stay. He squeezes your hips again and mumbles something about needing to get something first.

In the meantime, you pull your shirt and sweats off, now standing bare in Jack’s bathroom as you open the shower door and turn the water on.

You hear the half-open door creak all the way open and turn around to find Jack in just his pajama pants with a hot pink vibrator in his hand.

Behind a hand covering your mouth, you gasp and ask, “What the fuck, Jack?”

Even behind your hand, Jack knows you’re smiling in excitement, so he shuts the door to keep the steam in, hoping the warmth and the water help your hips, and steps over to you.

“Orgasms release endorphins. Y’know what those are?” he asks, holding the vibrator up between your chests. He doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Endorphins are natural pain relievers, and that’s the whole point right now: making the ache in your hips go away.”

You drop your hand and look from the vibrator to Jack and smile. 

“Mhm. What, are you not confident in your ability to make me come without a vibrator? Think all of a sudden your magic touch isn’t intact?” you purr.

Jack smiles and turns the vibrator on, gently pressing it against the top of your thigh, holding eye contact the entire time.

“Just wanna enhance your experience, take advantage of the increase in your libido,” he says, moving the vibrator inward, but not where you want it.

You bite your bottom lip between your teeth, stifling a moan, and nod.

He takes your hand and puts the vibrator in it.

“You get in the shower and wait while I finish undressing,” he orders, his voice probably the lowest you’ve ever heard it.

You do as he says, stepping under the warm spray of water. As you lean against the wall, you move the vibrator to your outer labia, teasing yourself as you watch Jack remove his pants and prosthesis.

When he’s seated in the shower chair and the shower door is shut, he gently pulls the vibrator away from you. He shuts it off and places it on the shelf next to his shampoo.

Jack holds eye contact with you, looking up at you through his lashes, then pats his thigh, silently telling you to straddle him.

You place your hands on his shoulders for balance, then sink onto his lap, his cock half hard, poking your pussy.

“You look perfect,” he rasps, his hands immediately going to grope your ass. “Absolutely fucking perfect. Do you feel perfect?”

You giggle softly and look up at the ceiling, then back at Jack.

“Uh, perfect’s a strong word, Jack,” you chuckle softly. “I mean, I feel as good about my appearance as a woman who’s 27 weeks pregnant can.”

Jack narrows his gaze and caresses your body, from your ass to the sides of your breasts.

“You look fucking amazing. I mean it. I never thought I’d…be so turned on by a pregnant woman, let alone one not even carrying my kid,” he whispers.

You whimper softly and squirm on his lap. You don’t even mean to, but hearing him say the baby isn’t his, even though it’s true, makes you so fucking sad. Why isn’t the baby his? Why didn’t you knock on his door and say, “Hey, you’ve got great genetics, clearly, so will you give me a baby?” Why is your body swollen and full and changing because of sperm donor 18645 and Pittsburgh fertility specialist Dr. Josephine Gomez and not because your sexy neighbor, Army veteran and emergency medicine physician Jack Abbot filled you up to the fucking brim?

Jack notices your reaction, and it wasn’t what he was expecting.

“What? What’s wrong, baby? I say something wrong?” he whispers, his hands moving from your breasts to cradle your face with one hand and hold your hand with his other.

You shrug. “Just hearing that is…”

Jack’s brow furrows, then he asks, “Saying the baby’s not mine?”

There’s a moment where you hold your breath in, lips pursed, eyes on Jack’s. Then you slowly, almost imperceptibly, nod your head.

“Sweetheart…”

“It’s okay,” you whisper, shaking your head. “It’s true. I just…”

“I don’t wanna upset you,” Jack says, his thumb moving back and forth on your cheek.

“I shouldn’t be upset by that,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “You know I’ll do whatever you need, be whatever you need.”

You lean forward and kiss him softly, bringing a hand to the back of his hair.

Jack moans softly into the kiss, the hand on your cheek moving to your scalp, his fingernails gently scratching.

“I’m gonna take care of you girls, y’know that? Gonna be there for you and her like I’m the one who put her in you in the first place,” he whispers against your lips. “You like the sound of that?”

You nod and moan against his lips, his tongue soft against your lips.

“Is that my baby in your belly?” he breathes.

You moan again and tug on the back of his hair.

Jack just smirks and pulls back, then dives back in to kiss under your jaw. “Yeah? You got my baby inside of you? That what you wanna say?”

You lean your chin on the top of Jack’s head, your open-mouthed moans echoing within the walls of the shower.

“Use your words, honey,” he croons as he pulls back to look you in the eye. 

“Oh, fuck… She’s, she’s yours, Jack,” you mumble breathily.

This whole time, his cock’s been fully erect, brushing against your swollen folds with every movement either of you makes, and that, paired with your admission that you want Jack to be your daughter’s father, is almost too much.

“You know who else is mine?” he rasps softly. 

You just pant and look down at him, waiting eagerly for his answer.

“You. You’re mine. Every inch of you. Every–” his hands move to your belly again, roaming the gravid shape of it “–fucking inch, baby.”

With a soft moan from you, Jack reaches for the pink vibrator and clicks it on to its second lowest setting, then brings it to your inner thigh again, pulling a whine out of your throat.

“And I take care of what’s mine,” he murmurs before finally putting the vibrator on your clit.

He keeps the vibrator pressed, stationary, against your clit for a few more moments before he starts to move it in circles.

“Mm, Jack, I… Hey, come to think of it,” you say, your voice shaky as you fight to speak through the pleasure. “You buy this vibrator specifically for me?” you ask, smiling, feeling almost cocky. 

He chuckles softly and presses the toy a little harder against your clit.

“You left your box of toys out last time I was over,” he tells you. “I happened to notice you didn’t have a pink one.”

You let out a breathy laugh and rock your hips against his hard-on. “Variety is the spice of life, huh?”

Jack smiles and leans forward to kiss you again, simultaneously turning the vibrator’s setting up by one level.

“Jesus,” you shriek, your fingernails digging into his arms. “Fuck, I-I want you inside of me.”

“Then put me in,” he says, pulling the vibrator away to give you room, then immediately grazing your nipple with the toy while you line him up with your entrance.

“Shit, you’re fucking… Fuck, Jack,” you whine as you sink down on his cock.

“There you go,” he soothes, keeping the vibrator on your nipple with one hand and caressing his hand up and down your side with the other. “Just get used to the feeling first.”

With a few more moans and pants, you finally regain at least a little bit of your composure and manage to start slowly coming up, Jack now about halfway out of you, before sinking down again.

“Oh, God, honey,” he moans softly, the vibrator pushing into your areola in reaction to your cunt just moving up and down.

You move up and down on Jack for a few more minutes, and he keeps rambling on about “how beautiful you look, taking my cock”, “how fucking sexy you look, all full with a baby”, and “how pretty you look when you’re about to come.”

“Jack, I–”

“Oh, I know, honey,” he croons. “Go ahead, baby. Soak me. Show me how good I’m making you feel.”

You squeeze Jack’s arms, your fingernails digging into his skin so hard, he lets out a quiet hiss through his teeth. You pussy milks his cock so hard, he’s coming before he even realizes it.

Your moans ring in Jack’s ears as he fills you up, the vibrator dropping down to the floor while you work him and yourself through the aftershocks of your orgasms.

“So handsome,” you mumble, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “So good to me.”

Jack brings his hands to your hips and gently rubs his thumb into them.

“Feel better?” he rasps.

You chuckle softly and kiss his forehead before resting yours against it.

“Mhm. Ache’s all gone.”

Jack goes about cleaning you while you’re on his lap, still sheathed inside of you. When the time comes to get out, you dry off over by the sink while Jack slides over to sit on the closed toilet to dry off. 

Once he’s fully dry, he puts the prosthesis back on and stands behind you, his hands going to the underside of your belly, not heavy enough to straight up pick up like you’d seen some couples do on social media, but large enough for his hands to disappear as he peeks over your shoulder.

“What’re you gonna do when I leave?” he asks, his eye on your phone that just lit up with a notification from your phone, telling him he has seven minutes before he needs to get going.

“Mm, probably sleep. Waking up early for that appointment messed with me today,” you reply, rubbing lotion into your skin.

“Gonna dream about me?”

You laugh softly. “After that, yeah, probably.”

Jack heads out of the bathroom to change into his scrubs while you dig around his dresser for an old t-shirt to wear to bed, which almost has him groaning out loud when he sees you pull it over your head.

You stand behind him as he ties the drawstring of his scrubs—which do nothing to allay how badly you wish you could go for a round two—and kiss the back of his neck, wrapping your arms around his waist.

Jack swears his knees might give out when he feels your arms around him, not to mention the swell of your belly fitting into the natural arch of his back so well.

He clears his throat and turns around, putting his hands on your waist.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmurs before leaning forward and kissing you gently.

You moan softly into the kiss, expecting him to leave the room after he pulls away, but he doesn’t.

He crouches down and gently caresses your belly, a tenderness in his eyes you haven’t seen him look at your bump with before.

“Be good to your mama, babygirl,” he whispers before kissing it, the worn fabric of his t-shirt soft against his lips, but not the texture he wants to feel, so he pulls the fabric up and kisses your bare belly, effectively almost pulling the air from your lungs

Jack stands at full height again and pecks your lips.

“I’m gonna tell you I love you way before she’s born,” he whispers when he pulls back.

Your eyebrows raise, but he quickly brings a finger to your lips.

“I gotta go,” he says, fighting back a smirk.

“Fuck you,” you mumble against his finger, but Jack knows there’s no real bite to it.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

Then he’s off.

When you hear the front door close, you get into Jack’s bed and turn off the light. Once you’re comfortable against your pregnancy pillow, you bring your hand to your belly, gently stroking, occasionally getting a kick or a poke in response.

“Your dad is an idiot,” you mumble. “But he’s your best shot at not having daddy issues when you grow up, so what’re you gonna do?”

//

Two days later, you get the call from your doctor. You passed your glucose test, and Jack fucks you, praising you the whole time for being so brave at the doctor’s office, for being so patient while you waited on results, and for doing such a good job carrying his baby.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

tags: @person-005 @itsmycorneroftheinternet @myhopefulcollectionqueenfan-blog @karleyyyjaeee @michasia24 @babyspiceeeeeeee @maystyles @its--fandom--darling