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But this wasn’t a prank. It was a question. So he couldn’t get mad. If he did, you would tell him it was against the law or something.

You bring him an ice cold glass of lemonade as he’s tinkering away. While you’d never been much for carpentry or power tools, whatever he was building looked pretty cool.

“Thank you, baby.” Ari rumbles, removing his safety gloves before accepting the drink. He gulps it down, obviously feeling parched. So much so that you make a mental note to fetch him another one once you’ve finished with your game.

“You’re welcome. Whatcha’ building?”

“A brand new workbench.” He responds, stepping back to survey his work. “I think it’s coming along fine.”

“I agree.”

You make a show of nervously looking around as you prepare to ask your question. You knew just how you were gonna do it too.

Ready. Set. Go.

“You know, I was just talking to my friend, Erica, a little while ago.”

“The paralegal, right? How’s she doin’?”

“Fine, fine.” You tell him, moving to the side so he can make sure a shelf is even. “Nothin’ much to report really.”

“Good.” He mutters, not really paying attention to you as he uses his pencil to mark a wooden board.

“Although, she did tell me that she’s been seeing this guy for a while.”

You fold your arms across your chest as you make a show of looking around the room. His garage door is open, allowing fresh air into the space.

“Anyway, things have been going great. But she was telling me life has gotten even better when she asked him if they could start seeing other people - like open their relationship. And ever since things have been going amazing for them. She’s got a second boyfriend. He’s looking for another girlfriend. And I was thinkin’…” You trail off as you bite your thumb.

At this point you have your bounty hunter’s complete and undivided attention. And the look he’s currently giving you would have any sane woman backtracking with the quickness.

“Duchess.” Ari takes a deep breath, wiping his hands on his tan Aerosmith t-shirt as he sets aside his drill.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Just where the fuck are you goin’ with this?”

The need for self-preservation has you taking a few tentative steps back. So you choose to rest an elbow on the hood of his truck, propping your chin on your hand.

“Well, I was thinkin’…” You give him an innocent shrug. “Since it’s workin’ for them, I might want to…”

“You were thinkin’…what?”

There’s no mistaking the incredibly dangerous gleam in his eyes, which is only overshadowed by the alarming tick in his bearded jaw.

“That I might want to try the whole seein’ other people thing.”

The smart part of you wants to duck behind his Nissan Titan in an effort to protect yourself. But the other part of you - the bratty, more impulsive side of you - decidedly aims to see your joke through.

Ari silently nods his head, his pursed lips letting you know he’s struggling to remain in control. Rising to his feet, he removes his baseball cap and begins lightly fanning himself.

It’s a few moments before he speaks, but when he does, his deep voice remains deceptively calm.

“You wanna see other people, Bird?”

“I mean, I thought we could try it.” You respond, anxiously shoving your hands in the back of your denim shorts.

“C’mere.” He beckons you closer, placing his cap backwards on his head. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe. If anything, I just want to take a walk. Maybe figure this shit out.”

“Okay, but you seem mad.”

“I promise, I’m not.” Ari smiles at you then, but it’s the slightly unhinged look in his vibrant blue eyes is what worries you.

When you don’t obey, he comes to you, snagging your arm before you can dance away.

“Let’s go on a walk.” He hums cheerfully, although his grip on your wrist is anything but gentle. “A short one. To the end of the driveway.”

“Umm…”

“Hush, goddamnit.”

Your Bounty Hunter whistles as you make your way to the end of the driveway and onto the sidewalk.

“Hey, Darren!” Ari calls out, waving to your forty-year-old neighbor who just moved in last month. “That yard’s lookin’ good, brother.”

He was definitely easy on the eyes, his body was packed with lean muscle, along with a nice set of dimples, and a great laugh. If memory served, he worked as a dietician at the local hospital.

“Thanks, man!” He yells back. “You and your lady should stop by for a beer some time. I’ll even throw some steaks on the grill.”

“You got it, fella!”

With a well-timed laugh, Ari moves on, dragging you with him down the sidewalk. A few minutes later, you come across Jim, a recently divorced, single father who is out teaching his son how to ride a bike.

“Ari.” You hiss, wincing when he abandons your wrist in favor of wrapping one thick arm tightly around your waist. “Why are we—?”

“Hush. Up.” He snarls under his breath.

Jim immediately lights up when he sees you both, greeting your man with a hearty handshake, and you with a polite hug.

“I see the kiddo here is a natural.” Ari says, pointing at the little speed demon currently zooming on his bike.

“That he is!” The proud father chuckles. “You two just out on a walk?”

“Yeah.” Your man responds, his large hand roughly squeezing your hip as if daring you to disagree. “We just needed a little fresh air, but I think it’s about time we head back. Don’t you agree, baby?”

“Uh, yeah.” You mumble, pasting on a smile. “It was great seeing you.”

—————

The walk back is short and tense, what with Ari refusing to relinquish his hold on your waist. Neither one of you utters a word as he guides you through the garage and into the house.

Your pulse kicks up as you reach the kitchen. And it only gets worse when your bounty hunter orders you to take a seat at the table.

Alright. Clearly you’d fucked up.

“Are you happy now?” Ari grumbles, his voice coming out rougher than what you’re used to.

“I-I don’t understand.” You tell him, feeling completely lost, but also rightfully nervous. “Why did we just—?”

“You said you wanted to see other men.” He leans back his chair, his eyes glittering dangerously. This man was pissed, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. “You saw ‘em. So now you can call your friend, Erica, and tell her you’re all good.”

“Okay, about that, Ari…” You raise your hands in surrender. “I just meant…uh…well shit.”

Ari grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white as he battles his temper. He didn’t want to yell, but he was two seconds from doing it anyway if it would help him make his point.

“Sweetheart, if you ever, EVER, bring another man in this house, under the impression that he’s about to end up in my bed, enjoying my woman, then you have my word that you’ve just bought yourself a deadman.” He snarls through gritted teeth.

“Ari, I was just—“

“I thought I made it clear from the beginnin’ that I do not share. You got yourself a possessive bastard for a fella, Duchess.” He continues, his voice deepening the longer he speaks. “And I ain’t about to sit here and apologize for it either.”

“I know, baby. But—“

“The only butt you need to worry about is yours, sweetness. Because all I can think about right now is bending you over this table reminding you just who the fuck you belong to.

Knowing you need to come clean, you bury your face in your hands and mumble out: “It was a joke.”

“Excuse the fuck outta me?!

Time slows down as your world goes quiet. Ari just sits there, his head cocked to the side as he tries to make sense of what you’d just said. Aware that you now only had seconds to try to save yourself, you shoot up from the table and make a mad dash for the living room.

Seriously. When would you learn?

“Now, Beast, wait!” You exclaim the moment he gives chase.

Thank God you managed to put the couch between you two. If there was ever a time you needed a buffer between you and your man, it was now.

“I’m afraid your Beast doesn’t wanna wait.” He fumes, his chest heaving as he prowls closer. “Because if you think I ain’t about to tan your ass before I make you choke on my dick — the only dick you’ll be enjoyin’ from here on out—you have lost your beautiful mind.”

“Just calm down.” You plead, silently promising that you’ll never pull a prank on this man ever again. “I was kidding, okay? I just wanted to see your reaction is all.”

“You want my reaction?” Your bounty hunter snarls softly. “How bout you come bend that disrespectful ass over the edge of this couch and I’ll show you my reaction.”

“I swear I don’t want any other man but you, baby.” You reassure him, all the while ready to run again if you need to. “You’re it for me.”

Still not satisfied, an annoyed Ari lunges as you take off again, leaping over the couch like it’s nothing. Now out of options, you find yourself back in the kitchen.

Fuck!

Out of desperation, you make a beeline for the sink. Creativity has you turning on the water before grabbing the sprayer, holding it in front of you like a weapon.

Your beast of a man needed to cool down, and you knew just how to do it.

However, aware that you have nowhere else to go, Ari takes his time joining you in the kitchen. You shiver when you get a good look at him. His hair is all mussed and his body is tense, his corded muscles on display. The things this man was going to do to you…

“Stay back!” Any other time you would be laughing your ass off. But not this time.

“You know, Duchess.” Ari begins, acting as if you hadn’t just apoken. “I accidentally prayed for you. Bet you didn’t know that.”

“Huh?” You almost put down the sprayer before thinking better of it.

“Oh yeah. It had to be about five, six years ago. I was drunk in this seedy motel room.” He says with a grin, scrubbing a hand along his beard. “And I found myself wishin’, or prayin’ rather, that fate would send me a woman. But not just any woman mind you.”

Ari continues moving closer, stalking you like every bit of the predator he was.

“I prayed for a sweet little thing, someone I could love and cherish. A woman who could keep my attention, and hopefully know her way around the kitchen.” He smiles at you then, but you know better than to trust it.

“And then, wouldn’t you know it? Fate sent me to this podunk to give me you. Everything I asked for, a little spitfire gift -wrapped with a pretty smile, gorgeous curly hair, and a body boasting the kinda curves that oughta be illegal in at least eleven states.”

You didn’t even know what to do with that. Because it was hands down the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to you.

“Fate gave you to me. Challenged me to learn how to handle you with all that sass.” There’s a feral gleam in his eyes as he speaks. “But, baby, you are my gift. And I don’t care how crazy it sounds, because I ain’t givin’ you back.”

“I don’t want you to give me back.” You tell him, feeling both stunned and overwhelmed. “If you tried I wouldn’t go.”

“Hm.”

You’re not sure if he believes you, but when your handsome beast approaches you this time, you almost put down the sprayer. Almost.

“Put that shit down and come talk to me.” Ari orders, his tone a combination of softness and authority. “Be a good girl and come see to your man. It’s high time you apologize for this bullshit.

You eye him warily as he begins to undo his belt. He either wanted to fuck you for being a brat, or he was planning to…oh God.

Ari sets it on the counter, keeping it in arms reach. And then he reaches for one of the wooden spoons you kept on hand for cooking, followed by a spatula.

Absolutely not.

“You look a little worried, Duchess.” The smug grin gracing his lips widens in anticipation. “I just wanna make sure you have options. Best way to learn your lesson.”

Just when it looks like he’s about to make a grab for you, you close your eyes and click the button on the sprayer. It hits him in the face on full blast, leaving him wet and sputtering.

Once you realize what you’ve done, you immediately drop the nozzle and back away from the sink. You know that you just fucked up even more.

“Oh God! Beast I’m so sorry. I-I panicked and then I…well, you know. Are you okay?”

You watch nervously as he uses a dish towel to wipe his face and neck.

“It’s okay, Duchess.” Ari coughs as he goes to remove his shirt, revealing his well-muscled, hair covered chest. “Don’t worry about me.”

You open your mouth to speak, only for him to cut you off again.

“I’d be more concerned about what this Beast is about to do to your disrespectful ass. Or the way I’m gonna wreck that tight, fickle little cunt when I’m done.”

“Ari…let’s just talk about this.”

“You wanna talk about it? Sure. When’s the last time I spanked that pussy?” He asks, using two thick fingers to haul you forward by the front of your shorts. “I mean, when’s the last time your man really made it cry?”

“I-I don’t remember.” Comes your timid little whisper, only for you to rise on your toes when he smacks your ass hard.

“Well, lucky for you, baby.” Ari presses a heated kiss to your damp brow. “Your man just decided he’s gonna use the rest of the evening to take you and this body on a nice, long walk down memory lane.”

END

—————

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"Goodbye my pretty Bumblebee," you faked a sob, reaching out a hand to Bee as Bucky pulled her away.

"Bye my pwetty Mommy. I gonna miss you," she replied mournfully that Bucky had to do a double take to ensure she was still playing. She was. And she was doing a good job keeping up with your antics. She slumped over in Bucky's arms, chubby cheeks puffed out from her smile.

Bucky's glare pinged between the two of you. "But she gets her dramatic streak from my side of the family?"

"She does," you grinned, blowing him a kiss. You heard him grumble about not letting stubborn Barnes women ruin his plans as he strolled away with your giggling toddler.

It’s not so much of a grand show once the curtain falls. There hangs a greed of mischief and ominous silence. He looks at you, blue eyes piercing the exposed skin of your back, the white gown hangs an elegant silhouette on you. Its embroidered sculpts become melded into the fabricated folds as you stop midst the gate of your saunter forwards, each step a reminder drawing nearer as you do to the bed. 

Did you really have to do this? 

It was an era of change after all. But his seniors were old school, and so you expected him to be as well in the matters of the marriage bed. It is expected of you — the both of you. Your hands fish through the elaborate style of your hair, musing it loose and gaining a comforted scalp as you turn away from the bed and walk over to the large windows that extend from top to bottom, overlooking the twinkling space of stars fallen to earth. 

Being far away from it means you are torn from it. Once you step foot back in that place, you are no longer the girl you once were.

You are now Mrs. Barnes. A wolf among sheep. The queen of the Bratva. A cooperation of mobsters who have bought police eyes and silenced officials of the government. But was this status and power worth what is intended to follow? 

You didn’t have a real choice in the matter. Well, maybe you did. You fell for him, you won’t deny it, and you fell hard for him. Other pickings were not as savoury, nor did they explode with the chemistry you shared with him. But this wasn’t the only factor. 

It’d been clear that your hearts were set on one another. With the subtle whispers into the other’s ear, hugging and kissing, fingers entwined, or the more assuring hand on the low of your back. This intimacy had been a flavour sweet – loving – and you came to embrace these softer textures of your life at his side. His proposal was impossibly expected but even then, you couldn’t contain your surprise and eagerly said yes.

You never gave the thought of what came next exactly. The very intimate aftermath. Until his mother pulled you aside, a smile on her painted ruby lips as she guided you to walk with her through the hedged gardens. That conversation is one you will never forget. Her love is shocking, her devotion to her husband and family, you can hardly stand the thought of not loving her in return. 

But that talk shocked you. 

Half of it because of the gory details she regaled, but the other half because of your own mind. Your poisoned mind that festers with anxious insecurities. 

Of course it’s expected. Your virginity doesn’t exactly wave you as an expert, no matter what talks of womanhood you are subjected to. But by the standard of Mr. Bucky Barnes, his former bachelor days had given him what you lack: experience. 

What if I’m so bad that he’s repulsed by me? 

He’ll only need to take one look at me and that’ll be enough.

What if I can’t make him cum? 

What exactly am I supposed to do— I don’t think I’m ready. 

You continue on in your panicked, internal reverie, hand raised to rest your lips against your knuckles, the shine of diamonds catching in the dark reflection, a momentary blindness befalls you that then causes your stomach to writhe with unease.

“Hey,” your husband whispers, breath warm over the shell of your ear and his lips tease the curve of your exposed neck with light kisses. Your body flinches at the suddenness of his appearance right behind you, his chest to your back; you feel tears deep into the corner of your eyes, hot and wet and annoying. The stronghold of air chokes you in the back of your throat.

“Mm, hi…” 

Your forced smile is quick to fade, just barely passing back a glance at him before looking away. He catches this falter. His expression is shadowed by a troubled frown. He noticed the way you flinched before him. And that glistening of tears is hard to miss when it comes to you.  

“Talk to me,” he presses gently, “you okay?” 

His hands are strong and sure as he holds you, turns you to face him directly now, putting the window to your back. Your ring bound hand massages over your face with a breath hollowing out in a deep sigh. 

“Yeah. I’m good, I think we should get some rest. It’s been a big day.” 

Before you can step around him, his hand circles the entirety around your forearm, holding you in place.

“You don’t want to…” At the trailing end of his words with his blue eyes alluding to his meaning, the sting of tears prick your vision again and a flush paints your cheeks and neck red. He lets you walk away with the train of your dress flowing behind you like a silken shadow. 

“I don’t think tonight.”

Or any other night… 

Bucky’s throat bobs with a thick swallow, nodding as he watches you. Always a man who knows what to do, how to maintain composure — his power — he feels that confidence wane like the fading moon. Powerless.

The words brewing on your tongue are tart, poisonous and unpleasant. Not the sort you would ever want to say to your husband, no less on your wedding night. 

You’d ventured over to the vanity by now, you say beneath a shaken exhale, “I’ll look to hire a mistress.”

“Excuse me?” He gasps sharply. 

Your reply, voice short of anything joking or playful. You sit before the vanity and bend forward, unfastening the golden clasps on your heels before you set them aside. “I’ll have a mistress contracted for you. We’ll do everything else together but she will… provide the sexual affairs.”

“And you?” His question makes you pause midway of turning fully towards the mirror, only barely do you see him trail the outskirts of the room, just only in focus of your view. With a sigh, you pluck your earrings out, saying more so to your own reflection than him, “I’ve gone this long without sex, Bucky. I’m sure I can go on the rest of my life without it.” 

“No, no, we’re not doing things like that. I married you — I want you.” Why is that just too hard to believe? You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes in the mirror, so you look away, anywhere that doesn’t meet his gaze. “Honey, where the fuck did this come from?”

You don’t answer. The man is practically brought to his knees before you like a servant ready to obey you like a goddess. Treatment he committed to you, though you don’t feel deserving of. He spins you slowly on your stool until you face him, knelt before you, he tries to find the stunning awe of your eyes only to find you hiding away from him. “Did somebody say something to you? Who was it?” 

Quick to spare someone needless bloodshed, you stand abruptly, almost knocking him back and storm away from him by some feet, putting distance between you both, your voice carries over your shoulder, “Nobody said anything. I just think this arrangement will be better for us.”

You’re blinking back a curtain of tears that threaten to unleash. A wave rises high like a tsunami in your soul with these stupid, incessant thoughts. 

You’re imperfect. 

You’re ugly. 

Let another woman – a beautiful woman – please him. 

He’ll regret marrying you once he sees you.

Fingers ringing the course of massaging your temples, you are slowly being drowned by many, many thoughts like these. They're endless. They’re relentless and they are loveless. Not once do you give yourself the internal piece of mind that maybe, just maybe, there is hope in this relationship. That they are wrong. That he won’t judge or run from you. But who can say for sure?

It’s best to play it safe and keep what dignity you have left. Despite the spitefulness of seeing him become satisfied by another woman, it would be better than depriving him for the rest of his life. And you care more for his own happiness. It’s all you want for him. 

He speaks up again, his voice going stern in his verbal study. “So, let me get this straight: I marry the love of my life, the very essence I love and breath for, only to… fuck another woman. After I swore a vow to you.” 

“Bucky, you’re making it sound—”

“I’ll go without sex for the rest of my life than have some whore in our bed.” 

You spin on your heel, mouth agape. Finally you look at him long enough as he works to slowly approach you and he sees just how badly you’re hurting on the inside. “Bucky—” 

How quick he is to cut you off before you can even utter another heinous thing, now reaching you. “I wouldn’t stand at the altar for just anyone. I gave up that bachelor life to have you. I chose you. I want to have all of you.”

You mutter, mumble off-centred excuses that come out as broken noises on a record, and then you let out a shaken breath, chest feeling like it's being cleaved and ripped apart to the point your body trembles. You try your hardest to suppress your quiet sniffles as the flow of tears begin, fingers hastefully dapping away as to not smear your makeup; your only means of perfection that you’ve felt in a while.

When you saw yourself in the white dress every little girl dreams of for the first time in a bridal shop far too expensive for the average, then again in the dressing room with hair and makeup done to the nines, it all almost made you forget about the gut-wrenching aftermath once the reception concluded. That you were walking down that aisle with a purpose you would never come to regret. 

Was it all a foolish fairytale to idolise this facade of beauty?

The hand bearing his ring uses a force so gentle you think it’s the end, that when you look up, he will be gone. That your wedding dress will fade into your everyday jeans and grandmother’s patchy sweater you treasure too much to throw away, her scent still lingering there to inhale on a bad day. 

He drives your focus upwards until your eyes meet, your vision hindered behind a blur that wets your lashes as you blink. A vibrant colour of blue that once intimidated you now attends to assure you, to quiet your riled fears, but there is a reluctance to let your guard down this time. 

His hands cradle your jaw in his hold with a promise to never let you go. To never let you know this fear again.

“I won’t judge. I won’t run in disgust or whatever you think I’m gonna do. I think my vows can be credited to that, yeah?” 

Your bottom lip sinks inward slightly, teeth biting down hard on the plump of flesh, muttering a softly broken, “I-I guess.” 

“You’re scared.”

It is shame that brings your eyes to falter, chin wobbling until it crinkles. “Yes…”

It’s like he could read you, knowing that your next move is to shove him off – push him away – he leans down and presses his lips to your own. Warm, a little roughened yet still retaining a softened plush of texture, he breathes some sort of cooling flame that soothes you if not for a short while. A rattled, sharpened gasp teeters on the edge of your voice and he parts from the kiss with a low and silky drawl. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, love. We can take our time with this.” 

You’re hoisted into his arms, strength unyielding as he carries you over to the bed and sets you atop the mattress like porcelain. For him, he’s scared how easily it is to break you, no matter how hard you hide this fragility. You use the outside of your hand to wipe at your nose and exhale loudly, mind prattling on with your swirling thoughts. 

Pathetic. 

He’ll definitely need a mistress after that display. 

And all you’re better off getting is a toy. 

His family will ridicule you. He’s going to tell everyone that his little wife refused to have sex with him on his wedding night.

Poisonous thoughts. They aren’t going away. With a sniffle, you watch Bucky begin to strip himself down, leaving himself to his boxers. However much you admire the act in itself, it’s far too intimate than anything else. The idea of you doing that for him sickens you. You become repulsed by yourself. 

Your mind is a hideous beast. 

Like you.

Shut up!

You make this wedding dress look ugly.

“Come on, doll,” Bucky’s voice breaks through the hazardous cloud like a lighthouse awaiting for you ashore, guiding you to safety. He offers you a smile you try to match only to feel your lips twitch, muscles cringing as you keep the well of tears and cries inside. He invites you to join him and you move up the bed. You can’t bear to shed the second skin of your dress to reveal the lavish, risque lace and frilly lingerie you’d picked out at the encouragement of your bridesmaids.

You never really gave it much thought before until it was too late. This culture of intimacy you perceive as a threat. 

Your husband doesn’t question you. Instead he lays beside you, arms stretched out to invite you into his embrace. An invite you half-heartedly indulge in, inching yourself awkwardly to his side but remaining to keep some inches from him.

Head laid on the tucked shelf of your arms, hair mused to fall over your features, you intend to wallow in silence until exhaustion overtakes you into sleep. 

You’ve ruined his day.

“What are you thinking in that pretty head of yours?” The question is directed to you, you’re sure. But it also sounds like he’s asking himself for the answer to a riddle he cannot begin to understand. 

“I’m sorry I ruined your day…”

The contortion of his features almost has your body locking up into a tightly wound position, the form of his dark brows bevelling in the middle, eyes widening until the blackened pupils shrink into tiny dots. 

“What?” he sputters, “No– no, honey. This is our day.”

Our day?

There is a storm of emotion battling in his own eyes, however, he is just as quick to hide it from you. He trails again to caress the line of your jaw, his thumb strokes along your bottom lip. “Love, I will never force you into anything. Not your first time, not your hundredth. You hear me, yeah?”

Your eyes only look to stare at him with a stillness, before you absently nod. Then you turn, putting your back to him. You cannot bring yourself to look at him out of sheer guilt that no matter what, he cannot silence the honest and cruel torment of voices in your head. Not forever. They will find something to pick out and gnaw at to send you into this spiral. 

If you could do so without the judgement of your husband, you would cry and howl into your pillow for hours until the perfect mirage of your makeup fell apart, you’d spare the dress from being a ridiculed taint by being on you any longer. You’d be on the phone to your sister pleading for her to keep you company and distract you from this pain, you’d cry into her chest as she held you with all the strength she possessed. You’d ask your parents to call you beautiful, even though it’s a lie. 

But you keep it all in. And it breaks you so harshly on the inside that it cuts you like thousands of shards shredding you apart. 

You’re not sure exactly how much time has passed between the void of silence. You can’t sleep. The tyrannical storm of emotion swarming inside you makes it impossible to even try lest you break and let it all out, letting it show. 

“B-Bucky?” you squeak, clearing your throat and you hear him hum immediately in response, the weight of him rolling over until his body is a ghost along your back. “Can I… uhm, can I ask you something?” 

Aside from the odd hiccup and sniffle here and there, you hold firm to sounding as you were before, the bubbly and playful girl Bucky couldn’t help but tease until you were a flustering mess, the girl who attempted to flirt back only to fumble over your words and proceed conversation with a shy smile. The girl he fell in love with. The one he gladly stood at the altar for. Before the voices.

“Of course, doll. Anything.”

 Nervously your fingers flex and wind together, thumbing the fabric over your breasts, the enclosed circlet of cleavage pressed closely together. You wish you could giggle at the way you caught Bucky gawking numerous times in supposed awe of you throughout the day. He often is like that every time he sees you though, now that you come to think about it. 

Supposedly.

Not likely real…

I’m going to regret asking this, aren’t I?

With a heavy swallow coated heavily in your hesitance, you take a breath in hope that proves to fail to settle your nerves. “You’ve been with plenty of girls before me… you know how to please them, what did…” you pause upon a whimper, “were they all the same?”

The amount of strain behind your vocal cords makes you cringe in disgust. You sound like—

“No, they were all different. Unique to each girl.” You can almost sense the way his head props up to look at you. His eyes staring a cool layer of heat into your back. “Just like you.”

“How can you say that?” Your voice betrays the toxins of a heart and mind poisoned together over far too long. Bucky hears the loathe of self in your words, dry and cynical, unbelieving in his words and your own image. “You’ve never even seen what I look like… you don’t know how I’ll be, I’ve never—” 

Your hands press over your eyes in hope to suppress the tears glassing over your vision. 

“Hey,” Bucky admonishes with a low drawl, tutting you, “hey. I’m not expecting the fucking grandios of perfect sex. I’m expecting you and only you. I want what makes you and your body unique.”

You turn your head to see him, chin wobbling slightly. How he’d crawl through hot coals and glass for you, seeing the beauty of what you see are flaws. He then grins and for a moment, it disturbs you how he could smile when you’re like this. 

“I wasn’t the best for my first time. In fact, I’m telling you–”

“Bucky, no, you don’t have to,” you interject with a stifled cough. You shoot to sit up and your husband follows, chuckling. 

“No, I will tell you I was shit at sex. Horrible. My first time—”

Your hands paw and pat at his mouth to silence him to no avail, your chorus of hiccups and sniffles turn into shy giggles. 

“I–couldn’t–”

You giggle a little louder this time. “Shush, Bucky! No-ho!” 

“Couldn’t even– find the cl—”

Your fingers are a heavenly pillar even as they hold his lips prisoner from speaking aloud. He smirks behind them and plants delicate kisses to them, enamoured by the faint smile on your face and the softness of your eyes. Seeing you cry and be tied to these human emotions makes a fire burn in his chest. Like for the longest time, he’s finally found someone who can make him feel whole. If only he could help you feel the same. In the make of those blue, puppy dog eyes, you crack and scoff out a snort. “New York’s infamous Mob Lord…” 

He beams from ear to ear at the unfinished implication, taking the time to fall so hard in love with you all over again. He leans his forehead against yours with a rumbled, “Mhm.”

Mascara smudged under the barrage of wet lashes and tears, your lips part with a shaky breath. “Bucky?”

He hums again, so you press on, throat suddenly tight. “Do you think you could make me feel that way?”

His response is instant, deep voice trailing along the bridge of your neck, much like it had done earlier as his arms circle the lower curve of your arse and hoist you until you balance atop his thighs, keeping his weight on his haunches. “Moya zvezda, that and more.” 

Your arms drape over the burly muscle of his shoulders, breath mingling with his in hot gusts laboured with anticipation, you hear him groan as you ever so slightly lower your hips against his and he pushes you that little higher on the pedestal he holds you on, it’s height greater than any earthly accomplishments men can dream of. 

It’s why you’re his star. 

I love this man.

With all my heart. 

His front presses fully into you, he works to weave one hand beneath the shower of your gown and feeling along the sheer stocking attached to your garter; he groans again, more feral sounding in his sensational marvel of how perfect you are. How blessed he is to be the one to touch you like this. To hold and have you so intimately. 

At his touch, your body erupts with a shudder, momentarily staggered by the electric push and pull and thriving buzz between your legs; though the stir of arousal isn’t foreign to you, it certainly is a stark contrast with his attentive action. 

His lips smother the embers of your trembling gasps with a kiss, passion tasting as a fine wine on his tongue. The kiss is paced slowly to attend to your cautious nature, an utter surety that he won’t make any move against you. You take no part in stopping him as he pushes aside the obstructive barrier of your panties. 

The way his fingers are gentle to stroke your core has you keening, teetering on a choked whine, his work deliberate in focusing on the pearl of your sensitive clit and the slickened beginnings of your folds. His hands that have sinned many times now amend themselves with the purity of worshipping every inch, exploring you with the intent to please. His thumb rolls in drawn circles, eliciting from you mewls and heated pants of air too heavy to stay in your lungs, cooing at your slow induction. 

“Atta girl.”

I’m alright. 

“You’re doing amazing.”

I’m safe. 

His two fingers run along your entrance, causing your spine to arch slightly and he smirks, pulling from the kiss. 

“You like that, doll? Yeah?” he asks smoothly, seeing you nod shakily with eyes half lidded. 

Your hands entangle themselves to the bedded roots of his hair, tender as you can to pull with each spark that has your stomach tying knots and your muscles tensing, his thumb begins to roll a little harder and faster. At hearing the apparition of a moan escape you, he applauds you with his encouragement despite the way your hand covers over your mouth to silence these noises.

“Fuck, please again, zvezda. Please.”

“I want to hear you.”

“Please… fuck you sound so beautiful…”

In your stun over his pleas, your hand lowers away and you continue to let your moans lull him, hips moving at a slow crawl against his fingers that press to your core and with a single look you let him know you’re willing. He fights the tantalising grip of your fingers to reach your lips as he pushes two fingers past your folds. Your gasp is a sharp sound to his ears, one of alert that he seeks to comfort you through the kiss.

The trajectory to pull your hips away stabilises and you begin to find that rhythm with each grind and thrust onto his fingers, the waves of pleasure coming from your clit has your stomach tightening. 

“B-Bucky…” you whisper and he swallows your words with a deep moan. Your walls clench around the intrusion of his fingers, moreso when he adds a third, curling them as if to beckon your body furthermore to his touch, to yield your fears and let him set alight that bloom inside your core and unto your bliss. 

You pant harder, “B–ngh… Bucky… th-there.”

“Right there?” He asks with a sultry grin. Your voice comes out in a strangled response. “M—mhm.”

The voice of your whine is his commandment. He installs a level of dedication at gently fucking you with his fingers right where you needed him – wanted him. That swell inside you grows and grows, furthering into a maelstrom that leaves your body shivering, unexpected of where this sudden burst will implode. 

“Good girl, you’re doing so well, doll,” he praises with a low timbre, groaning with a prided grin when you tug a little harder at his hair, your softer nature betraying to act out this darker side of yourself; this almost forbidden wanton. 

I feel…

Your hips move to become greedy and much to Bucky’s approval, feeling the swollen bulge of his cock straining against his boxers has you weak and some instinct to move against it drives you, a louder moan slipping past your lips. Bucky’s mouth leaves a heated trail of passionate nips and teasing flutters of kisses against your neck, spoiling you. 

You gasp and your hands fly to his shoulders to hold you at bay, the sudden shockwave a prelude to ride as your orgasm ascends upon you, he hears the feverish whimpers you make and he purrs, pumping his fingers, “That’s it, love, let go. C’mon, let me feel you cum for me. I’ve got you.”

The suppression of a scream hides in your chest, leaving only a choked sob to rack through you as you thrust and claim your first release, a hot flush of white behind your eyes blinds you, your muscles convulse in tensing and relaxing as you ride out your high. 

Your arms that wound around his shoulders squeeze a little tighter in your recovery, your breath timed to slow down after a few minutes but your body remains to quiver against him. The form of his aroused cock clear and unhidden has your core weeping for more.

“There you go, that’s it,” he coaxes softly with a smile while he eases a kiss to the corner of your lips, “how’re you feeling?” 

“G-good… really like… wow.” The words come out jumbled to you, as if you were still influenced by the strong wine at the reception, having made you reserve your consumption to a very limited amount. 

Bucky hums and withdraws his fingers, leaving you to mewl at the loss. The sight before you has you in some chokehold, a crimson heat flushes into your cheeks and down your neck, rendering your blood into fiery rivers beneath your skin, a sudden jerk picking up in your heartbeat as Bucky cleans the slick of your release from his fingers, the crystalised shade of blue dimming with a certain darkness as the taste of you rolls over his taste buds. 

He’s tasting me…

He moans with a thunderous growl. “Fuck… you taste amazing,” he grins, teeth gleaming with that cute, charming esteem. 

I do?

The warmth in your cheeks glows ten fold, bringing a sight for Bucky to admire. That cute girl who’s face becomes rosy with embarrassment. It’s like he could read your mind and the way he says your name has you at a loss of breath, drawing your attention back to the shine of his eyes. 

“You are exquisite…” 

Following in action as the continuation of his proclamation, his hand finds the spine of your dress and upon reaching the apex between your shoulders. He seeks to pause and his eyes seek out your permission, brows slight to bevel. “May I, Mrs. Barnes?”

The crescents of your palms brush the exterior of his stubble, every inch of your hands covered by the sensational prickling that leaves you like putty. How he stares at you with this amass of love and fondness that feels overwhelming at times. 

He’s just so… perfect.

The return of tears glasses over your eyes and you smile, brightly and toothy and nod, cupping his jaw in your hands before you press a softened kiss to his lips. You feel it in unison with him; it steals the breath from you both. 

“You may, Mr. Barnes.”

With your approval, he draws the zip undone. Anticipation lines your nerves like a trail of gunpowder ready to be set ablaze. He’s testing the waters, ensuring that this is what you want and when you give no indication of refusal, he glides the dress from your shoulders, revelling in the delicate sculpt of your body; the warm, ambient light hitting the surface creates a heavenly glow upon your skin. With the overhanging light above, it frames a golden halo around you as his sights steer upwards. 

Your gown drapes a sultry form over you, accentuating the mounds of your breasts pushed close together and the nakedness of your shoulders and neck. Bucky growls under a vice of hunger. But something lays in the glassy waver of his stare. 

“Please be real?”

His voice barely rises above a near shattered whisper. A man who fears losing you just much as you fear losing him. His voice pleads with you. Your lips part, jaw coming to drop slightly as your eyes widen.

Please be real for me?

“I-I am, Bucky. I’m real…”

The man before you exhales loudly, gasping for breath to keep himself drowning. “Good. Because I want this to be real.”

He doesn’t waste another moment. His mouth clashes against yours, hunger succumbing as he ravishes you with the heated intensity of his kiss, tongue running a pleaful line along your bottom lip. You part them and he awakens the stir of arousal flooding through your veins, tongues dancing in an artistic battle for dominance he undeniably wins. You moan a muffled song and he drinks every lyric of it, intoxicated by it. 

His hands are wild in their exploration, peeling your dress lower to reveal the laces and frills of your lingerie, not permitting you to shy away and hide from him this time, his hands feel every inch of it, mesmerised by the way it fits to you so beautifully that even the most talented of sculptures would struggle to capture your raw and enticing beauty to its complete and apex design. 

Your hands scour to claim the roots of his hair again. This time, you hold no restraint and he loves it. He loves the radiance of confidence you find in every following second. You are claiming what is rightfully yours as his wife. As his one love that he will kill and die for without question. Though time and mortal breath dares to intrude and part you, you find ways around the schemes, momentarily gasping for air within the clash of your lips, too far entranced to pull away. 

His hands glide up your sides until his thumbs are able to tease your stiffened nipples through the thin fabric, groaning at the noises you create from it, his touch sending those blissful tingles throughout your body. When time comes to see you both departed from your kiss, you each still remain to linger, tasting one another in the inch spared between you, chests heaving madly and brushing together. Dress pooled to a rolled belt over your waist, Bucky drinks in every detail of your body. 

Why does he look at me like that? 

His nose buries into you, nestling into the warmth and softness of your body as he utters phrases of praise to your skin, a trail of his devotion painted upon your skin with the invisible ink of his love and adoration for you. 

“You feel what you do to me?” he asks, strong hands guiding your hips down to roll in unison with his, the swollen mound of his erect cock still suffering in confinement has you hiccuping in your stun.

Though your voice is light, you nod as you answer. “Yes.”

“That’s how fucking hot you are,” he says with a deep, velvety drawl, his words slightly muffled by the way his mouth caresses you. “You have me so hard right now, fuck, the things I wanna do to you, doll.”

His confession has you blushing. 

He can’t possibly mean that…

He can’t help himself. He’s a man enslaved at your whim. Though you try to bring this madman to his senses with an embarrassed huff of his name, he only leans in to claim your lips with his, the melding of hunger brings you both into that feverish haze again. Tongues entangled with one another, Bucky’s hands paw and pluck the garments of your lingerie from your form, peeling away the details of floral patterns and lacy sheer to feel the heat of skin below, the way your muscles twitched under his touch. 

You moan between the kiss and allow your hands to feel the soft tresses of his hair between your fingers, carefully weaving through the darkened locks and nails scratching at the roots against his scalp, a rumbling purr escaping him. 

The rock of your hips move together, a desiring fire burning in your core to the point it borders on a painful ache between your legs. Your dress is discarded, left aside with your undressed garments to be reclaimed at a later time. He lays you on your back, your head nested atop the plush cushion of the pillows, bodies flush together without leaving so much as a morsel of space apart. 

Entrapped by his lustful kiss, you thrust and grind your heated sex against him with shocking eager, a whine is tugged from your throat, unsure.

Bucky is quick to assure you of your arousal, that its intoxication is a vice wanted. He uses one arm to support his weight above, caging you, as his other takes hold of your thigh and gropes at it fervently while somewhere in the mixture haze his boxers are tossed aside. His swollen tip oozes with glistening, droplet streams, his size heavy and long that has a gasp escaping you. 

W–will he fit?

Such worrisome thoughts are snuffed out like speckled embers as he deepens the kiss, tongues gliding together and moans and limbs entangle. His tip brushes over the sensitive spot of your clit and your hips take languid actions against his practised thrusts. 

“It’s going to hurt at first,” he mutters across the skin of your jaw, “but it won’t for long. I’m right here, moya zvezda, I promise.”

A crystalline glint appears on the waterline of your eyes, a tender smile on your lips as your lips connect with a chaste kiss. 

“I’m ready, Bucky…”

His blue eyes take the time to carefully read your expression. For a man so immersed in being so gentle and caring with you, you have come to know that with the very same hands he caresses you with – he has broken jaws, bloodied and bruised noses and strangled the very life of more than one person. He can tell when a man is lying just by looking into his eyes. 

He sees you’re telling the truth. That you want this with him. You want him. Cock nudging at your folds, you push your legs a little wider to better accommodate his size after hearing him chuckle at the crimson blush creeping into your face, flustered at the thought of his entire cock sheathing inside you. 

“Gonna fit all of me, my sexy little wife?” he’d teased with a wink. 

His eyes retain their focus with yours as he pushes the head of his cock into your cunt, meeting the slight of resistance and surged forward, a sigh heavily laced on his breath that has his head bowing to press his forehead to yours, eyes scrunched tightly. 

A hitched note on your throat is silenced, cut out with a high pitched whine as he sinks deeper and deeper, breaching past the wall of your hymen. Your nails mark their bite into his shoulders and down his back with angry red scars, tracing over the blackened inks already imprinted there. 

Your walls constrict around the intrusion of him with a searing pierce that brings your tears to streak down your temples, chin slightly trembling, you feel Bucky’s lips hover over yours. 

“O-ow,” you mewl, “It hurts…”

“I’ve got you, zvezda, I’m here.”

Your chest feels tight, suffocated, but his words comfort you. You cling to him tighter, thighs trembling at his sides and you feel his hand resume its place there, gentle to knead and rub soothing circles as he coaxes you through the blight of your pain. 

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” he whispers to your lips, the crinkle of a smile forming on his features. Just as quickly as it had come, the pain subsides and you feel so full at the point where your bodies meet, you finally nod for him to continue. 

He goes slowly. 

He sets a rhythm paced to ease you into the forcing motion of his cock gliding through your hot, velvety walls that clamp and shudder with each movement he makes. Your gasps turn to softly sung moans as you begin to grind your hips to meet his and he smiles down at you. “There you go, love. That’s it, you’re taking me so well.” 

“This body… so perfect, so beautiful… I love it, I love you.”

Another moan escapes you. He heaves a deep breath with every thrust, still focusing hard to keep this steadiness, until you moan for him, 

“Bucky… please, I-I need…”

“What do you need, love? Tell me.”

“I– need more– please.”

He groans, the thought of ruthlessly fucking you with abandon crosses his mind in flashes, the way you’d look spread out while being pummeled by his cock that ruts into your pretty pussy until you’re stuffed full of his cum that it overspills as a creamy ring around his girthy base. 

To fuck you the way of a mafia lord. 

“You want that, sugar?” he asks, his voice sudden to drop lower into a silken, deepened purr with a darkened smirk. “You want to be fucked the way a mafia queen should be? H–hmph, you want it harder? Faster?”

You choke on the release of your words, sounding breathless, “Y-yes!”

Your walls clench tight around him, a series of moans spilling from your parted lips as he then picks up his pace, the incentive of your permission driving him to thrust harder, his hand fists and squeezes the flesh of your thigh within his grasp, holding you fast to him as he strikes deeply into your pussy. His muscles bend, curve and tense and your hands greedily explore every single portion of him, granting you this chance to be upheld by the prison of your thoughts that may hold you back later.

You howl, whine and cry – all for more, for him to keep going, to not stop. His body arches over yours, hands now ahold of you at the hips he uses the advantage of his strength and position to forcefully piston himself back and forth, back and forth until you’re writhing beneath him  Your hands attach themselves to the veiny reins of his wrists, your hips arched up until your lower half is lifted for his leisure to fuck into that spot that has you seeing an galaxy of stars.

“Bucky– Bucky, oh Bucky!” you cry out. 

“Fuck— yeah baby, fuck you sound beautiful, shit— baby, keep screaming my name, I want to hear you.” Each word is intensely laced with an exerted breath or guttural groan. “Fucking hell, zvezda, you look fucking amazing like that—” 

“You’re taking my cock so well.”

“I’m never getting over the sight of this.”

His eyes burn with lust at the sight of your breasts bouncing without restraint, the shudder of your body with each clash of your thrusts, how your face contorts so beautifully with pleasure and the holstered grip of your legs hooking around his waist repeatedly only to falter each time after several pumps, only kept upright by his hold. A knot coils inside you, a tidal wave of pleasure coursing through your veins that sets your nerves aflame and your vocal cords to strain with every sound you make. The more and more he slams his cock into you, your neck is forced to arch back against the pillows with a pleasured shriek. 

You call out to him, “Bucky, I— I’m gonna… ah!” 

“Cum for me, doll, I wanna feel how tight your pretty pussy is around me.” Your back arches further as his tip continues to hit that spot and the sensational toying of his thumb rolls on your clit, eliciting a flourish of sparks to ignite until you’re suddenly overcome with a flush of white, that euphoric hit crashing over you while heat pours into every inch of your skin with your eyes rolling back.

You chant his name like a sacred prayer, the meaning of your vows imbued within your slurred, intoxicated mantra. He pants, hot and heavy in your ear,

“Shit, shit— fuuuck, baby— ‘mgonna cum, gonna cum for you. I want my seed in you, I want it in you so bad.”

His thrusts increase, the sound of skin slapping skin is erotically loud. You don’t want it to stop. You don’t want him to stop and so you beg him to keep going. 

You continue to whine, low and cooing, walls stretching and clenching around him, milking him of his release that sweeps over him with a long, baritone and throaty moan. His head presses into the crook of your neck to suck at the skin of your collarbone, marking you with dark bruises of his love and possession as he paints your pussy with his seed. The air is faintly filled by the sound of oozing slick of your combined orgasms that leak and drip around his still thrusting cock.

The erratic pace in which his rhythm held eventually wanes, instead he moves to a slow-crawling grind to ease you off your combined highs. His chest rises and falls and you allow your eyes to admire his form above you, A balance of skin and ink layered in a thin coating of sweat, as is your own, the muscles of his body rippling with each motion he makes. 

His hands release from your hips after he’s lowered you back down to the bed, allowing your body to succumb to the exhaustion undoubtedly taking hold of you. Your gaze meets his own, the colour of them haloed by the shine of tears and his heart yearns for you. 

He fears he’s done something wrong and his hands quickly raise to caress your face, thumbs stroke over your cheeks. 

“Moya zvezda, are you—”

“I’m…” you trail off, blinking rapidly to see him through the watery veil and you grin up at him and nod. He’s relieved to see that smile, coming to mirror it himself. 

She’s okay. My girl’s okay.

You reach your hand up, the warmth of your palm contrasted by the cool adornment of your ring. Bucky leans his face into your touch. “You stayed… you didn’t—” Though your words fail you, Bucky sees what you mean to say in your eyes. 

“Of course. You’re everything I ever wanted…” Your brows furrow, touched by the sincerity in his words. Before you is a man whose heart is held in your very hands. And his heart is one you wish to cherish, hold dear and never break. To think you almost bargained him off to another woman— 

“Have me again tonight, zvezda. Have me any other night. I promise, I will be there every time, every moment.”

He doesn’t want a mistress. He wants me. 

Those voices are gone, replaced by newer, kinder ones.

You’re perfect. 

You’re beautiful. 

I’m not scared anymore. Not with him. 

You now realise that intimacy was never the threat. The voices in your head were. 

“I’m fine!” You call back, your voice cracking over the sound of the wind. “Just…just gimme a minute.” Blinking back tears, you force yourself to roll over onto your belly. It takes you a second, but the fact that you’re able to do it confirms that nothing was broken. 

But you were going to be sore as hell tomorrow. 

Your hands sink into the snow as you push yourself up so that you’re now resting on your knees. That’s when you realize that you’d somehow lost a glove. Looking around, you spy it laying a few yards away, next to your fallen shovel. 

“Should I call Ari?” Your neighbor asks, her fingers clutching at the edges of her pink housecoat to ward off the cold. “Why isn’t he out here helpin’ you?” 

“N–no! Really, I’m okay.”

‘Oh please don’t do that, Ms. Louanne.’ You think to yourself, shuddering at the mere thought of him finding out that you’d busted your ass while shoveling snow AFTER he’d explicitly told you to wait for him. You honestly weren’t sure if you could handle the epic, six-foot, four-inch, sized tantrum you just knew he would throw. 

It wasn’t that you were impatient – you just hadn’t wanted to leave your vehicle stranded in the middle of the street while you waited for him to finish up his business at the station. Bell’s Creek wasn’t accustomed to this kind of weather. And although the salt trucks had done their best, the roads were still incredibly slick. Abandoning your car like that had the potential to cause a serious accident.

Knowing that you had to finish what you started, you slowly climb to your feet and begin dusting yourself off. Normally you loved the snow – provided you stayed indoors, wrapped up in a blanket with a good book and a steaming mug of hot cocoa. But as far as today was concerned?

You never wanted to see another snowflake ever again. 

Not yet willing to admit defeat, you amble over to your fallen glove. An unexpected gust of icy cold wind has you gritting your teeth as you grab your shovel. If you worked fast, you were pretty sure that you could be done before Ari pulled up. Sure he’d be pissed, but you were also pretty confident that you’d be able to distract him with the pretty little package you had tucked in the back of your closet.

The sound of the older woman’s voice snaps you back into the present. “Honey, if I had a fella like yours, the last thing I’d be doin’ is shovelin’ my own drive way.” One hand comes up to shield her eyes from the wind while the other grips the railing for support. “I’ll be sure to have a talk with that young man the next time I see him.”

Goddamnit, Ms. Louanne. We can’t have you doin’ that either.

“Seriously, Ari is fine. He’s just busy.” You tell her, taking a moment to retie your scarf so that it covers the bottom half of your face. “But my car got stuck, and I didn’t want to wait for him to dig me out.”

“Hmph.” Is all she says before she takes a dainty seat on her porch swing. “Well, I’ll be damned if you think I’m gonna leave you out here all alone. Not after the spill you just took.” She belatedly gestures for you to continue shoveling while she looks on, her lips pursed with finality.

While the kind gesture warms your heart, you’re also certain that you wouldn’t be able to concentrate knowing she was out here shivering because of you. However, when you try to tell her as much, she swiftly cuts you off, dismissing your protests with a prim little shrug. 

Sweet little Ms. Louanne was not the kind of woman to be told what to do.  

“Come on now, Ms. Louanne.” Rolling your shoulders, you dig into the fresh powder before tossing it to the side. “It’s too cold for you to be out here like this.” 

The woman responds by wrapping her coat even tighter around her thin frame. “Then I guess you’d better get a move-on before we turn into a coupla’ icicles, huh?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” You grunt, redoubling your snow clearing efforts. The ache in your side eventually subsides into a dull throb as you work. You’d have time to worry about your injuries later. 

Right now, there was simply too much work to be done. Besides, if your time as The Bell’s star softball pitcher had taught you anything, it was how to play through the pain.  

An Hour Later…

“What the hell, baby?” 

The sound of your bounty hunter’s deep growl has you immediately bolting up from the couch – a move you immediately regret. Although the tylenol you’d popped earlier had helped some, your limbs were still stiff. Which means you have to use the arm of the sofa to help you stand so you could begin making your way towards the kitchen. 

It’s tough, but you somehow manage to keep yourself from limping. 

“Comin’, sugar.” As you hobble along, you can’t help but pray that he wouldn’t be too annoyed.   

Rounding the corner, your eyes light up when you catch sight of your handsome beast of a man, who’s currently scowling in the middle of the room. Delight fills you when you see he’s wearing the black Carhartt jacket you’d given him as a Christmas present, along with a matching skull cap. Snow clings to his beard as he begins to undo his scarf, setting it on the nearby counter.

“I thought you said you were stuck?” Ari rumbles, raising a tawny brow while he removes his gloves.

“I was. But then I got unstuck.” 

Overwhelmed with desire to be close to him, you bridge the distance between your bodies, twining your arms around his neck. Pulling his head down, you press a sweet kiss against the tip of his nose, which is still pink from the cold. 

“And how’d you manage that, little Bird?” Instead of responding, your lips glide a path along the curve of his sculpted jaw, tracing their way to his mouth. You know he knows what you’re doing – this wouldn’t be the first time you tried to distract him like this. 

“Does it matter?” You ask, wincing slightly when one of his large hands settles on your injured hip. “You’re so cold, Beast. I think we need to warm you up.” Placing your hand over his, you guide it to your ass, moaning softly when he gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“Thought I told you to wait for me?” You can sense his annoyance beginning to fade when his thick fingers find their way under your shirt. It’s impossible to miss the sudden intake of breath when he realizes you’re not wearing a bra. “It pisses me off when you don’t fuckin’ listen. You don’t even have the proper shoes to be out in that shit.”

He was right about that one. Your precious chucks had been no match for the frozen tundra that was your driveway. Just ten minutes outside had left your toes feeling like they were on the verge of frostbite.

“It was a neighbor’s kid.” You tell him, only to giggle when he picks you up to carry you up to your bedroom. “Said he wanted to do a good deed.” The lie tumbles out of your mouth with ease. And even though you know it’s wrong, you decide to just go with it.

 What Ari didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him – or you.

“Is that right?” He rasps, nuzzling his nose against your wild curls. “Guess I oughta be grateful you had some help. A sweet thing like you has no business shovelin’ her own snow.”

“I’ve been doin’ it for years, Ari.” You politely point out, clinging to him even tighter as he makes his way up the stairs. Even though you’d been together for a while, you still weren’t used to the way this man could handle you as if you weighed nothing. It was an act that never failed to turn you on. 

“I said what I said, Bird.” He shoulders his way through your bedroom door, his soft lips ghosting over yours before he unceremoniously dumps you on the bed. “You can try to change my mind all you want, but I’ve been thinking about eating this pussy all day.” 

“O-okay.”

Ari tugs at your leggings, thankfully stopping just short of shredding them. Thank goodness, you think to yourself. Because this handsome beast was really doing a number on your wardrobe.

“Maybe we can have another conversation after I’ve finished my meal.”  

The Next Morning…

Flipping on the light, you slowly hobble your way into your bathroom. This morning you’d woken up sore all over, with the stiffness in your hip feeling even worse than before. Knowing you kept a stash of Tylenol in your medicine cabinet, you fill up a glass of water and choke down a couple of pills. 

You prayed they would kick in soon. It’d be impossible to keep up yesterday’s charade if Ari caught you limping. 

With a grimace, you step back from the counter and turn on the shower. Hopefully the hot water might help your aching muscles. And then you return your attention to the mirror. There was no point in stalling any longer. It was time to see just how much damage you’d actually done to yourself. 

A quick glance at the door confirms that you remembered to secure the lock. That way you wouldn’t risk your man accidentally barging in while you stripped. Bracing yourself for the worst, you reach for the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. Next up are your sweats. Gripping the elastic waistband, you begin to pull them down before letting them pool at your feet.

The entire process proves to be slow and painful. 

But what gives you pause is the large bruise that adorns your left hip. A tiny whimper catches in your throat when you try to bend your body to get a better look. Further examination confirms that it wasn’t just your hip you’d fucked up. Almost your entire left side is covered in bruises of various shapes and sizes. 

“Goddamnit!” You hiss, hiding your face in your hands as you wrack your brain for a new plan.

Maybe you could convince him that you fell at work. You could tell him that you slipped on some ice in the parking lot of your shop. Yeah, that might do it. 

Except then he’d be compelled to ask why you hadn’t said anything about it the day before. And then he’d be doubly pissed – not just because you’d kept a secret, but also because he’d been adamant about you staying home ahead of the winter storm. The handsome bastard had never been one to play about your safety. 

It was one of his sexiest, but also most vexing, qualities. 

Unfortunately for you, your plotting is interrupted by the jiggle of the door handle. That’s when you remember Ari Daniel Levinson didn’t do well with locked doors. In his mind, it was a dead giveaway that something was wrong. Which sucked, because he was usually right. 

“Baby…” The bounty hunter growls, once again trying the knob. “Everything good in there?”

“Uh, yeah.” 

“Then why’s the fuckin’ door locked?”

“Oopsie!” You hastily don your robe, tightly tying the belt around your waist while you move to undo the lock. “I was, uh, just about to get in the shower.” You mumble, as you throw open the door to reveal a confused and mildly disgruntled Ari. He stands in the doorway, his massive frame blocking the only exit. 

“You locked me out to take a damn shower?” The subtle cock of his head, followed by the narrowing of his eyes, gives the impression that he doesn’t quite believe you.

“Accident.” You shrug, lightly touseling his light brown locks with your fingers. “My hand must’ve slipped or somethin’.” And that’s when you notice that he’s all bundled up, save for his skull cap and boots. “Are you…goin’ somewhere?”

“It snowed again last night.” His suspicious gaze drifts to your clothes laying on the floor behind you. “Figured I’d go dig us back out just in case we lose power or something.” 

Had he known you planned to shower this early, he would’ve told you to wait until after he came back inside. He was passionate about conserving water. Or at least that’s what he liked to claim every time he climbed under the spray with you – whether he was invited or not.  

“Oh.”   

“Won’t be out too long.” He assures you as one large hand reaches out to tug at the belt of your robe, dragging you close. “Guy on the news says the windchill feels like negative two. So, I’m gonna need my woman to help warm me up again when I get back. You good with that, pretty Bird?” The mischievous gleam in his eyes has you instinctively clenching your thighs together with need. 

“I’ll make sure there’s a steaming mug of freshly made hot cocoa waiting for you.” You reply earnestly. “Complete with whipped cream and extra marshmallows.”

“Nah.” Ari chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I’m talkin’ body heat, sweetness.” He leans down, briefly resting his forehead against your own. “Best thing there is for hyperthermia.”

“Right.” You flash him a pained smile. “Well, I guess you’d better make it quick then.” 

One thick finger finds its way into one of your messy curls, giving it a playful twirl. You had no idea how much he was looking forward to being snowed-in with you. It was a fantasy that had been on loop for the past week. 

“Twenty minutes.” Your bounty hunter grunts, his pearly white teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “That’s all I need. And then you’re mine until the sun comes out or they send for search and rescue.” He adds with a teasing wink.

And then he’s gone. Your battered body sags against the wall as you listen to your man make his way down the stairs and out the front door – which is when it hits you. Unless you magically figured out a way to have a week-long headache, you were about to be in big trouble with the sweetest, surliest beast on two legs. 

“Fuck me…”     

Twenty Minutes Later: Ari’s P.O.V.

It doesn’t take him long to shovel a path through the snow – a fact for which he is grateful. But he was also a man who could appreciate a good workout. Which is why when he spies your elderly neighbor’s own snow-covered driveway, he decides he might as well dig her out too.

His Mama would have a fit if he left Ms. Louanne to fend for herself when he was perfectly capable of tackling the job on her behalf. 

So, as much as he wants to hang up his shovel so he can go back inside and spend the rest of the day snuggling in bed with you, he mosies on over to her place instead. A quick survey of her property leads him to believe that clearing her driveway won’t take very long. Besides, since someone helped you out yesterday, he wanted to pay the kind gesture forward. 

Ari is roughly ten minutes into his task when he hears the sound of Ms. Louanne’s door opening. He turns then, fully intending to greet his neighbor with a smile – only for it to die on his lips the second he gets a good look at her face. 

“I’d like to have a word with you, young man.” Your neighbor declares as she steps out onto her front porch. He finds himself briefly amused by today’s choice of housecoat, which is green and covered in flamingos. “Now I know you’re not from here, but there’s a certain way you’re expected to treat women in this town. I understand that you’re new, but I’m gonna aim to catch you up.”  

“Uh, sure thing, ma’am.” Confused, he looks down at the shovel in his hand. “If you’d be kind enough to give me a little time to finish with this, I’ll be right there.”

“Hmph.” Mrs. Louanne wrinkles her prim nose. “My stories come on in ten minutes and I don’t need any distractions for when that hussy, Brenda, finally confesses to Johnny that she’s been sleeping with his twin brother, James, for the past two years.”  

There’s nothing the bounty hunter can do to stop the weary sigh that escapes his throat. Instead, he tosses the shovel to the side before muttering an obedient “of course not”. “Can we, eh, at least step inside where it’s warm?” Ari’s not ashamed to admit he might’ve flashed his baby blues as a means to soften her up.

He knows it works when he notices the faint blush that stains her cheeks. But the woman remains undeterred. She was already primed and ready to fuss. And it appeared that a certain Ari Daniel Levinson was her intended target.

“I’ve already made you a cup of peppermint tea.” She replies, motioning for him to get a move-on. “I’ll let you add your own honey and sugar. Now hurry up before we both freeze to death.”   

One Hour Later…

“Hey there.” Ari rumbles as he comes up beside you. He braces his hands on the counter, caging you in with his big body. “Missed you.” His still-cold lips brush across your skin, making you shiver.

“What on earth took you so long?” You ask, turning to face him. He’d been outside for so long you found yourself starting to worry. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost in the snow.” Your halfhearted attempt at levity earns you a small smile from your chilled bounty hunter.

“Nah.” He reaches around to pluck the glass of whiskey out of your hands before taking a sip. 

“I was just about to pour you a glass, sugar.”

“No need, pretty Bird. But I did wanna ask you something...” Instead of handing it back, he puts the glass to his lips once more. His glittering blue gaze locks with yours as he tosses back the remainder of your drink, ignoring the steady burn in his throat. 

“Go for it, cowboy.”

“Hm.” Ari presses a swift kiss against your wild curls. “I want you to give me a reason – just one good reason – not to bend your stubborn self over this counter and tan your ass.” 

“W-what? Why?” You stammer, mentally kicking yourself for allowing him to catch you off guard. It only gets worse when he leans forward, trapping you between his brawny arms. 

“Okay, sweetness. I guess we can do this your way.” His unamused chuckle has you clenching your thighs together. If you were being honest, it was a rather common occurrence whenever you found yourself in trouble with your man. “What was the name of the kid who dug you out of the snow?”

“Why?” His question has you immediately on the defensive.

“Because I wanna stop by his house and give him a tip.” Ari deposits the cup on the counter next to him. “As a thank-you for taking care of my lady when I was stuck at the station.” His large hands move to frame your face, his thumbs brushing over the apples of your cheeks. 

“That’s not–I really don’t think that’s necessary.” Your eyes fall shut as you try and fail to come up with a more reasonable excuse.

“I disagree.” Comes his gruff reply, his voice lowering an octave. “So what was his name and what house is he in? I wanna get this over to him before the weather gets bad again.”

“His name is…umm…” 

His eyes narrow as he watches you struggle to come up with a believable response. That uneasy feeling in your stomach only gets worse when you realize that there is no getting out of this one. The handsome bastard knew something was up and was giving you just enough rope to hang yourself. 

“Pretty Bird?”

“Yeah?” You murmur as your head dips to rest against his shoulder.

“What’ve I told you about lyin’ to me?” Ari reaches out to grasp your chin, forcing you to make eye contact. One look is all you need to confirm that he’s definitely pissed. 

At you.   

“Beast, I can explain…” One of your hands comes up to wrap around his thick forearm in an effort to soothe him. It doesn’t work. But that’s the best you can think of at the moment.  

“There’s no need. Ms. Louanne already spilled the beans.” Ari’s grip goes slack as he takes a small step backwards. “And that was before she made me sit through an entire episode of  Magnolia Nights.” Later he would confess that he was counting in his head to help regain control of his temper. 

There was no one on this planet that could push him over the edge like this except for you. In the same way that you were the wind at his back, you were also the ultimate chink in his armor.      

Out of habit, your teeth go to worry your bottom lip. If there was one thing you knew about your man, it was that he despised soap operas. Actually, he wasn’t really a fan of dramas in general. He only tolerated them if you curled up with him on the couch and kept the remote out of reach.

A feat that was easier said than done. 

“Oh no.”

“Oh yeah, baby.” He runs an agitated hand through his damp hair before crossing his arms over his solid chest. “So, I’m gonna ask you one more time. “Gimme one good reason to keep from bendin’ you over and reddenin’ that luscious ass I’m so fond of. I’ll wait.” 

Unsure of what else to say, you allow your gaze to stray towards the door. Maybe if you hobbled fast enough you could beat him to the exit. Probably not. However, that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth a try…

“Eyes, Bird.” Ari demands, clearly annoyed by your silence. “Now.”

“I…” You trail off, briefly shaking your head when you feel your mouth begin to quiver. “I’m sore.”

You remind yourself that you’re a big girl who told a lie to the nosiest, most devoted bounty hunter on the planet. Had you been living in reality, then you would’ve realized that this was always going to be the outcome. 

“Ms. Louanne said you went down pretty hard.” Although he’s still plenty angry, his fierce gaze does soften at the idea of you being in pain. “Show me.”

“I already took some tylenol–”

“Show. Me.” Ari’s heat in tone makes it known that he’s in no mood to argue.

So, you do. You wince as you slowly drag down your sweatpants to reveal the bruises marring your skin. Of course, you figured he’d be mad. But what you don’t expect to hear is his sudden, sharp intake of breath. 

“Fuck, baby…” Ari tamps down his urge to yell. He knows it won’t solve anything – but he’d be damned if it wouldn’t feel good. “Looks like you really did a number on yourself.”

“Kinda.”

For a moment you’re both quiet, as neither one of you knows how to proceed. Ultimately, it’s your bounty hunter who breaks the silence. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you wait for me?” He rasps quietly before putting even more distance between your bodies. Your man clearly needed a minute, and you would do your best to respect that. “Like, what the fuck is so hard about that?”

“Because I had it under control.” Ari’s swift, derisive snort lets you know that he vehemently disagrees with your assessment of the situation. “Or at least I thought I did.” You amend as you square your shoulders with the intention to apologize so you two can move on. “Look, I’m sorry I–” 

“Why won’t you let me take care of you?” The lawman scrubs an exasperated hand over his bearded jaw. “Why the fuck is it so difficult to get you to understand that, as your man, there are things I’m here to do for you.”

“Because I’m not your obligation, Ari.” Your quiet admission surprises you both. However it was the truth. It was your truth.

“You’re not my…what?”

Any other time, you would take a moment to enjoy the stunned look on his face. But not today.

“Obligations get left behind. Especially when they become burdens.” You repeat, doubling down as you wrap your arms around your middle. “Why should I make you do something like shovel my driveway or dig my car out of the snow when I have two perfectly good legs and two perfectly good hands?”

“You think my wanting to shovel your snow – something I told you I would do, something I wanted to do – makes you an obligation?” 

The dangerous gleam in his eyes makes it clear that absolutely disagreed with your poorly worded statement. But at the moment, you’re too far gone to care.

“Yes.” 

“Okay.” Your bounty hunter hums, pinching the bridge of his nose as he resumes counting. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the number 45. “Okay. I’m good. I’m good.”

“Will you please just let me apologize so we can get past this mess?” You mumble, wishing you’d just been honest with him from the beginning. 

“No.”

“Ari.”

“Baby.” Ari replies as if you hadn’t spoken. “I wanna start by sayin’ you really know how to try a man’s patience.” One large hand comes up to massage the back of his neck. “But again, let’s do this your way.” His icy blue gaze locks with yours, almost as if he’s daring you to look away.

But you don’t – because you can’t. 

“When I come home to you at night, it’s almost always to a home cooked meal.” He leans against the counter, resting his chin on his palm. “Is that because you feel obligated to cook for me?”

“No.” You whisper back, all the while feeling like you were about to cry.

“Right. You do it because you love making sure I’ve had a good meal after a long day of eating like shit.” 

“When it’s the weekend and you jump on the couch or on the bed to surprise me with a brand new spaghetti western you found– which you know is my favorite kinda film – is that because you feel obligated to watch TV with me?”

“No.” 

“Hm. Interesting. Because if I had to wager, I’d say it’s because you like making me happy.” Ari continues on, undeterred by the sound of your sniffles. He’d see to you in a moment. But right now he felt the need to make his point and make it loud.

“And I can’t help but notice that you’re also the same woman who likes to leave me aggressive little love notes in my glove box at least once a week. Scented with your perfume, may I add. Do you feel obligated to do that?

“Well, no but…” You try to quickly wipe away your tears. Of course your man sees them anyway.

“Last question, sweetness.” It’s almost as if you blink and find yourself back in his arms. Ari lifts you then, setting on the counter to make sure he has your complete and undivided attention. “When you let me lay my head in your lap at night while you scratch my scalp at the end of a long day…is it because you feel obligated to help me relax? To make me feel cared for?”

“N-no.” By now the tears are coming full force. “I do it because–because–”

“Because you love me, right?”

“Yeah.” Your hand moves to cover your mouth even as your body begins to shake. God, sometimes you really were an idiot. 

“So, I’m guessing you can understand that the reason I was so adamant about shoveling your snow isn’t because you’re a burden. It’s because I love your crazy ass.” He affectionately flicks your nose, which just makes your tears even worse.

“I’m sorry.” You tell him, burying your face in his chest. “I’m so sorry for being so stupid.”

Because yes, you’d fucked up. On a multitude of levels. You knew that. On account of the fact that you sometimes found it hard to let the man you loved do things for you. You never wanted to give him a reason to leave. And while Ari didn’t begrudge your independence, he did demand that you soften for him. 

He told you all the time that you needed a keeper. But once again, you just didn’t know how to let yourself be kept.      

“S’okay, little Bird. And don’t let me hear that word again, otherwise we’re really gonna have a problem.” He murmurs before hauling you close, although making sure to avoid your injured hip. “We’re gonna work on it, you and me. But first, we’re gonna get you in a bath with some epsom salts. And then we’re gonna ice that hip.” He rubs soothing circles against the small of your back. “You’re gonna take it easy these next coupla’ days, you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” You tell him, gently wiping your face on his shirt. Not that he minds any.

He just hated seeing you cry.

Eventually, he coaxes you upstairs and into a bath where makes you soak. Your evening is filled with comfy pajamas, your favorite chinese food, snuggles, and ice cream. But…

If you thought you were off the hook, you were sorely mistaken. Your sweet, overbearing bounty hunter was a big believer in always making sure you learned your lesson. And this time was no different – aside from the fact that he allowed three days for you to recover.

Which meant three days of watching this freakish snowstorm overtake your town. Three days of listening to people panic, hoping they’d purchased enough bread and milk to survive. And three days unknowingly watching your man plot out the perfect fucking punishment.

Three Days Later…

You bury your face in your couch as you let out a scream. The vibrator in your pussy pulses harder and faster once your captor realizes you’ve averted your gaze once again. It wasn’t your fault. 

Ari had been the one to buy the remote controlled toy to begin with – you’d just cosigned the idea. But now you were stuck perched on your couch while you watched your man prove had what it took to shovel your driveway.

So that he could convince you that you weren’t a fucking burden.

“Beast, please!” You whine as you readjust your Airpods. You’d already cum twice, and while the steady pressure on your swollen clit felt good, you had a feeling you were going to be sore tomorrow. “Gimme a minute, goddamnit!”

“But you’re not watchin’, little Bird.” He fires back, gifting you with a cheeky grin in your direction before going back to clearing the snow. 

“I swear I am!” A tear finds its way down your cheek as your hips buck on their own accord. “Ungh!”

“Stop whining.” Ari grunts, treating you to a glimpse of adjusting the remote connecting the vibrator he’d purposely fixed to your weeping cunt before he went on his merry way. “It’s only been twenty minutes and you’re already crying.”

“Because it’s a lot!” 

“You’re tough, sweetheart. You can take it.”

Shaking his head, he ratchets up the setting before resuming his task. According to Ari, bad girls needed to be punished. And there was no way around that. 

After today, you would never forget that this handsome bastard loved to punish you. Sometimes he edged you. Sometimes he spanked you. But apparently he was so worried about causing further damage to your hip that he’d opted to overstimulate you instead. 

The rules for this morning? You had to watch him shovel the snow while the device he’d picked out especially for you tortured your little clit.

“I’m sorry, Beast!” You cry, wishing you had what it took to remove this stupid vibrator. 

It felt amazing, sure. But if you turned it off it would notify your bounty hunter. And while laying down comfortably had been a challenge, you could only imagine the so-called spanking your man had initially felt compelled to give would be far worse. So you kept the damn thing on.  

“Just twenty more minutes, sweetheart.” His words come on the heels of an annoying chuckle. “Tell you what, you give me one more to let me know you’ve learned your lesson and I just might take pity on you.”

“Ungh!” You cry as you slam your fist against the fucking window. 

“Nah, baby.” He grins as he watches you all but hump your couch in an effort to find relief. “Try again. I’ma need you to be loud. Otherwise how else will I know you’re being sincere?” 

END

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Your stomach plummets to your feet and you get a rush of exhilaration that surges up from your veins straight to your head.

His love for you is always so breathtaking and captiving.

You grin, wrapping your hands around his neck. “Really Barnes? You can’t just say something could happen to you, so I have to kiss you. You're only going to the garage, you'll be fine.” 

You’re teasing, and the look on his face is worth every second. Bucky takes it as a challenge, he’s not above persuading you to get what he wants.

“You don’t know that. I need at least five kisses before I leave as a just in case,” Placing his forehead on yours, he switches tactics when you don’t budge.

 “Gorgeous, it’s scary out there, how are you going to feel if you let me out there without a kiss and something happens-” 

“You are a six-foot three-”

“Six-four,” Bucky interrupts with a raised brow. 

“Excuse me,” you pop out, mimicking his expression. “Six-four biker. What exactly do you think is going to happen?"

Bucky shrugs one broad shoulder, placing a soft kiss on your forearm. “Anything, Gorgeous. I could get bitten by a rabid spider-” 

“Spiders don’t have rabies,” you say with a lighthearted laugh.

"Yeah well explain the rabid wolf spider then. Explain that. When I get rabies, you're going to wish you had listened to me.” Bucky’s quick rebuttal makes you laugh harder. 

Undeterred by your insolence, his lips continue to chain kisses up your arm, pausing at your wrist, he nips your pulse point. He tries another tatic. “Could get struck by lightning.” 

“That’s highly unlikely,” you intone.

“So is meeting the girl of your dreams and look at me,” he retorts, his voice deepening. He turns his head, lacing more kisses along your other arm.

"Bucky." You try to sound stern but the way he's delicately kissing your skin feels too good for you to keep up the pretense that he's not affecting you, that you don't want to kiss him.

“Yeah,” Bucky bends down, his hands slide around the curve of your jaw and tilt your face up. “You have no idea what you’ve done to me. This is all your fault.” 

Your lips part but no words come out because he’s giving you that look, brighter than the sun and more alluring than the northern lights. It says more than words ever will. You swear he’s perfected it, knowing when to unleash the sheer depths of just how much he loves you with a single glance.

“The problem is that you don’t know what it's like to kiss you. You don't know how good you feel Gorgeous because if you had any idea what your lips feel like when they’re on mine, you’d understand why I want to spend my whole life kissing you.” 

“Oh,” you breathe out, a bashful grin stretches across your face. “I-“

Bucky presses his lips against your forehead. “If you just knew what you do to me, you’d understand why I’m so damn addicted to you.”

Another soft oh gets lodged in your throat. 

More kisses placed across  your eyelids, the tip of your nose, your cheeks, his stubble brushes over your skin, as he follows the curve of your face down to your lips. He hovers there, so close you can feel his warm, cinnamon scented breath on you.

“One kiss,” he bargains, his tongue darting across his bottom lip as if he can already taste you.

“Just one,” you murmur, eyes closing as you pull him down.

“I’ll have to make it count, then.” His lips brush over yours, soft and smooth, a featherlight caress. His hands hold your face a little tighter and he moves your chin up so he can have more access to your mouth.

He takes his time. His tongue easing past your lips, delving into your mouth with languid strokes, his head tilting as he deepens the kiss.

 If you thought his eyes expressed his love, his lips let you know how much he needs you, more than the air in his lungs. 

He moans your name, swallowing your answering whimper. Your hands move to his hair, the soft locks curling around your fingers.

You don’t know how much time passes or when it goes from sweet and tender to needy and frantic, too caught up in the feel of his lips slotting over yours, engrossed in the way he controls the kiss yet pleads for more and more.

You give into the urge to let him have all of you because he’s giving you everything he has.

His lips slow down until they’re resting on yours, lingering like he can’t bear to pull away.

 “I have to go.” 

He doesn’t want to.

“Uh huh.”

“Ari’s going to be pissed if I’m late again.”

“Yeah, didn’t he say he was going to kick your ass if you did it again?” you sigh out, sucking his kiss-swollen bottom lip into your mouth, biting down until he groans, a deep appreciative noise in the back of his throat that sends heat spiraling through your body.

“Fuck don’t-don’t do that to me,” Bucky says, his hands dropping to your waist, lifting you off the couch with ease, he inhales when you rake your teeth across his lip again.  “You know that’s my weakness.” 

You wrap your legs around him and give him a knowing look. “You started it.”

Bucky cants his head back, his eyes still on your lips, he drags them up your face and your dazed, happy expression fills him with a masculine pride that he did that to you, he’s the reason you’re smiling.

“I’ll tell him you couldn’t keep your hands off me. That I fought to leave, but I’m so damn irresistible you wouldn’t let me go until you had your way with me,” he smirks, strolling to your bedroom. 

“What?” Your head drops back and you burst out laughing. “No one is going to believe you.”

“Eh true,” he replies, tossing you on the bed. He quickly follows, pinning you to the bed. “Since you won’t let me go and you’re going to be the reason I’m late for work,” he says, grinding his hips into yours, his hands cradling your face. “I think I should be compensated with more kisses.” 

“And just how many do you want?” 

Clark knew it wouldn’t be his kind of day, the moment he stepped foot out onto the sidewalk. He had left you, sleepy and drooling but awake enough to accept four soft kisses from your husband before your head sunk back into his pillow, on his side of the bed for a much needed day off of work.

He hated leaving you. That was a given. It was the fact that when he went to catch the subway, he had missed it by a hair and the next arrival wasn’t for another fifteen minutes; which pushed him back to clocking in on time by twenty-minutes.

And he was on some real thin ice with Perry White and his tardiness.

Good thing he was an integral journalist for Daily Planet.

When he eventually hopped onto the next train, his favourite pink tie with your initial stitched in a cornflower blue at the base, managed to get stuck between the sliding doors and it took all of Clark Kent’s ability to appear at average human strength to not pry the thing open. Thankfully, the rush hour Metropolians didn’t raise their eyesight further than their phones or newspapers, so he managed to go under the radar after pulling the doors open and saving his tie.

He sat down on the seat closest to the doors, his phone already fished out of his pocket. Thumb hovered over your contact, Clark was just about to do his routine call with you when a male citizen clad in every item of clothing he owned and two hats for good measure sat down next to him.

Like, really sat next to him.

Clark side-eyed the man who was staring directly at him. The two hats man looked as if he was attempting to figure out a hard crossword puzzle — tongue caught between his teeth with his eyes narrowed.

Clark swallowed, “Good morning, sir.”

“You look familiar.” The man croaked.

“Uh—Do you know many six foot four men?” Clark feigned a laugh to ease the palpable awkwardness.

“Only Superman.” Clark did his best not to gain whiplash from turning his head to gawk at the man. Sweat formed on his brow and the man sniffed, “Nah. You’re too pretty. That alien is one ugly fucker.”

The man stood and walked away. An argument left on the tip of Clark’s tongue. Superman is pretty!

His wife could tell him that!

Thinking back to you, Clark unlocked his phone again and hit the green call button. He felt his insides get giddy, he loved hearing you talk through your sleepiness, a few mumbles of incoherent sentences before you gathered enough consciousness to engage in a conversation that made sense.

One ring. Two ring. Three ring.

Huh. You usually picked up by the fourth ring. Five, if the kettle was whistling on the stove.

He’d attempt again once he got to work.

Seven rings. Three more attempts.

“Fuck.”

All eyes shot to Clark Kent.

“Did he just—?”

Jimmy nodded, “Yes. He absolutely did.” He stood with Clark who was gathering his half-emptied briefcase, “Everything OK, dude?”

“What? Oh—It’s my wife.” Clark squeezed his eyes shut to gather his thoughts, “She—She isn’t answering her phone. It’s not like her. I need to go check if she’s OK.”

Lois Lane caught Clark’s eye and nodded with understanding. Being one of the only few on the planet to have the knowledge that Clark Kent was Superman, she was aware that his anxiety was not misplaced when his best kept secret didn’t pick up the phone.

You see, Clark called you because he loved you. He adored speaking to you, but there was an underlying protection in his efforts to call you every single morning, fifteen minutes in the afternoon and a quick one before he got on the subway home. His routine calls were a safety blanket to ensure nobody had put you in harms way to weasel Superman out into a blazing fight in the heart of Metropolis.

And, he would burn the city to the ground if anyone touched a hair on your pretty head.

“Hey. Maybe she’s sick and tired of hearing that nerd voice like the rest of us!” Steve chimed in with a satisfactory grin.

Clark stopped in his tracks and pointed a warning finger at his co-worker, “Shut up and keep my wife out of your mouth, you knucklehead jockey, Steve.”

Steve’s smug grin dropped.

“Bye guys.” Clark didn’t spare him a second glance as he stormed out of the bullpen, his mind far away to you and the endless possibilities of what could have potentially happened for you to not pick up your phone.

He made it to the top floor of Daily Planet with little patience in the elevator. A few flights of stairs, and Clark was on the rooftop of the skyscraper with no intentions of concealing his identity as he took flight into the sky. Screw the subway and screw his co-worker Steve.

Clark made it to your apartment in minutes. Mouth feeling as if it was packed with cotton balls, his heartbeat through his ribcage to the point that he thought he could grab the outline of it through his skin.

Wasting little and precious time, he shouldered the front door open — he’d fix it later — and stilled when he heard your heart beating, slow and steady from the direction of the bedroom.

Feet taking him before his brain caught up, Clark swung the bedroom door open to see you enveloped in duvet covers, mouth wide open with a few dry snores exiting your mouth. Your phone was face down at the foot of the bed. How it got there, Clark had no idea. But you were the culprit of your own crime.

Clark let out a deep sigh of pained relief which caused you to stir amongst the sheets.

“Honey—” Clark dropped to his knees at the side of the bed. His heart rate decreasing at the sight of you safe and sound in bed. He loosened his tie, “Why didn’t you answer? I—I thought something had happened to you.”

You rubbed at your eyes, “‘M sorry. I was just having a really good sleep.” You blinked at your dishevelled husband, “Did you fly here?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone see you?”

Clark climbed into bed, lips pressed to every part of your face, “I don’t care. Pick up the phone next time.”

You had managed to turn the whole apartment upside down to find your phone before you had to leave for work. It had gone missing somewhere in between breakfast and a quick make out session with Clark on the sofa.

It felt as though you were missing a limb. You weren’t addicted to your phone per se, but you were addicted to speaking to your husband via phone calls on the clock; as if he was paying your bills.

Scratch that. He was.

You decided the only way to find it would be by call. Clark’s phone was on the coffee table, face up, and you unlocked it with ease. The passcode being his Ma and Pa’s birthdates combined.

It wasn’t a challenge to find the text thread between you and your husband. Clark had pinned you at to the top within the message — top of Clark Kent’s food chain, top lady in his life.

Your eyes narrowed at the small text beneath your contact photo which Clark had chosen himself. A photo of you and him, cheeks squished together, the Smallville sun blinding your view. It was a candid photo prior to taking a sweet one of the mantelpiece, and it was one of Clark’s favourite dopey photos of you together.

An expression of sheer irritable confusion graced your features as you read the nickname your doting husband chose for you in his phone.

HOE. All capitals.

You rubbed at your eyes to make sure you weren’t in some self-deprecating illusion. Nope. Your sweet, Smallville raised husband had put your contact name as: HOE.

“Clark!” Your voice carried through the apartment with a certain urgency. Eyes trained on his phone screen, you heard the clattering from the bathroom.

Clark swung into the corridor, toothbrush poked into his cheek, mint toothpaste bubbled at the corners of his mouth. His hand was placed on his heart, panic struck across his face at the tone you had used to beckon him.

He pulled the toothbrush from his mouth.

“Honey? What’s wrong?” You shoved his phone screen in his direction and pointed at it. Clark blinked at it.

You gestured to it with impatience, “Can you please elaborate why you have your wife’s contact name as HOE? If this is some locker room joke with Jimmy and Steve—”

Clark furrowed his brow, “Honey…” He looked at you as if you were insane on missing a key factor in this. He pointed at his phone with his toothbrush, “It’s an abbreviation for Heaven On Earth?”

This fucking guy.

You twisted his phone to check over the words again. OK, they were in capitals so could be used as abbreviations. However, in all of the English language; your husband chose HOE?

He was a headache.

He let out a genuine laugh, “What did you think it meant?” You took all of two seconds to educate the naivety out of him. Clark paled, “Golly…I suppose you’re right about that. I should change it, right?”

“Right.” You handed the phone to him and folded your arms.

Thumbs tapped quick to erase the name, his eyes shooting upward, lips pressed into a thin line, as the cogs turned in his head to come up with a new contact name for you.

“How about…Always?”

A little cliche, but very Clark.

“That’s sweet.”

Clark nodded and tapped at his screen. His voice low as he spoke, “Always Right. Got it.”

You snatched his phone.

“Clark?” You peeked your head from the bedroom and into the hallway.

A flutter of newspaper and thundering footsteps echoed from the living room and into the hallway, where your tall, wide-eyed husband stared at you with curiosity.

“Everything OK, honey?”

His work attire had been swapped for a t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms you had bought him two Christmases ago. You bit your lip to help conceal the humour in your smile.

“Yeah. I, uh—” God, you were being cruel, “I think we need to have a talk. A serious one.”

Clark blinked, his heart sunk low into the pits of his stomach, his Adam’s Apple bobbed, “O—OK. Of course, honey.”

He scrambled to get to you, slippers almost tripping him as he took three long — and clumsily coordinated — strides to get to you in the bedroom. You took a couple of steps backwards, his eyes never leaving yours whilst his bottom lip quivered with nerves.

Gesturing to the edge of the bed, you silently guided Clark to sit which he did in an instant. The palpable tension eating away at his organs.

You weren’t in need of X-Ray vision to see the cogs turning in your husband’s brain. Thinking back to all the possible situations, conversations or actions that had led him to sitting on the edge of the bed, perspiring at the thought of you having a serious conversation with him.

His nervous tick, where he pouted and scratched at the base of his neck flared up when you sat next to him, your hands clasped with your knees knocking his.

“I need to tell you something.” You started, not intending to prolong his suffering.

Clark gave a meek smile, “Honey, you’re scaring me.”

“I—Ugh—How do I put this?” You scratched your brow bone with your thumbnail and sighed dramatically, “I won’t be able to pay rent this month.”

There was a lull of silence.

Clark’s facial features morphed from serious concern to a deadpan.

“That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?” He looked to the side for a mere second — a habit when he was masking his slight irritancy.

You nodded sincerely, “I’m sorry.”

“Honey…” Clark chuckled, “You have never paid the rent. That’s my job. What—” He began to really laugh, which in turn, had you break out into your own laughter too. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ve got you.”

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose and stood. A shake of his head and another laugh that made his shoulders shake, he exited the bedroom to return to his comfortable state in the living room.

“Can’t pay rent.” You heard him mutter to himself, “She’s never paid rent.”

“Good morning.” You yawned into your hand. Eyes heavy, brain still processing the lack of sleep, you trudged into the kitchen where Clark and your twin girls were.

Your husband had taken the morning shift to allow you to have a much needed lie in since the babies had hit the four month sleep regression like two hurricanes joining together.

“Good morning, honey.” Clark rubbed your back as you passed.

He had one baby girl in a carrier on his side. They had tripled in weight since being born, on the 99th percentile for height and weight — his genes were powerful — so your four month old twins looked more like fully functioning adults in a mini-version. The other twin had managed to be put down for a nap rather than in Clark’s arms where she usually resided for her slumber.

Clark had the baby monitor clutched in his hand like it may run away from him.

He leant against the countertop, munching away at his toast, both him and your daughter watching you carefully as you turned to them and pulled at the bottom of your top to bring it up, tucking it under your chin.

Breast pumps filled to the brim with breast milk, you let out a sigh of relief as you released one of your breasts from the suction part.

Clark’s brows raised. He took another bite of his toast and gave a nod of approval.

You deadpanned, “Clark.”

“What?” He snapped out of his trance, your daughter turning her head to stare at him too, “I can’t admire you?”

“You’re not admiring. You’re ogling.”

You pulled your top down over your naked chest and Clark kissed his teeth, “Ogling is a form of admiring, honey. I ogle your beauty.”

Planting the two full breast pumps onto the kitchen counter, you pressed a kiss to Clark’s mouth and patted his chest.

“I’m going to take a shower.” You pointed at the pumps, “Food is ready for them. If there’s any leftover—”

“—Fridge it. On it, honey.”

Clark already began pulling the bottles from the designated baby cupboard that used to hold the abundance of mismatched mugs you collected — Clark handmade a cabinet to showcase them once you found out you were pregnant.

Two pink bottles ready, Clark placed the baby monitor close by, his one hand cradled his baby girl’s back, the other awkwardly twisting the cap of the breast pumps so he could pour the contents into the bottles.

His daughter began to babble and fidget in the carrier as he poured the milk.

“Isn’t Mommy amazing?” He asked her earnestly, “Her body produces all of this goodness for you and your sister.”

She began to blow raspberries.

His free hand twisted the hot tap on to fill the sink up with soapy water to clean the different compartments of the breast pump; so it was one less thing for you to worry about.

“Uh huh. I hear you.” Clark kissed his daughter’s head, his voice lowered, “Between you and me, Stinky, I think the sight of your Mommy just now has put her leagues ahead of you guys in my love department.”

You called from the bathroom, “Clark! I heard that! No favouritism!”

Clark looked to his daughter, lips pulled into a deep frown and shrugged, “She’s my wife. She has to be my favourite, Stinky.”

The cupboard door slammed enough to make Clark wince in the kitchen doorway. He opened one eye to see you furiously filling a glass up of cold water, only to tip it out three times before taking one singular sip, and then proceeding to slam the glass down with enough force to remind Clark he was in the doghouse.

With minimal eye contact to your husband loitering like a bad smell, you ripped open the bread bin and jammed two pieces of bagel into the toaster that was on its last legs.

Hand on your hip, foot tapping against the kitchen tiles, there was a build up of complete unfiltered rage in your chest. It made you feel kind of nauseous, heart beating a little louder, ears burning hot with rage. You shook your head a little in an attempt to try push the feeling down, only to feel more angered when your bagel popped up burnt.

“God, fucking dammit.” You juggled the hot food onto a plate and began to aggressively butter the two pieces.

Clark took a step forward, “Honey—”

“Don’t.” You pointed the butter knife to him, “Don’t say a word.”

Clark fell back in line. Hands clasped at his front.

It was a rare occasion that you were truly angry with your husband. A mythical instance that cropped up a handful of times through the year and put Clark Kent through the trenches of guilt to try make up for the actions that had you swarmed in rage.

Unfortunately, Clark had acted upon instinct when in a fight that was highly broadcasted throughout the Metropolis News Stations, and you had watched him put his life on the line through a couple of pixels from some shoddy camera work.

It was fear masked in anger. Anger being the pretty little bow on top of the gift of fear.

When you bit into the charcoaled carb, you made a face of disdain and, well, Clark sometimes didn’t know when to pick his battles.

“You’re mad.” You narrowed your eyes and turned your head eerily slow to look at him. Clark put his hands out as if to tame a beast. “Honey, I know. I know what I did was a little risky. But—Oh OK.”

His speech cut short as you stormed past him to find reprieve in the living room. Without hesitancy, Clark ducked under the doorway of the kitchen, hot on your heels as you made a beeline for the sofa with your sad excuse for breakfast.

You plopped down with a huff, plate balanced on your knee as you reached for the remote to turn the TV on.

Clark stood in front of you. You bent your body to look past him at the TV.

“Baby.” Clark almost pleaded. His eyes closed for a brief moment when you turned the volume up. He breathed through his nose, “Can you just listen to me, please?”

You sneered and shook your head.

Clark hated to bring this side out of you. The small pocket within your bones that had you silently seething at him. Clark loved you, and could never get tired of loving you; but, he’d admit that this version of you was a little hard to wrangle.

He cleared his throat, “Alright.” Fingertips tugged at the fabric of his trousers, Clark knelt in front of you. His large palms on your knees, his blue eyes locked in on your pretty facial features. “I’m sorry for scaring you like that. You have a right to be scared, and angry at me. But—I couldn’t let those people die. Even if it meant sacrificing myself.”

Your fingers picked at the skin around your nail.

“I’ll be more careful. More thoughtful, if that type of issue arises again.” Clark’s voice was low, even softer than usual. He dipped his head to meet your gaze, “Hey. I promise. Just—Just don’t give me anymore silent treatment. I miss your voice.”

“It’s been thirty minutes.”

Clark grinned, “Gotcha.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” You attempted to conceal the small quirk of your lips. “Don’t do it again.”

“Clark?”

“Yup?”

“Could you…Could you come do a fit check with me?” You called from down the hallway, sounding bashful from your request.

Clark was situated in the kitchen, a burnt slice of toast between his teeth, his eyes flicked upward to check the clock that he was so sure he had changed the batteries the week prior; but the time remained stuck on 12:30AM.

He was running late. Ten minutes to be exact. Twenty minutes if he entertained your little request for a ‘fit check’ video. Something seemed ominous, Clark was apprehensive at the best of times when you plucked out an idea that went against the grain of your personality.

For better words, you were never one to film a fit check video.

Nevertheless, Clark shredded some toast between his teeth and took long enough strides through your shared apartment to make it to the bedroom in record timing. His satchel hung on his shoulder, Clark peered his head in to see you setting up your phone against some books you had yet to read.

“You look pretty.” Clark advised as he took in your attire.

You swatted at the hand that smoothed down the curve of your backside, “Thank you, baby. You’re not running late, are you?”

“Nope.” Clark lied. His Editor-in-Chief would forgive him. He furrowed his brows at your phone, “So, a fit check?”

“Yeah. It’s for the girls, not for the internet.” You admitted earnestly, “I’ve not decided to pack in my job and become an influencer.”

Clark hummed as you stepped forward to press record, “Your screen time suggests otherwise.”

“You can put money in the jar for that comment.” You mumbled disapprovingly. The jar you were referring to was situated in the living room, if either you or Clark made a snide — but lighthearted — comment, money would be slotted into the glass jar for a future home fund. Or a holiday.

Whatever came first.

You continued, “OK. Just tell them what you’re wearing when I ask you. Capisce?”

“Capisce.” Clark chewed on some more of his hardened toast.

“This is so awkward.” You admitted and Clark rubbed your hip in reassurance. “OK. Hi, guys. I’ve got a handsome guest with me for the fit check today. So…Clark — my boyfriend — is wearing?” You looked up at him with doe-eyed innocence that had him double-take.

Clark let out a chuckle, “Run that by me again?”

“What are you wearing?” You reiterated with your brows knitted.

“No. The first part.” Clark gestured a rewind with his forefinger, “You said boyfriend.”

You nodded and looked back at your phone.

“Yeah.”

“Want to try that again?”

“OK.” You huffed and walked over to your phone to act out as if you had stopped the video and started it up again. One thing about your husband, he never checked the minor details unless it was for his job. Satisfied, you walked backward to step in line with Clark, “Alright. Hi, guys. I’ve got a rather handsome guest with me today for the fit check. Clark — my boyfriend— is wearing?”

Clark allowed himself a faint unamused smile and a breathy laugh as he rubbed at his jawline. One that told you he was biting the inside of his cheek from impatience at your little wind up.

His reaction ignored, you beamed at him, gesturing for him to take the floor to show off his Daily Planet employee garb.

Clark eyed you carefully and then cleared his throat, “I’m just wearing a suit and shirt from Chaney’s. Glasses, I can’t remember, shoes are from Chaney’s and wedding ring—” He threw a look at you, “From my wife who has, apparently, had a lapse in her memory and the vows we took that made us husband and wife for eternity.”

You covered your mouth to conceal the laughter.

“Anyway, signing off as Clark Kent. Doting husband. Don’t forget it.” Clark stopped the video without allowing you to do your end of the fit check for your friends. He turned on his heel, his voice low, “Honey.”

“What?”

“Did I get demoted?”

You outwardly laughed, “No. Although, I’m afraid to say it.”

Clark stepped into your space, a smug grin wiped across his face whilst he pulled you in for a featherlight kiss, “Was there something I said about your screen time?” Another kiss, “I think that’s $20 in the jar, for you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You pulled out of his grasp, “Go to work, you’re already late.”

You come home whining about your day, dropping your bag somewhere near the coat rack but not on it, flopping across the couch in a dramatic heap with a groan that echoes through the whole apartment. You’ve been bratty all evening, poking at him, teasing him, rolling your eyes at every gentle correction he gives.

And Bucky—your sweet, soft, domestic Bucky—lets it go until he doesn’t.

You don’t even realize you’ve pushed far enough until you huff at him for the fifth time, muttering something snarky under your breath while he’s cooking dinner.

His back straightens. His hand pauses mid-stir. And then that voice slides out.

“Darlin’, try that again.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your thighs press together. You’re instantly, humiliatingly obedient.

“Sorry,” you whisper, smaller now.

He turns off the stove. Quiet. Controlled. Wipes his hands on the towel by the sink. Walks toward you with the slow, measured steps of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“C’mere.”

You go without thinking. He tilts your chin up gently, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“You’ve had a long day,” he murmurs, “but that’s not a reason to take it out on me. Is it?”

You shake your head.

“No, Bucky.”

“That’s right.” He kisses your forehead—soft, grounding, absolutely undoing you. “Good girl.”

You swear your soul leaves your body.

He pulls you into the bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed, and pats his thigh.

“Across my lap.”

Your heart somersaults. “Bucky—”

He raises a brow. Just one. Dangerously patient.

“Sweetheart. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You fold instantly, climbing over him, settling across his lap like your body remembers the position better than your mind does. His metal hand smooths over the curve of your ass, warm despite the cold plating. His flesh hand rubs your back in slow circles.

“You’re worked up,” he murmurs. “You need structure. You need to let go. I’ve got you.”

And then he spanks you.

Not hard—just enough to make you gasp, enough to focus you, enough to make your head empty and warm and soft. He alternates between soothing touches and firm swats, guiding your breathing, telling you exactly what he wants.

“You listen so well when you want to,” he praises, fingers squeezing your hip. “Such a good girl when you try.”

You melt, whimpering into the pillow.

After a few more perfectly measured swats, he pulls you upright into his lap, straddling him. You’re already panting, needy, gripping his shoulders like he’s the only thing holding you together.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, nose brushing yours. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you breathe out. “Need you to take care of me. Need—need you to tell me what to do.”

He smiles, slow and devastating, like he knew you’d say that.

“That’s my girl.”

He lays you back on the bed, pulls your clothes off with gentle, practiced touches, kissing every inch of exposed skin.

“You’re not bratty,” he murmurs against your stomach. “You’re overwhelmed. And you didn’t know how to ask.” His lips trail lower. “So I’ll show you.”

The way he drags his tongue over you—slow, controlled, savoring—makes you cry out. He pins your hips down with a steady hand, not rough, just immovable.

“Keep still,” he breathes against you. A command. A promise.

You really try, but every time he sucks you deeper into his mouth, your hips jerk. He growls, a sound so low you feel it more than you hear it, and pins you down harder.

“Let me take care of you,” he warns, “or I’ll tie you to the headboard so you don’t squirm.”

Your moan borders on obscene.

“Bucky, please—”

“That’s better,” he praises, and takes you right back into his mouth.

By the time you’re shaking, gasping, babbling his name, he climbs over you, caging you in with his body, forearms bracketing your head.

“You done acting out?” he asks softly.

You nod frantically.

“Gonna listen?”

“Yes—yes, Bucky, please—”

He kisses you. Deep. Slow. Possessive.

“Good. Now let me fuck you nice and slow so you remember who you come home to.”

And oh, you do.

You come apart beneath him embarrassingly fast, crying into his neck as he keeps you grounded, whispering praise that feels like worship.

“Such a good girl. Mine. Doing so well. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

When you finally go boneless in his arms, he rolls you into his chest, pressing soft kisses into your hair.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “My sweet girl. All that attitude gone, huh?”

You manage a weak nod, nuzzling closer.

“You keep givin’ me that tone,” he teases gently, “I’ll keep remindin’ you who’s in charge at home. That what you wanted?”

You whimper a quiet, breathless, “Yes.”

He smirks and kisses your forehead again.

"I told you I would handle it!"

"Are ya upset because I took away some of your revenge?"

You cross your arms and pout, "she's on her guard now."

"I ain't gonna apologize for defendin' my wife's honor."

"I said behave...not that I expect you to listen."

"Well maybe I'll have to behave in other ways for you," he winks. His smirk turns smug when he sees a hint of your thighs squeezing together. "In fact, I'm thinkin' of a few ways I can show you how well I listen."

"You're not playing fair," you huff.

"Didn't get to be where am I today by playin' fair, beautiful," he gibes as he stands up and takes your hand to kiss it. "I ain't apologizin' but I'll still make it up to you."

"You mean that?" you raise an eyebrow.

"As I said on our weddin' day, I do."

"Great, then you can clean the gutters tomorrow. Oh, and the bathroom sink is still leaking so you can fix that, too."

Lee laughs as you continue to list things you've been adding to his weekend to-do list. "I married the cleverest woman in the world," he says before kissing you.

"You're distracting me," you smile.

"That's the point," he answers.