As I cried alone in the emergency room today, all I can think of is Simon (weird coping skill lmao)
Imagine sitting alone at the emergency room, quietly sobbing as they hook you up to a million machines. Sticky electrodes here. Heart monitor there. IV here. One thing after another.
“Is there anyone here with you today?” The nurse asks with nothing but kindness in here eyes. All you can do is shake your head and the tears fall harder.
Simon was at work. All week he’d been talking about how important today would be at work. A big visit from the high ups — every I dotted and t crossed. You couldn’t bring yourself to call him and ruin it.
Little did you know, the nurse saw his emergency contact in your file and called him.
Simon picked up on the second ring and felt his whole world crumble when they said his birdie was lying in hospital bed, all alone, and sobbing.
Simon didn’t give a damn about work. Not when you were all alone. Not when you needed him. He was out the door before the nurse finished the call.
You’re lying there alone with only the sound of monitors beeping. There’s a knock at the door, you assume just another doctor. You assumed wrong.
There he is. The man you needed. Staring at you with watery eyes and a little bit of hurt.
Yk what I think the scam of the center is? Digital tickets to concerts, movies, events, etc. What about my scrapbook? How am I supposed to document this? My confetti would be much more relevant glued around the ticket.
It all started when you told Simon you wished you could spend more time together.
Somehow it turned to a fight. You weren’t even trying to fight when you told him this. You were just talking to him and expressing you missed him.
All he heard was that he wasn’t good enough. That he wasn’t trying. That he wasn’t putting in effort. And Simon shut down even when that’s not what you were saying.
Suddenly the phone calls stopped. The texts stopped. The visits stopped. Your attempts were ignored.
And there you sat. Confused. Hurt. Abandoned. All because you wished you could see him more, now you don’t see him at all.
simon ‘ghost’ riley who hates physical touch but learns to tolerate it because of you.
you come along into the group, a little strange, but none the less a great asset to the team. for some reason, simon had been the chosen one of your antics.
everyone was amused as you gravitated towards the grumpy old man. it looked quite hilarious seeing you stand behind the big fella, fingers softly grasping the back of his hoodie, and talking to the rest of the group like no big deal.
simon’s body felt tense everytime and he couldn’t help it. not yet used to having someone that close, not used to someone touching him so innocently.
it was like being near him grounded you but it wasn’t just being near that granted that, physically touching him in anyway you could sealed the deal.
at the beginning he was taken aback and furious about it, though he truly didn’t know why, maybe it was just a reflection of all the horrible things done to him.
everyone was jumping into the humvee and of course you settle in right next to him, tax gear practically rubbing up against him, your thigh flush against his.
“for fucksake—kid, some space, yeah?” he grumbled out and the way your head turned and eyes widened a bit as you hesitantly pulled away made his cold heart actually chip away inside.
“yes, sir.” you sighed, moving along and obeying as you always did. but, your legs were bouncing and hands begging to twitch like the close contact was holding you together and being without was unwinding you in a way that could jeopardize everything.
his shoulders ended up relaxing and he sighed before grabbing the front of your tax vest and pulling you back against him. quiet snickers leaving johnny and kyle’s lips but they quickly shut up when simon shot daggers at them with his eyes.
his could practically feel your body release tension and your head fell back to rest against his shoulder. things went on like that for months and over time he accepted— welcomed it more like.
he was so used to having you near now that even a few minutes being apart made him angry. sometimes you’d sit beside him in the rec room, but not instantly gravitating towards him and he could feel his hands twitch and his own foot tapping waiting for you to just come over here.
“fuckin’ ‘ell.” he’d grumble before sliding down the sofa and wrapping his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest which made you giggle in return.
“siii, ya miss me?” an eye winking at him with a playful grin on your face and he felt his chest get warm, his cold heart was melting and you were the fire blazing away the ice.
“‘course, ya know it, puddin’.” he muttered under the mask before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. you giggled again before nestling your head against his chest, closing your eyes as well for a nap.
at the beginning it was tolerating the little rookies antics but now it was more than love— it was an understanding and an unbreakable bond.
SIMON GHOST RILEY - voyeurism, size kink, haunted house
TAGS: f!reader. PIV. 18+ smut mdni. public-ish sex. multi orgasm. oral f!receiving. creampie. softish protective simon with tons of underlying feelings (my fav). reader is scared of her own shadow. dirty talk. history/lore thicker than a snicker. spooky themes. fwb. forced proximity.
SUMMARY: haunted houses are filled with screams…though simon makes sure yours are from pleasure.
You’ve never cared much for Halloween.
And not in the bitter, old grandpa grumpy sense but more in the quiet ‘what’s the point’ sort of way. It’s the one night a year where people willingly play at fear—they buy masks and paint their faces like death’s just a costume, like evils something to be worn. You always thought that was funny. The rest of the year they ignore the real ghosts, the ones they keep tucked behind their ribs and work real hard to run from.
Unfortunately the rest of the base doesn’t see it that way.
Laswell had signed everyone up for a “community engagement initiative.” A local haunted house—charity event, team-building exercise, PR stunt, whatever you wanted to call it. The email had words like outreach and morale bolded for effect. You have no way out of these type of events unless you’re dead or dying (of which you contemplated both.)
But since you’re presently neither, come Friday night you find yourself shoulder to shoulder with civilians and soldiers alike, queued outside a repurposed fairground warehouse that’s been dressed up like a haunted asylum.
And bloody hell, they’d gone all out with it.
Searchlights sweep through the mist, carving silver streaks over the gravel lot. Fake blood glistens across painted plywood walls. Speakers crackle with pre-recorded distant screams. Hundreds and hundreds of civilians laugh and squeal nervously at every flickering bulb. The air smells like candied popcorn and fog machine chemicals, the sickly kind that stick to your clothes long after you’ve left.
It’s chaos. Families with kids, off-duty soldiers, base personnel in civvies—everyone corralled into one long snaking line. Ten minutes of standing after endless photo ops and Soap’s practically bouncing on his heels ahead of you, clutching a cheap plastic glowstick someone handed him at the entrance.
“This is bloody brilliant, innit? Bit o’fun fer once.”
Gaz just grins. “You’re gonna scream first, I’m calling it now.”
“Me? Please.” Soap sneers. “Scotsman donnae get scared.”
Gaz jabs something back that you tune out while pulling your hood up higher, eyes tracking the crowd like you’re back on patrol. You feel like the grinch on Christmas. Every last fibre of your being is begging your legs to run.
You sigh. “This is the dumbest PR stunt we’ve ever agreed to.”
Price, standing beside you with arms crossed and patience thinning, hums his disappointment at that.
“It’s one night.”
You knew he’d say that. You also know it goes hand in hand with why he’s standing so damn close to you—he knows you’ll bolt the second you get the chance.
“One night too many, Captain.” You shoot him a look. “Don’t we have enough to be afraid of?”
The line moves forward.
“Keeps the civvies happy and makes us look human.” He says it softly, levelling you in a whisper. “It’s fake. You’ll be alright.”
You glance around at the chaos. “That’s debatable.”
Price just shakes his head and lights a cigar.
You’ve never said it out loud—not that they haven’t realized it by now—but Halloween just makes you uneasy. The noise, the chaos, the masks. Too many people pretending they’re afraid when half of them wouldn’t know real fear if it held a gun to their head (and yes, you realize how that sounds). Regardless, you’d rather be deployed in the middle of nowhere than packed in with civilians dressed as dollar store demons tripping over each other for the thrill of being chased.
Against it all, eventually you end up inside—swept forward with the crowd. The haunted warehouse asylum itself is a maze of thin plywood corridors and flickering bulbs leading to endless different rooms. Cold fog clings to your boots and somewhere in the dark a speaker hisses out another loop of distorted screaming and garbled groans.
The amount of people packed into these hallways is concerning in its own right, and it’s only moments before you’re deep inside the building.
Soap’s voice carries through the dark ahead of you as you reach a medical bay display. “Oh, that’s good—that’s bloody good! Did ye see the fake blood?”
You roll your eyes. “You sound like you’re impressed by a high school art project.”
He laughs, and Gaz chimes in with a mock scream as something mechanical lunges from the shadows. You can’t help the faint twitch of a smile, but that vanishes when the group behind you surges forward—too fast, too many people at once. Someone screams, civilians start to shove, and before you can react you’re slammed sideways down a narrow hallway barely wide enough for one person.
You grit your teeth, but the crowd keeps shoving.
The walls close in—literal plywood painted to look like rotting plaster but it feels tighter than it should. Every flash of strobe light slices the dark into disorienting fragments: a bloody handprint, a face behind mesh glass, a nurse mask with eyes that don’t blink.
Someone screams too close to your ear and the sound knifes straight through your chest.
It’s not fear, not really. It’s the noise. The chaos. The false panic pressing in from all directions. You’ve lived through real versions of this, only those screams hadn’t ended in laughter. Those walls hadn’t been made of wood.
“Christ,” you mutter under your breath. “This is hell.”
You shoulder through the crush of bodies, half-blinded by the pulsing lights. The sound system wheezes static and fake chainsaws. Someone bumps your shoulder hard enough to make you stumble. You can’t even tell who’s who anymore—civilians, soldiers, everyone melting together in masks and sweat and noise.
“Soap?” Nothing. Just the distorted echo of laughter ahead. “Gaz?”
You push forward again, but the crowd’s momentum swings the other way and now you’re swept back down another narrow corridor. The smell of latex and fog fluid is thick enough to choke on and the plywood under your boots is stickier than it should be.
You try to call for Price, but another shriek drowns it out.
Then, suddenly, a body slams yours—solid and fucking hard. You twist, ready to swing, but a gloved hand snaps out, catching your wrist before it lands.
“Easy.” The voice comes low, steady, almost a growl.
You look up, half-ready to curse, and there he is. The world steadies, or maybe it just stops spinning long enough for you to realize who it is.
Ghost.
The breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slips out between your teeth. Even through the dim red light and drifting fog, you’d know that shape anywhere—broad shoulders, black hoodie, the skull mask catching off handed glints from the strobe. He’s supposed to blend in with the crowd, but somehow he never does. He’s too still, too real in a place made of cardboard fear.
You exhale hard. “I almost punched you in the face.”
He huffs. “You’d have broken your hand.”
Typical. Even here, surrounded by hell and screaming strangers, he’s wholly unbothered. And somehow his mask is the only thing in this entire hellhole that looks remotely real—all the fake blood and plastic chains can’t compete with that blackened skull staring down at you.
“You’ve got a death wish dressing like that in here,” you mutter, jerking your arm free.
His eyes flick over you. “You look like you’ve already met it.”
Someone in a clown mask blurs by, dragging a hatchet and shrieking into your face. You flinch on instinct while Ghost doesn’t even twitch. Just stands solid beside you as another wave of bodies slams through the corridor.
You’re shoved forward, chest colliding with the hard plate of his vest and the air leaves your lungs in a grunt.
“Shit, Ghost. Move,” you mutter, pushing back—though there’s nowhere to go. “You’re crushing me.”
“Tryin’,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in it. “Not my fault you’re magnetized.”
You glare up at him, but someone crashes into your back, throwing you forward again. This time his arm snakes around your waist, holding you steady as the crowd surges past.
You force yourself not to melt at his hand placement. Right where it shouldn’t be but always ends up.
“Enough of that,” he mutters, shifting you to his side so the crowd hits him instead of you. “We’re gettin’ out before you’re trampled.”
Red light pulses overhead like a failing heartbeat. The sound system spits another scream, followed by a metallic screech that drills straight into your skull. Ghost waits for an opening, eyes scanning the crowd for any break he can slip you through.
You’re done pretending it’s fun.
“Christ,” you whisper, half to yourself, half into the fabric of his vest. “Never doing this again.”
You’re sure he solemnizes with that as he leans close enough for his breath to graze your ear. “You hate this.”
“Not exactly a secret.”
“Didn’t think you’d show.”
“Didn’t have a choice. You didn’t either.”
He hums low in his chest, a sound you feel before you hear. “Aye. Price said ‘mandatory engagement.’ Y’know how that goes.”
“More like mandatory trauma,” you mutter.
He almost laughs. Almost. “Sounds about right.”
Another shove from behind, another reflexive step forward. You plant your hands on his chest to keep balance, but he catches one wrist and angles his body so the next surge hits him instead.
“C’mon,” he says, scanning the chaos. “This way.”
He doesn’t wait for you to question him. His hand slides down to the small of your back, guiding—no, herding—you through the surge of people. Every few steps his hand presses harder, steering you clear of jump scares and panicking teens.
Then he shifts so he’s leading, and shoots you a look.
“Stay close,” he says.
“I am close.”
“Closer, then.”
You pause, thinking that maybe he’s joking. He isn’t.
“You’re serious.”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
You hate that your stomach flips at that. Hate that it feels too familiar—that after all this time, after all the near misses and years pretending like the two of you are merely cordial—he still knows how to pull the breath right out of you without trying.
You stumble into a mirrored corridor. Long, narrow, flooded with red. The glass walls fracture his reflection into a dozen Ghosts, all of them tall and broad and big, just watching you move.
“Bloody hell,” you murmur, eyes whirring around.
He catches your shoulder. “Eyes on me.”
Another stomach flip.
“Hard not to. There’s twelve of you.” You manage.
The corner of his mask twitches. “Lucky you.”
He scans the mirrors, calculating angles like it’s a live op and not a thrown together haunted warehouse. It’s then that it becomes glaringly obvious to you that he’s already mapped the exits. You’ve known him long enough to recognize that stillness before he moves—the way his gaze narrows, the way his hand tightens just slightly in focus.
Old habits, you suppose.
Someone in a nurse costume lurches from the fog and you flinch before you can stop yourself. Ghost doesn’t miss a beat—one arm hooks around your wrist, dragging you past.
“Fake,” he says flatly.
You roll your eyes. “Thanks, genius.”
“Didn’t want you swingin’ again.”
You can’t help it, you laugh, more breathless than anything.
“I reserve my swinging for you,” you mutter. “I know you like it.”
He hums. “Generous of you.”
Then he’s moving again—hand still tight around your wrist, the other cutting a path through the crowd. You barely catch the flash of a gap between two mirror panels before he pulls you through.
A door slams behind you, muting the noise to a muffle. It’s a closet. Or maybe a maintenance alcove. Doesn’t matter. It’s pitch-black except for the faint, bleeding red light seeping through the cracks. Dust, wood, and his scent fill the narrow space. You realize just how small it is when you exhale and your chest brushes his vest.
“Bloody hell this is tight,” you mutter, pressing a hand to your temple. “Could’ve warned me.”
“You’d have argued,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate in your ribs. “Like I know you’re about to now.”
You glare up at him. “It’s a broom closet, Riley.”
“Storage,” he corrects. “Technical term.”
“You dragged me into a closet.”
“Dragged?” He tilts his head slightly, resting a gloved hand on the wall above your shoulder as if to make sure you don’t get any ideas about bolting. “You walked.”
You snort. “You had my wrist.”
“Didn’t hear you complain.”
“I’m complaining now.”
“Too late for that.”
You look up at him again, ready to fire something else back, but your voice catches. The space is really small. He’s pressed close enough that you can feel the rise and fall of his chest. The edge of his vest brushes your sternum every time he breathes. You can’t shift without bumping into him.
“Jesus,” you mutter, trying to edge sideways. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
“Watchin’ you lose your mind? Bit.”
He doesn’t budge. You’re struggling to catch a full breath. “Bastard.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t deny it. “Bastard who brought you to safety. ”
Your fingers twitch at your sides and your teeth sink into the pillow of your bottom lip. So many different things flood your mind at once—like how he always seems to be the one to save you whenever you need it. How he always manages to keep you steady when you’re furthest from. How he just seems to have an answer for everything.
It makes something in your chest yearn. Something between your thighs too.
“How’d you even know this was here.” You aim for casual, though it comes out choked.
He shrugs, the red light flashing through the crack cutting a line across his face.
“Recon’s recon.”
You scoff. Expected. “You really can’t stop working, can you?”
He tilts his head, eyes catching yours. “You’d prefer I improvise?”
You open your mouth to reply, but his hand lands briefly on your arm with just enough pressure to make you stop.
“Breathe,” he says. Not a suggestion. More like an order dressed as one. “You’re wound tighter than Price.”
You swallow. You weren’t expecting that.
“You noticed.”
“Hard not to when you’re practically vibratin’.”
You glare up at him, but the fight’s gone. Your pulse is still hammering, and now that the noise and chaos has minimized the adrenaline feels heavier than your body knows how to handle.
He sees it. Of course he does.
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
He leans closer, close enough that you can feel his breath stir the hair at your temple. “Didn’t ask.”
You tense. “Ghost—“
“Breathe,” he cuts you off. “In through your nose.”
“Ghost—”
Again. “Do it.”
You hesitate internally only to obey outwardly because that tone leaves no room for argument. You drag in a slow breath and let it fill your lungs, eyes fluttering shut as your inhale slows.
Ghost purrs an approval.
“Now out,” he says quietly. “Slow. Like you’re tryin’ not to fog a scope.”
You do. Then you do it again. And again. His voice doesn’t waver. You focus on the rhythm, on his words, on the solid shape of him towering in front of you. The rest fades away after a moment and you forget where you even are, why you’re there—it all fades away to just him.
"You're still breathing fast." He murmurs after a few. One hand still at the wall while the other lifts, gloved thumb brushing just beneath your lip where you've been biting it. "M’thinking for other reasons now."
Your throat works a dry involuntary swallow, but you don't pull away. He leans in, skull mask inches from your face, catching the faint bleed of red light through the cracks.
“Ghost..." it’s barely a whisper, more warning than protest.
“Mm?"
You blink. “This is...not smart."
“No," he agrees seldomly. His thumb traces your lower lip again. "But we've never been about smart, have we?"
And he’s right. This thing between you has never been about smart. It’s been about messy, stupid, foolish, secretive—whatever other handful of distasteful words you can name to undoubtedly give Price a heart attack before 50.
It’s been many things. Above all else, addictive. Which is why it never seems to really end.
When you don’t respond, his voice drops. "...y’want me to let go?"
You don’t need to think about that question to know the answer, but you make it seem like you do just for your conscious minds sake. Then you shake your head.
And that’s all he needs.
He closes the space between you like it was always meant to be closed—mask grazing your forehead as his arms slip around you—one hand sliding up your spine beneath your hood until he cups the back of your neck with enough pressure to make you groan. Not kissing you—but almost worse. Holding you exactly where he wants.
Where part of you has always been for years.
"You feel that?" His free hand works to pull up his mask just enough to press warm lips to your temple in a grin. "All that bullshit outside. None of it matters here."
You close your eyes, tilting your head without really thinking about it. You don’t know if it’s the adrenaline, if it’s the cramped space, if it’s just the sheer fact that you haven’t touched him since the last time you ended up somewhere you shouldn’t; but whatever the hell it is, his lips grazing your skin feels like a dream.
You exhale, half a laugh, half a groan, and it sounds more strained than you want. "Bloody hell, Simon."
He hums an agreement, lips sliding across your cheek to the hinge of your jaw. "Missed that."
You try to form a thought, but his thumb presses your chin up enough to expose the pulse thudding beneath your skin, and the words dissolve into a quiet swear.
"Look at me." He murmurs.
Eyes half-lidded, you do.
His head is still angled just enough to put his mask into sharp focus, but even in the dark, you know he sees you—the flutter of your eyelashes when he runs his thumb over the hollow of your throat; the way your tongue flickers out to wet your suddenly dry mouth; the way your breath catches because it's been months since anyone's touched you like this.
"Yeah," he breathes. "That too.”
You've felt this before, the dizzying back-and-forth between the adrenaline rush and the sudden sharp drop into a place you've never been able to name. You've been here with him more times than you'd admit, and yet—somehow, every time feels like the first.
Your hands find the front of his vest, fists balling in the fabric just to feel the solid muscle beneath. Your heart jumps as he leans in, and this time there's no hesitation—his mouth closes over the spot just beneath your ear and you gasp before you can stop yourself.
“Ghost—”
“What’d I say about that?” He murmurs against your skin, wet lips slipping down your pulse point. You hardly hear the question and he knows it, so he doesn’t wait for your response. “You’ll use my name when we’re alone.”
His hand tightens at your neck as he drags his lips down to your collarbone still covered by fabric, but it doesn't matter. The heat of him burns through anyway. Every inch is deliberate. He’s not rushing, not even close, and that’s what scares you most.
This isn’t desperation or adrenaline-laced recklessness; this is intent.
You tilt your head back against the wall on instinct when he presses closer still, dominating you with sheer size alone until his thigh slips between yours as if it were always meant to be there.
"Fuck," you hiss—because holy hell has a name and it's currently holding you hostage in a storage closet inside a haunted warehouse full of screaming civilians who have no idea what real fear feels like. “Si-mon-“
He swallows the next sound that slips out of you, lips slotting over yours in a kiss that could stop the world and you'd never notice. It's a slow, languid thing, and when he pushes his tongue into your mouth you can't decide if you should groan or moan louder.
And you’re not sure which he's more intent on—forcing noises out of you or making your hips tilt to meet his thigh automatically like muscle memory. You can’t even help yourself, not as his hands roam, one working at the band of your pants and the other holding your lips to his as you start to grind—
“Yeah…that’s it,” he growls against your mouth. Leather fingers hook into the waistband of your pants just low enough to send heat flooding south. “Been too long.”
You can’t breathe—don’t want to—so you kiss him harder, chasing every filthy sound he makes like it’s oxygen. His hand slips lower, dragging across your arse and squeezing hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
“You gonna cum on my thigh like this?” He murmurs darkly, lips brushing yours between words. “Fuckin desperate thing you’ve always been.”
He's right—he's always been right about that—and you swallow the moan that's building up in your chest as you grind harder against his thigh, unabashedly helpless as a whore. It should be embarrassing but it isn’t, only because he’s rock hard against you and you're dizzy with the realization that he wants you just as much—that in spite of everything, you're still doing this. Still stealing moments wherever it's possible, still playing with fire.
You move to kiss him again, but he pulls back just out of reach, breath warm across your mouth.
“Simon.” You frown, tired of the teasing. “Please touch me.”
He growls, shifting his grip into your hair and angling your head where he wants it.
“Say it again."
You swallow, mouth dry. "Please."
A noise low in his chest rumbles against your ear like a warning. "Louder."
You close your eyes, breath hitching. "Simon."
“Go on.” His thumb brushes over your lower lip, and for the briefest moment it's almost gentle. "One more."
You tilt your head back against the wall, lips barely grazing his.
"Please." It's ragged in your throat, a breathless command and a desperate plea. "Please, please fucking touch me."
His grip on your arse squeezes. "There's my girl."
It's that, the way he sounds—growly, possessive, all but purring as he pushes back into the kiss—that's enough to make you forget about the noise outside, that you're trapped in a broom closet in the middle of a haunted house, that there's an entire crowd of people just a few meters away.
You forget everything, just for a moment, as he slips his fingers over your mound and against your clit. As the entire fucking world melts away when he starts swirling them—
"...soaked," he grits against your neck. "All this time pretending you don't want me and here you are. Dripping on my hand like a fucking sin."
You whimper, hips jerking forward instinctively. He applies pressure exactly where you need it; leather pads drawing slow, maddening circles against your slick clit and making your thighs tremble.
“Jesus, Simon. This isn’t—” you gasp, fingers clawing at his vest for stability. “T-thought you were trying to help me-mmf-breathe—”
“I did.” He bites your earlobe, hard. “But we’re at a haunted house, sweet’eart,” his voice is rough with a grin you can hear. “Someone’s gotta make you scream.”
Your eyes flutter open, hazy with need, and the red light bleeding through the cracks makes his eyes look like embers. You want to toss something back but only whimper again, head falling back against the wall as he slides his fingers further, dipping low, teasing through folds already slick with want.
Then he slips one thick digit inside you and crooks it deep.
You choke on a sob. “Oh fuck—“
“Tighter,” he hisses through his teeth. “Feels like you’ve been saving this for me.”
And God help you—you have.
You can't speak, can't even form a word as he curls that finger in rhythm, slow and deep, immediately pressing against that soft spot inside you like he’d mapped it into memory. Your back arches off the wall, hips bucking forward with need.
"F-fuck, Simon—“ is all you manage.
And to that he adds a second finger without warning, thick leather stretching you open just right while using his thumb to circle your clit in tandem. You’re clutching his vest so tight your knuckles crack because he’s dragging you to the edge in seconds and it’s been months since you’ve been there.
"Simon!" You cry out loud enough that your voice bounces off the walls. “I’m-ah-I’m—“
He smirks against your neck. “That’s it. Scream for your ghost.”
He crooks his fingers again, deeper, and you shatter. Your back bows, nails raking down his vest as a broken cry tears from your throat. The world goes white behind your eyelids, bright and warm and so fucking right—and all the feelings you’d worked to forget about flood out of you with the release that you know is soaking his glove as you spasm—hips jerking, sopping walls clenching around his digits like you’ll never let go.
He doesn’t stop.
Just keeps thrusting through it, slow and relentless as you tremble and gasp and come apart in his arms.
“Mm. Atta girl,” he murmurs into your ear. “Let it take you.”
And God help you, it does. Wave after wave rolls through you until your legs give out and the only thing holding you up is him. The solid press of his body, the arm locked around your waist like he’s always meant to catch you when you fall. Everything is bliss, pure white hot and electric, liquifying your bones in his grip.
It’s stupid, God it’s so fucking stupid how you end up here time and time again—and you’ll be thinking about that later—but right now you’re not thinking at all. Not even as he pulls his fingers out and spins you around. Not even as your hands slap against the cold concrete when he presses your chest to the wall, one gloved hand splayed between your shoulder blades keeping you pinned.
"Stay still," he warns, voice dark as sin.
You're still trembling from the aftershocks when you feel him drop to his knees behind you. The zipper of his tac pants sounds like thunder in the silence.
Then warm breath hits your soaked inner thigh.
“Oh, Simon, I don’t—“
You don't get another word out before his mouth is on you—lips, tongue, teeth—devouring you like he's been starving for it in a space hardly big enough to be considered a closet. Your reaction is immediate, involuntary and utterly catastrophic—sensitivity on high as you collapse forward, forehead pressing against the wall while his tongue drags through your slit and he laps at all the pent up need you’d just released because of him.
“Fuck.” It’s all you can say before he does it again. And again. “Oh fuck, Simon.”
He groans against you and the vibration alone almost makes you cum again. One hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slips under you, lifting your arse just so he can get deeper. When his tongue flicks over your clit in tight circles, it's not a question—it's a demand.
You will give him another.
You sob his name into the darkness. And he doesn’t stop. It falls from your mouth like a prayer, over and over, and maybe it is—a desperate litany he pulls from your lips with every flick of his tongue. You're not even sure you're speaking English anymore. You're not sure you speak any language other than the one he's writing across your body.
“Like that—" you gasp, fingernails scraping the wall for any scrap of composure. "Please, Simon, Imsofuckingclose—"
He growls, pulling your thighs open even wider and driving his tongue as deep as it'll go. You think you hear him murmur, "good girl," but you're so far past proper cognitive function now that you think it might have been a hallucination.
You’re melting, eyes rolling as his tongue swirls over your clit. He kisses slow and deliberate, all but worshipping your cunt until he grips harder at your hips harder and laps at you like he’s trying to memorize every shiver, every twitch of your body under his mouth. The juxtaposition makes you cry out, and when he slips those two fingers back inside you, still slick with your release, and crooks them deep while sucking on your clit?
You cum again. It’s instant and entirely uncontrollable— a sob tears from your throat as pleasure blindsides you, a tidal wave crashing through bone and blood and breath all at once until you’re shaking and squirming and gripping the fabric of his balaclava so hard you think you’ve put holes into it.
And it’s only then, when you’re trembling against his chin, that he stops.
You slump against the wall, chest heaving, sweat beading on overheated skin. This is dangerous—this is so so dangerous that maybe it’s even catastrophic. Reckless. A thousand ways of being broken in the making—but even now you can't bring yourself to care when you feel his lips moving up your spine, the press of his hands on your hips as he stands and slides his erection up against your slit.
“Simon, fuck.” You whimper, grinding against his length despite yourself. He’s huge. You know it’s going to hurt, it always does. “M’seeing stars.”
He presses his forehead between your shoulder blades, lips tilted into that smirk you can’t decide if you love or hate.
“Then close your eyes, sweet’eart.”
His hands slide from your hips to your wrists—holding them against the wall as he grinds. The thick head of him nudges through slick folds, teasing just enough to make you whimper.
“Tell me you want it,” he growls. “Tell me this pussy’s still mine.”
You’re shaking, wrecked, dripping and so far gone that lying is impossible. Even if you did you know he wouldn’t believe you.
“I need it,” you beg, arching back into him. “It’s yours. Only ever been yours.”
Only ever been yours. Those words, the sound of them on your tongue, soft and desperate and just for him—make every part of him burn just like you’d hoped they would.
“Only ever been mine.” He grits, leaking tip grazing your clit and making you shudder. “Prove it."
“Mmmfffff-“ you moan, part anticipation and part relief as he pushes in slow. The stretch burns, just like it always has, because he’s bigger and thicker than you’d ever been able to properly handle and he knows it—gives you time to whine about it with each inch he slides in. “Ohgod—shit—“
He doesn’t let up, just sinks deeper with one smooth stroke until he’s buried to the hilt and your walls pulse around him like they’re trying to pull him deeper. Then he stills. Breath ragged in his chest. Jaw clenched. And for a moment, it feels like time stops—that this tiny broom closet is all that exists: heat, sweat, breath between cracked lips and pounding hearts out of sync but somehow beating for each other anyway.
He leans into your ear, one hand releasing your wrist only to tangle in your hair at the root.
"Fucking heaven." He growls.
Heaven. It's not a word you hear often, certainly not from him—but the weight of it makes your breath hitch, makes your heart skip. Makes you wonder for a split second if you really do know this man in ways no one else does.
Then he rocks into you, hard. A cervix kissing thrust.
“Fuck! S-Simon.” You hiss through the sting. “You’re—fucking bigger—“
"And you're squeezing me like a vice," he grits out in response. "Should I go slow?"
And the answer should be a solid yes, definitely yes, for God’s sake you’re not some kind of superhero. You're a mess and you’ll likely be walking funny for a while after this but when he presses against your back—heat and muscle and just enough of that familiar, musky cologne still seared into your brain and whispers:
"Or should I wreck you the way I've been wanting to since the last time?"
There is no other answer than this one. “Fucking hell. Yes—please."
“Christ," he mutters. “S’filthy for me. S’good.”
“All yours.” You hiss, grinding back against him. “Wreck me—“
He groans, grip tightening in your hair until you're breathless. Red light flickers through the crack in the door. Your lashes flutter. Then with one sharp motion, he pulls back and slams into you. Hard.
“Like that?" He hisses.
Your head drops back against his shoulder.
“Fuck," you gasp. "Y-yes. Like-that—"
He does it again and you chew your lip not to scream.
"Like this?" He growls, setting a brutal pace.
There's no more room for breath, let alone thoughts. The room starts to spin, everything except the thick, perfect slide of him inside you, the heat of your bodies and the fact that despite the lack of space you can’t get enough of him. You’ll take more and more and more so long as he’s will to give it.
He seems to sense that, somehow.
"Greedy little thing," he snaps, hips smacking your ass with each thrust. "Grippin me so fuckin tight.”
“You-ah!-you love it,” you gasp, back arching as he drives deeper. “Admit it.”
“Love.” He repeats against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Love how y’feel," he grinds out between thrusts. “Love how you take every fuckin inch like you were made for it." His hand slips from your hair to wrap around your throat with just enough pressure to make you whimper. “And maybe I hate that I don’t hate it,” he breathes. “But fuck if I can stop.”
It's a confession at the wrong time, a truth ripped from some deep, hidden place that's never seen the light. You feel it in the rasp of his voice as he says it, in the hard edge to his words. You've never heard him this honest and it’s enough to make your chest ache.
It must do the same for him because he hisses a curse through his teeth and brings his fingers to your clit.
You whinge. “F-fuck! S-Simon—I’m—“
"I know," he growls, thumb circling faster. ”Mm. I fuckin know."
You've never seen him like this, all that patience and control stripped away until he's just a wild, feral thing. You should be scared of this version of him, but all you can focus on is how good he feels—how you're losing yourself to the edge, and he's the only thing keeping you there.
Your lids squeeze shut. You’re so close. “Oh-oh god—“
"Let go," he commands, voice dark and edged. "Cum f’me."
The demand shatters you.
Your back bows, your breath catches, and then you’re coming so hard it feels like your soul’s being ripped from your body. Walls clenching around him, pulse thundering in every limb, a scream tearing from your throat that echoes off the walls of the closet.
He doesn’t stop.
Rides out every spasm, every twitch, pounding into you through the aftershocks until his own release hits like a detonation. A guttural groan rips from his chest as he buries himself deep, heat pulsing inside you as he empties himself with three final thrusts that make you sob. The world comes back to you in fragments, in slow motion and blurry, so for a moment, you both stand there—breathing hard, sweat-dampened, hearts slamming.
You should get dressed. Clean up. Make a joke about broom closets or haunted warehouses. Go find the others. But neither of you move. You just stand there and breathe. Then he pulls out, and you both work to piece yourselves back together.
There’s never much to say after moments like this — when the air’s still thick with heat, and your heartbeat’s still trying to climb down from wherever it ran to. When the world feels too quiet, and you’re left to wonder what the hell just happened between you again.
It always ends like this.
A blur of want, a crash, and then the silence after where you’re left standing in the wreckage of it, pretending you’re fine. Pretending it’s simple. Pretending you haven’t started to dread the calm that comes once his hands leave you.
Simon speaks first. He always does.
“There,” he says, voice rough but steady. “Haunted houses ain’t so bad, mh?”
You huff out something between a laugh and a breath, spinning to face him. “You make a questionable therapist.”
“Expectedly.” He shifts, adjusting his mask back into place. “Just don’t like seein’ you jump at shadows.”
“They were people jumping out of walls.”
“Still shadows to me.”
You glance up at him—at those eyes behind the mask, dark and steady and infuriatingly composed. The same eyes that had looked at you differently a minute ago. Softer. Or maybe you imagined that. You always think you do.
“You don’t get scared of anything, do you?” You ask.
He’s quiet for a beat that lasts too long, gaze flicking over your face in a way you’d never really seen from him before.
Then he shrugs. “Get focused. Not scared.”
“That’s not normal.” You scoff.
He tilts his head slightly. “Never claimed to be.”
The red light flickers through the cracks again, bathing you both embers. You can still feel the heat of him—his breath, his touch, the way he’d said your name like it meant something.
And it always leaves you like this; wanting more than you should and hating yourself for it.
“Next time you want to calm me down,” you murmur, half to cover the silence, half to breathe through it, “I pick the location.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through the mask. You feel it more than hear it. “Fine by me. S’long as it doesn’t involve you swingin’ at me again.”
“Depends how annoying you are.”
He leans in just slightly, enough that his voice grazes your ear. “Then we’ll call that training.”
You roll your eyes and fail to bite back the smile that surfaces. He straightens finally, shoulders rolling, that stance settling back into its rightful place—the soldier again.
“You good?”
You nod, slower than you mean to. “Yeah.”
“Right,” he mutters, already shifting for the door. “Let’s find the others before they start takin’ bets on our arrests.”
You almost laugh, but it dies somewhere in your throat. Because this—this pattern, this back-and-forth—it’s always easier than asking what any of it means.
Divergent is a bad book, but its accidental brilliance is that it completely mauled the YA dystopian genre by stripping it down to its barest bones for maximum marketability, utterly destroying the chances of YA dystopian literature’s long-term survival
Sure. Imagine that you need to make a book, and this book needs to be successful. This book needs to be the perfect Marketable YA Dystopian.
So you build your protagonist. She has no personality traits beyond being decently strong-willed, so that her quirks and interesting traits absolutely can’t get in the way of the audience’s projection onto her. She is dainty, birdlike, beautiful despite her protestations that she is ugly–yet she can still hold her own against significantly taller and stronger combatants. She is the perfect mask for the bashful, insecure tweens you are marketing to to wear while they read.
You think, as you draft your novel, that you need to add something that appeals to the basest nature of teenagers, something this government does that will be perversely appealing to them. The Hunger Games’ titular games were the main draw of the books, despite the hatred its characters hold for the event. So the government forces everyone into Harry Potter houses.
So the government makes everyone choose their faction, their single personality trait. Teenagers and tweens are basic–they likely identify by one distinct personality trait or career aspiration, and they’ll thus be enchanted by this system. For years, Tumblr and Twitter bios will include Erudite or Dauntless alongside Aquarius and Ravenclaw and INTJ. Congratulations, you just made having more than one personality trait anathema to your worldbuilding.
Your readers and thus your protagonist are naturally drawn to the faction that you have made RIDICULOUSLY cooler and better than the others: Dauntless. The faction where they play dangerous games of Capture the Flag and don’t work and act remarkably like teenagers with a budget. You add an attractive, tall man to help and hinder the protagonist. He is brooding and handsome; he doesn’t need to be anything else.
The villains appear soon afterward. They are your tried and true dystopian government: polished, sleek, intelligent, headed by a woman for some reason. They fight the protagonists, they carry out their evil, Machiavellian, stupid plan. You finish the novel with duct tape and fanservice, action sequences and skin and just enough glue and spit to seal the terrible, hollow world you have made shut just long enough to put it on the shelf.
And you have just destroyed YA dystopian literature. Because you have boiled it down to its bare essentials. A sleek, futuristic government borrowing its aesthetic from modern minimalism and wealth forces the population to participate in a perversely cool-to-read-about system like the Hunger Games or the factions, and one brave, slender, pretty, hollow main character is the only one brave–no, special enough to stand against it.
And by making this bare-bones world, crafted for maximum marketability, you expose yourself and every other YA dystopian writer as a lazy worldbuilder driven too far by the “rule of cool” and the formulas of other, better dystopian books before yours. In the following five years, you watch in real time as the dystopian genre crumbles under your feet, as the movies made based on your successful (but later widely-panned and mocked) books slowly regress to video-only releases, as fewer and fewer releases try to do what you did. And maybe you realize what you’ve done.
one quibble: hunger games was intense and sincere and the writer had worked for tv and knew exactly what she was talking about when she wrote how media machines create golden idols out of abused kids and then leave the actual people inside their glamorous shells to rot. hunger games had a genuine core of righteous anger that resonated with a lot of people. the hunger games was genuinely angry about shit that is genuinely wrong.
but divergent was clumsy make-believe the whole way through. it aped the forms and functions of dystopian lit but the writer didn’t actually have any real, passionate, sincere anger to put on the page. she didn’t know what it was talking about, so she didn’t have anything worth listening to.
there’s a difference between anti-authoritarianism as a disaffected, cynical pose and anti-authoritarianism as a rallying cry by people who believe in a bitter world. and the former is something corporations and industries and publishing houses are so much more comfortable with. so divergent and the flood of books published and marketed alongide and after it showed how the dystopian genre was no longer truly revolutionary, no longer a sincere condemnation of corporate oligarchies. the mass-market dystopian genre was now nothing more than an insincere playspace for people who were writing dystopia as a safely distant, abstract make-believe stage for their pretty girl heroes, rather than a direct allegory for everything that needs to be torn down in this world today.
This is the second branch of this post I’ve reblogged and like the fourth I’ve seen and I’m just thinking about how the Uglies series, a pre-Hunger Games forerunner of the YA Dystopia boom, had significantly less staying power than it could have specifically because…with the toxic beauty standards forced on teenagers being a Big Theme, studios couldn’t figure out how to make a profitable movie out of it. The book got optioned multiple times, but a film version made in Hollywood was destined to fall apart at casting & makeup - their marketing methods relied on exactly what the series was criticizing, which is…part of what made it so popular with teenage girls to begin with.
You contrast that with how the marketing for the Hunger Games films directly contradicts the messaging of the text, and how Divergent seems ready-made for the big screen, and it becomes really apparent why the genre folded in on itself. Capitalism tried to recuperate dystopian fiction criticizing capitalism, and in doing so, butchered the genre.
There’s also something rattling around my brain about a correlation between how made-for-screen a dystopian book is and how much it Doesn’t Understand Dystopia, with the culmination being Ready Player One, a piece set in a dystopia that somehow still actively glorifies capitalism & that was literally optioned for film before the book was published, but I don’t…know how to expand on that point.
“A true dystopia exaggerates a trait in our own society, taking it to its worst possible extreme. If we don’t do something about this misogyny, we’ll become The Handmaid’s Tale; if we don’t do something about this communism, we’ll become 1984; if we don’t do something about this anti-intellectualism, we’ll become Fahrenheit 451. The Hunger Games, which contains some surprisingly sophisticated political commentary, includes among its targets income inequality, celebrity culture, and the glamorization of war.
Divergent takes place in a society where all citizens are sorted into five factions based on their dominant personality trait: The selfless are sent to Abnegation, the intellectual to Erudite, the kind to Amity, the honest to Candor, and the brave to Dauntless. Leaving aside the sheer laziness of naming two factions with adjectives and three with nouns, what trait could this faction setup possibly be mirroring in our own society? If we don’t do something about these BuzzFeed quizzes, Divergent warns us, we may find ourselves going down a dark path.”
But by Day Four, your ring cam has captured enough war crimes against lawn care to qualify for Hague tribunal review, and frankly, Pamela-from-HOA was circling like a fucking vulture.
You don’t know who approved the housing application for the four men (introduced to you as John Price, Kyle Garrick, John MacTavish, and “Ghost”) across the street, but you’re 90% sure it was forged. Because no one- not one- has any idea what they’re doing and they’re strange. Really strange.
You noticed it the day they moved in: four large, broad shouldered types in plain clothes that somehow made them look even less normal. The one with the beard gave off dad energy until he opened his mouth and called the guy with the skull mask “son.” The one with the mask didn’t react. The Scottish one swore constantly but somehow managed to sound cheerful about it, and the fourth kept calling everyone “sir,” even though they clearly weren’t in charge of anything, least of all themselves.
At first, you figured maybe they were just… eccentric. Maybe a band? Some kind of halfway house for ex wrestlers? But then they started trying to do things.
Simple, suburban things.
Like putting up a satellite dish.
You watched from your window as all four of them gathered in grim formation, staring up at the roof like it was enemy territory. There was pointing. Nodding. Some kind of briefing. Then they began climbing… without a ladder. By the time the first dish was plugged in, one of them was on the garage roof, one was holding the plug like a detonator, one was barking coordinates, and the masked one was simply standing in the yard, hands on hips, staring at the operation with the solemn energy of a funeral.
It ended, as these things often do, in mild electrocution and swearing.
By Day Four, you were convinced they were running some kind of experiment on how not to appear human. They waved too formally. Their grocery trips looked like tactical raids where they bought four of everything (four jugs of milk, four loaves of bread, four packs of toilet paper- ‘doomsday preppers’ were added to the list of possible things your neighbors were.) And at least once, you caught the blonde one crouched behind his car, whispering into what was either an earpiece or a Bluetooth headset that he definitely didn’t need.
You finally approached on Day Seven, when one of them- Price, apparently- was outside with a toolbox, disassembling his mailbox for no apparent reason. You asked, very gently, “Hey, everything okay over here?”
He straightened up slowly, smiled like a man trying to remember what smiles looked like, and said, “Routine maintenance.”
The masked one appeared behind him a moment later, holding a wrench. “It’s compromised,” he said gravely.
“Compromised,” you repeated, dead inside.
He nodded. “Internal breach.”
You went home after that. Slowly.
You told yourself you weren’t going to get involved, that it wasn’t your business if your new neighbors were part of some ex-military performance art commune, but then you saw them the next morning standing in formation at the curb, coffee mugs in hand, saluting the garbage truck.
So now, every few days, you walk over with cookies or tools or a smile- anything to stop them from accidentally declaring war on the neighborhood watch.
They call you “civilian asset.” You call them “the four horsemen of HOA violation.”
You’d made it a full week with only passive surveillance: peeking through the blinds, judging silently, watching four of the most suspicious men alive absolutely tank at civilian life like they were doing it on purpose.
But then Day Eight arrived, and with it: the lawn mower.
It appeared in their driveway, brand new, still partially in the box, wheels on backwards, safety manual fluttering sadly in the breeze. You watched as the tallest of the four (you think his name is Ghost, though that can’t possibly be real) stared at it with the blank caution of a man facing a disarmed explosive.
Price, with the vibe of someone who’s either a dad or a war criminal (or both) crouched next to it with a screwdriver and said, “It can’t be that complicated.”
Ten minutes later, the mower was upside down.
Fifteen minutes in, you heard one of them say, “Maybe it needs batteries.”
Twenty minutes, and the engine roared to life… before immediately dying and releasing a puff of smoke that probably violated several state laws.
You finally snapped at minute twenty two, crossing the street with your iced coffee in one hand and your will to live rapidly evaporating in the other.
“Gentlemen,” you called, because ‘dumbasses’ felt rude on a first-name basis. “Need a hand?”
All four of them turned as one. It was… a lot. Broad shoulders, stiff stances, gazes so intense it felt like they were trying to assess whether you were armed or a threat. You lifted your coffee slightly in truce. “Hi. Neighbor. Not here to judge but also- what are you doing?”
“We are,” Soap said proudly, hands on his hips and completely ignoring the sideways mower behind him, “mowing the lawn.”
“No, you’re not,” you said. “You’re staging a failed reenactment of Mad Max: Suburbia Edition.”
He blinked. “We started it?”
“You smoked it. That’s not the same.”
Gaz rubbed the back of his neck. “We followed the instructions.”
“Where are they?”
“…We shredded them.”
You closed your eyes. Counted to three. Maybe five. Then sighed and said, “Move. Let me.”
You had to start from scratch: wheels fixed, oil checked, gas topped off. They hovered like overgrown children who’d broken something expensive and were trying not to make it worse.
When you finally pulled the cord and the engine hummed to life, they all stepped back like you’d summoned fire. Ghost let out a low whistle. “Witchcraft,” he muttered.
“You’re just saying that because I didn’t read the instructions.”
Price gave a hum of approval. “Good instincts.”
“No,” you corrected. “Just basic literacy and critical thinking. You should try it sometime.”
By the time the first line of grass was mowed, you’d already adjusted the blade height and showed them the bag catcher. They were watching you like it was a TED Talk. Soap kept nodding enthusiastically, Gaz had pulled out a notepad, and Ghost… well, Ghost hadn’t moved, but he looked thoughtful under the mask.
“Do we… tip you for this?” Gaz asked awkwardly.
“No, but if you explode another household appliance, I’m billing you for emotional damage.”
They took over after that, slightly too eager, slightly too coordinated like this was part of a training exercise and not a normal Sunday morning. You watched them mow the rest of the lawn in overlapping 10x10 squares.
It was the most efficient lawn you’d ever seen.
Terrifyingly so
You didn’t ask why they moved in. You didn’t ask why they had two satellite dishes, five separate trash bins, and a constant rotation of unmarked vans dropping off “tools.”
You just went home, sat on your porch, sipped your coffee, and told yourself they were probably just ex-military, recently retired, and terrible at pretending to be normal.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, perv!bucky, dom!bucky, touch starved reader, sexual tension, mutual pining, oral (f receiving), p in v, fingering, edging, begging, degrading, size difference kink, praise, dirty talk, masturbation, breeding kink, overstimulation, name calling and pet names: "slut" "baby" "pretty girl"
word count: 13.7k
masterlist
a/n: wanted to write a fic based on sabrina's song house tour. i was inspired by @houseofhyde's (literally sabrina carpenter) fics and if you haven't already, read her manchild series and check out her man's best friend inspired anthology coming soon! huge thank you to my girl @wildflowersandvibranium for helping me w/ the color gradient. thank you to @heldbybarnes and @its-in-the-woods for helping me w/ the moodboard. thank you to @juniebjonesin for being my beta-reader. thank you to @chateaubarnes for the divider. <3 much love.
synopsis:
Your house is big enough to host a hundred people, but the only one you want in it is your maddeningly hot pool cleaner. You want him—bad. Yet no matter how hard you flirt, he never seems to take the bait. What you don't realize is that Bucky wants you just as badly, he's just very good at hiding it.
You paused in front of the full-length mirror hanging in the foyer of your sprawling three-story house. A skimpy swimsuit was snug to your body, an expensive pair of sunglasses perched on top of your head, along with a chilled cocktail in your manicured hand to top it all off.
You adjusted the sheer cover-up knotted loosely at your hip that revealed just enough skin…though never quite enough.
With one quick glance out the window towards your backyard, your breath hitched immediately.
There he was again—your pool boy, hard at work.
The usual white tank he wore clung to his chest, already slick with his sweat. His arms flexed with every pull of the pole, muscles tightening beneath his sun-warmed skin, his hair falling into his eyes as his broad back bent and straightened as he moved around.
The sight alone sent butterflies to your stomach.
You sucked in a sharp breath, smoothing your hair and bringing your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose. Sliding open the glass door, you were welcomed with the hot sun and a slight breeze, bringing with it a faint smell of chlorine.
“Good morning, Bucky,” you called, your voice cheery with an inviting smile.
Bucky glanced up from the water, sunglasses reflecting you back at yourself.
“Morning.”
Then, a small nod before returning to his work.
It wasn’t much, but still, your smile didn’t falter. Ever since you hired Bucky to work for you as your designated pool cleaner, you couldn’t help but grow a little… attached.
You were a single woman living in a house big enough to hold a family of ten. Or twenty. Too much money, too much time on your hands, and not enough sex.
So when a strong, quiet, devastatingly attractive man showed up to work under your roof, what was the harm in having a little fun? Watching him became your guilty pleasure, like keeping your own personal eye candy by the pool.
First, it started with harmless admiration.
You’d catch yourself watching him from the corner of your eye, stealing glances under your sunglasses or through the window when you thought he wouldn’t notice. You’d watch very closely—the way sweat dripped down his neck and in between the crevice of his chest.
And his arms.
God, his arms.
You couldn’t help but imagine how they might feel cinched tight around your waist, or how those rough, calloused hands might look wrapped delicately around your throat.
Silly thoughts, really. Inappropriate, even.
He was just the man you paid to clean your pool. You never said anything, of course. Just… quiet looks, very long sips of your drink, and the guilty thrill of knowing you liked the view far more than you should.
You leaned back into the reclining chair, stretching your legs out before crossing at the ankle, your fingers idly twirling the straw in your cocktail.
“It’s so hot out today,” you said, tilting your head towards him. “But I can’t really complain with a view like this.”
Bucky didn’t react. He didn’t even look at you either. Just a quiet grunt, his expression unreadable behind the darkness of his sunglasses.
Very typical.
Second, it became something physical. A physical attraction.
The mysteriousness of him left too much room for your imagination to run wild. He rarely said anything beyond the occasional “Good morning” or a low grunt, and more times than not, you found yourself aching for just a little more.
“You know, if you ever need a break, my house is always open and well air-conditioned,” you offered lightly, finishing it with a soft laugh to make it sound playful instead of… well.
Predatory.
The truth was, for all its size, your house was lonely. A word, a glance, even the smallest scrap of attention would have been enough—and somehow, the person you wanted it from was the man fishing leaves out of your pool.
It was no different than coworkers developing crushes just from seeing each other every day—or feelings sparking within a friend group simply from being around one another so often.
So really, it was only natural to feel this way… wasn’t it?
You wanted to feel him. All of him. His muscles, his jawline, his back…
You wondered how hot his body would be pressed to yours—how his fingers would feel sliding into you, stretching you, filling you, instead of your own.
You hated to admit it, but you have touched yourself to that thought before.
Once.
Twice.
Maybe more.
Bucky barely looked up. “I’m okay. Thank you,” he said, voice quiet, rough, and dismissive, before turning back to the pool like the conversation had already ended before it even began.
Your lips curved up in a sly smirk as you tried again.
“Are you sure? Do you want anything to drink then? A lemonade? Water? Or maybe a cocktail?” your tone stayed breezy, playful, all as if you weren’t holding your breath for an answer.
“No, ma’am,” he replied casually, eyes still fixed on the pool. And he still didn’t look up.
You exhaled slowly, swirling your straw before taking another sip. God, he was infuriating. And yet, the more he ignored you, the more you wanted him.
And last but not least, it became a game. A challenge. As maddening and one-sided as it seemed, you couldn’t help but crave it.
You were a rich, young and beautiful woman. Realistically, you could have anyone you wanted and you knew it. You were used to being fawned over, used to nobodies tripping over themselves just to ask for your number. But the fact that you couldn’t so much as snag the gaze of your pool boy?
That ignited something inside you.
For once, you were the one chasing.
And you didn’t mind it one bit.
“So, do you have any plans after this? I was thinking of making a quick lunch if you would like to join me.”
Silence. Just the sound of water swooshing gently against the pool’s edge and the light scrape of the skimmer gliding across the surface. He paused, his eyes fixed on something in the distance, near your water pipes. His shoulders straightened like a thought came to mind.
Then, he finally lifted his head to look at you. Your heart thumped faster in your chest.
Finally.
“Can you come here for a second?” he asked, his voice straightforward and blunt as he set the skimmer down.
You couldn’t help the smile creeping on your lips. You rose from your chair, setting your cocktail down on the side table. You smoothed the cover-up around your hips as you made your way over, anticipation already fluttering wildly in your chest.
The entire time, Bucky’s gaze followed you from behind his shades. You hoped he noticed the way your bikini clung tight to your curves, the subtle sway of your hips as you moved towards him.
You flashed him a charming grin, crossing your arms over your chest—subtly accentuating the way your breasts pushed up against your arms.
Too bad his sunglasses hid his eyes. You had no way of knowing if he had even noticed.
“Follow me,” he said, curling his fingers to motion you closer.
“Okay,” you agreed softly, letting him guide you.
With his back to you, you couldn’t help but admire the view—the width of his shoulders, the way he moved. You were so caught up in the silhouette of him that you hardly noticed where he was leading you until you found yourself at the side of the house, standing before the jumble of water pipes and filters.
He stopped abruptly. “Stand here.”
You moved closer, your heart beating so fast it could leap out of your chest. The way he stood there, watching you, commanding you to come up to him… it all made your skin heat up in a way that had nothing to do with the sun.
“Closer.”
Your breath caught in your throat, one large hand brushing against your lower back to guide you into position. The touch was casual, almost incidental, yet it was enough to make your legs feel a little weak.
He held your gaze for a moment, his hand still resting lightly on your lower back. You wanted nothing more than to reach up and remove his sunglasses yourself—just to see his eyes, to know if he was feeling the same spark you were.
Then, finally, he broke his gaze and tilted his head towards the filter.
“There’s an issue with the filter,” he explained. “It’s clogged worse than I thought. I’ll need to check it a few extra times this week to make sure it’s running properly.”
Oh.
Your shoulders slump slightly, the thrill of his attention immediately colliding with a pang of disappointment.
You followed his gaze to the pool and let out a very long and disappointed sigh. “Is that so?”
He grunted quietly, his hand retreating from your back. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “I’ll start on it. Should take a while to get it fully unclogged.”
You swallowed, trying to force a nonchalant smile. Infuriatingly dry, and yet every word, every glance—or lack thereof—only made the fiery spark inside you burn brighter.
“How ‘bout you come inside for a second?” you offered quickly. “Cool off a little before getting back to work… I mean, look at you—you’re sweating like crazy.” You added a soft chuckle, letting the words hang teasingly in the air, hoping, praying he’d catch the bait.
Bucky’s head tilted up, looking past you and up at your three-story house. His expression was frustratingly unreadable, leaving you guessing at what might be running through his mind. After a long pause, he finally looked back at you.
“No, thanks.”
It was just as you expected. With a soft sigh, you masked your disappointment with a small shrug.
“Suit yourself,” you murmured as you already turned your back away.
“But…”
You paused, glancing over your shoulder.
“I’ll take a glass of lemonade,” Bucky said, his tone flat like he was granting you a concession.
Your lips curved slowly up into a grin, that warmth coming back to life in your chest. It wasn’t much—but it was something. And with him, even the smallest thing felt like a victory.
“Lemonade, coming right up,” you said lightly, your tone playful.
This time, when you turned toward the house, there was a little more pep in your step, the sway of your hips unconsciously enthusiastic. It felt good, being given something to finally work with—even something small.
What you didn’t see was the way Bucky’s eyes followed you, hidden safely behind his sunglasses. You missed how his gaze lingered on the curve of your ass through the sheer cover-up, how his jaw clenched once you finally slipped out of view.
From outside, he could see everything.
The way you moved around the kitchen with far too much energy for something as simple as lemonade. How you dragged out a step stool to reach the tallest cabinet, just to pick the nicest glass for him. How you filled it with ice, frowned because you put too much, dumped it out, then poured it again until it was perfect. How you even fussed with the lemon slice on the rim like you were serving royalty and not some random pool cleaner.
And the sight was fascinating.
He loved watching you—a wealthy girl who could have staff do it for you—going out of your way to make a drink for someone like him.
Of course he knew about your coy smiles, your lingering stares when you think he’s not looking, the way your hips sway when you walk away, the skimpy bikinis you wore despite never once stepping foot into the pool.
He noticed everything.
He just chose not to bite.
Because watching you try—watching you put all that effort into getting a reaction out of him—was far more entertaining than giving you what you wanted.
As you leaned into the fridge for the pitcher, your sheer cover-up rode higher over your thighs, the thin fabric stretching to reveal the curve of your ass underneath. You bent forward slightly to grab some more lemons from a lower shelf, and…
The sight made his throat go dry.
His cock stirred, thickening and rising slowly, an ache pressing against the confines of his work pants. He shifted his stance, trying to will the sensation away, but it was no use. The pressure was unbearable, insistent, and tight. Every movement reminded him of just how badly he needed you.
Bucky glanced toward the kitchen again, making sure you were still occupied. When the coast was clear, his hand slid to his crotch, fingers brushing over the straining fabric as if adjusting himself would ease the discomfort.
It didn’t.
The brief contact only made his cock twitch in his pants even more.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his hand palming his bulge through his pants.
He had to bite back a groan as his cock throbbed, begging for more. It was so risky squeezing himself when you were only a few steps away, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.
You had no idea what you were doing to him. And the cruelest part was knowing you wanted him too—that fact alone made it harder to keep his control.
Bucky knew he could easily barge in and ruin you, ruin all that polished perfection you surrounded yourself with.
He’d dirty up your pristine house in an instant. He’d bend you over the arm of your thousand-dollar couch. He’d fuck you across all three glossy floors. He’d bury himself deep in your king-sized bed until you couldn’t bear to go to bed without him.
His hand pressed harder against the outline of his cock. “Fuck, baby,” he growled to himself as filthy images flooded in his mind.
He wanted to so badly drag that sad excuse of a cover-up off your body, bunching it around your bare waist and bending you over the kitchen counter that you hardly use to cook for your own. He wanted to take his time and savour you—make you finally crumble and beg for his attention instead of throwing out coy smiles and teasing comments.
His thumb circled the swollen head straining against his pants, the friction was delicious but it was not nearly enough.
Fuck, did he want to split you open on his cock, watch your spoiled composure shatter as you clawed at him for more with those greedy, manicured hands.
He squeezed himself harder, breathing heavy, eyes locked on the doorway where you could reappear any second. The risk of being caught only made his cock throb harder.
Imagine if you walked out right now, catching him red-handed—
The sound of the door opening snapped him back to reality. He yanked his hand away, standing up straight and turning his back just as you stepped outside with his glass of lemonade with a bright and oblivious smile on your face.
“Here you go,” you said brightly, handing him the glass.
“Thanks,” he muttered back, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest second before he took it.
He tipped the glass back, his Adam's apple bobbing as swallowed, and you found yourself staring at his throat like you were thirsty yourself. He let out a satisfied sigh as he set the glass down on a nearby table.
He gave you one quick glance under his sunglasses before nodding his head once. “It’s good.”
Dry.
Flat. Like always.
And you, of course, didn’t notice the irony that just a mere seconds ago, he had his palm against his cock, groaning your name under his breath. Now here he was, still as stone, acting like you barely existed.
But for you, that tiny moment, your fingers brushing against his when you passed the lemonade, was enough to send your heart skipping like a schoolgirl’s.
It was ridiculous, really, how something so brief could make you feel so electric.
You forced a small smile and slipped back into your chair, twirling the straw in your now half-melted cocktail. You tried to play it cool, but your eyes kept dragging back to him again and again.
You were hypnotized with the way his hands toyed at his belt like he was adjusting himself, the movement of his shoulders as he crouched low by the pump system near the pool’s edge—everything about him just made it harder to resist.
Bucky leaned over the filter housing, twisting the valve to let off the hiss of trapped pressure. You watched as he unlatched the clamps holding the lid in place, muscles hard at work under his sun-warmed skin.
With a low grunt, he lifted the heavy top free, setting it aside before reaching down into the canister. He worked quietly, pulling free a clogged-up basket stuffed with leaves, stringy muck, and god knows what else. You weren’t really paying that much attention to the filter anyway.
“Mm,” he muttered, giving it a shake, water splattering onto the pavement. “The filter's jammed up worse than it should be. I’ll need to check on it a couple more times this week, make sure it doesn’t back up the whole system.”
He tilted his head. “Gonna take a look at the pump’s pressure next.”
He dropped the basket back into the filter housing and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Then, with a low grunt, he hooked his fingers at the hem of his damp white tank and lifted up and over his head.
You nearly spilled your damn drink.
His chest stretched out, broad and solid. His muscles shifted as he tugged the fabric free and tossed it aside. Sunlight caught on every line—the ridges of his abs, the sharp cut of his V disappearing beneath the waistband of his low-slung work pants.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, heat flooding in your belly.
Your thighs pressed together, desperate to soothe the ache between them. You wanted to keep watching, but every flex of his back as he crouched over the filter only made it worse. You pictured your hands running down the hard grooves of muscle, his body hovering over yours—
God. It was so indecent, sitting here and openly staring at him.
You knew you couldn’t take it anymore when he started to grunt as he bent down to check the pipes. The sound was nothing but seemingly innocent, but to your ears, it came out unbearably filthy.
Clearing your throat, you scrambled to your feet, your drink wobbling dangerously in your hand.
“Well,” you said quickly, voice rising high in pitch. “It’s getting… really hot out here, so I’ll just—” You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”
You didn’t wait for an answer—not that you were going to get one anyway. With your face burning, you hurried back towards the safety of your house, desperate for cool air and four walls protecting you from the sight of his addicting sweat-slicked body.
Bucky glanced up, peering at you through his shades as he watched you scurry off inside, your cover-up lifting around your bare thighs.
That was cute. For someone whose entire game was trying to catch his attention, you bolted the second you actually got it.
He bent back over the pipes, but his focus was shot to hell. Every few seconds, his gaze followed back to the house, tracking you through those wide, spotless windows until you disappeared past a wall… only to reappear again in your bedroom.
The blinds were wide open, curtains parted to give him a clean view of your perfect body. You hadn’t even realized—or maybe you did, and this was your invitation for him to watch you.
From where he stood at the pool’s edge, he had a perfect line of sight—your figure moving across the room as you wiggled out of your flimsy cover-up and tossed it carelessly onto the floor somewhere. He watched as you paced around the room, flustered and restless.
The sunlight peeking through your windows lit you up like a goddess, a carving that was made to be worshipped by him.
You looked edible.
And Bucky wanted a taste.
Just as he was about to force his gaze away to focus on the filter, you did something that made his throat go completely dry.
You let out bikini straps slip from your shoulders. The top fell loose and he felt his chest—and his pants—tighten as you stood there, bare and unaware. But what really got him was the sight of you crawling into your bed, removing your bottoms and letting your polished fingertips glide down your bare torso and disappearing in between your smooth thighs.
“Jesus Christ…” he muttered as his cock began to stir again.
Watching you make lemonade earlier was one thing. But this—this was just obscene. Standing out here in your yard, shirtless, watching you touch yourself like you were putting on a show for him alone.
It should’ve felt wrong. He should’ve felt like a creep—like a pervert. But it didn’t stop him.
Because this was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to stare at you? After all, you were likely touching yourself to the thought of him anyway, so it was only fair for him to watch you in return.
Your hair sprawled across white silk pillows, your legs stretching open as you began to work yourself with desperate little touches. Bucky’s cock strained with every twitch of your fingers. He could already imagine it—how wet you’d be for him, how tight.
If it were his hand between your thighs instead of yours, you’d be clawing at him, begging to keep going—or to go easy.
Fuck. Watching you earlier had been bad enough, but this? This was pure torture.
He could already imagine it, how wet you would feel against his fingers, how easily you would open up for him if it were his hand between your thighs instead of your own.
His cock pressed hard against his zipper, begging for just an ounce of relief. Palming himself wasn’t enough, and if he wasn’t going to storm upstairs and fuck you into your mattress, he’d have to settle for his hand instead.
You had your head tossed back against the pillow, your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth hung open. Bucky couldn’t hear you, but God, he wished he could.
With a low growl, he unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants, zipping his fly down quickly and desperately. His hand slipped into his waistband, pulled out his cock, already warm and heavy in his palm. The rush of cool air against his swollen tip made him hiss through his teeth, and his fist tightened around the length.
Bucky watched as you rolled your hips against your own fingers, your lips parting to gasp, he couldn’t hear but could damn well imagine.
His fist worked over his cock, giving himself small and teasing strokes. But the longer he watched you, the harder he pumped himself. His breath hitched right along with yours, even if you couldn’t hear him.
“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he rasped under his breath, this thumb sliding over the leaking tip of his cock. “Fuck yourself nice and deep… open up that pretty pussy for me.”
You gasped again, your head sinking deeper against the pillows, and he groaned, imagining it was because of him, because of the way he would sink his cock into you and split you wide.
“Bet you’d be so fucking tight around me,” he grunted, hips rocking into his hand as he pumped faster. “I’d stretch you out so good, make you scream my name instead of keeping it all quiet like that.”
Every shake of your body, every subtle move of your wrist, only made him harder, needier. His balls were tight and aching, but still he couldn’t stop, couldn’t drag his eyes away.
“Goddamn, look at you,” he muttered, voice strained. “So perfect… so fucking sweet—thinkin’ you’re in control all the time.” His hips bucked into his fist, precum smearing over his knuckles as he stroked harder. “You’ve got no idea, do you? How bad I wanna ruin that pretty little image of yours....”
Your thighs trembled, your lips parting in another voiceless cry, and he groaned deep in his chest, pumping himself faster. You were getting close, he just knew it.
“I’d fuck you stupid, baby,” he hissed, gaze locked on the way your legs started to shake. “Have you begging, drooling, makin’ a mess all over my cock until you couldn’t even say my name without whimpering.”
He braced one hand against the edge of the filter housing, knuckles going white.
“You’d be mine. Only mine. I’d keep you tucked away in this big house, fuckin’ you on every damn floor until you forget anyone else even exists,” he growled. “I’ll make sure you have no one else over but me.”
His hips jerked, strokes getting messier as the image of you whimpering beneath him filled his head. Through your window, your back arched, your eyes squeezing shut as your fingers moved frantically between your legs.
“Yeah… that’s it, baby,” he hissed quietly. “Cum for me, cum on my cock like I’m right there…”
Your body trembled, chest rising up and down rapidly. Bucky felt his own release rising hard and fast. The sight of you—silk sheets wrinkling beneath you, hair sprawled out over the pillows—tore a groan clean out of his chest.
Good thing you couldn’t hear him.
You turned your head, cheek brushing softly against your tousled hair, looking like a goddamn angel.
Then your eyes fluttered open.
Straight out the window.
And Bucky’s stomach dropped.
Shit.
He immediately yanked his hand off himself and stuffed his cock back into his pants, turning his body toward the filter like he had been working on it the whole time. His breathing came hard through his nose, heart beating fast as he grabbed the nearest tool and pretended to check the pipes, praying you hadn’t seen him.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath. His heart was thudding in his ears, his cock still aching—slick and completely unsatisfied in his pants.
He sucked in a deep breath as he tried to steady himself, trying to look like he hadn’t just been seconds away from blowing his load all over the pool deck.
Play it cool.
Work the pipes.
Don’t look back up.
Meanwhile, from above, you lay your back against your pillows as your gaze swept out the window and down to your pool.
Bucky was still out there, bent over the filter and hard at work. His broad back was gleaming with sweat, and even from here, you could see his chest rising and falling heavily, his breaths coming in sharp.
A faint smile tugged at your lips. Of course he looked wrecked—he had been out there all morning, under the sun, hunched over pipes and skimmers and God knows what else.
He was really, really hard at work.
Your smile dropped to something… guiltier. Poor guy, out there sweating through his work while you’ve been upstairs, sprawled out in silk pristine sheets, doing… well, not much of anything useful.
And even though he didn’t ask for it, he deserved another lemonade.
You sat up and threw on a simple shirt and shorts this time. It wasn’t like you were going for a swim with the filters all messed up, and it wasn’t like that bikini had done much to catch his attention anyway.
You stepped outside, the glass of lemonade slick with condensation. The sun hit you right in the face, forcing you to squint as you raised a hand to shield your eyes.
“Round two!” you called, your sandals smacking lightly against the patio.
Bucky’s shoulders stiffened before he stood up straight and turned to you. He cleared his throat, his fingers brushing over yours for the briefest second before he took the glass.
“Thanks,” he muttered, voice raspy and thick. He looked down at you, sunglasses hiding his eyes. His jaw clenched—like he wanted to say something but couldn’t, or… more like he didn’t trust himself to speak.
You were a different sight than before. Your hair was a little mussed, you had on a plain shirt—a few sizes too big—hanging over your body. It was so big that he barely noticed your tiny shorts riding up your thighs.
No skimpy hundred dollar bikini. No sheer cover-up. And this time, no obvious attempt at allure.
And still, he wanted you.
Because even like this—especially like this—he was still hard, still unsatisfied, his cock pressing hot and heavy against his zipper.
He swallowed hard before tipping the glass back. He downed the lemonade in one long chug, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow until the glass was completely empty.
You smiled, hands behind your back. “Better than the first time?”
He exhaled slowly, handing the glass back to you.
“Yeah.”
It was another sweltering afternoon, and you were sprawled out on the pool chair with a book in your hands—a book you hadn’t turned a page in for the last fifteen minutes. Your eyes kept straying past the print, landing on Bucky where he knelt by the water pipes.
Today was even hotter than yesterday, and he was out there shirtless, sweat dripping down his skin as he worked. You had on a different swimsuit—still skimpy, still expensive—and the heat was making you sweat right through it.
Honestly, if it weren’t for the view, you would’ve already given up and gone inside to the comfort of your AC.
You set the book down on your lap. “Bucky,” you called, tilting your head towards him. “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside? It’s okay to take a break, it’s so damn hot out here.”
He didn’t even glance up from where crouched. He twisted a wrench, the metal clinking sharp against the pipe.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
But the sun was glaring down on you both mercilessly, beads of sweat sliding down his temple, down his throat and over his chest. You were already burning up just by sitting still—so with him out there working, he seemed anything but fine.
You wiped at your damp forehead with the back of your hand, moving uncomfortably against the recliner with a huff. The heat was unbearable, and the bikini that was supposed to make you feel sexy felt sticky, suffocating, and gross.
“Bucky,” you tried again with a weary sigh, “come inside. Just for a minute. I’ll crank up the AC and grab you a drink. You’re going to pass out if you stay out here. The filter can wait.”
He didn’t bite. He never did. Even your own patience felt like it was melting under the sun.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said roughly, tightening the wrench with another twist.
He still didn’t look at you.
Normally you would laugh it off, throw out another playful line his way, and try again until you wrung even the smallest reaction out of him. But the heat, the sweat, and the mounting frustration of constantly chasing his attention had you clenching your jaw instead.
“Fine,” you muttered, sharper than you intended, snapping your book shut and rising to your feet. “Suit yourself.”
Without another word—or even glance—you turned and marched back into the house, letting yourself be greeted by the cool air over your skin as the door clicked shut behind you.
Bucky froze from where he crouched, wrench going still in his hand as he watched you stalk off and shut the door in a way that clearly indicated you were not coming back.
What the hell was that about?
You never just… got up and left.
You usually retreated in the house with a smile on your face, and every single time, you kept coming back, circling him with that playful little persistence of yours.
His jaw clenched, tossing the wrench aside with a heavy clatter. He dragged a hand down his sweaty face, cursing under his breath.
He stood up slowly, letting out a little groan at the strain. Sweat was dripping down his temple and soaking through the waistband of his pants. The sun was cooking him alive, and maybe that was why he was starting to feel a little frustrated himself.
Because the truth was, he wasn’t fine.
The heat was suffocating, and his head was spinning with an irritation he couldn’t quite put down. It wasn’t just from the sun—it was you.
The way that bikini clung to your curves, the shine of sweat down your chest, the needy whine in your voice when you begged him to come inside.
Christ. He was hard again, cock straining against his sweat-damp pants. He hated how quick it happened. He hated how easily wound up he got every time you looked at him, and he hated how you walking away only made it worse.
The pool gurgled behind him, the filter still clearly needing work, but his focus was all over the place.
All he could picture was you inside, cooling down with that little frown on your lips—disappointed that he wasn’t in there with you. You were probably already stripping out of that bikini. Maybe laying down, legs pressed together, trying to take the edge off the way you had yesterday.
And because of those thoughts—those relentless, stupid thoughts—Bucky lasted all but five minutes.
Five full minutes of pacing along the pool, knowing the pipes needed his full attention when all he could focus on was the tight ache in his chest and the heavier one pressing against his zipper.
When his gaze inevitably looked up towards the house, there you were through the spotless windows.
Laid out across the couch, your skimpy bikini straps were digging into your skin as you slouched against the cushions—not even caring that you were dirtying up the expensive furniture with your sweat.
You crossed your legs at the ankle as your eyes fluttered shut, chest rising and falling softly. You weren’t even looking at him.
And fuck—he couldn’t take it anymore.
He tugged off his work gloves and tossed them by the skimmer, muttering something grumpily under his breath that even he couldn’t catch. His boots stomped heavily against the patio as he made his way to the back door.
He paused at the door, his eyes glued on your body through the glass. He should knock. Hell, he should turn around and get back to the pipes before he did something stupid. But despite his thoughts, his fingers wrapped tight around the handle anyway.
This was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? The way you always lingered near him, flirted shamelessly, always tried to tempt him closer without ever saying it outright. You have been waiting for him to step inside this house for weeks.
In Bucky’s mind, he was finally giving you what you wanted.
The door slid open with a low scrape, the blast of cold air brushing against his warm body. He stepped in as if he already lived there, heavy boots already dirtying the once-pristine plush rug.
Your eyes fluttered open at the faint sound of the door closing.
“Bucky…?” your voice was soft and confused as you took him in.
A big, broad, sweaty Bucky, standing in your living room for the first time since he’d started working for you.
“What are you doing in here? Is everything okay—”
“Almost done with the filter,” he cut you off with a rough voice, his gaze trying to steer away from the tempting lines of your body. “Just needed to use the bathroom.”
You blinked at him, thrown off guard by the excuse but too caught up in the fact that he was finally in your house to even question it. “Oh—yeah, of course. Come on.”
You scrambled to your feet, suddenly self-conscious in nothing but your swimsuit. When you pictured Bucky entering your home, it wasn’t like this. In your head, you would’ve coaxed him in with a drink, maybe with a teasing smile here and there.
Not because he needed the bathroom.
So yeah, his unexpected presence threw you off. But still… at the end of the day, it was better than nothing.
“This way,” you said over your shoulder, leading him down the hall.
Your house had never looked better—freshly waxed floors were reflecting under the light, except Bucky’s dirty work boots were now leaving a trail. Your walls were decorated with curated art and frames that were probably worth more than most people’s salaries.
But Bucky didn’t spare a glance at any of them.
His eyes were locked on you.
And you could feel his heavy stare weighing down on your nearly bare back.
The walk to the bathroom was short, yet it felt endless. Because for once, you had nothing to say. You stopped in front of the door, fingers twisting the knob before pushing it open.
You could feel him behind you, close enough that his breath ghosted over the back of your neck. Your pulse quickened, and your mouth went dry.
If you turned around, if you so much as looked up at him, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep your composure.
You cleared your throat. “Well… this is it,” you said, flicking the lights on.
The mirror above the sink lit up instantly, creating a warm glow across the tiled room. And in the reflection, you saw the two of you framed in the doorway.
And then you caught him.
His gaze wasn’t on the bathroom at all—it was on you.
You saw the way his jaw was clenched tight as his eyes trailed over the slope of your bare shoulders, his gaze lingering on the thin bikini straps pressed against your soft skin.
You didn’t say a word. And truthfully, you didn’t want to—because if you spoke, you would snap him out of it.
You wanted him to keep staring at you. You wanted to feel his eyes dragging over your body slowly, down your shoulders, over the curve of your waist and hips, to every inch of bare skin your bikini left exposed.
He wasn’t touching you, but his eyes felt like a touch—scorching, intimate. It made your stomach twist and your thighs press together. Through the mirror, you watched as his tongue swiped over his bottom lip, a low groan slipping from his chest like he was fighting something back.
God, did that stare burn so bad.
You wanted him to touch you—just a light graze of his fingertips, the heat of his palm against your waist. Anything.
For a second, you’re convinced he might actually do it—close that little bit of space between you, press you up against the doorframe, and give you what you’ve been craving.
But instead, he tore his gaze away. He stepped past you into the bathroom, his shoulder brushing yours. The brief contact had a soft gasp catching in your throat, your body already trembling at something so small.
“Thanks,” he muttered before reaching for the door and shutting it behind him.
You were left standing in the hall, your pulse thudding loudly in your ears. You felt your skin warm where his shoulder brushed yours—you almost felt feverish. You should’ve gone back to the couch and pretend like nothing happened.
But instead, you found yourself pacing in the living room, restless and unable to sit still.
Bucky was in your house. He was actually in your damn house.
And yet, the worst part was knowing that the second he came back out, he’d go right back to normal—back to his work, back to being dismissive, like none of this had ever happened.
But as the minutes dragged on, your heart couldn’t help but slam harder in your chest with each second he remained behind that closed door. Any normal person would assume that he was… taking a number two. Instead, a dangerous thought crept in—the idea that maybe he was in there because he felt it too.
Because he couldn’t hold back any more than you could.
That he was in there touching himself.
Because of you.
By the time the bathroom door creaked open, your breath was shallow with anticipation and your palms clammy.
Your head whipped to the hall just as Bucky stepped out, broad shoulders filling the doorway. His hair was damp, and you couldn’t tell if it was because of the sweat, or from splashing water over his face.
“Uh—are you… are you okay?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
He dragged a hand over his stubbled jaw, his expression unreadable as his eyes took you in.
“I’m fine,” he said, dismissive as ever—yet his voice was rougher, like gravel.
At this point, you expected him to brush past you, head back outside and lose himself in the pipes. That’s what he always did, and that’s what you told yourself to expect.
But he didn’t move.
You interlocked your fingers as your hands rested in front of you, looking prim as if he was the owner of the house and you were the one serving him.
“Um—do you, uh, want something to drink before you head back out?” you offered. “Or you could sit down for a bit, maybe relax for a second? It’s hotter today than yesterday, and—”
“I want a tour,” he cut you off.
“A house tour?” you blinked, flustered. “O-okay… let me just change—”
“No need,” he interrupted calmly, his eyes flickering briefly down to your body before coming back to your face. “It’ll be quick anyway. Gotta fix those pipes.”
Your cheeks warmed up. A house tour was the last thing you expected out of him, but you weren’t complaining. Maybe this was his version of a break. You straightened your shoulders and tried to play it cool.
“Alright… well, we’ll start here,” you said, gesturing to the living room couch where you had been lounging earlier. You walked him past the coffee table, and with your back now turned to him, you couldn’t help but if his eyes were lingering on your body the same way it did at the bathroom
“This couch,” you continued, forcing yourself to sound light and casual, “is where I usually read or watch movies. Very comfortable, and it gets plenty of sunlight.”
Bucky stood close behind you. “Vitamin D,” he said. “Very important.” He glances down at the couch. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”
If it were any other man, you would’ve been revulsed at the thought—your pristine, expensive couch soaking up sweat from someone who had been working in the sun all day.
But Bucky wasn’t any other man.
“Please,” you reassured, motioning with a smile. “Be my guest.”
He let out a quiet huff as he settled down, the cushions sinking under his weight. His broad shoulders stretched across the backrest, making your large couch look small. One hand slid along the cushion, testing the give of the fabric.
“It’s comfortable,” he said flatly.
You laughed a little too quickly, the nerves getting at you. “I get only the best. I… spend a lot of time here.”
Bucky tilted his head slightly, and for a second, you thought that he’d get up and give one of his usual gruff responses. But instead, he patted the empty cushion beside him, inviting you as if the house wasn’t under your name.
“Have a seat.”
Your breath got stuck in your throat. “Uh—okay,” it was unexpected, but you shrugged and settled down anyway, your bare thigh grazing against his. “Sure.”
He leaned back into the couch, arms stretched lazily across the top, one long leg crossing over the other. For someone stepping into your living room for the first time, he sure sat there like he owned it.
You perched on the edge of the cushion, hands folded primly in your lap while he looked as though he belonged—like this was his space, not yours.
“Can I ask you something?”
You turned, eyes slightly wide at the sudden question. “Anything.”
He looked around the room with an unreadable expression, taking in the expanse of the clean kitchen, the wide dining area, and the chandelier dangling on the high ceiling.
“Your house is big,” he said. “Most houses I work for, there’s a family, or people coming and going. But here…” his eyes land back on you. “You’re always by yourself. Why is that?”
You felt yourself going stiff. The bikini you put on to draw him closer suddenly felt like a mistake—because right now, with the way his eyes pinned you, you wished you were wearing anything else.
“I don’t really…” you hesitated, fingers fidgeting in your lap. “I don’t really like having that many people over. It makes it dirty, and I like the solitude sometimes, you know?”
His head tilted slightly. The silence that followed felt tense, until his mouth quirked up in a faint smirk. “So that’s why your house is so clean?” his voice was rougher, almost teasing. “Would be a shame if someone like me were to come in and dirty it up, wouldn’t it?”
“W-what?” you stuttered, but tried to hide it with a small laugh.
Spurred on by your flustered reaction, his smirk grew wider as he leaned in closer, his voice coming to a growl.
“What’s wrong? Thought you always wanted me to come inside your house.”
The way he said it, voice deep and husky, made your stomach twist and your legs press together. He wasn’t just talking about the house, and you both knew it.
Bucky’s eyes swept lazily around the room before settling back on you.
“I want to see the rest of your place,” he said, “but your couch… it’s pretty damn comfortable.”
You opened your mouth, unsure if you should argue or joke, but the words never made it out. He shuffled, leaning closer, his thick thigh pressing harder against yours.
“Scoot closer,” he murmured.
You swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous, but you did as he asked and slid closer until the heat of his body filled every inch of space beside you.
That’s when his hand glided gently on your bare thigh. His fingers were rough. Warm. His thumb moves in slow circles against your skin, testing you.
“Tell me more about the living room,” he coaxed, his tone deceptively casual.
He looked at you and spoke as though he wasn’t even touching you, as though his hand wasn’t resting heavy and warm on your thigh. His touch was deceptively gentle, but it was enough to make your whole body tremble.
Enough to leave you aching for more.
“Um… well, I usually… uh—read here… watch movies and sometimes, you know… just nap,” you stammered.
It was insane, really— how confident you were when trying to coax him in. But your words faltered as his head leaned closer, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck. A soft kiss, then another, each one carving into your skin as his hand traveled higher.
“And the rug…” you blurted out, desperate for composure. “It’s one of my favorites—it’s a limited-edition Oushak. Handwoven, cream and pale blue… only ten of them in the world.”
A soft press of his lips, followed by the scrape of his teeth and the slow glide of his tongue over your neck, left your breath caught in your throat. His hand squeezed your thigh, creeping dangerously higher to the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms.
“Where is it from?” he muttered against your skin.
You knew he didn’t care for the answer, yet you gave it to him anyway. “An—ah—it’s, uh… it was imported, um—from… f-from Turkey? Or Persia—somewhere like that—I don’t, I can’t—”
Your words were barely making sense now, every syllable trembling off your tongue. Because it had been so long—so long since anyone touched you like this. And being touched by the man who you secretly sought after made your head spin like crazy.
His hand slid up higher and wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you close against him. You let out a soft gasp, your body trembling as you pressed into his hard, warm, and muscular frame.
“Bucky…!” you breathed, your hands rising instinctively and brushing against his bicep.
But before you could go any further, his hand shot out immediately and caught your wrist. His grip on your wrist was gentle, but the movement was rough as he guided your hands back down to your sides with ease.
“Keep your hands at your sides.”
You sucked in a deep breath, both embarrassment and arousal tingling inside you. The audacity of him—to be so commanding here, in your own damn house. He worked for you. It should’ve been the other way around. And yet, you cursed yourself for nodding because you were just simply too flustered to resist.
He grinned faintly at your obedience.
“Go on,” he said, lips ghosting over your ear as his hand caressed your naked waist. “Tell me more about the house.”
“Bucky,” you hesitated, blinking up at him. “What are you… what are you trying to do—”
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he grunted, his nose brushing against your jawline. He pulled away slightly to catch your gaze, his blue eyes dark and desperate, pinning you in place. “Isn’t this what you wanted? For me to come inside?”
“Well… yes, but—”
“Then go on.” He pressed, leaning closer. “Let’s relax for a bit, yeah? Just lay back…” he looked around the living room slowly, “and tell me more about your beautiful home.”
His hand slid down your waist and around your back, his touch firm but careful as he guided you back against the couch cushions. He moved with you, settling himself between your legs, his broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart.
“Bucky..” you whispered, your voice shaky even though you made no move to stop him.
He lowered himself slowly, his stubble grazing against the sensitive inside of your thigh. One kiss, then another—each torturously gentle, each one leaving your body trembling even harder.
“Go on,” he encouraged as he pressed another kiss higher. “Tell me more about your living room.”
Your head fell back against the couch, a soft sigh escaping your lips as you tried to string words together.
“Um… the… the ceilings are high—so high, and the chandelier… it’s uh, imported crystal. Very… elegant.”
Bucky’s lips curved up against your thigh, a soft, raspy chuckle vibrating against your skin. His mouth traveled higher until, finally it pressed firmly against the thin fabric of your bikini bottoms. The sudden heat of his lips over your most sensitive spot made you jolt, a sharp gasp escaping your throat as your body shook.
“B-Bucky…” you panted, your hips bucking up instinctively, desperate for more contact. “Please…”
You felt the teasing curl of his smile against you. The thin fabric was already damp with your arousal, and the realization that he could feel it—that he could smell it—sent a hot flush of shame and need up your neck.
“Mmm,” he hummed against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.
“You’re soaked, baby. And you smell so fucking sweet,” his tongue flicking over your clothed folds. “What was that you said about your… chandelier? Imported crystal?”
Then, his tongue flicked out, dragging over your wet folds through the fabric, the damp barrier doing nothing to dull the sensation. The light, tormenting trace of him had your hips rutting up shamelessly, chasing more friction, more of him.
“Oh, God—Bucky. I need you—”
Your thighs quivered around his head as his tongue traced you again, the sticky fabric preventing you from feeling the real thing. He was playing with you, tormenting you, making you unravel with just the smallest movements of his mouth.
“Need me? What could you need from me that you don’t already have, baby?” he taunted, his hand rubbing up and down your thigh. “You’ve already got a fancy rug, a chandelier… so don’t be greedy now, sweetheart.”
Your hands fisted the cushions harder, nails biting into the fabric as your legs quivered around him. “I can’t—I need more, please, I need—”
Before you could finish, he shoved your bottoms to the side, exposing your slick heat to the cool air. A guttural groan escaped him at the sight, his eyes darkening as if he had been starving for this. He didn’t hesitate—didn’t want to waste another second as his mouth dropped back down, tongue flattening against your folds in one long, hungry lick.
“Oh my god!” you cried, your back arching as your hands flew to cover your face, too overwhelmed to do anything else. “Bucky—”
“Mm..” He hummed against you, savoring your taste before dragging his tongue even slower, teasing your sensitive clit. “Tell me more about the house, baby. The floors… they’re waxed, aren’t they?”
God. Here you were—sprawled out and nearly naked on your couch with your pool cleaner’s head in between your legs. This very moment felt like straight out of a dream, but here he was, asking about your wax floors.
“Y-yeah…” you panted. “The… the floors, they’re… w-waxed every—oh, fuck—every week.”
“Every week, huh?” he muttered into you, lips curling before he dove back in, sucking hard on your swollen clit until you cried out. “That why they shine so pretty?”
You have a very good feeling he isn’t just talking about the floors anymore. You could barely answer, choking on your moans, thighs shaking violently around his head. Your grip on the couch cushions grew desperate, clawing at the fabric for any ounce of stability.
Then came his fingers. Two, thick and rough, sliding through your soaked folds, teasing, spreading you open.
“F-fuck…” you gasped, hips twitching uncontrollably.
Without warning, he shoved them inside deep, curling instantly against your softest spot. Your cry was sharp, needy, your back arching off the couch.
“B-Bucky!”
He didn’t let you adjust—his tongue fucking your clit in rhythm with the hard thrusts of his fingers, pumping into you wet and fast, filling the room with the sounds of your pussy squelching against his hand along with his deep grunts and groans.
“That’s it, baby,” he grunted. “Cry for me. Fuck—you sound so fuckin’ pretty…”
The sound of his mouth, your wet pussy squelching from his fingers filled the air. Your body was unraveling, every nerve tightening as your stomach knotted hard, the edge of release coming into you with brutal speed. “I—fuck… feels so good. I’m so close, I’m—”
But just as you were about to come undone, he stopped.
His mouth pulled away. His fingers slipped out with a wet pop as he left you trembling, wet, and aching for more.
A broken whimper left your lips as he casually tugged your bikini bottom back into place, covering the mess he’d just made of you.
“Bucky—why—” your voice cracked as you tried sitting up.
He smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like it was nothing.
“You’ll get more when I’m ready.” He leaned back, calm as ever, while you trembled beneath him. “Now… are you going to show me the rest of this pretty house?”
You whimpered, legs still trembling. “Bucky… please…”
He pushed himself up slowly, adjusting himself in his work pants, the heavy outline of his cock impossible to miss. His eyes dragged over you—every curve, every shake of your body as you arched unconsciously toward him. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip at the delicious sight. Watching you come apart for him was already driving him mad.
When he took a step back from the couch, you moved without thinking.
“Wait…” you scrambled, crawling to the edge of the cushions. Your hands trailed along the thick muscle of his thigh until they found the waistband of his pants. You tugged gently, voice desperate and a quiet whisper. “I… I want to taste too—”
His eyes darkened instantly, locking on yours, and before you could pull him closer, his large hand wrapped around yours. The grip was firm, authoritative, and deliciously commanding.
“No,” he growled. “Tour first.”
Your brows furrowed, lips parting in disbelief.
You were frustrated, aroused, and utterly confused. Why was he torturing you like this? Didn’t he know that you needed him so bad? You were so close, and you can still feel your pussy fluttering against the thin fabric of your bikini—aching for him. A frustrated whine left your mouth as your nails dug into his hand, trying to tug him closer anyway.
But Bucky only shook his head, smirking faintly at your desperation. He leaned down until his lips brushed against your ear, his breath making your skin prickle.
“You wanted me inside,” he said quietly. “Now show me your house.”
None of this made sense. You couldn’t understand why he was dragging this out, why he wouldn’t just give you what you were begging for. But God, you couldn’t stop yourself from listening. You were already addicted to him enough—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hand… it could undo you completely.
So you swallowed hard, nodded, and stood up. Your legs were weak, trembling with every step as you moved ahead of him, leading him towards the staircase.
“That’s it,” Bucky purred behind you, deep and mocking. “Good girl. Lead the way.”
Your fingers held onto the banister as you climbed, your thighs brushing with each step, the subtle friction of simply walking making you go mad. The fabric of your bikini felt suffocating and sticky, and you knew he could see it in the way your hips swayed as you walked.
“You’re shaking,” he taunted softly. “Legs that weak already? And I’ve barely touched you.”
“Bucky…” you whispered, not sure if you were pleading or warning.
“Keep going,” his hand brushed against your lower back, steadying you like he owned your body. “Show me more of this big, empty house that you’re so proud of.”
When you reached the landing, you paused, swallowing hard and desperate to catch your breath. But Bucky was already closing the gap, his chest brushing against your bare shoulder blades.
“This is… the hallway,” you said quickly, gesturing down the long stretch of polished wood and soft lighting. “I, um… had these sconces imported from Italy. They’re—”
“Imported,” Bucky cut you off, his tone slightly mocking and amused. “Everything in this house’s imported, huh?”
Your cheeks burned, and you tried to keep walking, pointing towards a piece of art hanging on the wall. “That’s an original oil painting, early 19th cent—”
His chest pressed harder against your back, trapping you between him and the wall. Warm breath brushed over the shell of your ear, and then his mouth was on your neck again—soft kisses, then rougher as his hands slid around your waist.
“B-bucky…” you sighed, “please, can we just—”
“Keep going,” he murmured. “Don’t stop.”
His hands gripped your waist tight as he rolled his hips forward, his hard length grinding against your ass through the barrier of his work pants. The friction was maddening as he rutted up against you, hard and slow.
“Th-that… that painting… it’s, um, early 19th century—ah!”
Your words broke apart the minute his lips found that sweet spot just under your ear, sucking until you whimpered.
“You already said that, baby,” he growled. One hand slipped up, cupping your breast through the tiny triangle of your bikini top, thumb flicking over the hardened bud. “C’mon, give me something new.”
His other hand pressed lower, flattening against your tummy as he rutted against you harder, each thrust of his hips pushing you forward a step.
“F-fuck…” he hissed through gritted teeth, his breath ragged in your ear.
His rutting grew rougher, his cock thick and heavy against the curve of your ass through his pants. Your palms splayed flat against the wall, the sconces rattling faintly from the impact.
You were a shaking, whimpering mess under him. “The—th-the flooring,” you babbled, “mahogany… oh god, imported from Brazil…!” Your words were caught off by a sharp moan as his hands slipped under the bikini, squeezing your breast and pinching your nipple.
“Imported,” he repeated mockingly, panting as he ground against you. “Fuck, baby, you feel that? You’re makin’ me so fucking hard.”
“Bucky—please, please,” you whined, shamelessly pushing your hips back into him, grinding against the thick outline of his cock. The friction sent sparks up your spine, your thighs quivering and clit throbbing.
“Shit,” he cursed, forehead pressing into your shoulder as his hips rutted against you harder, sloppier. His hands roamed and fondled you roughly as he fucked against you through his pants. “Gonna make a mess in my work clothes if you keep wiggling that ass against me.”
You gasped, head tipping back helplessly against his chest. “Then do it—fuck, please—”
“Goddamn, you’re fucking desperate,” his hand circled up around your neck, not choking, but squeezing gently as he held you in place and rutted faster. “Keep talkin’ about the house, pretty girl. Go on. Tell me about your perfect little hallway while I ruin you right here.”
You nearly collapsed and his hand finally slid under the thin band of your bikini bottoms, his fingers brushing through your slick heat.
“B-Bucky!” you gasped, hips jerking when the pad of his finger circled your clit. The contrast—his hand working you, his hips grinding rough and needy into your ass, it had your body unraveling in seconds.
“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear. “Fuckin’ soaked for me. So good, baby.”
You whimpered and clawed at the wall, your body caught between his rutting cock and those ruthless circles around your clit. “Please—I can’t—I’m gonna—”
“Yeah?” he panted, hips stuttering as his cock pulsed and leaked hard against you, the friction almost unbearable for him too. “Gonna come for me right here in your pretty hallway? Fuck—me too, baby, me too—”
But just as your body tensed, pleasure right there at the edge, he tore his hand away. His hips stilled, chest heaving against your back as his grip on your waist tightened before letting you go.
The sudden loss felt like ice water in your veins.
“N-no, no,” you begged, looking over your shoulder with pleading eyes. “Please, not again. Why—”
He chuckled as he pressed a mocking kiss to your cheek. “Not yet,” his hand caressed down your thigh while the other tugged your swimsuit back into place. “Tour’s not finished.”
Your body was trembling beneath him. You’re about to turn around, grip onto his shirt and start begging, but his rough voice cut through.
“Show me your bedroom.”
You swallowed hard, cheeks burning, every nerve frustrated from being denied. “Bucky…” you whispered in plea, but you didn’t dare to finish your sentence with the dark look he was giving you.
His fingers came up and brushed your cheek in a teasing stroke, making you jolt. “You gonna keep me waiting? Or do I need to find it myself?”
Your knees nearly buckled, the thought of him striding into your private space—into the most intimate part of your house made your heart beat even faster in your chest. With a shaky breath, you straightened up while still clinging to the wall for support, and nodded.
“This way,” you said, legs trembling as you took small steps down the hallway.
Behind you, you could hear him exhale a soft laugh, amused at how weak and needy you were from so little.
Your hand trembled as you turned the knob, pushing the door open to your bedroom. The soft scent of your perfume was floating in the air, laced with fresh linen and the faint sweetness of flowers from the vase on your nightstand.
“This is it,” you said softly, stepping aside so he could see.
The room looked pristine. Large windows—where you could get the full view of him, of course—with sheer curtains to let in the afternoon light. A perfectly made bed with ivory sheets, not a thing out of place.
It was your sanctuary. Your most private place.
And now he was in it.
Bucky leaned against the doorframe, his eyes taking in every inch of the room before landing on you again.
“Figures,” he said. “Perfect. Clean. Polished. Just the rest of the house.”
You fidgeted, your palms brushing nervously over your thighs. “I… I like to keep things neat. It helps me feel—”
“Safe?” he interrupted, his voice almost a growl. He pushed off the frame and stepped closer to you. “Then why’d you invite me in, sweetheart? I’m the messiest thing that could ever happen to this house.”
Your breath caught, your heart hammering in your chest. “I didn’t let you in,” you whispered. “You… invited yourself in, actually.”
His jaw ticked, a dangerous flash of amusement glinting in his eyes. “Lay down,” he ordered suddenly, his voice rough and demanding. “On the bed. Now.”
Your gaze darted from his still-sweaty and still-dirty work clothes to your untouched, pristine sheets. The contrast made your stomach twist.
“Uh… I don’t know—”
“Are you kidding me?” he scoffed, crossing his large arms over his broad chest, muscles flexing. “You’ve been eye-fucking me since the day I started working for you, and now that I’m standing here, you’re telling me you don’t want me in your bed?”
“Well,” your eyes flicked from his sweat-stained shirt to your spotless sheets. “I don’t mean to offend, but… you’re dirty—”
Before you could even finish, his mouth crashed against yours. The kiss was rough, greedy, stealing the rest of the words right off your tongue. His rough stubble scraped against your skin, his lips bruising yours.
“I was rubbing all over you in your hallway—” another hard kiss, “had my tongue and fingers buried in your pussy—” his hand grabbed your hip, dragging you closer against him as he kissed you harder, “and now you’re worried about cleanliness?”
Bucky’s mouth left yours, lips stealing kisses down your jaw and down your throat. You were panting, clutching desperately at his shirt.
“You think I care about these clean sheets?” he muttered against your skin. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me—every damn day, like you want me to ruin every inch of this perfect house?”
Your heart was beating so hard it hurt. “Bucky…”
He leaned back, eyes boring into yours with a hunger you couldn’t quite explain. His thumb brushed over your trembling bottom lip.
“Fine,” he grunted. “If you’re that worried about the bed, I’ll just have to fuck you on your pretty waxed floors like a slut, then.”
Before you could respond, his hands wrapped around tight around your waist, lifting you up and gently setting you down on the floor. The cool hardwood hit your bare back, your hair spilling across the glossy wax as he hovered over you. The contrast made your skin prickle—your perfect, polished sanctuary versus the filthy way he was pinning you down in it.
“You like that, don’t you?” he rasped, spreading your thighs wide with one big hand while his other gripped your jaw to keep your eyes on him. “The thought of me ruining all your hard work—dirty boots, sweaty body, cum dripping down your nice clean floors.”
A broken moan tore from you, your back arching under him as your thighs trembled. “Bucky—please…”
“Please what?” he taunted as he ground his hard cock through his work pants against your barely covered pussy. “Please fuck you like the needy little slut you are? Right here, on the floor you polish every damn week?”
He pulled away slightly to pull his shirt over his head. Then his fingers made quick work of his belt, tugging his work pants down until his cock sprang free. Thick, heavy, the flushed head already slick with precum.
A hiss escaped his lips as his fist wrapped around the hot shaft, working himself with a few steady pumps as his hands tugged at your bikini, while his other hand yanked your bikini bottoms down your thighs in a single rough motion.
You gasped, trembling, your pussy slick and finally bared for him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, running the tip along your warm folds. He tapped against your clit once, making your hips jerk. “Look at you… already dripping.”
He smirked, leaning over you. “You’ve been trying to get me in this house for so long. Always flirting, always begging. This is what you really wanted, isn’t it?” he nudged himself against your entrance, just enough to make you cry out. “Don’t be shy now, baby. Say it.”
Your hands clawed at his shoulders, your voice turning into high, breathless moans. “Yes—yes, I wanted this, I wanted you—please, Bucky—”
“That’s a good girl,” he cooed as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance. The stretch was immediate and overwhelming as he pushed in slowly. Your mouth dropped open with a whimper, fingers digging into his broad shoulders.
“God—you’re so tight,” he grunted, jaw clenching as he eased just an inch deeper. “Relax, baby. I’ll be gentle… just—let me in, fuck…”
But gentle wasn’t easy with you clenching and fluttering around him like that. You whimpered louder, your back arching off the floor as the thickness of him split you open. “Bucky—too big—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he rasped, his lips brushing your ear. “Just breathe… let me in, baby.”
He tried to push in deeper, inch by careful inch… but every time he pushed forward, the tightness of your body made his breath hitch. The control he promised you was slipping with every squeeze of your body.
“Too damn tight,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours as his eyes flutter shut—trying to keep it together, because damn, did he want this just as badly as you did.
“Could’ve had it on the bed… make it nice and comfortable for you,” another inch, another cry from you. “But no, you didn’t want to dirty it up. So now you’re taking it here, on the floor, like a dirty slut.”
He pushed deeper, almost halfway in before pausing at the tight sensation. He tipped his head back, lips falling to let out a frustrated groan.
“Fuck—but I’m too big, aren’t I?” he slowly pulled back, then back in, fucking you with what’s already inside your clenching pussy.
Your walls fluttered around him, your body trembling as it slowly began to adjust to his large size. The initial sting turned into a deep, burning and delicious stretch, each shallow thrust easing him in further.
“Th-that’s it,” he coaxed sweetly, voice breaking as his hips rolled carefully, testing your limits. “Good girl—taking me so fuckin’ sweet…”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, hips shifting beneath him to meet his slow movements. The pain was melting into pleasure, and every tiny adjustment of your hips let him sink a little deeper.
You were opening up for him, and he could feel it.
His jaw clenched, hovering over you with one hand against the floor to balance himself, and the other gripped in your hip.
“Spread your legs a little higher, baby,” he rasped, voice restrained.
Before you could move yourself, he caught the back of your thighs and pressed them up, folding you into a desperate and messy version of a mating press. The angle had you gasping, crying out at the sudden, deeper stretch.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned. “Look at you—pretty little thing… takin’ me like this.”
But just as he adjusted his knees on the polished food, his boot slipped against the waxed and smooth surface.
He lost his grip for just a second, and the slip forced his hips forward in one hard, uncontrolled thrust.
Slamming all the way in.
“Oh my god!”
A helpless cry ripped out of you as your back arched off the floor—hot pleasure and pain shot through your body. Tears blurred at your eyes at the overwhelming stretch, the sudden fullness of him stealing breath from your lungs.
Bucky’s moan was just as wrecked, his forehead leaning against yours as his body shook.
“Shit—fuck—baby… I didn’t mean to—oh, goddamn…” he tried to pull back, but your cunt fluttered too tight around him, clamping down so hard he groaned again, shuddering from the sensation.
You clung to him for support. “S-so full—oh my god, Bucky, don’t—don’t move—”
“Fuck… I–I can’t… s’too late, baby. Feels too good now.”
His words were a growl, ripped straight from his chest as he drew his hips back and slammed forward again, burying himself to the hilt. The waxed floors squeaked beneath you with every rough thrust, the sound swallowed by your moans and his ragged grunts.
“My god… look at you,” he rasped. “All that whining about me being dirty, but here you are—getting ruined on the fucking floor.”
You couldn’t answer or even form a single word—the only thing leaving your lips were strangled moans and broken gasps. The stretch, the fullness of him—it was overwhelming.
And addictive.
“Bucky—” you sobbed, head falling back against the polished floors as tears spilled. “I—oh my god—”
“Shh,” he hushed, voice mixed with gentleness and possession. “Take it. Take all of me. You wanted me in your house, baby? Then fucking have me.”
His thrusts grew harder and deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur. Every slam of his hips resulted in another cry from your throat as your body shook beneath him.
You were gone.
Utterly undone.
You were reduced to a babbling, slutty mess.
Bucky’s thrusts were relentless as he fucked you deep. His hand clamped down on your jaw, forcing you to look at him.
“Bet you regret not going on the bed now, huh?” he gritted between shaky groans. “Could’ve had me stretch you out all soft on those pretty sheets… but no—you had to take me right here. On the floor like a dirty little slut.”
Your walls clenched hard around him, and his eyes darkened. His cock twitched deep inside you.
“What do you say, baby?” his voice was rough and possessive as his pace quickened, impatient for an answer. “Want me to breed you while you lay there nice and pretty on your comfy bed?”
You tried to answer, but only broken whimpers and pathetic gasps left from your lips. The words wouldn’t come out, but your body gave you away—your thighs trembling, pussy fluttering desperately around him, already begging without words.
“Uh-uh,” he pinned you down harder, his nose brushing yours as he stared into your eyes. “Don’t just lay there. Tell me.”
But your brain was fried. Completely scrambled by the way he was splitting you open—so you gave the only answer you could.
You nodded, frantic and whiny, tears brimming as your lips formed a silent plea.
Bucky groaned in approval, his control snapping. “That’s my good girl.”
He pulled out, and the sudden emptiness left you whining. His hands gripped your waist firmly, lifting you effortlessly off the floor. A startled yelp escaped your lips as your legs curled around him for support, clinging to his broad body.
He set you down gently on the bed, but his hands didn’t stop exploring—grabbing, gripping, teasing every curve.
He stepped back to the edge of the mattress, and before you could even say anything, he yanked your bikini top off in one rough motion. The straps snapped, falling away to leave your chest bare, nipples already hard and flushed from the heat between you two.
A low growl rumbled from his chest at the sight of you, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Fuck,” he groaned, already tugging down the rest of his clothes until he stood completely bare. “So fucking beautiful.”
Bucky got on the bed and pressed himself against you, the heat of his heavy cock meeting your dripping folds yet again. You let out a soft gasp as he filled you again slowly this time.
“Think you can take me again, baby?” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips tight, tilting your body up to meet every stroke. Each movement was hard, fast, and unrelenting, making you gasp and whimper with every hit.
“F-fuck… yes, Bucky!”
Bucky’s eyes rolled back, jaw tight, as he leaned over you, pressing his forehead to yours. He shifted your legs back into the mating press, hands gripping your hips to tilt you up just right.
“Gonna go even deeper this time, baby,” he panted. “Need you to feel every inch of me.”
“Oh my god, Bucky—fuck… you feel too good,” you moaned, looking up at him with soft and pleading eyes as he fucked into you.
“Look at you, all fancy and perfect… and I’m the filthy pool boy inside you,” he growled, voice rough and raspy. “Taking my rich girl… making you mine.”
Your hips jerked instinctively at the words, thighs trembling around him. “P-please…” you whimpered, fingers tight on his shoulders.
He smirked darkly, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Shut it, baby… you don’t get to talk right now. You just get to feel me—filling you up, making that tight little cunt all mine.”
His hand dug into your hip, pulling you closer as he slammed in deeper.
“Bet you never thought someone like me would get you this wet… taking your perfect little pussy and using it, huh? Fuck, you love it… don’t you?”
Your back arched, hips rolling with his thrusts, and the heat building tight in your stomach, building fast. With a loud and deep groan, he drove into you harder, faster, every stroke pushing you closer.
“Fuck—cum for me, baby,” he growled. “I can feel you squeezing me so tight… fuck, I’m right there too—”
“Bucky—” you gasped, nails dragging down his bare back as your legs trembled violently around his waist. “I’m gonna cum—please, don’t stop, don’t stop!”
That was all it took for him.
“Fuck, sweetheart!”
He slammed into you one last time—hard. Hot streams of his release spilled deep inside you, filling you up while your own orgasm shook you, your body convulsing around him. The wet, messy sound of your cunt milking every drop only drove him further, leaving the both of you trembling, coming undone together in a haze of sweat.
The two of you collapsed onto the bed, limbs tangled and sweat-slicked, your chests rising and falling as you caught your breath.
“Good girl,” Bucky’s arm draped possessively across your waist, his hand tracing lazy circles along your hip. “That was so good, sweetheart. You took all of it, baby.”
You rested your head against his naked chest, the warmth of him calming you down. All the while, he’s pressing soft kisses to your sweaty forehead, fingers treading your hair in a gentle and soothing manner.
“Have you… really noticed the way I’ve been trying to catch your attention?” you asked softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his chest.
Bucky let out a quiet and amused huff, his big palm gliding lazily up and down your spine.
“Yeah,” he said casually. “It was pretty damn obvious.”
There was a brief pause for a moment, just the sounds of your breathing filling the air.
Then, a teasing little smirk curved your lips.
“Well, did you think I didn’t notice you too?”
He raised a brow and tilted his head down to look at you, confused. “What do you mean, baby?”
But you didn’t look up at him.
“When you… stood outside my window. Watching me…” you dragged your nails down his ribs, feeling him tense beneath you. “…jerking off… while I touched myself, thinking about you?”
Bucky froze beneath you, his lips parting but no sound coming out at first. His blue eyes widened and his face flushed in embarrassment.
“You—fuck, you saw that?” his voice broke, suddenly not so cocky anymore.
“Mhm,” you hummed, grinning as your hand slid down his stomach. His abs twitched under your touch, and before he could even process it, your fingers wrapped around his still-hard sensitive cock.
He gasped, body jolting at the contact. “Shit—baby, wait—”
But you didn’t wait. You stroked him slow and steady, relishing the way his entire body trembled under yours. He was the one in control, taunting and commanding… but now?
He was a mess, chest heaving, fists clutching the sheets as he tried and failed to keep his composure as you worked him with your hand.
“You looked so desperate out there,” you teased, leaning down to press your lips against his ear, your voice a sultry whisper. “Stroking your cock while you watched me play with myself. Did it make you crazy? Knowing you couldn’t touch me?”
“Fuck,” his hips jerked up and his legs trembled. He squeezed his eyes shut, head shaking. “Baby—please… I’m too sensitive—oh!”
His head fell back against the pillows, a strangled moan coming from his throat as your wrist twisted just right, drawing another bead of precum from him.
He was so sensitive, every stroke making his thighs twitch and his hips buck up helplessly into your hand. “Please, please…” he moaned, “please… my god, it’s too much. Fuck…”
“Not so smug now, huh?” you purred, giving him a firmer squeeze that made him hiss through clenched teeth. “My poor, dirty pool boy. You’re just as needy for me as I am for you.”
Before he could respond, you straddled him slowly, the head of his cock nudging against your puffy and wet folds as you settled onto his hips. His whole body went taut, a groan ripping from his chest as his hands instinctively gripped your thighs, trying to stop you.
“Fuck…” he whimpered, eyes glued to where you were teasing him, your wetness smearing over his flushed tip. “Baby, I can’t—shit, I’m still—”
A soft and not-so-innocent giggle left your lips. You leaned down, lips brushing his jaw as your hips rolled just enough to make him twitch beneath you. He sucked in a sharp breath, his cock throbbing helplessly against your drenched heat.
“House tour’s not done, Bucky,” you whispered, your smirk brushing against the corner of his mouth. “We’ve still got a third floor.”
❝ my house was especially built for you! ❞
thank you for reading <3
Please tell me that the shitty boyfriend got his ass beat by the war dogs
And that reader just got themselves four new bodyguards
I do wonder how each of them would be like with reader afterwards
Part three to the Dogs of War AU (part two) by (really popular) demand. This one’s a long one. 5.7k CW for domestic violence
The world fractures into color and sound that doesn’t belong to you.
Red pools across brick, broken by blue, broken by rain, the rhythm of sirens casting and recasting your apartment building in bleeding light.
You are outside of yourself, untethered. A ghost in wet skin. The voices around you warp and distort like sound underwater, muffled into nothing more than shapes of noise.
Your hands (no, hands that resemble yours) tremble in your lap. Numb. Wet. Stranger’s hands. You cannot feel the ache in your knees, though they must be bent; you cannot feel the weight of your body where it sits; you can not feel the bruise on your ribs, though you are wheezing. You float inches above it, watching through clouded glass.
Someone is crouched in front of you, cutting through the static with the deliberate grace of a tide drawing back from shore. His presence gives shape to the blur: shoulders folding in, posture unthreatening, arms open. He waits in the hush, letting you come to him.
Slowly, your eyes climb toward his face. Brown eyes first, steady and warm. A scar under one eye, grounding his beauty into something real. Brown hair plastered by the storm, rain dripping off his jaw. Pretty, you think, distantly, the way a fevered dream thinks a candle is the sun.
His lips move, and this time the sound reaches you, a thread through the fog. “Are you with me now, love?”
The words are an anchor dropped into deep water. The world jolts. Breath catches in your lungs, sudden and cold. The brick wall sharpens, the sirens crash back into your ears, the sting of rain finds the hollow of your throat. You are inside your body again, shivering, breathing, burning alive with sensation.
Your voice comes out cracked and brittle. “What?”
The question is all confusion, but it is proof of life.
His smile is small, soft, and terribly kind. And just as you claw back toward him, the wave takes you under again, but not as far. Not this time. Someone is holding you above the deepest dark.
A few days earlier…
Price hears the lock turn before the door opens. Old habit, that: cataloging sounds, timing entry patterns, noting who has keys to what. Laswell’s place has three: Kate herself, her wife, and now you apparently.
He’s mid sentence when the door crashes inward, bringing in rain and panic in human form.
The girl- woman, really, though you look young in the way fear makes people look young- stands dripping in the foyer, hair plastered dark against too pale cheeks. Your voice cracks like ice when you speak, words tumbling over each other: “He cut the brakes in my car. I think- I think he cut the fucking brakes-!”
Four pairs of eyes snap to you, four brains automatically cataloging threat level, escape routes, weapon accessibility. Price watches Soap’s hand still on his mug, Gaz’s shoulders square, Ghost go statue still in that way that means he’s calculating angles. They’re not at home base, but some instincts don’t respect geography.
You freeze mid sentence, and Price sees the exact moment you realize you’ve stumbled into something larger than Laswell’s kitchen. Your eyes dart between them, wide, hunted, processing their bulk and the way they’ve positioned themselves without meaning to. Military bearing is hard to shake, even in civilian clothes.
“Sweetheart,” Missus Laswell says, stepping between the table and their unexpected guest. “Come here.”
Price notes the placement, the protective angle. Laswell is proud of her wife’s positioning; putting herself in the gap, creating distance between predator and prey. Except in this room, they’re not the predators. Not tonight.
You blink, pulse visible in your throat. “… S-sorry. I didn’t realize you had anyone else over.”
Your apology comes quick, automatic. Too quick. Price has heard that tone before, from informants who’ve been beaten for inconveniencing the wrong people, from civilians who’ve learned that existing in the wrong space at the wrong time has consequences.
“Friends of mine,” Laswell says, and Price hears the weight she puts on that word. In their line of work, friends are currency more valuable than ammunition. Trust is harder to earn than promotions. When Laswell calls someone friend, she means: these are my people and I would both kill and die for them.
“And now, yours,” she adds, and Christ, that seals it, doesn’t it? The promise implicit in that, the protection offered, it’s not something she extends lightly.
Price feels Soap shift beside him, recognizes the subtle straightening in Gaz’s posture. Ghost doesn’t move, but his stillness takes on a different quality. They know an assignment when they hear one, even wrapped in gentler words.
You try to smile, but it’s a broken thing, all sharp edges and habit. Your hands shake as you push wet hair from your face, and Price catches the faint mark at your wrist when your sleeve pulls back. Old bruise, fading yellow. The kind that comes from grip pressure, from being held too tight.
You’re standing wrong, too: weight on the balls of your feet like you might need to run, shoulders hunched protective over your ribs. Price has seen enough beaten soldiers to recognize the posture: someone who’s learned to make themselves smaller, to absorb impact, to calculate exit strategies without conscious thought.
“Did you say someone cut your brakes?” he asks, voice carefully level.
You nod, jerky and frantic, tears threatening. “M-my boyfriend…”
The word drops like a stone in still water. Price sees understanding ripple across his team’s faces. They’ve all had girlfriends, wives, sisters. They know the difference between love that protects and possession that destroys.
He looks to Laswell, sees months of careful patience in the set of her jaw, and realizes she’s been working this problem the long way, the legal way, the way that respects boundaries and builds trust slowly. The way that keeps her conscience clean and her security clearance intact.
But there’s relief in her face now, too. Because Task Force 141 doesn’t operate under the same constraints. They’re ghosts, officially. Off book, deniable, the kind of surgical instrument you use when conventional tools won’t reach.
Price looks back at you, takes in the fear and exhaustion, the way you hold yourself like something broken that’s still trying to function. In their business, you learn to read people fast; ally or threat, reliable or compromised, worth saving or acceptable loss.
You’re one of the one’s that’s worth saving. More than that, you’re already saved, just by walking through that door, just by being claimed by Laswell as friend.
The others have done their own calculations. Ghost’s head tilts just enough to meet Price’s eye- a question asked and answered without words. Soap’s hands relax on the table, combat readiness shifting to something more focused. Gaz settles back in his chair, but his attention never wavers from you in the doorway.
“Right then,” Price says, voice carrying the authority of a dozen campaigns, a hundred nights spent tracking monsters through urban jungle. “What’s this bastard’s name?”
You blink, startled by the directness, the immediate acceptance of your reality as their problem. You’re probably used to having to convince people, to having your truth questioned and minimized. But Price doesn’t deal in maybes and benefit-of-doubt. Someone cut your brake lines. Someone’s marked you as disposable.
That’s all he needs to know.
The rest is just logistics.
Present…
The second time you surface, it’s gentler. Like swimming up from the bottom of a warm pool instead of clawing your way out of a riptide.
Gaz is still there, patient as stone, rain dripping from his dark hair onto the pavement between you. His eyes never left your face, you realize. Keeping watch. Keeping you tethered.
“What happened?” The words scrape out of your throat, raw and small.
He shifts slightly, glancing over his shoulder toward the building behind him. Red and blue lights still paint the brick in alternating washes of color, but the sirens have gone quiet. The chaos has settled into something more controlled, more clinical.
“Your boyfriend,” he says carefully, “won’t be bothering you anymore.”
The simple statement hangs in the air between you. You search his face for more, for details, for the shape of what you can’t quite remember. There’s something gentle in the way Gaz watches you process this, like he’s ready to catch you if you fall again.
“I can’t…” you start, then stop. Your hands flex in your lap, and you stare down at them like they belong to someone else. “I remember being in the apartment. He was angry about something. The car, maybe? And then…”
The fragments start to settle into place, like pieces of a puzzle you’d forgotten you were solving. The sound of your door banging open hard enough to shatter the plaster. Your boyfriend’s voice, sharp and angry, his face twisting with rage as he reached behind his back-
“Oh…,” you whisper, the memory surfacing sudden and clear. “He had a gun…”
A few days earlier…
Ghost stands in the hallway outside the guest room, back pressed to the wall, your silent sentinel, listening. The house has settled into the kind of quiet that only comes after crisis: fragile, temporary, held together by exhaustion and the promise that morning will somehow make sense of it all.
Through the thin door, he can hear you breathing. Uneven still, catching on the edges of dreams that probably aren’t dreams at all. Missus Laswell had led you up here three hours ago when you’d finally stopped shaking long enough to start dozing on the couch, curled into yourself like a broken bird.
The front door opens below. Price and Gaz returning from their inspection of your car. Ghost doesn’t need to see their faces to know what they found- the set of Price’s footsteps tells the whole story. Heavy. Deliberate. The walk of a man who’s seen confirmation of something that makes his blood run cold.
“Kitchen,” Laswell’s voice, low and controlled.
Ghost moves toward the stairs, silent as smoke. Old habits. The kind learned in a house where footsteps had consequences, where being seen meant being hurt. Where small boys learned to be ghosts long before they had reason to be soldiers.
They’re gathered around the table when he arrives; Price, Gaz, both Laswells, Soap leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. The tension is thick enough to cut.
“Brakes were cut clean through,” Price says without preamble. “But that’s not all. GPS tracker under the rear bumper. Been there a while, from the look of it. And something else.”
He sets a small device on the table. Ghost recognizes it immediately: audio surveillance, cheap but effective. The kind of thing obsessive men use when control slips through their fingers like water.
“Been listening to everything,” Gaz adds, voice flat. “Every conversation, every phone call. Every time she talked to you,” he nods to the Laswells, “he knew about it.”
Laswell’s wife goes very still. “That’s how he knew she was getting help.”
“That’s how he knew to escalate,” Price confirms.
Ghost thinks about earlier that evening. How you’d finally broken, words pouring out of you like blood from a wound finally lanced. The bruises you’d catalogued with clinical detachment, as if they belonged to someone else. The way you’d apologized between every revelation, as if surviving was something to be sorry for.
He loves me, you’d whispered. He didn’t mean it. He’s sorry.
The same words Ghost had heard from his mother’s lips a hundred times. The same hollow justifications, the same desperate bargains with reality. Love that left marks. Sorry that came with conditions.
He’d been eight the first time his father’s fist found his ribs. Twelve when he learned to read the signs; the particular quality of silence before the storm, the way shadows moved differently when danger was coming. Fifteen when he finally understood that some people wore love like a weapon, sharp and cutting and designed to draw blood.
You’d looked so small tonight, drowning in one of Laswell’s sweaters, hands wrapped around a mug of tea you never drank. Telling your story to the carpet, to the air, to anyone but the faces watching you with careful neutrality and mounting rage.
He cut my brakes, you’d said, and Ghost had seen his own childhood flash behind his eyes. Not brakes, those were a luxury the Rileys never had. But other things. Sabotage disguised as accidents. Cruelty masquerading as love.
“She asleep?” Price asks, glancing toward the stairs.
Ghost nods. “For now.”
“Good. She needs it.” Laswell runs a hand through her hair, looking every one of her years. “What’s our next move?”
“Next move?” Soap speaks for the first time, voice carefully controlled. “Bastard’s already made his. Surveillance an’ now th’ car rigged tae kill her. This isn’t a domestic dispute anymore- ’s attempted murder.”
“Legal system’ll handle it,” Gaz says, but there’s doubt in his voice.
Ghost knows better. Has seen too many cases slip through cracks, too many victims blamed for their own suffering. The system works for people with power, with money, with connections. For everyone else, it’s just bureaucracy painted over indifference.
“And if it doesn’t?” The question comes out rougher than he intends, scraped raw by memories that never quite heal.
Price meets his eyes across the table. Understanding passes between them, not just professional assessment, but something deeper. Recognition.
“Then we make sure she’s safe anyway,” Price says simply.
It’s not a promise they should make. Not with their oaths, their obligations, the weight of official sanction hanging over everything they do. But Ghost thinks about you upstairs, finally sleeping without fear for the first time in God knows how long. Thinks about the tracker they pulled from your car, the audio device that turned your life into performance art for a monster’s entertainment.
Thinks about a little boy who learned too late that sometimes the system fails, that sometimes justice comes from other places, wears other faces.
“She’s under our protection now,” Ghost says, and it’s not a suggestion.
The others nod. Even Laswell, who should know better, who has more to lose than any of them. Because some lines, once crossed, change everything. Some people, once claimed, become worth any risk.
Present…
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Your boyfriend’s voice, raw with rage, echoed off your apartment walls. “Three days, and nothing. No signal, no location, nothing. You think I’m stupid?”
You’d backed against the kitchen counter, hands raised defensively. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was at Kate’s house, I told you- ”
“Kate’s house.” He spat the words like they tasted rotten. “Right. Kate’s house, where you learn to be a lying whore.”
You blink, trying to piece together fragments that feel like they belong to someone else’s life. “I remember…” you start, then stop, pressing your palms against your eyes. “He was so angry. Angrier than I’d ever seen him.”
“Take your time,” Gaz says quietly.
The memory surfaces like oil in water, dark and spreading. “He said a-a tracker? Stopped working. That I must have found it, must be cheating on him. He kept asking where I’d been, who I was with.” Your voice cracks. “I tried to tell him I was just at Kate’s, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Say it!” His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back. “Say what you are. Say you’re a lying, cheating slut who thinks she can make a fool out of me.”
Tears had streamed down your face as you choked out, “I’m not- I didn’t- ”
“Wrong answer.” The first blow came fast, his open palm across your cheek with enough force to make your ears ring and blood to pool in your mouth. “Try again.”
The tears come now, hot and sudden, spilling over before you can stop them. “He made me say things,” you whisper to Gaz, your voice breaking. “Terrible things about myself. And when I wouldn’t…” You touch your ribs unconsciously, remembering the sharp pain of his boot.
“Hey.” Gaz’s voice cuts through the memory, gentle but firm. “You’re here now. You’re safe.”
“You want to act like a whore, I’ll treat you like one.” His belt had come off with a sharp snap of leather. “Maybe then you’ll remember who you belong to.”
The first lash across your back had made you scream. The second had you begging. By the third, you were saying anything he wanted to hear, anything to make it stop.
“I kept apologizing,” you continue, barely aware you’re speaking aloud now. “For things I didn’t do, places I didn’t go. But it didn’t matter. Nothing I said mattered.”
You look up at Gaz through your tears, searching his face for judgment, for disgust, for the confirmation that you deserved what happened. Instead, you find something fierce and protective burning in his dark eyes.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, each word deliberate and clear. “None of it. Not one bloody second of what he did to you.”
The gun had appeared when you’d finally fought back, when desperation had overridden fear and you’d tried to run for the door. The cold metal pressed against your temple, his breath hot and sour against your ear.
“Where do you think you’re going, bitch?”
“That’s when he pulled the gun,” you whisper, and somehow saying it makes it real in a way the memories couldn’t. “He was really going to kill me.”
A few days earlier…
Soap’s had his hands wrapped around the throat of bastard men for lesser crimes.
The thought keeps circling back as he watches you through the kitchen window, sitting in the garden with Missus Laswell, carefully repotting herbs with the focused attention of someone grateful for any distraction. Your hands shake only slightly now; an improvement from the violent tremors that had seized you that first night.
It would be easy. After a night of digital sleuthing Soap knows where the bastard works, where he drinks, the route he takes home. After years of building target packages on ghost networks and phantom cells, assembling a complete dossier- his debts, his drinking habits, his work place drama, even the women he’s been sleeping with while in a relationship with you- on one small town bastard had taken them less than six hours.
He knows Ghost could slip into his flat like smoke, that Gaz could make it look like a mugging gone wrong, that Price could orchestrate the whole thing so cleanly it wouldn’t even warrant a full investigation.
But.
“Statistics don’t lie,” Price had said during their first proper debrief, voice grim. “Seventy-five percent of domestic violence murders happen when the victim is trying to leave or has just left. We go after him directly, we don’t solve the problem. We escalate it.”
The numbers had been sobering. How many women died because someone thought they could scare their abuser straigh? How many times a broken nose or threatened kneecaps had only made the monster angrier, more desperate, more willing to risk everything for one final act of control?
“He’s already crossing lines,” Ghost had added quietly. “Cut brake lines, surveillance equipment. He’s not thinking rationally anymore. Push him, and he’ll push back harder.”
“At her,” Gaz had finished. “And we can’t be there every minute of every day. Not with our schedules.”
That had settled it. Direct action was off the table. But Task Force 141 didn’t become ghosts by limiting themselves to direct action.
So they’d turned their particular skills toward a different kind of warfare. Psychological operations. Intelligence gathering. The slow, methodical dismantling of an enemy’s capabilities and support structure.
Soap had weaponized the bastard’s own surveillance against him; hijacking the tracking apps, feeding false location data, creating a digital puppet show that kept the man’s attention while erasing your real movements from every database he could access. Price had begun the careful work of building a legal case that would hold water, pulling strings with contacts who owed favors.
Ghost had canvassed your building within hours of the first night: every entry point, every sightline, every neighbor’s schedule. Your apartment (233) got new cameras your shitty boyfriend would never find. The balcony door that had never quite latched properly now opened smoothly to his touch. When he confirmed 170 was vacant (elderly tenant in hospice care, family too busy to check on the place) it took him less than thirty seconds to pick the lock and slip inside.
In between surveillance and digital warfare, they paid visits- casual, professional visits- to his workplace, his drinking buddies, his family. Asked the sort of pointed questions that made people wonder why the military was sniffing around, made them start reconsidering their association with a man who apparently warranted that kind of attention and distanced themselves before they could be dragged into whatever had earned him official attention.
But the real breakthrough had come from Gaz’s patient work with you, not just comfort, but intelligence gathering of a different sort. Learning the patterns of abuse, the triggers, the escalation timeline. Understanding the enemy’s psychology through the eyes of someone who’d survived it.
“He gets really angry when he thinks he’s losing control,” you’d told Gaz on the second day, voice small but steady. “Like when he got passed up for a promotion at work. He came home and… well. That’s when the really bad stuff happens.”
And there it was. The tactical insight they needed. Control was the bastard’s weakness and his strength. Take it away gradually, methodically, and he’d escalate. But take it away the right way, and he’d escalate into a trap.
It’s that same second day when Gaz manages to make you laugh.
Soap’s making tea when it happens- that sudden bright sound cutting through the careful quiet that’s settled over the house like dust. He nearly drops the kettle, head snapping toward the living room where you and Gaz are supposedly organizing Missus Laswell’s embroidery floss.
“Gaz, what is that?”
“A French knot.” He holds up what looks like a small catastrophe of tangled thread, and you laugh again- not the careful, polite sound you’ve been making when someone tries to cheer you up, but something genuine and startled and alive.
“That’s not a French knot,” you manage between giggles. “That’s not even… what is that?”
“Modern art. Abstract expressionism in cotton,” Gaz declares solemnly. “Picasso.”
The laughter that follows is infectious. Soap finds himself grinning as he pours hot water over tea bags, something warm and protective unfurling in his chest. It’s not just relief at hearing you laugh, it’s pride. They’re doing this right. Building something instead of just breaking things.
From the doorway, he catches Price’s eye. The Captain’s watching the scene in the living room with the same expression Soap recognizes from successful extractions- relief mixed with something fiercer. Mission parameters shifting from rescue to protection.
You’re not just a problem to be solved anymore. You’re theirs.
By the third day, the trap is set. The bastard’s digital leash has been severed and redirected. His support network- friends who might alibi him, coworkers who might cover for him- has been quietly poisoned with carefully placed doubts about his stability. His financials have been flagged for suspicious activity that will slow any attempts to run. His communications are being monitored.
Most importantly, his world has been made smaller without him realizing it. Fewer options, fewer allies, fewer places to hide when everything goes wrong.
“He’s going to snap soon,” Ghost observes that evening, studying the behavioral analysis they’ve compiled. “Probably within the next forty-eight hours. The false data’s getting harder to maintain, and he’s asking questions.”
“Let him,” Price says quietly. “We’re ready.”
They are. Not ready to prevent what’s coming- that was never the plan. Ready to control it. To turn his violence into evidence, his rage into his own destruction.
Dogs of war, pointed at the right target.
“She goes home tomorrow,” Laswell says, and it’s not a question.
“She goes home tomorrow,” Price confirms. “And we’ll be watching.”
The bait walks into the trap willingly, because you don’t know you’re bait. Because they’ve made sure you don’t have to carry that weight, don’t have to know that your safety requires you to be unsafe for just a little while longer.
It’s not clean. It’s not kind.
But it’s effective. And when the moment comes- when he finally snaps and comes looking for you with violence in his heart- they’ll be there to end it.
Whatever it takes.
Present…
The sound of splintering wood. Your apartment door exploding inward with a crash that made your ears ring. Three figures moving fast and fluid through the wreckage- Price, Soap, Gaz- voices sharp and commanding.
“Armed suspect, gun to the victim’s head!”
“Drop the weapon! Now!”
Your boyfriend’s grip had tightened on your hair, the gun barrel grinding against your temple hard enough to bruise. “Stay back! Stay the fuck back or I’ll blow her brains out!”
You look up at Gaz through your tears. “That’s when you came through the door. All of you. But it made everything worse because suddenly I was…”
“A hostage,” Gaz finishes quietly, and there’s something raw in his voice. “I’m sorry. Christ, I’m so sorry we put you in that position.”
“You’re fucking them, aren’t you?” Your boyfriend’s voice had been slurred with rage and alcohol, spittle flying as he screamed at you while keeping the gun trained on the three men. “This whole innocent act, this whole ‘I’m just friends with someone two decades older than me’ bullshit- you’re spreading your legs for all of them!”
“That’s not- ” you’d started, but he’d yanked your hair harder.
“Don’t fucking lie to me! You think I’m stupid? Three military cunts showing up to save their little whore?”
The degradation cuts through you again, fresh as the first time. “He said such horrible things. About me, about you all. Called me…” You can’t repeat the words, even now.
“He was unraveling,” Gaz says gently. “Everything he’d built his control on was falling apart, and he was lashing out at anything he could reach.”
Price had stepped forward, hands visible, voice calm and steady. “Nobody needs to get hurt here, mate. Just put the gun down and we can sort this out.”
“Sort this out?” Your boyfriend had laughed, high and brittle. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Thinking you can waltz in here and steal what’s mine? Did she tell you she was a good girl? Did she tell you she was sweet and innocent?”
His grip had shifted, and you’d felt the gun move away from your head for just a moment. “She’s a lying cunt, and you three are fucking idiots for falling for it.”
“Your life was never actually in danger,” Gaz continues, and there’s an apology in every word. “We had eyes on the situation the whole time. But we couldn’t tell you that without giving away Ghost’s position.”
You blink, confused. “Ghost’s position?”
What you hadn’t seen, couldn’t have known while your world narrowed to the cold press of metal against your skull: Ghost moving like smoke through apartment 170, across its small balcony, scaling the building’s facade with the fluid precision of a man who’d done this a hundred times before.
What you hadn’t heard over your boyfriend’s shouting and your own thundering heartbeat: the whisper-quiet sound of your balcony door sliding open, the barely-there footsteps across your living room floor.
Ghost had been a shadow behind shadows, using your boyfriend’s fixation on the three men in the doorway to position himself perfectly. Close enough to see the sweat beading on the bastard’s neck. Close enough to smell his fear beneath the stale alcohol and rage.
Price had kept talking, kept the man’s attention forward while Ghost closed the distance. “Just put the weapon down. Nobody has to get hurt here.”
“Hurt?” Your boyfriend had swung the gun toward Price, and that had been the opening Ghost needed.
“He moved away from you for just a second,” Gaz explains. “Turned the gun on Price instead of keeping it on you. And Ghost…”
Lightning fast. One moment your boyfriend was holding a gun, screaming threats and accusations. The next, he was on the ground, Ghost’s arm around his throat, the sound of bone snapping, the weapon skittering across your kitchen floor. At the same time, Soap had surged forward, grabbing you, yanking you into his chest, arms clamping tight around you as he spun you so that his body was between you and your boyfriend. The whole thing had taken maybe three seconds.
“Target secured,” Ghost had said, voice flat and professional as your boyfriend went limp in his hold. “Weapon safe.”
You stare at Gaz, pieces clicking into place. “He was- Ghost was-”
Gaz confirms. “We were never going to let him hurt you. But we needed him to make the move, needed him to escalate with witnesses and evidence. Needed it to be clean and legal when we took him down.”
The relief hits you like a physical blow, followed immediately by something that might be anger. “I thought I was going to die. I thought he was going to kill me and then kill all of you.”
“I know,” Gaz says simply. “And I’m sorry. We had to let it play out, had to let him show his true nature in a way that would stick in court. But you were never alone in there. We were never going to let anything happen to you.”
The tears come harder now- relief and terror and rage all tangled together. “I hate that you’re sorry,” you manage through the sobs. “I hate that you had to save me at all.”
“Hey.” Gaz’s voice is soft but firm. “You didn’t need saving because you were weak. You needed saving because he was dangerous. There’s a difference.”
The words hit something deep inside you, something that’s been wound tight for weeks. The relief, the gratitude, the overwhelming realization that you’re truly safe; it all crashes over you at once. A sob escapes before you can stop it, raw and broken.
Without thinking, you lean forward, and Gaz immediately opens his arms, letting you collapse against his chest. The tears come freely now, not the panicked, terrified sobs from earlier, but something cleaner. Healing.
“I know,” he murmurs, one hand gentle on your back. “I know. You’re safe now. You’re going to be okay.”
His voice is steady, certain, and for the first time since this all began, you actually believe it.
Three weeks later…
Laswell watches her team around the dinner table and thinks, not for the first time, how domestic they look when they’re not planning operations or reviewing intel.
It’s a perfectly normal Sunday dinner. Her wife is fussing over second helpings, the late afternoon sun is streaming through the kitchen windows, and four of the most dangerous men in the world are debating whether pineapple belongs on pizza with the gravity usually reserved for matters of national security.
The knock at the front door interrupts Soap’s passionate defense of Hawaiian pizza.
“I’ll get it,” her wife calls, already moving toward the foyer, her lips tugging upwards mischievously in a way that has Laswell furrowing her eyebrows in confusion.
Laswell doesn’t think much of it- probably a neighbor, or perhaps a delivery that’s been delayed. The conversation continues without missing a beat until her wife’s voice carries from the front door, bright with delight.
“Oh my goodness, look at you! You look absolutely lovely!”
There’s a pause, then a softer voice, one that makes the entire table go quiet.
“Thank you. I… I wasn’t ever allowed to wear dresses when I was… you know. But I wanted to try again. I hope it’s not too much?”
“Too much? Sweetheart, you look beautiful. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to come when I texted you last minute, but I’m glad you could make it! Come in, come in- everyone’s already here for dinner.”
Laswell feels the shift in the room’s energy immediately. Four chairs scrape against the floor as four men suddenly find reasons to straighten their posture, run hands through their hair, or clear their throats. It’s almost comical, really, how quickly seasoned operators can turn into awkward schoolboys.
The voices get closer, her wife’s warm chatter mixing with your quieter responses, and then you appear around the corner.
The sundress is simple: yellow cotton with tiny white flowers, the kind of thing that might have come from any department store. But the way you wear it, the way you hold yourself, makes it look like something special. Your hair catches the late sunlight streaming through the windows, and there’s a brightness to your expression that wasn’t there before. More than that, there’s a confidence in your posture that speaks of someone reclaiming parts of themselves they’d lost.
Price clears his throat and stands, ever the gentleman. “You look…” He pauses, and Laswell can practically see him cycling through a dozen different adjectives before settling on, “Well. You look well.”
Soap has gone slightly pink around the ears and seems to have forgotten how words work entirely. He manages something that might be “Aye” or might just be a general sound of approval.
Ghost’s reaction is more subtle, the slight widening of his eyes, the way his gaze lingers for just a moment before he looks down at his plate. When he looks up again, his voice is gruff but sincere. “Yellow suits you.”
Gaz has the presence of mind to pull out a chair. “Join us? There’s plenty of food.”
Laswell watches the whole tableau with deep amusement. These are men who’ve faced down warlords and terrorist cells without blinking. Price once talked down a hostage situation while bleeding from three different wounds. Soap has defused bombs while under sniper fire. Ghost has killed men with his bare hands, and Gaz has been dumped out of perfectly good aircraft more times than anyone should reasonably count.
But put them in front of a woman in a sundress, a woman they helped save, who they’ve watched grow stronger and more confident, and suddenly they’re all thumbs and stammered compliments.
It’s the hero complex, she supposes. The same protective instinct that made them drop everything to help you in the first place. Dogs of war, indeed, but even the most dangerous dogs like to be reminded that they’re good boys sometimes.
You settle into the offered chair, and the conversation gradually returns to normal, though Laswell notices how carefully they all make sure you’re included, how Soap immediately launches into a story designed to make you laugh, how Price pours your wine with the same precision he usually reserves for mission briefings.
Her wife catches her eye from across the table and raises a smug eyebrow, the kind of look that says, “See, you’re not the only one who can conspire.”
Laswell just smiles and reaches for the salad bowl. Some victories, she thinks, are worth savoring. And watching four of the world’s most competent soldiers turn into protective, flustered guardians over Sunday dinner? That’s definitely worth a smile.
After all, it’s good to throw dogs a treat every now and then.
I love that the modern-day tumblr post equivalent of chain emails only requires me to reblog a relatively pleasant image instead of forward an email to a bunch of my friends and family members to quell my raging anxiety.
