synopsis: you are good friends with geneveive, which automatically made you good friends of the family. you get invited to a family vacation to the bahamas for the summer. you are informed that the gang was going to be together: jaafar, randy jr, and jermajesty. oh! i almost forgot to mention, you have a huge crush on jermajesty.
pairing: jermajesty jackson x black!fem!reader
cw: MDNI, idk da word count, oral sex (f!receiving), dirty talk, reader is described to have hair styled in braids and brown skin, praise kink, missionary, clit play, sneaking around, cussing, jermajesty’s goatee, describing sex sounds, perv!jermajesty , softdom!jerm, slight sub!jerm , slight nerdy!jerm , you are the baddest bih in the bahamasss! goatee!jerm , jermajesty hitting it good , btw got horny while making dis ermm… enjoyyy!
the friendship of you and geneveive has been going strong since you were teenagers, living in LA and being reckless. she was always quick to involve you into the activities the jacksons would cook up so when she called three weeks ago, screaming into the phone about inviting you to another family vacation, you were not surprised.
you remember, sitting on your bed with your bonnet on and listening to some music, painting your toe nails messily when she called and said: “girl, the whole crew is going! we rented this private villa in the bahamas, white sand, infinity pool, ocean views for days. jaafar, jermajesty, even marlon jr is coming. and you know they said you’re family. pack your shit, it’ll be like old times!”
your heart swelled at the mention of old times and your mind drifted to the thoughts of the days you tagged along with the jackson on their unique trips. most importantly your mind drifted to the thought of jermajesty and how it’ll be the first time seeing him in a while, half of it is your fault other half is his for not reaching out but at the same time your could’ve called.
but it has been a while since you seen him and since you seen the family, actually. you were so embedded in you studies . the family missed you and most importantly jermajesty missed you, unbeknownst to you. the last memory of you spending time with the jacksons was the first big family barbecue when you were nineteen and he was twenty, tall and quiet with that nerdy build and the softest brown eyes. every family event since holidays, premieres, random sunday dinners, you’d catch yourself staring at him.
but only god knew his gaze would always find you in a crowd or even in a room where it’s just him and his siblings, if you were there, you’d be the first thing he sees. you had a crush on jermajesty so deep it felt like dna. and you were almost positive he didn’t feel the same way but it was just a stupid little crush, nothing too serious.
within those three weeks of getting ready for the trip, you were able to book a hair appointment and nail appointment which was a first, considering how booked you thought everyone would be due to it being summer. you didn’t know why you felt the need to buy new bikinis even though you had tons from the previous trips but you felt like you needed something new or maybe it was to impress jermajesty, or even get him to bat a eye. you double checked your luggage tons of times, making sure you wouldn’t leave anything important even though you were used to stealing using genevieve’s stuff in case you forgot something but reassurance wasn’t the reason you felt the need to check your bag , it was nerves. you were nervous to see jermajesty after all this time, then you began to wonder-you wondered if he grew into his looks and how he looks as a man and not the boy that would chase you down with worms in his hand that he had found when playing in dirt, even though you’re pretty confident he would do that now. you also wondered if he remembered you, remembers your looks or the way your laughs sounds like.
you didn’t know why you and jermajesty never happened. it was either nerves or just the simple fact that neither of you could come forward and say the words that were bottled up for so long or maybe it was when you found out he had gotten into a relationship. the jackson family literally voted you and jermajesty most likely to get into a relationship, you could recall mama katherine giving you two know looks your whole life. you start to think that it was the sole reason you kept your distance for a while, yes you had exams but you still could’ve reached out to say hello or ask how everything is going but instead you locked in all semester, locking yourself away in the process.
now its summer and the semester has ended, so you couldn’t lock yourself away anymore according to geneiveve.
on the plane, it was buzzing with familiarity. jaafar sat next to his mom, like the mama’s boy he is. jermaine and randy jr sat next to each other and then jermajesty sat alone, headphones on. geneveive had saved you seat next to hers, near the front and her seat next to the window of course, she always managed to get the window seat before you. you sank into the soft leather with a relieved sigh, your curls bouncing as you got comfortable. you outfit screamed, comfy, oversized grey hoodie from aritzia engulfing you and your grey sweats to match. you applied light makeup, gloss and mascara. you didn’t know who you were trying to look good for, knowing all the other times you tagged along with the family you didn’t care what you looked like but this time it was different, very different.
genevieve was already chattering about villa plans and how excited she was to have you back with the family, you would laugh and lean into the conversation about bikinis and hairstyles, glad for the easy familiarity with everything.
down from the aisle across from you, you caught a glimpse of jermajesty . he really had grown up to be a young man, young handsome man. those chubby cheeks he once had formed into a defined jaw line and adam’s apple. his lips looked full and soft with a hint of his goatee covering his upper lip and some on his chin which made him look sexy.
your phone buzzed after take off, casually you lifted you phone making the screen light up to show you have gotten a text from jermajesty.
big head🥸: hey, i’m glad you came. i missed you.
i missed you.
not a we missed you, a i missed you. the text contained vulnerability and sincerity which surprised you a little bit. yes, jermajesty had always been chalant when it came to feelings and relationships especially friendships so you don’t know why you felt surprised, i guess it was just the simple fact he could text you so easily after all this time but you could barely bring yourself to pick up the phone and call.
you phone buzzed again, which was quick.
big head 🥸: why did you never reach out, jellybean?
your stomach did a little flip. jellybean. your heart squeezed at the thought of the nickname . he’d always teased you growing up whether it was playful jabs or comments at family events, one day when you five and jermajesty was six, he dared you to eat a whole container of jelly beans and bring you were never the one to back down from a dare you obliged which resulted to you getting terribly sick and vomiting all over you mother’s white fur coat which was laying on the couch next to both of you. that day jermajesty gave you name jelly bean behind fits of giggles and moans and groans coming from your lips. to your dismay, the nickname stuck and it became the main reason for your annoyance but this time you didn’t feel annoyed you felt something else and what ever it was it made your lips curl up.
you stared at the text longer than intended. what you wanted to say was ‘it’s my fault you forgot about me and got a girlfriend’ but that would’ve been weird so you came up with some bullshit.
sorry college had me locked away
the bubbles appeared in less than seconds.
big head🥸: bullshit.
you bit your lip to hide a smile and realized his intuition he had for you never faltered.
It’s not bullshit, maj. some of us doesn’t have the luxury of a famous last name.
once again, he started to text back fast.
big head🥸: still sounds like bullshit. you disappeared on us. on me. missed my jellybean
the tingle hit harder this time. you shifted in your seat, pressing your thighs together under the blanket. who knew a harmless little nickname could have you in shambles.
dramatic much? I didn’t disappear, I just… got busy. family stuff gets complicated sometimes.
big head🥸: yeah not like that but it’s nice seeing u tho. you cleaned up nicely
you chuckled at his attempt to compliment you.
big head🥸: nah but in all seriousness, you’ve always been beautiful.
you didn’t know what to say next. you try to look for any playfulness or tease in his text but you couldn’t find any, it was genuine. you tried to play it cool.
yea well you cleaned up nice too :)
you looked at your text, hoping you didn’t come off as dismissive. after that jermajesty didn’t reply which made you feel like you had fucked up . you wished you had just told him how you felt or something equivalent to that but you had to be nonchalant and bottle up your feelings like all the time.
about halfway through the flight, when the plane lights dimmed and most people had dozed off, genevieve included, headphones on and blanket pulled up, your phone buzzed again.
big head🥸: come sit over here, bean.
you heart pounded. you stared at the text for a long moment, nerves fluttering in your chest. It’s just sitting. he’s probably bored. you took a slow breath, calmed yourself, and quietly slipped out of your seat. genevieve didn’t stir.
you moved down the aisle and slid into the empty seat beside him. he immediately shifted closer, his knee pressing against yours under the shared blanket the attendant had left. “what do you want, big head.”
now it was your turn to say nicknames, earning a laugh only you could hear. his eyes traced your face, your braids, the way your hoodie had ridden up a little. “nothin just missed you bean, thas'all .”
you laughed softly, trying to ignore the feeling of his leg brushing against yours. “i missed you too, jay jay.” you cooed.
he smiles. “been wanting to hear that pretty laugh for a while now.”
“ouu careful, what would maj’s girlfriend say?”
“maj’s girlfriend wouldn’t say anything cause’ maj doesn’t have one.”
questions instantly crowded your head.
when did this happen?
did he break up with her or did she break up with him?
“oh maj, m’sorry. that’s terrible m- what happened?” you acted like you cared even though should’ve but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel even the slightest bit of sympathy, that’s bad and you know it but you didn’t care.
he shrugged. “it was time, plus my mind was elsewhere.” you still had tons of questions but kept them to yourself. you shifted in your seat, letting yourself relax into the plush seat as jermajesty watched you with a certain look on his face.
“what about you, has anyone scooped you up yet?”
you grinned at the thought. “nope, never had any time to date.” time had nothing to do with it, i mean yeah there were plenty of guys that wanted to hook up within the dorms but you were saving yourself for someone that you trusted. of course you know what pleasure feels like, you had a fair share of vibrators and pathetically performed masterbations when you felt like you were going to cum but never actually cum (sounds excruciating).
your answer led to another question. “has anyone.. y’know” you were taken aback by the vulgarity. you never heard him talk like that but it kind of made a buzz spark in your stomach, the conversation was no longer innocent. unconsciously, your thighs clenched together as you felt the weight of this conversation on you.
“no uhm, im a virgin.”
you suddenly think of a memory about you and geneveive when you two were teenagers, talking in her bedroom drinking soda and painting each other’s nails.
“i’ll probably lose my virginity in high school, what about you bean?”
“uhmm probably high school too.”
looking back, you didn’t know why you were so confident because the plan obviously didn’t go as planned but genevieve had the luxury of a 6 foot tall boyfriend in high school who she dumped once she got tired of him.
your answer led to jermajesty raising a brow.
you immediately wanted to hand the microphone back to jermajesty. “you?”
“yes.” he blinked. “but if I could take it back and do it was someone I actually loved, I would.”
silence fell over you two, letting the his words process in your head.
“well it was nice catching up.” you say, abruptly. jermajesty watched you stand up and start to head back to your seat but stopped you.
“so that’s it?” he chuckled, brows furrowed at the sudden change in your demeanor.
“i have to go sit with gen.”
“bullshit.”
“boy, i’m getting enough of you saying everything i say is bullshit.”
jermajesty just grins, a glazed expression of tease on his face. you narrowed your eyes, letting out a grumble as you walked off and plopped down in your original seat.
you didn’t want to meet his eyes but you knew jermajesty was looking at you, laughing. this reminded you that even though he grew up he still was every bit of the little boy he was but the ache between your legs reminded you every bit of the man he became.
the rest of the ride was infused with melatonin for you. every time you got up to stretch or use the bathroom, you felt the weight of slumber come over you along with the weight of jermajesty gaze, tracing your hips and the curve of your ass in those leggings. he kept texting and you kept ignoring, wanting the rest of the ride to be peaceful.
by the time the plane started its descent into the bahamas, you deep slumber. you didn’t know how you fell asleep to easily, especially with the thought of jermajesty on your mind, you thought it was going to be impossible to sleep but a couple of humorous conversations with geneveive paired with the rain forest sleep music spewing from your airpods did the trick.
some moments later, you felt two taps on your shoulder. “wake up, sleepy head.” you grunted as you felt yourself slipping away from your sleep, eyes opening ever so slightly to see a familiar silhouette.
“we’re here,” genevieve murmured close to your ear, voice low and warm. “almost time to land. you slept the whole way.”
you blinked awake, disoriented and still carrying that low tingle from his texts. He was leaning over the aisle divider, eyes soft but intense as they traced your face, your messy braids, the way your hoodie had ridden up a little in your sleep.
the landing was smooth. customs was quick for the group. vans waited on the tarmac to take everyone to the villa. genevieve in the row ahead chatting with alejandra, leaving you and jermajesty in the back. his knee pressed against yours the whole winding drive along the coast. neither of you said much, but the silence felt heavy with everything unsaid.
the villa was stunning, sprawling white walls, private beach access, ocean views from every window, multiple wings for privacy. everyone claimed rooms quickly and crashed hard after the long travel day. you and genevieve took the beautiful corner suite with two king beds. she was asleep within minutes, not saying one word which made you wonder how she’s able to sleep so easily, in all your years of knowing her she never had a hard time slipping into bed and falling asleep. at that moment, you were jealous. you would’ve been in a deep sleep too if it wasn’t for a specific person, that person being a boy and that boy being jermajesty jackson .
you didn’t know if it was the smell of his sandalwood—aphrodisiac of a cologne that made your head spin or the warm brush of his knee against yours during the plane ride or the simple fact you had confessed to him that you were a virgin. what it was, it had you sitting criss cross on the bed with a pondering expression on your face.
suddenly a soft knock pulled you from your thoughts.
jermajesty stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, holding a brand-new lego set—some big, spaceship or iconic building he’d grabbed from the gift shop near the airport. he looked a little shy in his gray sweatpants and simple tee, hair still messy from travel—goatee fuzz against his chin and upper lip.
“hey… couldn’t sleep,” he whispered, stepping inside quietly and closing the door behind him. “saw this and thought maybe you’d wanna build it with me? like old times.”
you smiled despite the late hour, sitting up in your thin, brandy melville tank top and shorts, braids loose and a little wild from sleep. “you’re still such a lego nerd, huh?”
“always.” he grinned softly. “come on, jellybean. let’s go to the living room. we can keep it quiet.”
you said yes without hesitation. the two of you moved to the floor of the living room, spreading the pieces out between you. “how long do you think it’s gonna take for us to finish this one?”
jermajesty grins at the thought, “I don’t know, maybe a couple of months.” he shrugs whilst fiddling with one of the lego pieces—beginning to build the pieces on top of each other. the lego bricks clicked softly as you built, knees occasionally brushing his, the kind of comfortable closeness you’d missed so much.
it seemed the more you sat there the more nervous you got—hoping the nervousness was only on the inside and not noticeable on the outside. after a comfortable lull, he spoke:
“so… why don’t you have a boyfriend ?”
you blinked. “um i’ve just been focusing on myself lately.” you shook your head, continuing to snap legos together—not bothering to lift your head and look at him. “why?”
once again the room is filled with silence. concerned, you finally cock your head at him. the air thickened between you. then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed you.
it was soft at first—hesitant, sweet, like he’d been holding onto this moment for years. his hand gently cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. for a heartbeat you froze, surprised, the remaining spark you felt on the plane came back to play, instead this time you felt it even harder.
he pulled back, slowly after a second, eyes searching yours, lip still lingering on yours. you didn’t know what to say. the words wouldn’t come. your heart was racing, lips still tingling, that ache from the plane suddenly burning hotter between your thighs.
jermajesty’s face fell. “shit… i’m sorry. that was stupid. i thought—” he stood up quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “i should go. my room’s just down the hall. forget that happened. night.”
your eyes followed him as he slipped out before you could find your voice, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
you sat there on the floor surrounded by half-built lego, fingers touching your lips, body warm and confused and wanting. the kiss changed everything.
the ache only got worse.
before you knew it, it was the next morning—you barely slept after the kiss you jermajesty shared last night, you kept replaying the events in your brain—the soft flesh of his lips pressing against yours, the way his hand had gently cupped your neck, the nervous look in his eyes when he pulled back. you tossed and turned, all night which resulted in your bonnet slipping off in the middle of the night, braids messy against the pillow, body warm and aching between your thighs. by the time the sun rose you were still thinking about it, heart fluttering, a low persistent throb reminding you how badly you wanted more.
not even the slightest press of your thighs could conceal the ache.
frustrated, you eventually got up freshened up quickly, and went downstairs for breakfast with the family. the villa’s open kitchen and dining area overlooked the ocean. genevieve was already there, waving you over to the seat next to her. jermajesty sat directly across from her—which meant directly across from you.
you slid into the chair beside your best friend, trying to act normal and nonchalant. “morning, everyone.”
jermajesty’s eyes met yours the second you sat down. that same soft, intense look from last night. he gave you the tiniest smile, the kind only you would notice, the smile that hoped you forgot about something he knew you didn’t forget about
breakfast was full of family chatter —jermaine cracking jokes, alejandra making sure everyone ate, jaafar and marlon jr. talking about jet skis. but underneath it all, you and jermajesty kept stealing glances.
every time you looked up, his eyes were on you—tracing your face, your lips, the way your braids fell over your shoulder. you’d look away, cheeks warm, only to feel his gaze again a moment later. once, when you reached for the fruit bowl, your fingers brushed his as he passed it to you. the spark was instant. he held your eyes a second longer than necessary.
genevieve was right there chatting away, completely oblivious. “so, beach day today? m’ thinking we do some cute photos for insta first, then swim. you in?”
“yea, definitely,” you said, forcing a smile while jermajesty’s
you tried to focus on your plate, but the ache from last night was back—stronger now. every shared glance made your thighs press together under the table. he knew exactly what he was doing.
when breakfast ended and everyone started getting ready for the beach, the tension only built. you changed into that sage green string bikini, the one that looked sinful on your deep brown skin. the top barely contained your full breasts, one false move and your dark aerolas would slip out. the bottoms sat high on your hips and disappeared between your ass cheeks. you threw on a sheer white cover-up and headed down with the group.
you met up with genevieve in the main living area. she was in a cute yellow bikini with a matching cover-up, smiling brightly.
“ready, bestie?” she asked, linking her arm with yours.
“ready,” you replied, trying to sound casual even though your heart was racing.
the whole family walked down the private path to the beach together— jermaine and alejandra leading the way, chatting about the ocean views, jaafar and marlon jr. joking loudly behind them. you and genevieve walked side by side in the middle, but you could feel jermajesty’s eyes on you the entire time.
he walked just behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him. every now and then his hand would brush the small of your back “accidentally” as the path narrowed, sending little sparks up your spine. you kept glancing back, catching his gaze, and he’d give you that same soft, hungry look from breakfast.
the beach was perfect — white sand, turquoise water, and enough space that the family spread out naturally. genevieve wanted to take photos first, so she wandered a bit farther down with her camera. that was your moment.
You turned to Jermajesty, heart pounding, and grabbed his hand.
“come with me,” you whispered, pulling him away from the group toward a cluster of large rocks that gave just enough privacy.
“look, bean. m’so sorry about last n- mm!”
the second you were out of sight you pushed him against the warm stone and kissed him—hard.
he groaned into your mouth, hands immediately gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him. the kiss was desperate, sweet and filthy at the same time. his tongue slid against yours, deep and hungry. one of his hands slid down to squeeze your ass, the other tangled in your ponytail, tugging just enough to tilt your head how he wanted.
“so y'not mad about last night?,” he panted against your lips between kisses.
you moaned softly, shaking your head—pressing your body tighter to his, feeling how hard he already was against your stomach. “you kissed me and just left… I couldn’t stop thinking about it-”
he cut you off with another deep kiss, walking you backward until your back hit the rock. his hand slipped between your bodies, fingers pushing the bikini bottoms aside and sliding through your soaked folds.
“shit, baby—you’re dripping,” he groaned, circling your clit with two fingers, pussy juices coating his goatee. “all this from when I kissed you?”
“mmmh—yes—touch me—” you whimpered, hips rolling against his hand. your braids brushed your shoulders as you tilted your head back. “don’t stop kissing me—”
he kissed you harder, fingers slipping into your tight, wet pussy while his thumb rubbed your clit. you were grinding on his hand, toes digging and curling in the warm sand whilst moaning into his mouth, the ocean waves covering most of the sound.
“fuck—your fingers feel so good—right there—ahh!” you gasped between kisses.
“my fingers feel so good?” he repeated, faintly against your cheek—lip between his teeth as he admired your expressions.
then—
“y/n? where you at?” genevieve’s voice called from closer than you expected.
you both froze. jermajesty’s fingers stilled inside you, but he didn’t pull them out. his forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged.
“fuck,” he whispered, stealing one last quick, filthy kiss. “later. i’m not done with you.”
he slipped his fingers out, brought them to his mouth, and licked them clean while looking you dead in the eyes. then he adjusted your bikini bottoms, gave your ass one last squeeze, and stepped back like nothing had happened.
you smoothed your cover-up, heart racing, pussy still throbbing, and stepped out from behind the rocks with a casual wave.
“right here! just taking some pictures with maj.”
genevieve huffed. “she’s my model, maj. go take pictures of jaafar.” she shooed jermajesty away before tugging you to the shore. you caught a glance of jermajesty walking towards the boys not failing to give you a wink while genevieve pestered you to pose for the camera.
from that moment forward you knew this trip was going to be like no other.
the rest of the beach day was pure torture.
you and jermajesty kept stealing glances, brushing hands “accidentally,” and finding little excuses to be close. every time genevieve turned her back he’d lean in and whisper something that was sweet but had lustful undertone like— “can’t stop thinking about you, bean” or “you look so good.”
by the time the sun went down and everyone headed out for drinks. you made some stupid excuse saying ‘my throat is a little sore n’ I don’t want to get you sick’ genevieve instantly understood, giving you the green light to stay at the villa alongside jermajesty who told a little white lie.
when everyone finally started heading to the bar, you and jermajesty went back to your suite.
you quickly escorted jermajesty inside, closing the door quietly behind him. he didn’t say a word. he crossed the room in two strides, pulled you up into his arms, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it all day.
you moaned into his mouth, hands fisting his shirt as he walked you backward to your bed. he laid you down gently but urgently, stripping your bikini and cover up off while kissing every inch of your deep brown skin—your neck, your nipples, your stomach, your thighs. he then stripped his shirt off as well—along with his swim trunks, cock flying feed and slapping his stomach.
“been thinking about this since breakfast,” he whispered against your skin. “since the plane. since that kiss last night. fuck, i need you”
he dropped to his knees between your legs, pushed your thighs wide, fingers coming up to spread your pussy lips before diving in. his tongue was filthy—long, slow licks through your soaked folds, sucking your clit hard while two thick fingers slipped deep inside you.
“ohhh fuck—yes!” you moaned, hand flying to his curls. “maj—please—your tongue feels so good—ahh!”
he groaned against you, fingers curling relentlessly while he sucked your clit, spit covering the achy bud—sounds of gush sloshing against your pussy from his mouth. you came hard within minutes, thighs shaking around his head—mouth hung open at the orgasm riding throughout your body.
right after that, he climbed up your body, cock thick and hard, and slid into your soaked entrance in one smooth thrust.
“fuuuuck—so tight and wet for me,” he groaned, starting a deep, steady rhythm. “this pussy feels even better than i imagined all these years.”
you wrapped your legs around him, nails digging into his back. “harder—please—maj!”
he fucked you deep and sweet at first, then harder, whispering filthy-sweet things in your ear the whole time—how pretty you looked taking him, how long he’d wanted this, how he was never letting you go again.
“oh my god! fuck! why are you fucking me like dis?” you cried, voice shaking as your body shook up and do with the thrusts of jermajesty’s hips.
“why am I fucking you like this?” he repeated your question, thrusts getting more harsh. “cause’ i love you. that’s why.”
his confession really fueled you and just like that you began to cum around him, moaning and whaling into the air. you were leaving a thick white ring around his cock, fingers digging in his biceps as your toes curls tightly—forming cramps in your muscles. your head thrashes to the side, letting jermajesty chase his high while you laid there. jermajesty came soon after you, pumping thick ropes of cum into you—hips stuttering and chants of your name pouring into your chest.
you held him as his thrusts faltered, letting his hips buck into you a couple more time before pulling out, making his hot load trickle from your your cunt to between your ass.
afterward he cleaned you up with a washcloth and helped slip your pajamas on. “I love you, big head.” you confessed.
jumping through hoops ☆ | riri & shuri x blk!fem!reader (au!basketball) pt 2 | pt 3
heavy conversations lead to thinking, which was already enough to add onto your busy schedule. attempting to avoid two stars was never easy, especially when they go to the same college as you. despite you wanting to stay away, you find yourself at another basketball game.
warnings : mature themes, kissing, cursing
word count : 2.5k+
note : part threeee ayeee!!! i'm trying to do better at posting but i really wanted to perfect this before i put it out. thought long and hard about where i want it to go. are y'all mad at reader yet??? trust me, it gets worse.
“i can’t believe they’re not playing udaku, man she must’ve done some crazy shit!”
“i heard she’s failing some classes.”
“with udaku benched i’m sure williams about to get some fire playing time. not complaining!”
“a insider in a discord said that it was because udaku was caught sneaking a girl into the training facility. big no no. hope it was worth the lost playing time.”
before you knew it, kami was snatching the phone from your hands. you two happened to be in the student union, your first time out of the house since the news about shuri being suspended started to spread. for some reason you felt some type of guilt, knowing damn well that at the end of the day, shuri was a grown woman and she made her decision.
she had been texting you all day and night. you sent an apology, for a reason unbeknownst to you. she said it was never going to be your fault, and if she were to blame anyone then it would be riri.
“every athlete got a bump in the road, i’m just glad it’s not a torn acl.”
man, whatever.
you knew better than to mess with something that took away from your studies. you knew better than to fuck with athletes. you knew better, so why didn’t you do better?
“if you keep scrolling through twitter you’re going to get a brain bleed. especially reading tweets about that girl’s suspension.” kami says, taking a bite out of her fry while holding your phone in the other.
“i don’t know how to stop when it’s flooded my whole feed on every app. it’s like my phone knows i did some fuck shit.”
“um!” kami quickly puts a finger to your face, “it’s not what you did. it’s what she did. sure, it sounded like one hell of a kiss. shuri knew the repercussions of getting caught and you didn’t. how can you be blamed for something that you didn’t even know a rule about? stop letting that girl get in your head.”
you lower your head into your hands.
“it’s hard to do that when she keeps wanting to see me. i keep giving her random excuses instead of just telling her i don’t want to be involved in whatever her and riri got going on.”
“then just say that.”
you raise your head again to look at your friend. she was right, you could always just be a big girl and use your words. a part of you was being selfish beyond it all though. shuri was nice to you and clearly wanted to get to know you beyond the surface. but, was it real? or were you just the basketball being dribbled in some ultimate game of riri v.s. shuri? all you knew was that right now you were right where shuri wanted you. in her palms, as she pushed you back and forth, feeling the leather brushing against her fingers.
really, all you wanted was to be one of the balls put up on one of the racks. nah, you were lying. you loved the chase, the attention of a star wanting to be all up on you. the fact that it may be fake was being shielded by the intense kiss the two of you shared. which was already a red flag considering she barely knew you.
can someone call a referee in, preferably not kami?
“you’re right, i guess i should just tell her that it’s best we don’t communicate anymore.”
kami smiles, and nods approvingly. she hands you your phone back and watches you intently as you stare at the last few messages between the two of you.
yesterday, 3:26 p.m.
shuri : “i have a game tomorrow, i hope you pull up.”
yesterday, 5:17 p.m.
shuri : “i got you the courtside tickets. one for you and your friend.”
today, 10:42 a.m.
shuri : “you been ducking? don’t worry your pretty little head about the basketball shit, fr. i don’t want it to affect what we got going on.”
just when you go to pick up your fingers to type, you feel a finger poking on the top of your shoulder. you can’t help but jump a little, scared of the sudden contact from a mysterious person.
your head lifts up to meet the eyes of the person who was attempting to grab your attention.
riri.
“hey.” she says, hands now in both of the pockets of her hoodie. she looked shy, almost embarrassed to be talking to you. which was the stark contrast to everyone else around the two of you looking too starstruck to move.
“hi?” you say back, almost as if it were a question.
“do you mind if i talk to her for a second?” riri says, turning to face kami. it amused you that she was asking your friend, and not you.
“i don’t mind if she doesn’t mind.” kami says, looking to you for a response.
“it’s fine.” you meekly say.
“i’ll meet you out front whenever you’re done. just text me.” kami says, gathering up her stuff.
“you wanna talk here?” you ask riri, noticing that her braids are out of the bun and flowing down her back.
“nah, i was in a private study room and saw you down here. we can go in there. i booked it for a couple hours.”
oh, she’s a great player and she’s a scholar.
“okay, lead the way.” you say, standing up from the chair. you reach out to grab your backpack that was hanging from the back of the chair when she stops you.
“i got it.”
riri grabs the bag with ease, despite the heavy books and laptops in it. your back had been screaming all day carrying it around to all of your classes.
“thanks.”
“it’s the least i could do, after the bullshit riri and i put you through the other day.”
you go silent, not really wanting to talk about what has already happened. however, clearly riri was taking you to the room to talk about the instance. from the way she walked, and talked, she was almost scared of you.
it was a shyness she hasn’t felt in a long time. being around you was probably the first time she wasn’t angry in a long time too. it wasn’t like she understood the effect you had, i mean you two had just met. she just had a feeling that you were too nice. too nice for shuri, too nice for her.
she takes you to a hall in the union you had never been to before.
the both of you stop in front of a door with windows along the walls that had been frosted to just barely see the inside. a student id is quickly whipped out from where she had been resting her hand in her hoodie. you get a quick look at the picture, noticing she clearly hadn’t updated it since freshman year.
“ladies first.” she says, holding the door open for you from the outside, instead of the inside like shuri did.
it was the little differences between the two girls that made your head spin.
you take a seat in the one opposite from where she was clearly working. your backpack moved from around her shoulder and onto the floor beside you. she set it down gently, as if it were a newborn.
she seemed aggressive on the court, but really riri was just as soft as any girl.
“i know you probably don’t want to talk about this,” she starts, as if she was reading your mind, “but i got some things i need to get off my chest.”
“i’m listening.”
riri leans over in the chair opposite to you, her face getting closer so that her voice travels better.
“i want to apologize for how i handled myself around shuri. not that it’s any excuse, but this is my last year to get a ring. i know how to handle a ball, schoolwork, sponsorships, everything but her.”
you raise an eyebrow, curious to see where you come into play with this speech.
“my anger gets out of control when i see her doing dumb shit. the shit she was doing with you was dumb. the shit we were both doing about you was dumb. that should’ve never been a conversation had in front of you.”
“riri, honestly, i don’t want anything to do with whatever y’all got going on. i have shuri texting me, notifications about her suspension blowing up my phone from people i don’t even follow, and then i got you pulling me away to talk about something i don’t even want to be thinking about.”
she furrows her brows, not expecting that response.
“clearly i don’t know how to handle you either.” she says, pushing one of her braids back behind her shoulder. “i don’t want to waste your time with this mess. i just wanted to let you know that i’m sorry. i’m sorry that i said that stuff in front of you, i’m sorry for what she said if she hasn’t apologized already. most of all, i’m sorry for not even acknowledging your presence. i just got so angry and sometimes i don’t know how to stop it from boiling up.”
you two sit in silence for a moment. her words came out of her like a fountain, unable to stop and they sped up with every syllable. you’re shocked you can even make out what she’s saying at the end.
“say something, please?” she looks at you with these dark puppy dog eyes, completely different from the ones she’s showed you before.
“i don’t know what to say.”
she sighs, “okay, i’ll tell you this.”
you nod your head.
“if you come to the game tonight, i’ll know you accept my apology. hopefully we can move on from this and if shuri is what you really want i won’t get in y’alls way.”
huh? get in the way? what could that even mean, considering she without a doubt is the one that got shuri benched.
“if you don’t come, then i’ll leave you alone. i’ll make sure shuri leaves you alone too. i won’t come at her crazy, i can keep it professional.”
“i’ll think about it, okay?”
a slight smile appears on her full lips, “good enough for me.”
you give her a smile back. you just can’t help it, seeing as her’s is just as contagious as shuri’s. it’s just a different kind of smile though.
for some reason you found yourself sitting in the student section. cuddling up in your skims set as you attempted to still fight off the cold in the southern air. kami wasn’t attached to your hip this time, saying that this was something you might need to think about on your own. she had given you more than enough advice, and this is where you ended up.
the game was more lively than the last one. the school was facing it’s number one rival and we were down 15 in the third quarter. halftime had just ended, a show was put on by a dog that could ride bikes as his owner directed him where to go. watching them work was the first time she smiled all night, maybe even all day.
despite the body of students you locked eyes with both girls. shuri was sitting on the bench, anticipating a hopeful return as her coach was looking for any sort of savior. riri was panting, listening in on what everyone was saying at the bench but keeping wide eyes onto you.
she smiled when she first saw you, but it’s not like you saw anything as you settled into the crowd.
riri had been putting up most of the points, shooting from anywhere and everywhere in a desperate attempt to get a lead on the team. her ball hogging shared advantages and it’s problems when one of the girls was wide open and she went for a three, completely missing it and catching a foul for the other team in the process.
“udaku, you’re lucky we’re losing,” the coach said, getting deep in shuri’s face. “get your jacket off and get the hell on that court when the whistle blows.”
and she did exactly that.
the crowd erupted as their savior ran joyfully onto the court. she blew a kiss to the student section and they roared even louder.
of course, you stood when everyone else did. however, cheering wasn’t going to fix anything that’s happened so far.
the ball is in their court. riri is playing point guard as she shuffles down the court, telling her other teammates what plays to make with her fingers and hand motions. shuri was towering over the girl beside her, attempting, and failing, to box her out.
riri, unhappily, passes the ball to shuri, who automatically makes a three from the outside.
damn, she was talented.
only down 12.
the other team fumbles, losing the ball off their foot and right into the hands of another girl. she passes it off to riri so she can reset the court. they reset it perfectly, landing another three from udaku.
by the end of the fourth quarter they pulled off a miracle, staying down up until the last five minutes. by this time both coaches had subbed players in and out. riri and shuri remained in the same positions, considering it had been working so well.
down to 5 seconds.
ball is in riri’s hand as she frantically looks around. shuri makes a hand motion, and riri knows exactly what to do.
the tinier girl barrels down the court. a player attempts to intercept, only to run straight into shuri’s strictly positioned body.
1 second.
riri lets the ball escape from her fingers, praying to whatever god there is that it makes it in the rim.
it makes it to the rim, but it rolls around. the ball had a decision to make and the entire audience goes silent.
buzzing fills the room.
then finally, the net moves as the ball makes it in.
tigers win!
the crowd erupts into cheers and everyone runs onto the court. for some reason, so do you. an inescapable smile fills your face, showing off every dimple you may have. your face finds riri’s first, and she sees you. the star player pushes past the crowd of people congratulating her and wanting to celebrate.
her arms find your waist as she hugs you from all the excitement.
you go to hug back, till youre pulled away by the waist. your eyes meet the face, and of course it’s shuri.
as if no one was in the room, she kisses you.
shit.
you can feel the eyes, the lights from the cameras flashing in your face as the two of you lock lips. what had to have been a peck turned into something long as time slowed. you couldn’t find yourself pulling away, bombarded by the environment around you. the feeling of shuri’s soft lips couldn’t even take away the feeling.
you open your eyes the minute the two of you pull away.
she smiles at you, lifting you into the air in celebration.
you can’t find it within yourself to smile, coming face to face with riri, who has disappointment written all over her face.
bad ! era synopsis — the rivalry between you and michael runs deep until one hotel mishap brings you two closer than ever.
content — porn with plot, forced proximity, mean dom! michael and mean switch! reader, cursing, smut, p in v, aphrodisiac, hate sex, dry humping, unprotected, spanking, backshots, choking, riding, lowk brat tamer mike
As the industry’s queen, you didn't just top charts, you made them.
If you wore a certain outfit, it was gospel. If you gave an artist the cold shoulder, their career was essentially on life support. You were charming, yes, but it was a calculated, lethal kind of charm—the kind that you’d lose your mind trying to detect.
And then there was Michael.
For years, the two of you had been locked in a cold war that played out in the headlines. It was a cycle of petty war.
During a Rolling Stone interview, when asked about his latest hit, you hadn't even looked up from your manicure. "Oh, Michael's great," you’d said with a bored, sharp smile. "He’s doing a really impressive job of mimicking the production style I debuted two years ago. It’s sweet, like a little tribute act."
At the Grammys, you’d walked right past his table, deliberately spilling your champagne so that his handlers had to scramble to clean it up, offering nothing but a dead eyed, "Oops, my bad."
Michael didn't play nice, either. In a broadcasted acceptance speech, he’d thanked his team for keeping his music about "real soul" and not just "a pretty voice and PR stunts," a jab so blatant it made the morning headlines the next day.
The night of the International Music Awards, the tension was suffocating. You were draped in a beautifully tight dress, Michael across the aisle in a tailored suit that cost more than a house. You spent the entire ceremony trading glares; every time he caught you looking, he’d just raise a brow, or roll his eyes, completely unimpressed, which only made you want to scream.
By 2:00 AM, you were on your way to the hotel. Your team was exhausted, and you dismissed them with a flick of your wrist. "Go away. I need to sleep for a week."
You swiped your keycard, the light chirped green, and you kicked the door shut behind you, ready to peel off your makeup and collapse. But you stopped dead.
Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, his jacket discarded on the floor, rubbing his temples as if he had the world's worst headache. He looked up, startled, his eyes wide.
"What the hell?" you breathed, staring at him like he was a roach in your kitchen.
Michael stood up, looking just as confused as you were. "What’re you doing here?" he asked, his voice rough. "This is my room."
"In your dreams, maybe," you snapped, waving your keycard at him. "This is my suite. I booked the penthouse. Get your shit and get out before I lose my mind."
"I booked the penthouse too, lady," he said, gesturing to his own room key on the nightstand. "I’ve been here for an hour."
You stormed toward him, your heels stabbing into the carpet. "Oh my God, I have absolutely zero desire to be breathing the same air as you right now. Get out you disgusting creep."
"Creep? Are you kidding me?" Michael walked over to the desk, his voice rising in genuine annoyance, dropping all that 'mean' act for a second. "I got here before you, Y/N. I didn't steal your fucking room."
"I’m not spending ten seconds in this room with you."
"You think I want to be stuck with you? You’re the last person I want to see after that shitshow of a ceremony."
You both stared at each other, the annoyance quickly curdling into genuine frustration. "This is a joke, right? Some kind of sick, twisted prank by the hotel?" You marched over to the bedside phone and slammed the receiver off the hook, dialing the front desk with aggressive, angry jabs.
"Yeah, hello?" you barked into the phone, not even waiting for a greeting. "There's a man in my room. A very annoying, very uninvited man. Fix this. Now."
You listened for a moment, your expression twisting into a mask of pure fury. You slammed the phone back down. "They’re 'lookin into it,'" you hissed at him. "Which means they have no clue what’s going on."
"Great," Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just great."
"We’re going to the front desk before I burn this entire Goddamn building down."you hissed, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him toward the door.
Downstairs, the front desk clerk looked like he wanted to jump out of a window. He frantically tapped at his computer while you paced in front of the desk, heels clicking hard against the marble floor.
"I’m so, SO sorry," the clerk stammered, his voice shaking. "There was a mishap in the reservation book. The entire hotel is booked for the award show. I have absolutely nothing left."
"I don’t give a shit if you have nothing left," you snarled, your patience completely shredded. "Find me a room, or I’ll have this hotel torn down by morning."
"The only other option is the Riverside Inn," the clerk whispered. "It’s... it’s a two-star motel on the edge of town."
Michael let out a dry, humorless laugh. "A two-star? You’re joking."
"I’m not staying in a dump like that," you snapped, turning to Michael. "Fix it. You’re the 'Global Icon,' right pretty boy? Use your influence…or dance or something. Whatever it is you do to get us a real room."
"Oh, sure, let me just snap my fingers and make a room appear," Michael shot back, his voice starting to lose its patience. "Don't act like this is my fault. I’m just as annoyed as you are, brat."
"Don't call me a brat, asshole," you hissed.
You both stood there, glaring at each other, the lobby staff watching in terrified silence. It was clear: you were too vain to leave, he was too exhausted, and both of you were too stubborn to admit that the only option left was to tolerate each other’s presence for the night.
You looked at Michael, then back at the terrified clerk, your jaw locked. "I hate you," you growled. "I hope you know I’m going to make this the most miserable night of your pathetic life."
Michael just sighed, turning toward the elevator. "Yeah, yeah. Save that bullshit for the cameras, princess."
The ride back to the penthouse was a study in controlled rage. You stood in the far corner, arms crossed tightly over your chest, vibrating with the kind of cold, sharp anger that usually sent assistants into early retirement. Michael stood by the doors, hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at his own reflection with a jaw so tight it looked like it might shatter.
When the doors slid open, you didn't even wait for him.
"I take the bed," you said, not looking at him. "You take anything else. If I even hear you breathing, I’m calling the front desk and telling them you’re harassing me."
Michael walked past you, throwing his own jacket over the back of a velvet armchair. "That’s fine by me, Y/N. Just keep your stuff on your side of the room. I don't want your designer nonsense touching my things."
"My 'nonsense' is worth more than your lousy ass career, so keep your crusty hands off my stuff," you snapped, tossing your heels aside and watching as they narrowly missed his feet.
You were mid argument, deep in a heated debate over who got access to the walk in closet—"I need it to curate my looks," you argued, to which he replied, "I need it to actually unpack, not play dress up"—when a sharp knock echoed at the door.
It was a waiter, looking terrified as he wheeled in a silver cart laden with an extravagant spread of pastries, chocolate truffles, and exotic fruits drenched in thick honey. He stammered a frantic apology from the manager, desperate to appease both of you. You scoffed, eyeing the spread. "Tell them to keep the bum ass bribe."
Michael, however, stepped forward, offering the waiter a warm, polite smile that made you want to gag. "Thank you. This is very kind of them," he said smoothly, before the guy practically sprinted out of the room.
He picked up a small, honey glazed pastry, turning it over in his fingers. It smelled intoxicating—deep, floral, and strangely heavy. He took a bite, his expression shifting from polite to genuinely impressed. "You should try this, actually. It's not bad."
"I’m not gonna eat from a hotel that can't even book a room correctly," you said, but the smell was starting to worm its way into your senses, making your mouth water against your will.
"Suit yourself," he murmured, his voice sounding weirdly satisfied as he reached for another, smacking his lips as he chewed.
"Can you stop?" you groaned, leaning against the marble counter. "The smacking. It’s like listening to a wet sponge. It’s fucking repulsive."
"Shut up and try one," he countered, holding the plate out.
You grabbed a honey covered strawberry, mostly just to get him to shut up, and took a reluctant bite. The flavor hit you like a physical force. Sweet, intense, and wildly addictive. You hated it. You hated that it was the one of the best things you’d ever tasted, and you hated even more that he was watching you, waiting for your reaction.
"Good?" he asked, his voice low and smug.
"Fuck off," you muttered, though you were already reaching for another one.
An hour later, the room had gone quiet. The suite felt different—warmer, the air thicker. Michael had disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of the shower running providing a steady, rhythmic background to your boredom. You were sitting on the bed, robe pulled tight, watching a documentary on the television, but your focus was shattered.
A strange, prickling heat began to crawl up your spine. It was a slow, creeping tingle that made the fabric of your robe feel like sandpaper against your skin. Your heart rate spiked, a frantic, thumping rhythm that wouldn't slow down, and your hands felt unsteady as you reached for another fruit from the nightstand.
When the bathroom door finally opened, the tension in the room snapped into focus. Michael walked out, dressed in plain cotton pajamas that did nothing to hide the fact that he was looking just as frayed as you felt. He walked over and sat on the very edge of the bed, his back to you, his shoulders visibly tense.
He let out a long, ragged sigh, his head dropping back.
The sound irritated you to your core. "What’s your problem now?" you snapped, sitting up and pulling the robe tighter around your burning skin.
He didn't turn around. He just stared at the wall, his breathing noticeably heavy, his voice a low, strangled rasp. "Nothin’."
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. You watched him, your own breath hitching as a wave of heat flooded to your stomach, your thighs clenching together, desperate for relief. He shifted, his posture suddenly rigid, and you caught the flash of a distinct, thickening bulge in his pajamas that he was clearly struggling to hide.
He turned his head slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a hazy, dark intensity. "Are you... are you feeling kinda hot?"
You tightened your grip on the blanket, your heart hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it. "A little," you lied, your voice breathless. The silence in the room was heavy. You went to the bathroom, your hands pressed against the cool tile, trying to wash the heat from your face. It was no use. Every shallow breath you took felt like you were inhaling honey—thick and intoxicating.
You walked back into the bedroom, your robe feeling like a weighted shackle. Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed. He didn’t look up, but the way his hands gripped the edge of the mattress told you everything.
"I can’t take this," you breathed, your voice trembling. The air felt thin. "I’m so hot."
"Me too," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, raw and jagged. "We need to fix this."
He slowly looked up. His hair was a damp, messy wreck, and his eyes were dilated, black holes swallowing the dim light. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the way his gaze dragged over the slip of your robe made your stomach flip. You felt a deep, aching throb pulling at your core everything to do with the man sitting three feet away.
You didn't answer with words. You crossed the room in two strides, your movements fluid, and loomed over him. You reached out and shoved his chest, not hard, but enough to make him stumble back onto the mattress. "Move," you ordered.
He didn't fight you. He fell back, propping himself up on his elbows, watching you with a dangerous, hungry expectation. You climbed over him, the scent of the honeyed aphrodisiac radiating from his skin acting like a magnet. You straddled his hips, feeling the thick straining of his dick through his pajamas, and began to press down. You started moving against him, a slow, torturous grind that made his breath hitch.
“I can’t believe im doing this,” You gasp out, feeling his hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force, his thumb digging into your hip as he moves you against him faster. “This is so gross.”
He let out a frustrated grunt as his hips stuttered forward, a clumsy, needy twitch, pressing his firmly against the center of your panties. He looked up at you, his eyes glassy and needy, his face a messy, dark crimson where a deep blush had spread over his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. He looked completely undone by the simple feeling of you against him. "Shut the fuck up," he grits, though he didn't stop, his hips rolling forward seeking the heat and friction you offered. You let out a small, breathy sound he leaned into it, another buck of his hips sending a jolt through both of you.
His hand slipped between you, fingers finding the edge of your panties. You held your breath as he traced along the seam, teasing without entering. Teasing you before his fingers slid beneath the lace, finding you slick and ready. A low groan escaped his throat. "God, you’re s'wet for me."
"Don’t flatter yourself." But the heat on your cheeks betrayed you. His touch was skilled, knowing exactly where to press, how to curl. Your hips began moving against his hand, chasing the friction with uncontrollable hunger.
But it wasn’t enough to calm the heat. You grab his wrist, stilling his movements. His eyes widened in surprise. His pants came off in a tangle of fabric and impatience. He lay beneath you, fully exposed, letting you drink in the sight. Lean hips. Defined stomach. The way his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he watched you with anticipation.
You positioned yourself above him, feeling the tip press against your entrance. "Last..chance to back out," You pant.
He just smirked, hands resting on your hips as you slowly sinking down, every inch making your head fuzzy as you struggle to fully take him. The feeling was so overwhelming. His hands move to your thighs as you began to move, finding a rhythm that drove him deeper with each roll of your hips.
He threw his head back, a string of curses falling from his lips. He looked up at you with wide eyes, big hands moving to grip at every inch of your waist and hips.
You bit your lip, fighting back a smile as you look down at him, hands on his chest as you lazily roll your hips on his cock, his thick tip leaking deep inside your pussy.
"God... feels s'good," He babbles, voice shaky and lashes fluttering with every movement. His words encourage you to roll your hips faster, grinding his fat dick right against your cervix, wet squelching sounds harmonizing with his now louder whimpers.
His arms pull you down onto his chest, wrapping around you as he stuffs his face into your sweaty shoulder. His hips buck upward, creamy slick coating his length with every rut. The mixture creates an obscene glide between your bodies.
“Look at you—haah—moaning like a little bitch in heat.” You mock in between moans, letting out a small laugh as you grind against him, watching as his face scrunches up in pleasure, biting his lip to hold back from moaning. “Oh, you think that shit funny?” He grunts, letting out a frustrated, guttural sound and in one fluid motion, he flipped you, pinning you on your stomach beneath him. He was actually strong—terrifyingly so. He didn't waste time. He shoved his knee between your thighs, forcing them wider, his eyes burning with that familiar, hateful intensity.
"Awww, look at you. Such a mess f’me."
Michael’s hips rock forward, driving his dick as deep as it would go into your tight walls, you claw at the blanket every time he even pushes an inch further into your cunt, fucking you into the mattress with slow and purposeful strokes until you swore you felt him in your throat.
This man is must be trying to kill me, you think to yourself as you clutch the pillow beneath you, it slowly becoming stained with sweat, tears, smeared with your mascara and lip gloss, you're becoming a complete mess yet he shows no sign of letting up soon. He was having sweet revenge. Your arms started to waiver, no longer able to support your weight as Michael continued to pound into you from behind, one hand molding the flesh of your ass while the other hand rests at your waist, tugging you back against his hips, slender fingers splayed across your curves, keeping you right where he wanted you.
Another high pitched whine leaves your lips as the tip of his cock nudges right against your sweet spot, dropping your head against the pillow as pleasure ignites every nerve in your body till you felt as if you were burning. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest and you swear you could just feel his stupid fucking grin tugging at his lips as he watches you slowly but surely lose every coherent and bitchy thought in your mind.
"Fuck," he curses lowly, his hand gripping your ass a little tighter, his eyes glued to the way your cunt clenched around him, sucking him right back in whenever his hips drew backwards. "Ain’t got nothing to say now do you? Creamin' round me like a good girl. My dick that good, huh?" His hand moves to your throat, gripping it tightly, watching you gasp for air.
There's a sharp reply sitting in the back of your throat—God knows you wanted to get him off his high horse so badly — but even if you could talk, there's no point in arguing. No one has ever fucked you like this and he knows this. He had you hooked. There was no escaping for you now.
You honestly should’ve felt embarrassed by the sounds you were making, clenching around him like you don't want him to leave, to stop just yet, and Michael only feeds into it, leaning his body over yours, giving your ass a good couple of hard smacks before planting both of his arms at the sides of yours til you could feel the sweaty heat of him on your back.
A whimper bubbles up on your barely glossed lips, the rest of it smeared across your face from where you've been writhing against pillows and blankets. Michael grins against your skin— the feeling of his lips on you causes goosebumps to rise across your neck and shoulders before he plants wet kisses along them until he reaches your lips.
Michael pulls his chest away from your sticky back, his hand pushing down on the small of it while his other finds your puffy clit between your dripping folds. A scream tears in the column of your throat as he simultaneously pumps his throbbing cock into you and draws his name across your clit in tight movements. The combination has your mind in a frenzy, clouding with visions of lust as your thighs tremble and struggle to keep you up.
Juices roll down you thighs in thick waves, gathering around Michael’s cock in a frothy white mix the more he fucks into you — the wet pap, pap, pap of his balls against your cunt echoing throughout your bedroom. You glaze him in your arousal, smearing it up his pelvis and the fronts of his toned thighs. you make him a complete mess. "ffuck s’too much," you babble out, eyes rolling to the back out your head as you reach your hand behind you, finger tips pushing against his pelvis in a desperate effort to slow him down.
"You’re doing so well, though. Keep singing for me, mama, lemme hear you." He praises over your loud tune of kitten mewls, breathless pants and soft hiccups, feeling him reach for your arm and tossing it off him. You can feel yourself getting closer and he's not even fully inside of you. He can feel it too. But Michael doesn't falter, placing his foot on the bed as leverage to move his hips faster, harder— groaning deep between bared and gritted fangs while he watches your ass jiggle against his pelvis, shining with your slick. "You gonna cum, baby?"
“D-don’t fucking call me that,” you grit out, though he doesn’t really care for what you’re saying for the musician is already playing with your sensitive clit once again, drawing electrifying shapes against it and rubbing your juices back into your sex while you clench around his sloppy cock. The hotel mix up had to be one of the best accidents you've ever experienced, you think as you fall apart— eyes rolling far back into your skull while you clench and cream on him.
"Atta girl," Michael coos as you come down from your earth shattering high, a mess of weak bones and jelly legs in his arms. "You're so fucking disgusting," You pant, though your body says otherwise, clenching his dick with a vice like grip. "Get off me."
"Cant when you're dripping down my… and..., fuck," His words struggle to come out of his mouth as he cums hard, his entire body shuddering, pumping his thick load into you while you groan— partially at his audacity, but mostly at how full you feel.
The aftermath was a slow descent. You lay there, tangled in the disheveled sheets, your limbs feeling like weights. The room was deathly quiet, save for the ragged, synchronized gasping that filled the space between you. You were a mess—sore, flushed, and utterly breathless—yet your body was still humming with the lingering effects of the aphrodisiac.
He slowly pulls out, flipping you on your back so he could see your precious face, but his eyes drift back to your leaking pussy, watching a mix of your releases seep out of you and onto the starch sheets. You scrunch your face up at the feeling, your chest heaving, trying to gather the shredded remnants of your pride. "That," you rasped, your voice cracking as you struggled to sound dismissive, "was a disgusting mistake. I don't know what came over me, but it won't happen again."
Michael let out a low chuckle. He propped himself up on one elbow, his hair wild and his gaze dark with a triumphant, knowing amusement. He didn't say a word; he just leaned down, captured your chin in his hand, and tilted your head back. He kissed you—slow, deep, and impossibly possessive—until your stubborn resolve crumbled into nothingness, your fingers curling into his damp hair to pull him closer.
Just as you were spiraling back into his orbit, a sharp, polite knock rapped against the suite door.
"Ma’am?" a muffled voice called out. "I just wanted to inform you that we’ve managed to open up another premium suite if you’d like to relocate?"
You pulled back, chest heaving, and looked at Michael. You both went silent, staring at the door. You looked at each other—at the wreck of the room, the clothes strewn everywhere, and the heat still radiating off your skin.
"We're... we're fine," you called out, your voice sounding breathless and shy, a far cry from your usual cold, untouchable persona. "We'll stay here."
"Very well," the worker replied, their voice tight with suppressed excitement.
As the worker’s footsteps receded, they tiptoed down the hall to where a group of hotel staff had been huddled, holding their breath in the corridor. As soon as the worker rounded the corner, they let out a jubilant, hushed cheer.
"They totally fucked," the worker whispered, grinning at the manager, who was practically vibrating with relief. "The honey worked."
The manager leaned against the wall, fanning their face with a clipboard, a smug, brilliant smile spreading across their lips. In a desperate, high stakes gamble to save their jobs from your wrath, they had concocted the perfect dish—a blend of rare, potent ingredients they hoped would finally break the tension between the two most difficult stars on the planet. It hadn't just saved their jobs, it had changed the entire industry's dynamic overnight.
Back in the suite, you had no idea about the little plan. You just glared at Michael, who was currently pulling you closer to him as he laid back on the pillows, his smirk wider than ever.
"I still hate you," you mumbled into his chest.
"I know, baby," he murmured, his hands wandering back down to your waist, his eyes darkening as he was about to remind you once more why you weren't leaving that room. "I know."
synopsis — things are heating up. everyone’s getting suspicious of what’s going on around the house and Jaafar has to finally ask himself, what’s he willing to do to keep you around?
content — toxic relationship, slight angst, cheating, readers manipulative, smut, p in v, missionary, mating press, maddie goes bye bye
Rooms in the Jackson home had never felt more suffocating.
Maddie was around more frequently now, her corporate meetings shifted to her home office out of a quiet, creeping suspicion she couldn't quite name—or didn’t want to. Yet, despite the tension around the house, you didn't break.
On the outside, you still remained the flawless, sweet, and effortless nanny. Smiling warmly when Maddie walked into the kitchen. You carried their son on your hip with ease. You were completely composed, the picture perfect image of hired help who knew to stay in her place.
But behind your calm eyes, your thoughts were sharp, calculating, and entirely aware of the toxic current vibrating through the walls. You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew this was a dangerous game, and you knew exactly how to play it.
I mean, it wasn’t your fault he liked you more. And the evidence of that was so painfully true.
Maddie was determined to bridge the unspoken canyon stretching between her and her husband. In the quiet dark of their room, she slid under the heavy duvet, her manicured hands gliding up Jaafar’s bare chest. She kissed his jaw softly, whispering low, desperate reassurances, entirely convinced that she was successfully pillow talking her man back into her arms. Jaafar didn't push her away of course, because do so would confirm her worst fears, so he closed his eyes and forced his body to go through the motions.
He rolled her onto her back, but the moment he slid inside her, a wave of profound, physical rejection hit him like a physical blow.
It was completely hollow. It was mechanical, a hurtful performance of marital obligation that made his stomach turn. Every single touch felt wrong. As he moved above his wife, his mind became an agonizing loop of you. He began comparing everything in real time, his thoughts spinning out of control. Maddie’s skin felt cold and distant compared to your burning, electric heat. Her routine, predictable whimpers felt entirely lifeless compared to the raw, undone, desperate noises you made when he held you down. You were a rush of adrenaline; Maddie simply felt like a chore.
Halfway through, Jaafar’s body literally began to reject the act. His heart hammered in panic as he felt himself softening inside her, his body refusing to cooperate with a woman he no longer desired. He pulled out abruptly, rolling onto his back with a ragged, strained breath.
"Jaafar? What's wrong?" Maddie whispered in the dark, her hand resting on his shoulder.
"I'm just exhausted, love," he lied smoothly, his voice deep and choked as he stared at the ceiling, swallowing the bitter taste of guilt. "The rehearsal’s this week... my head is spinning. I'm sorry."
Maddie sighed softly, pulling the sheets up and turning onto her side, completely blind to the truth. She thought he was just stressed. She had no idea that her husband’s body had been practically rewired by this point—that he was now a man who could only function if it was you he was tasting.
He didn't wait for her to say anything. He pulled on a pair of loose sweats and left the room, his throat parched, his skin crawling with the phantom scent of a marriage that had died months ago.
He descended the grand staircase, his heavy footsteps silent on the marble, heading toward the kitchen for a drink to wash the sterile taste from his mouth. But when he turned the corner, he froze.
You were sitting on the edge of the marble island.
The kitchen was bathed in the low, amber glow of the under cabinet lighting. You were wearing nothing but an oversized white tshirt—one of his shirts that you’d quietly stolen from the laundry weeks ago—and your bare legs swung lazily against the dark cabinetry. You were slowly sipping on a glass of wine, holding your phone in your other hand, mindlessly scrolling and looking entirely serene.
Jaafar’s breath hitched in his throat. The stark contrast of leaving his wife’s bed only to find you looking like a sinful dream in his own clothing sent a wave of pure fire straight though his stomach and to his cock.
"You're up late, Mr. Jackson," you murmured, your voice a low, smooth purr that cut through the quiet room. You looked at him over the rim of your glass, your eyes wide, clear, and entirely aware of the wreck he was.
Jaafar closed the distance between you in heavy strides, his large hands sliding onto the marble on either side of your thighs, trapping you. His face was flushed, his dark eyes boring into yours with a starved intensity.
"What’re you doing down here, Y/N?" he rasped, his breath hot against your face. "In my shirt. Looking like this."
You set your glass down with a soft clink, moving to gently trace the tense line of his jaw. You caught the faint, lingering scent of Maddie’s perfume on his skin, and your eyes darkened with a cold, lazy satisfaction.
"I could ask you the same thing," you whispered, your thumb brushing over his lower lip. "You smell like her. But you look... frustrated. Did it not go well upstairs?"
Jaafar swallowed hard, his jaw clenching under your touch until it ached. Your bluntness was a heavy, intoxicating drug. He hated how easily you read him, how completely you owned his entire being. "Don't play with me tonight," he growled low in his throat. "M'not in the mood."
"Oh, I think you are," you smiled softly, a tiny, sinful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. You slid your bare legs around his waist, pulling his heavy frame flush against the island, letting you feel the exact moment his dick hardened instantly through his sweatpants against your panties. "Your body doesn't lie to me, Jaafar. Go back to your wife. But we both know you can't finish unless it's me." You say, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before hopping off the counter and retreating to your room.
The static from that midnight confrontation carried straight into the weekend, turning a casual family dinner into a very high stakes psychological war zone.
Jaafar’s brothers, Randy Jr., and Jermajesty had come over, filling the vast dining room with their loud, easy banter. But the air around the table felt entirely deprived of oxygen.
Maddie sat at the head, her eyes hyper focused, her gaze tracking your every movement like a hawk as you served the food. You moved gracefully, completely unbothered on the outside, a perfect nanny.
Randy Jr., the perceptive big brother he is, leaned back in his chair, his eyes darting from Jaafar’s tight, unreadable face to the way his knuckles turned white on his fork every time your dress brushed past his shoulder. Jermajesty, meanwhile, kept tracking your quiet, guarded expression.
The second dinner ended, the brothers splintered, and the interrogation began.
Randy Jr. caught Jaafar in the dim pool room, closing the door behind them. He slammed his cue stick onto the green felt, looking directly at his younger brother.
"What the hell is the vibe in this house, Jaaf?" Randy asked bluntly, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "Between you and Maddie something’s off. And the way you look at that girl... is there something going on?"
Jaafar didn't blink. He picked up a cube of blue chalk, slowly coating the tip of his cue with a calculated, corporate coldness. "Maddie’s….stressed about work. And the nanny is just the nanny, Randy. You're reading too into it. Drop it."
The lie was flawless, deadpan, and entirely dead. Jaafar didn't let a single crack show in his armor, protecting the sin with everything he had.
At the exact same time, near the dimly lit pantry hallway, Jermajesty caught you as you were carrying a tray of empty crystal glasses. His usual playful smile was entirely gone, replaced by a genuine, protective frown as he stepped into your path.
"Hey. Talk to me, Y/N," Jermajesty whispered, his hand resting gently on the doorframe to keep you from passing. "You're not yourself tonight. Are they treating you bad? If you need to leave, I can break the contract myself."
You looked up at Jermajesty, your face instantly softening into your signature sweet smile. It was a masterpiece of a lie.
"I'm just tired, Jermajesty, I promise," you laughed softly, your voice light and effortless. "The baby’s teething, so I’ve been up at all hours. Everything’s perfect, they’re just stressed about work or whatever."
You felt a little guilty lying right to the face of the person who got you the job but what were you supposed to tell him? Yeah I bounce on your brother’s dick in the pool house while we hide from his wife?? Absolutely not. So you held your composure, protecting the dangerous addiction you shared with his brother like your life depended on it.
As composed as you were though, you were pushed to your absolute limit the following afternoon. Maddie caught you alone in the grand upstairs corridor while the rest of the house was dead silent. She stepped directly into your space, her sharp designer perfume invading your senses, her eyes burning with a psychotic malice.
"I see the way you carry yourself in my house, Y/N," Maddie whispered, her voice a chilling, venomous promise. "You think you've made yourself indispensable. But let me be entirely clear: I am already in contact with a new elite nanny agency. The moment you step an inch out of line, I will fire you, blacklist you, and erase you from this family. You won't even be a memory."
You didn't shrink. You didn't allow a single tear to fall. You kept your chin parallel to the floor, holding her gaze with an unsettling, serene calm. "I understand," you replied softly, offering a polite, empty nod before walking past her.
But you knew exactly how to turn her threat into your weapon.
You retreated straight to the empty nursery. Minutes later, the door slipped open and Jaafar stepped inside, his chest heaving, his face dark with panic because he had seen Maddie cornering you from the downstairs hallway.
"What did she say to you?" Jaafar demanded, his voice a tight, frantic whisper as he crossed the room toward you. "Baby, tell what’s wrong so I can make it right."
You were standing by the crib, quietly folding a tiny baby blanket. You turned around slowly, letting him see the heavy tears finally welling in your eyes. You looked so small, so entirely vulnerable under the weight of the house.
"She’s gonna fire me, Jaafar," you whispered, your voice trembling beautifully as you took a soft step toward him. "She’s already looking at other agencies.... I think I should just let her. It hurts too much to watch you look right through me during the day, and then hear you go to her bed at night while I’m all alone. Maybe I should just pack my bags tonight and quit. Let you fix your family."
The mere idea of the house without your warmth sent a wave of pure panic through his chest. He crossed the remaining space in a single, desperate stride, his large hands slamming onto your waist, pulling your body flush against his hard frame.
"No," he growled, his voice thick with a raw, terrifying dependency. "I don't care about her. You can’t leave, baby. Do you hear me? I can't breathe in this house if you aren't in it."
The threat of your sudden absence hit Jaafar like a physical blow to the sternum. His pride, his ego, his carefully constructed walls—everything completely shattered at the thought of you walking out that door.
˚ ༘♡
The emotional collapse broke the final dam of your mutual restraint. Past midnight, while the rest of the house slept in darkness, Jaafar tracked you down to the secluded, dimly lit library on the first floor. The doors clicked shut, the lock turning with a heavy snap.
The room was warm, shadowed, and entirely isolated from the rest of the world. There were no stupid excuses left to give, no more lies and cold shoulders. Just you and him.
You stood by the velvet sofa, and when Jaafar approached you, his dark eyes were completely wild, entirely consumed by the sickness of his addiction to you. He didn't say a word. He just dropped his forehead against your shoulder, his large, heavy hands gripping your hips so tightly it would undoubtedly leave faint, bruising reminders on your skin the next morning.
"Please," he choked out, his voice a raw, pathetic plea against your skin, his ego entirely dissolving into the dark. "Fuck everything else. Fuck my pride. Baby, I take it back. Just give me tonight, Y/N. I'm begging you. Kiss it better f’me."
Your heart hammered, a fierce, dominant satisfaction rushing through your veins. You took his face in your hand, pulling his lips down to yours in a deep, wet, and deeply sinful kiss that tasted of pure desperation.
"You want this?" You whisper against his swollen lips. He nods eyes dark and glassy. "please."
His touch tonight was explosive, a manic re-claiming of his own sanity through your skin. He parted your legs, his heavy frame settling between your thighs, and slowly, he dragged his tip between your folds. You let out a small, choked sound, your hips involuntarily bucked up to chase more. Jaafars body tensed as he finally positioned himself just right, pushing into your tight warmth with gritted teeth, biting back the moan threatening to slip past.
He took his sweet time, going inch by agonizing inch, all the while your chest heaved as he stretched you out, filled the emptiness that had you aching.
When he finally bottomed out, panting, you clenched around him, whimpering slightly. With a shaky breath, he began to move. Careful rolls of his hips, a hand splayed over your stomach as he eased himself in deep.
You stuttered out his name as that same hand moved lower, stopping right where your bodies met, the pad of his thumb slowly rubbing your clit.
His eyes fluttered as he watched your head fall back against the arm of the couch, panting as he eased into a slow rhythm, angling his hips with each thrust in search of that spot.
When he found it, you keened, toes curling, lips parting as you let out a moan. "Jaafar.." you dragged out the end of his name, practically whining. He only grunted, something like a strangled whimper managing to slip past his gritted teeth.
"Yeah, I know, I know baby..."
He continued to thrust slowly, pull all the way back out before pushing back in, brown eyes watching your face twist upon each push. He moved to cage you down, supporting himself by his forearms, groaning into your ear as he bucked his hips deeper into you, pace noticeably faster.
You threw your head back. It was so good, perfect even. But you still wanted to feel more of him.
"Closer..." You asked, a quiet whine behind your words. "Closer, please, Jaafar...."
He pushed the backs of your thighs, pressed your knees up by your head. You hooked your arms around his neck, he kissed the the hinge of your jaw, breathing desperate words against your neck.
"You're the only one," he growled, his voice deep and entirely broken as he drilled deeper, his sweat dripping onto your collarbone. "I regret her. You burn me alive, Y/N. I belong to you. Every single inch of me belongs to you."
"I love you."
The confession came tumbling out, catching you by surprise. You bit back a groan, feeling him trail sloppy kisses down to your collarbone.
"Y'know that, right?"
You were shaking, letting out breathy moans as he began to suck soft marks into your skin, lost in the feeling—the taste of you.
Your hands slid to hold the back of his neck, pulling him back carefully. Your nose bumped his as you held his face, felt the sharp curve of his jaw in your palms. You pulled a hand back to find one of his by your head, you laced your fingers with his, gave his hand a soft squeeze before softly pecking his lips.
"I love you too," you murmured the words against his before pulling him back feverishly, moaning into the kiss. "I love you so much."
He picked up his pace at those words, fucking into you desperately, chasing an impossible high. "Can't believe I went so long with this pussy..." He panted out.
"Always fuckin' want you," The rasp in his voice made you impossibly wetter.
The sound of the expensive couch creaking and the soft slap of skin against skin faded into the background as he leaned down to kiss you, all messy and raw.
"Tell me you mean it." The words heaved out of him, hot and breathy, his lidded eyes met yours, the blistering need behind them setting your skin ablaze.
"I do," you managed, tugging him closer, holding him against your chest. "I really do, Jaafar, please-" He groaned by your ear, "Fuck, I know. I got you..."
With a broken sound, you came, burying into the crook of his neck.
He breathed with you for a moment, held you close, heated sweat slicked skin against yours. He cums inside you with a choked, breathless cry, his body trembling violently as he collapsed against your chest, completely consumed.
The morning after offered a beautiful, chilling portrait of the complete structural collapse of the Jackson marriage.
By eight o’clock, the grand dining room was washed in a bright, clinical sun. Maddie sat at the head of the massive, polished mahogany table, her laptop open, her fingers typing with a sharp, aggressive rhythm. She was actively reviewing elite nanny profiles from some high end agency, her face set in a smug, confident mask of corporate authority. She truly believed she was about to reclaim her house. She believed she was about to erase you.
You walked in, their son balanced effortlessly on your hip. You moved over to the sad little beige high chair next to Maddie, carefully sitting him in and a setting his juice cup, completely quiet, carrying yourself with flawless composure.
Jaafar sat at the opposite end of the long table, the morning financial papers spread out before him. He wasn't wearing his tailored suit jacket yet; he was just in a black button down, the top three buttons casually undone, his sculpted chest still carrying the faint heat of the velvet sofa.
Maddie didn't look up from her screen, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Y/N, once you finish the morning feeding, I need you to log your hours for me. A representative will be calling at noon to finalize the transition paperwork."
It was a direct, public flex of her power. A reminder that you were a temporary fixture.
You didn't answer right away, giving her a simple nod, stepping past Jaafar’s chair to head back toward the kitchen.
But Jaafar didn't let you pass.
The discipline that had ruled his entire life for so long had simply….vanished, dissolved by the toxic, electric dependency he had surrendered to the night prior. He didn't look down. He didn't ignore you to please his wife. Instead, his large, heavy hand shot out across the open space, his long fingers wrapping tightly around your waist.
With a single, effortless tug, Jaafar hauled you straight back and pulled you down onto his lap.
The room went violently dead silent. The only sound was the low sound of cartoons and the soft gasp that escaped you, your skirt riding up over your bare thighs as you settled flush against Jaafar’s solid, spreading heat.
Maddie’s fingers froze instantly over her keyboard. Her jaw literally dropped, her eyes widening into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror as she stared down the length of her own dining table, watching her husband possessively cradle the nanny on his thigh in broad daylight.
"Jaafar..." Maddie choked out, her voice trembling with a sudden, suffocating humilation. "What—what the hell are you doing?"
Jaafar didn't even turn his head to look at his wife. He completely iced her out, treating her presence like nothing more than background static. His large palm remained locked heavily onto your hip, his thumb lazily stroking your skin beneath the hem of your skirt. His dark eyes lifted to lock directly onto yours, blown out and heavy with an unbothered ownership.
"You didn't be up so early, sweetheart," Jaafar murmured, his deep voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated directly against your back. He completely ignored his wife's frantic breathing, his focus entirely consumed by the swollen curve of your lower lip. "You’re probably tired from last night. S’okay, just sit here and rest."
A wicked, intoxicating thrill rushed through your veins. You didn't panic. You didn't try to stand up or apologize. Instead, you leaned back into his broad chest, molding your body perfectly into his embrace, letting your bare thigh press firmly against his hardening length right beneath the table.
Slowly, you tilted your head up, looking directly across the mahogany expanse at Maddie’s pale, trembling face. You let a tiny, knowing, sweetly sinful smirk tug at the very corner of your lips.
"Jaafar, look at me!" Maddie slammed her hands onto the table, standing up so fast her leather chair scraped violently against the hardwood. "This is fucking psychotic! I am calling the police, I am having her thrown out of this house—"
"If you touch the phone, Maddie, I will take everything from you before it even hits noon," Jaafar cut her off, his tone entirely deadpan, devoid of a single ounce of marital respect. He finally cast a cold, indifferent glance toward his wife, his grip on your hip tightening. "Y/N isn't going anywhere. Close the laptop. Cancel the agency. If you don't like looking at her, you’re more than welcome to take your breakfast in the office."
Maddie stood there, completely paralyzed, her chest heaving as she realized the sheer, terrifying truth. Her threats, her money, her authority—none of it meant a damn thing anymore. She hadn't just lost her husband; she had lost her entire empire to the quiet girl sitting at her table.
Jaafar turned his eyes back to you, his face softening into that raw, desperate adoration from the night before as he leaned up to press a slow, lingering kiss right against your jawline, whispering against your skin, "Tell me what you want for breakfast, baby. Anything you want."
You held Maddie’s shattered, burning gaze across the room, your fingers gently tangling in Jaafar’s dark hair as you sank deeper into his lap. You didn’t feel bad at all. Even as you watched her take their son and storm out of the house that night.
It’s not home-wrecking if the house was already broken, right?
𝓼𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂: when he slips up and accidentally calls you mommy
𝓽𝔀: mommy kink, smut for Jaafar and Jermajesty, suggestive for randy jr
𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻’𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮: i lowkey (high-key) got lazy and unmotivated at the end, my bad yall. imma make it up for the next one. excuse any mistakes! I barely proofread, oops.
This content does NOT contain AI and may not be used to train AI
Jaafar Jackson
One of Jaafar’s hands had a grip on your hip as he slowly plunged in and out of you, his tip slightly jabbing at your g-spot—small staccato whimpers spilled out of your mouth as the constant hitting at your g-spot sent you into a frenzy. “J—it feels so good”, you stuttered out, your brain barely processing the words that left your mouth. “I know, baby, I know.” Jaafar cooed at you while he took his other hand to slither between the two of you to play with your clit.
The hitting of your spot and the stimulation of your clit, you clenched around him as your slick drooled all over him. A faint whimper fell from Jaafar at the feeling of you clench around him—“oh fuck, you feel so good, mommy”.
Jaafar’s thrusts came to an abrupt halt as your eyes widened at the word that flew out of his mouth. Jaafar's face was now a faint pink, the tip of his ears beet red as he stumbled over his words. “I-ummm- “, he looked everywhere but at you, as he felt so embarrassed, he began to pull out but you wrapped your legs around him to pull him closer. His eyes widened as he quickly looked down at you to see a small glint in your eye. “Don’t stop, please, I actually liked it”. A giggle fell from your lips as a boyish smile appeared on Jaafar’s face.
He was still for a moment before he moved your legs up to his shoulders as he pulled out to where the tip was barely in before plunging deep into you—a loud gasp filled the room at his sudden movement.
“I love this pussy, mommy”
Jermajesty Jackson
If someone asked Jermajesty what time it was, he simply couldn’t tell you—his mind completely turned to mush. His body was slouched on the couch, groans bouncing off the walls as you edged him for the nth time tonight. “Baby, please. " Jermajesty couldn’t help but whine out as he felt your mouth lift up from his dick.
You kept eye contact with him as you peppered kisses on his tip that leaked globs of precum. “You gonna say sorry, pa?” Your voice filled with slight annoyance as your other hand reached down to massage his balls.
You two got into an argument earlier in the day, and Jermajesty childishly decided to ignore you for the rest of the day. When night fell, you were completely fed up with his childish antics. You found him in the living room watching TV, and that’s when you decided enough was enough. That’s how Jermajesty ended up in the position he is in now.
“n-no”. Jermajesty shook his head—your face frowned up in annoyance and at the fact that he told you no. You removed your hands from his lower half, stripping yourself of your shorts and panties, then you lifted yourself up to sit on his lap. Your slick lips now sat directly on his dick, you both let out an audible sigh of relief—Jermajesty tried grabbing your hips but you immediately grabbed both of his hands to push them away. “No touching until you say sorry.” You slowly rocked back and forth, your slick now covering him. His eyes rolled back at your wetness and the feeling of you humping him.
“Are you gonna say sorry now?” you whined out as you began to pick up the pace, the feeling sending a shiver down your spine. Jermajesty shook his head once again at your words—your jaw slightly ticked as you finally had enough of his pettiness. Your hand went to the back of his head, tightly gripping a patch of his hair to bring his face towards yours—a loud whimper from Jermajesty as your actions shocked him. “I said are you sorry, Jermajesty”, you gritted out, trying to keep your composure as you felt your orgasm wanting to creep up on you.
“Yes”, he finally gave in—“yes what?” Your grip tightened on his hair even more. “Yes, mommy.” His tear-filled eyes widened as the word mommy slipped from his lips, he expected you to scold him or stop completely but he was wrong—your hips didn’t even sputter at the word, you slid back and forth on him even faster. You pulled him in as if you were going to kiss him but your lips hovered over his.
“Since I’m mommy, let mommy take care of her good boy, hm?”
pairing: jermajesty jackson x black fem!reader
summary: a glimpse into casa, part two (final casa chapter).
cw: loveisland!au, use of the n word, 4.4k words.
notes: they're reunited in the next chapterrrr :) also yall i promise theres a happy ending we just gotta get through this first lmfaoo
series directory
deanna holds your chin in her hand as she wipes a cold washcloth along your cheeks. the three of you migrated to the bathroom from the deck shortly after they wiped your tears and gave you a pep talk.
“this is real corny,” you fake sigh, looking past deanna’s hand to stare at yourself in the mirror. you meet elisa’s eyes briefly from where she stands with both arms around your waist and head on your chest.
elisa says, “bitch shut up” at the same time as deanna rolls her eyes and says, “just say it.”
taking a deep breath, you meet your own eyes in the mirror once again, and repeat them. “i am whole on my own, and i attract people who honor that wholeness.”
“damn right,” deanna nods before she continues, “‘my energy is valuable, and i will not waste it on people who don't value me.’”
you repeat. “my energy is valuable, and i will not waste it on people who don't value me.”
“‘i am not responsible for the mistakes, lies, or disrespect of others.’”
“i am not responsible for the mistakes, lies, or disrespect of others.”
elisa chimes in this time, “‘i have a thick, juicy fatty.’”
and if her goal was to pull a laugh out of you, she succeeds. you double over in giggles, over exaggeratedly pushing her off of you in the process. “girl, move.”
“you’re so unserious.” deanna joins in laughing before tossing the washcloth on the counter. she turns back to you, “you good now? you ready to go back out there?”
you take a breath, glancing at yourself in the mirror one more time. your eyes are still a little puffy but the tear tracks are gone. your face is clean and you look… composed. and honestly? you feel composed– almost lighter. like the weight that was pressing down on your chest earlier is shifted. it’s not gone, but it’s more manageable. you can breathe again without that burning in your throat.
“i’m good,” you state, turning to each of them. “deadass don’t know what i’d do without y’all.”
“we love you!” elisa sings, slinging an arm around your shoulders as the three of you head toward the door.
you walk through the villa slowly, your shoes clicking softly against the tile. the sun is still high in the sky and all the islanders are scattered around– some by the pool, some on the daybed, some play games around the kitchen.
your mind is clearer now. focused. you’re done crying over situations you can’t change. from now on, you’re choosing you– consequences be damned. and part of choosing you means doing whatever the fuck you want.
you spot cairo almost immediately, lounging on one of the daybeds to the side, one arm thrown behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. his eyes are closed, his face tilted up toward the sun. he looks so peaceful. without speaking, you climb onto the daybed beside him, settling into the space next to his body. he cracks one eye open, glancing down at you, and a slow smile spreads across his face.
“was wondering when you’d come find me.” he says, his voice quiet and warm.
“here i am,” you joked, wiggling both of your hands around your face. “you were waiting for me?”
“always,” he says simply, like nothing else was an option for him. you don’t respond; just shift closer, letting your body mold against his. he adjusts immediately, his arm coming around your shoulders to pull you in. you rest your head on his chest.
for a while, neither of you say anything. you just lay there, soaking in the sun, the sound of the pool water lapping gently against the edges. you can feel the exhaustion creeping around the edges, nearly asleep when his voice makes your eyes creep back open. he asks you something random and you answer before flipping the question back to him.
you trade stories and observations as you lay there– nothing beyond surface level; but he keeps you genuinely entertained with every side comment he makes and you find yourself smiling without realizing it.
when your conversation fades and your eyes close, you can feel yourself slipping again, dancing on the edge of consciousness. you don’t know how much time passes before your body jumps and wakes you. cairo attempts to hide his laugh, but he isn’t very successful.
“you sleep okay last night?” he chuckles.
you roll your eyes playfully, leaning your head up to meet his gaze. “not really. did you?”
“nah, i’m not too used to being here yet. kept looking around wondering where i was at.” cairo’s eyes trace your face, looking from your nose to your lips, to your cheeks to your eyes, and right back to your lips. “don’t fall asleep, cause i might too.”
you’re silent for a few heartbeats as you watch him watching you, and you slowly smile when his eyes catch on your lips again. you run your tongue along your bottom lip, testing the waters, and your smile grows when his eyelashes flutter in return. “i know something that might wake us up a lil.”
it’s almost too easy, the way his eyelids grow heavy as he looks between your eyes and your mouth again– the way he leans in when you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. before you can blink, he has an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to bring his lips to yours.
this kiss is soft. timid. cairo’s lips are smooth and he tastes like the fruit he had earlier; he doesn’t rush or push you for more. he just lets you lead, lets you set the pace. and technically, it’s nice of him. but it’s not what you want at all. you kiss him harder, while leaning back at the same time, using the hand at the nape of his neck to pull him closer. he responds immediately, hand tightening on your waist as he angles his head to deepen the kiss.
you pull back just enough to catch your breath, your eyes searching his. he’s looking at you in a way you don’t want to analyze– so you kiss him again, more urgently this time. your hand slides down from his neck to his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt. he groans softly against your mouth and you block the sound from your mind.
your hand moves even lower, fingers brushing against the waistband of his shorts and grabbing at the fabric to pull him towards you; on top of you. he comes willingly, shifting his weight so he’s hovering over you, one hand braced beside your head and the other still resting on your waist.
for a flicker of a second you think back to your first few days in the villa, how jermajesty read you so easily– how he knew you didn’t like nice from observing you in conversations with other islanders. you think about how every kiss with him was different from this because he knew where to put his hands, knew how to grab you, knew how to bend you to his will.
where cairo was sweet, jermajesty was fire.
and it pissed you off to no end.
you wrap one leg around cairo, pressing the heel of your foot into his back to force him closer– kissing him deeper to drown out the thoughts.
that night, a challenge text is sent to sarah’s and ruben’s phone simultaneously; reading ‘islanders, the villa and casa amor will go head to head in tonight’s game ‘temperature rising’.’
both the main villa and the casa amor villa gather at their respective firepits and sit, waiting for instructions. there’s a large red circular platform set up in front of both the casa amor and villa firepits, as well as two bars with a heart on top on either side of it. one heart is blue and labeled ‘casa’ and the other is pink, labeled ‘villa’.
only in the main villa stands a machine meant for mixing things–in this case balls, allowing for a random draw. each ball has the chance of being labeled kiss, tickle, dance, lick, suck, or nibble.
once again, both isaac and deanna’s phones simultaneously chime, reading: ‘you will be going head to head with your partner who’s currently in the villa. first up, deanna versus isaac.’
they’re told to choose a partner to compete with– deanna picks a boy named avan and isaac picks sarai, and deanna proceeds to pull ‘kiss’ from the machine. what follows is a competitive blur of heated exchanges, both firepits growing louder and more rowdy. you watch the pink bar closely as deanna and avan take their kiss a step further– doing some kind of fucking acrobatics, resulting in two bright pink lights appearing on the villa bar. the casa bar only shows one blue light.
back and forth it goes– something earns the villa a third pink light, while another thing earns casa two blue lights. everyone in the villa jumps up when the pink bar is illuminated all the way to the heart at the top. the villa wins. a chant is started in the villa as the islanders in casa groan and sit back down, dejected.
the second round is with elisa and keem against deon and kami, and it’s nibble. you feel bad for them– though you don’t know why you would ever doubt elisa, because she pulls another win in for the villa.
the third round is with sarah and cj against ruben and nia, and it’s tickle. casa takes the win this time, though the two groups were neck and neck for what felt like hours.
when your phone chimes in your pocket, you jump– not expecting to be next. you pull it out, already knowing what you’re about to see. you clear your throat, “‘next up, (name) versus jermajesty.’”
and of course, you call cairo up to be your partner. he kisses your cheek before you walk over to the machine– where you pull ‘lick’. you wave the ball around, sticking your tongue out and doing a dance in place. you’d pulled the one you wanted.
when you get the okay to start, you don’t waste any time. cairo stands in front of you and you drop to your knees without hesitation– the villa immediately erupting in shock screams when you place your hands on his calves for balance, lean in close, and drag your in a deliberate line up his pants. your round becomes a blur of movement and heat. the two of you take turns pushing and pulling each other up and down, him licking a trail over your collarbone as you arch into him, escalating with every passing second.
the adrenaline is pumping through your veins, making you laugh breathlessly under the screams and stomping that sound out around you. cairo guides you onto your stomach on the ground and grabs your ankle. you feel the wet heat of his tongue at the very tips of your toes, following a path straight up your calf, to the back of your knee. his tongue trails over one thigh while his hand mimics the path on your other thigh. he reaches the small of your back and continues up… and up… and up.
you hear it before you see it– the shouts, cheers, followed by all of them standing and jumping. you push yourself up onto your hands and knees, breathless, and cairo helps you to your feet. you’re both laughing on your walk back to your seats, and you chance a glance back to the red circle platform and the score bars on either side.
the pink bar– the villa– is lit all the way to the top, the heart flowing bright. when your eyes shit over to the blue bar, you stop in your tracks.
because the casa bar hasn’t moved. not a single light.
you blink, staring at it, smile faltering. did jermajesty…
did this nigga just throw the competition?
in casa amor, jermajesty sits after taking his turn, ignoring the annoyed looks from half of the casa girls as well as deon. he pulls his phone out when it chimes, and reads loud: “‘(name) and cairo win the round for the villa.’”
a round of groans ring out around him, but all he can focus on is the phone in his hand. he rubs his free hand down his face before closing the phone and shoving it back in his pocket, mumbling, “cairo? fuck kinda dumbass name is that?”
isaac gives him a look as if to say ‘really?’ before the text alerting them of the next round comes through.
back in the villa, alexis and aaron are up against brandon and zara. you lean back, right up against the arm cairo has resting on your seat, as you watch them pull ‘suck’ for their category.
cairo rubs at your arm and leans down, whispering into your ear, “our round was the best by far. we got so much chemistry– i can see you and i winning this whole thing for real.”
“wait, what do you mean?” you smile, slightly confused and half distracted as you glance over at him.
“what?” you watch something flicker across his face and disappear just as fast. “oh, i mean this challenge. i could see the villa winning.”
you don’t reply; going back to cheering for aaron and alexis– because despite wanting her to go to hell, it was still a point for the team you were on.
when the challenge ends and the villa is declared the winner, you’re absolutely riding the high of it– agreeing when cairo pulls you to the photobooth. once you’re both inside, you can barely wipe the smile off of your face as you direct him to sit. you stand, back facing the camera, and move both of your hands to rest under your ass. you grin over your shoulder when cairo catches on and leans forward, one hand on your hip as he opens his mouth– pretending to take a bite out of your ass.
the flash goes off and you move to sit next to him as he’s still laughing from your first pose. you mumble, “cute shit this time” as you raise your hand in the shape of half a heart. he mimics you, connecting his hand to yours and you both cheese as the flash goes off again.
he pulls you into his lap before you can move, and you adjust yourself as quickly as you can– throwing an arm around your shoulder and sticking your tongue out at the camera. his fingers are spread on your waist as he mimics you as the flash captures the moment again.
“last one,” you murmur, still on his lap.
cairo turns his head until you’re nose-to-nose, lifting a hand to the back of your neck. before he comes any closer, he whispers, “you good with this?”
the devil on your shoulder is jumping for joy. “mmhm,” is all you can reply before he presses his lips to yours. you wait for the final flash to go off before you stand, grabbing the photo strip when it prints. you show it to cairo, not really paying attention to what he says before you look over at him, “c’mon let’s get ready for bed.”
you walk ahead of him, smirking as you hold the photo strip tight in your hand. you were positive you would find the perfect home for it.
the competitive energy in the villa is carried into the next day.
it’s mid-afternoon as majority of you are stationed at the ping pong table– you and avan go up against asia and simon while everyone else acts as the audience and refs. the score is tied, which means you trash talk a tiny bit more and constantly point straight ahead in attempts to get the other team to look behind them and miss their shot.
when it finally works, you double over with laughter as asia throws her paddle down dramatically. “fuck outta here!” she groans, moving as another casa boy takes her spot.
“undefeated.” you place a kiss to your muscles as you ‘flex’.
“alright run it back–”
“girls… girls!” alexis’s voice cuts simon off, sharp and urgent. you glance over your shoulder and squint, seeing alexis near the entrance of the villa, waving her arms frantically. the other girls– sarah, elisa, and deanna– immediately drop what they’re doing and sprint toward her. even asia starts to jog from her place next to you.
but you don’t move yet.
instead, you watch as they crowd around alexis, all of them leaning in to see whatever she holds in her hand. their reactions come in waves– gasps, hands flying to their mouths, and a chorus of “oh my god”, “what the fuck”s.
you don’t know whether you want to let curiosity carry you over or if you want to pretend you never saw anything, turn around, and continue playing.
“what’s going on over there?” cairo asks from his spot in a chair a few feet from you.
“i don’t know,” you whisper, eyes still locked on the group. you’re just starting to turn back to the table when you see elisa.
she’s standing at the edge of the girls, now the one holding whatever alexis had. her face crumbles as she stares down at it– slowly at first, then all at once– and she covers her mouth with both hands as tears stream down her cheeks. you drop your paddle and break into a jog, holding the mic pack attached to your bikini as you weave through the villa until you reach the group.
“what happened?” you ask once you reach them, wrapping your arms around elisa immediately, pulling her into your chest. she buries her face in your shoulder and you feel her body shaking with quiet sobs.
sarah, now holding whatever it is, holds it up for you to see– her hand shaking slightly. it’s a postcard with six pictures and one line of cursive scripture: ‘with love, from casa amor’. your eyes scan the pictures quickly, taking in each image.
isaac is kissing a girl– though it must be from last night’s challenge because from the angle you can see the red circle under him. you glance at deanna, seeing she looks more annoyed than anything else.
shaun and brandon are mid-kiss with casa girls in their photos– and there's no doubt it's outside of a challenge. asia, possibly the most unbothered person you’ve ever met, is only shrugging and saying that “she’s been doing the same”. you don’t care to look at alexis.
deon is also mid-makeout with his shirt off, and it makes your lips curl up in disgust, holding elisa tighter and running your hands through her hair.
ruben’s picture is innocent, no physical boundaries crossed.
and jermajesty…
he’s mid-laugh, head titled back slightly, that angelic smile on his face. it makes your heart ache just a little. there’s a girl sitting in the chair beside him, though they’re seated a respectable distance apart. no touching. no closeness, nothing that screams anything more than a conversation. but it still hurts to see him growing closer to a girl that isn’t you.
you dismiss it quickly, as if you’re brushing dirt off of your shoulder.
“come on my love, let’s go sit,” you guide elisa to a couch off to the side– asia and deanna following you. “you’re gonna be okay, baby, i promise.”
in casa amor, jermajesty flips through sheets and covers on his bed, searching for the phone he knows he left in the bedroom. he’d gotten up later this morning than usual, because he’d been distracted by the pictures in his photo album. when he finally found it tucked inside of his pillowcase, he heard the noises coming from downstairs.
voices. loud, overlapping, rising in volume. he jogs down the stairs, phone in hand, and immediately spots nearly everyone huddled near the middle of the villa. their shoulders were pressed together, heads bent low.
jermajesty approached cautiously, not really thinking anything of it. “the hell is happening?” he called out as he got closer. no one answers. they were too busy passing whatever between them, varying degrees of irritation and surprise on their faces.
when jermajesty finally reaches the huddle, deon is laughing as he hands what looked like a postcard over. “look at this shit. they moving crazy over there.”
“on god, if they can do all that then we can too.” brandon shouts, using his arms and hands for extra effect. “they’re kissing on other boys and we’re supposed to sit here loyal?”
his stomach tightens hearing that last sentence. he has an urge to rip the postcard in his hands before even looking at it, but he swallows and looks down anyway; scanning the images quickly.
and he didn’t mean this offensively, but he didn’t give a fuck about the other girls. didn’t care what deanna, asia, or elisa were doing, nor did he care what alexis and sarah were doing. there was one girl he was looking for, and one girl only.
jermajesty found your picture in the bottom right corner, under the cursive reading: ‘with love, from the villa’. his breath catches in his throat, seeing you laid out on a daybed, underneath the weight of someone who wasn’t him. was this cairo?
despite wanting to throw the postcard to the ground, he can’t stop himself from leaning closer and analyzing every inch of the photo; his heart racing and blood rushing in his ears so loudly that every other person around him fades into the background. your arms are wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer– so close that your bodies leave no space between. both of your eyes are closed and you’re wearing his favorite lip combo– you knew that. you had to know that, you had to have been doing this on purpose.
your thigh is raised, but the angle of the camera cuts it off so he can’t see where your leg is exactly. if it’s wrapped around cairo, if it’s being held by cairo. but he didn’t need to see it, his mind was already filling in the rest.
the air left his lungs in a violent rush, like someone had punched him square in the chest. his hands tighten around the edges of the postcard, knuckles going white, and for a movement he can’t breathe– can’t think– can’t do anything but stare at the image in front of him.
your face looked so peaceful, content. like you wanted that– you wanted another nigga on top of you.
jermajesty knew that you were both hurting, that you hadn’t left on the best terms but you left on better terms than you were and he thought that meant something– hoped that meant something. hoped that you were both in the same place, same mindset. that you were both trying to figure out how to get back to each other and that casa amor was just a test to survive before he could fix things.
but this? he didn’t think this was a test. it looked like you were moving on.
his stomach turns, a wave of nausea rolling through him so hard he has to swallow it down. his throat burned, his chest felt tight, his vision blurred at the edges. he wanted to scream when the someone–he couldn’t see who– takes the postcard from him to look at for themselves; but he doesn’t know if he wants to scream from frustration or from gratitude for taking the postcard from his line of sight.
maybe from frustration, because when he blinks hard, the image is still staring back at him– burned into his mind. your arms around cairo’s neck. your lips parted. your bodies pressed close.
“yo, maj– you good, bro?” isaac says, placing a hand on jermajesty’s shoulder. but he can’t answer.
his jaw was clenched so tight it hurt, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to breath. this was his fault. he’d kissed alexis and lied to you. pushed you away even when it wasn’t his intent at all. and now you were doing exactly what he deserved.
“if she’s moving like that, you might as well do the same, bruh.” deon shrugs.
the voices around jermajesty blend together, overlapping, laughing, joking, shouting. his eyes stung, hot and sharp, and he blinked hard, refusing to let anything show. not here, not in front of the people around him.
he turned, his movements stiff and mechanical as he walks and walks until he finds a quiet corner. he sits heavily on the edge of a chair– his elbows resting on his knees and clasped hands brought up to cover his eyes.
here, he let’s himself truly feel it. the weight of it crashing into him all at once– the realization, the devastation, the guilt– it was so overwhelming that it made his hands shake. he couldn’t stop imagining the conversations the two of you could be having. did you get along more with cairo than with him? did he make you happier? he’d hoped even if you were angry that you would still hold on for him– and was that selfish… toxic of him to wish for?
but that picture… it looked like you weren’t coming back.
BEACH HUT (CONFESSIONAL)
jermajesty sits again with his elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped together. the producer off camera asks questions in an attempt to get him to talk about the situation. “how am i feeling?” jermajesty repeats, voice low and rough. “i mean, i thought… i thought we were both in the same place. i fucked up and i know that, and things got messy. and no excuse i have can take away from that fact. but i want to fix it. no one will ever amount to her for me. i think about her every second of every day, and i’m not just sayin’ that to say it. but seeing that picture… seeing her with him like that, it just–”
his voice breaks and he pauses, looking up at the ceiling for a few seconds. the producer off camera asks if jermajesty feels like you’re moving on. “i mean… yeah, what else am i supposed to think? she’s holding someone else close… i just hope i’m overthinkin’ this shit, that this isn’t really it for her, or for us–” his voice cracks again and he can’t stop the tear from falling this time. his breath comes faster, more shallow, and he moves his hands to cover his face– leaning back against the couch and covering his eyes with both of his arms. “fuck!” the camera keeps rolling, but the confessional stays silent besides the breaths that fall from jermajesty’s lips.
notes: in this tid bit randy have twin boys ( anthony and ayden , 6 ) just to cause some drama, this one is also kinda long…
5 days until the big day
something was wrong…something was very terribly wrong and it was your mission to find out
for the last three days, Randy had been disappearing into the home office after putting Anthony and Ayden to bed. Every night he’d stay in there for hours, refusing to tell you what he was doing.
At first you ignored it…then you got curious…now you were suspicious.
You quietly crept down the hallway and stopped at the partially open office door to see your fiancé, very soon to be husband sitting behind his desk looking at something on his computer and then writing something on a piece of paper
“the boys are sleep now” you said slowly walking closer “you gonna come to bed soon?” he quickly flipped over the paper her was writing on and closed multiple tabs
Randy shook his head and that mad you even more suspicious “is something bothering you, i hope it’s not cold feet” you joked and moved behind him and rested your hands on his shoulders, gently massaging them. “no. don’t worry about it” he replied in a cold tone
and paused what you were doing and stood up completely straight next to him “for the past three days you’ve been locked in this office, you haven’t come to bed with me, you barely said goodnight to the boys tonight.”
his eyes stayed glued to the screen.
“Randy.” Nothing. “Randy.” Still nothing.
“Steven Randall Jackson Jr are you even listening to me?” That finally got his attention, he glanced up at you before looking right back at the computer.
The dismissal made your stomach twist. You folded your arms across your chest.
“Wow.” “I’m busy right now.”
The words weren’t necessarily rude. But the tone? The tone definitely was.
You let out a short laugh and shook your head. “oh okay.” “y/n-” “No, it’s fine.” It very clearly wasn’t.
you walked toward the door. “since whatever’s happening in here is apparently more important than your fiancée, you can sleep on the couch tonight.”
his head snapped up. “Baby-“
Mission:
Completely unsuccessful.
4 days until the big day
you paced around the backyard patio phone to you ear hoping he would answer you and finally get some answers
“Jaafar.” “hey, what’s up?” he answered casually. “is Randy with you right now? “Nah.” you immediately relaxed. “But Jermajesty is. Why?” “Perfect.” Jaafar laughed and that one word told him everything. “What’s going on?”
You glanced over at the twins, who were currently running through the yard playing what they claimed was cops and robbers. To everyone else, it looked like two six-year-olds screaming and chasing each other in circles.
You lowered your voice. “He’s been distant for the past four days and I need to know if he’s getting cold feet or something.”
“you know randy can’t keep a secret” jaafar replied “exactly so why isn’t he telling me anything” the phone went silent for a moment “i can’t keep a secret either but what i can tell you and don’t tell randy i’m telling you this-“ “i won’t”
“i mean seriously it’s supposed to be a surprise like-“ “nigga stop beating around the bush” you whispered yelled into the phone, receiving a laugh from jermajesty in the background
“He’s working on his vows.” you froze. “What?” “His vows,” Jaafar repeated. “nd your wedding gift is gonna be big.”
The knot that had been sitting in your stomach for nearly a week immediately loosened.
“Oh my God.” “Nah, seriously,” he continued. “Like, hella big.” “How big?” “I can’t tell you without giving away details, but big enough that it’s gonna be hard to one-up him.”
you let out a sigh and smiled “okay good, thank you for that i’ve been tweaking out so much i made him sleep on the couch last night” you said with a chuckle “we know” jaafar and jermajesty said in unison “he told y’all” “of course he did” you heard from jermajesty
“oops”
1 day until the big day
you, randy and the boys took a stroll around the vineyard where the wedding would take place
“So,” you smiled, looking down at the twins walking between you and Randy, “what flavor do you think the wedding cake is?”
“well daddy like chocolate and you strawberry shortcake soooo both!” anthony said “What do you think, Ayden?”
Usually, Ayden would’ve had an opinion and sually, he’d correct Anthony or come up with something completely different.
Instead…
“i dunno” he said shrugging, Ayden was obviously the more calm, quiet and introverted twin despite being 4 minutes older but the answer he gave felt different
“you know you two have a big job on the wedding” randy started trying to lighten the mood “You’ll be carrying Mommy and Daddy’s wedding rings.”
Anthony gasped. “The real rings?” “The real rings,” Randy confirmed. “So you gotta be extra careful.” “I’ll do way better than Ayden,” Anthony said confidently. “I’ll be faster.” anthony said, you looked at ayden, he’ll usually have a smart comeback when it came to his brother teasing him but he didn’t this time
he silently looked ahead at the path the four of you were walking on, you looked at randy with a concerned look and he did the same
“you feeling okay buddy?” he asked, ayden nodded
later that night
The rehearsal had gone almost perfectly…almost
You stood beside Randy at the altar, your fingers intertwined as everyone practiced tomorrow’s ceremony one last time.
The music began and both of you smiled toward the entrance.
Anthony came walking down the aisle proudly, carrying the small ivory pillow but…he was alone…ayden nowhere in sight
“ant, where’s your brother?” randy asked, anthony stopped in his tracks and turned around and turned back around and shrugged
you looked around and then at jermajesty and jaafar “weren’t you two with them last?” jaafar looked down and jermajesty suddenly looked interested in the sky
“watch him!” Randy said pointing at anthony’s before letting your hand go he ran back inside to the vineyard’s mansion to look for the twin and you ran back inside with him
The vineyard wasn’t just a vineyard.
Connected to it was a massive mansion where the wedding party was staying six bedrooms, a ballroom, a game room, a library, a pool room, endless hallways…Far too many places for a six-year-old to disappear.
You and Randy split up at the grand staircase “Check upstairs!” he shouted.
“Ayden!” you yelled as you sprinted down one hallway. “Ayden!”
From somewhere else in the mansion, Randy’s voice echoed through the halls. “AYDEN!”
No answer.…only silence.
You turned another corner, your heart pounding against your chest. “Ayden!” you called again, your voice beginning to crack.
Nothing.
Just as you were about to search another room, Randy rounded the opposite end of the hallway his breathing as heavy as yours
“Anything?” he asked and you shook your head. “No.” “I checked every room downstairs.” he replied “I checked all the bedrooms on this side.”
The two of you stood there for a second, both trying to think then you heard a quiet sniffle.
“…Did you hear that?” Randy nodded.
Another muffled cry.
It was faint, almost like someone was trying not to be heard. The sound was coming from one of the guest rooms.
The two of you rushed inside.
The room looked untouched and bed was perfectly made, the curtains swayed gently from the open balcony door. you looked around in confusion until Randy slowly lowered himself to one knee.
“there you are…” you quickly joined him on the floor.
urled up beneath the bed, hugging his knees tightly to his chest, was Ayden his little cheeks were stained with tears.
“Ayden…”
you reached your hand under the bed.
“there you are, baby.”
he immediately scooted farther back.
“No.”
your heart shattered.
“no?” “I don’t wanna come out.”
Randy laid on the floor beside you, trying to peek underneath.
“hey, buddy.” Ayden refused to look at either of you. “what happened?” Randy asked softly. “did somebody say something to you?” he shook his head
“did you get hurt?” he shook his head again
You exchanged worried glances.
“what is it then?” you whispered now crawling under the bed yourself, randy doing the same
“I don’t like the wedding.” he sniffled “you…don’t?” you asked and he shook his head again “I don’t want y’all to get married.”
“why not?” randy asked carefully, Ayden’s little voice trembled.
“’cause…” He wiped his face with his sleeve “y’all already Mommy and Daddy..hou already kiss…you already live together and you already love each other.”
his big eyes were filled with tears “so…why do you need a wedding?”
your eyes immediately began to sting so ou crawled a little closer.
“Oh, sweetheart…” you said
“I don’t get it.”
“what made you think about all this?” randy questioned
Ayden hesitated then the question he’d been carrying around all day finally came out.
“If you marry Mommy…are you gonna love her more than me?”
the room fell quiet
you felt your heart break into a million piece “Oh, baby…” “No,” Randy answered immediately.
“So…you won’t wanna play with me anymore?” “No.” “You won’t watch cartoons with us?” “Never.”
“You won’t carry me ‘cause you’re married?”
Randy couldn’t help but smile through the tears gathering in his own eyes.
“I’ll probably still carry you even when you’re bigger than me.”
a tiny smile almost appeared before disappearing again.
“You promise?” “I promise.”
Ayden looked over at you.
“what about you mommy?”
“my sweet boy…”
you squeezed his little hand.
“the wedding doesn’t make Daddy love me more.” “It doesn’t?” you smiled at him through watery eyes. “no.”
you looked over at Randy before looking back at your son. “It just lets everyone else celebrate the love we’ve had for a long time” “the same love that gave us you and Anthony.”
“and no matter what happens tomorrow…” Randy finished your sentence. “…nothing will ever make us stop being your mommy and daddy first.”
Ayden looked at the two of you
“So…” he started and sniffled one last time “…we’re still gonna have movie night?” Randy laughed, the tension finally breaking.
“every Friday.” “and pancakes?” “every Saturday.”
“and cops and robbers?” Randy held out his pinky “as long as you promise not to tackle me as hard as last time.”
a tiny giggle escaped Ayden’s lips and It was the first smile you’d seen from him all day Slowly, he crawled out from underneath the bed and the two of you followed
you and randy kneeled down and hugged the little boy “I was scared.” Randy kissed the top of his head. “I know, buddy.”
“and next time you’re scared,” you whispered, brushing his curls back from his forehead, “you don’t have to hide.” “You can always tell us.”
Ayden nodded against your shoulder “…Okay.”
Just then, Anthony burst into the doorway.
“There you are!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking everywhere!” Ayden looked up at his brother.
“Sorry.” Anthony shrugged like it was no big deal.
“It’s okay.” Then he grinned. “if you hide tomorrow take me with you”
Ayden rolled his eyes for what felt like the first time all day “your not good at hiding”
Randy chuckled quietly, relieved to hear his son’s usual attitude return you leaned into Randy’s side, watching the twins bicker as they walked out of the room together.
the big day
The room was quiet.
No wedding planner, no bridesmaids, no laughter echoing through the suite…Just you.
You sat in front of the large floor-length mirror, your wedding gown cascading around the chair like white satin spilling onto the hardwood floor.
Your bouquet rested gently in your lap.
For a long moment, you simply stared at your reflection.
This was it, the moment you’d dreamed about for years. Not because you needed a wedding to prove your love for Randy. You’d already built a home together. You’d already weathered the sleepless nights, the first steps, scraped knees, bedtime stories, and six wonderful years of raising Anthony and Ayden side by side.
You were already a family. Today wasn’t about becoming one. Today was about celebrating the one you’d already created.
A soft smile found your lips.
You looked down at the bouquet in your hands before gently brushing your thumb across the ribbon wrapped around the stems.
You took one deep breath in and one slow breath out.
“You ready?”
Your father’s voice came from the doorway. You looked over your shoulder and smiled.
“I am.” He walked over and offered his arm.
“You look beautiful.”Your eyes watered instantly “Don’t make me cry before I even get down the aisle.”
He chuckled, kissing your forehead before leading you out of the bridal suite.
The walk to the ceremony felt surreal, every step brought you closer to Randy..closer to forever.
Soon, the two of you stood behind the grand ivory curtains at the entrance of the vineyard.
Beyond the fabric, you could hear the quiet chatter of your guests settling into their seats.
Then…silence.
The quartet lifted their instruments then the first delicate notes of a symphonic arrangement of “At Last” by Etta James drifted through the air.
Your heart immediately began to race.
Your father gently squeezed your hand.
“You’ve got this.”
You nodded, unable to trust your voice.
The curtains slowly parted, the golden afternoon sunlight poured into the aisle, rows of smiling faces turned toward you.
And at the very end of the aisle…
There he was.
Randy…your soon to be husband
Standing at the altar with tears already gathering in his eyes.
The moment he saw you, the rest of the world seemed to disappear.
For him…there was only you.
For a moment, Randy forgot how to breathe.
Every conversation, eery late-night phone call, every laugh, every argument, every milestone, every memory.
It all led to this.
His eyes followed you as you took your first step down the aisle.
The corners of his mouth lifted into the softest smile as tears gathered in his eyes.
“I’m trying not to” Randy muttered with a shaky laugh but a tear escaped anyway and then another.
He quickly wiped beneath his eyes, but it was useless.
The second your eyes met his, his composure completely disappeared.
You smiled through your own tears.
There he was. The man who’d loved you through every version of yourself. The father of your children.Your best friend. Your safe place.
You couldn’t stop smiling as your father slowly escorted you the rest of the way down the aisle.
When you finally reached the altar, Randy stepped forward before the officiant could even say a word.
He took your bouquet with trembling hands before giving it to your maid of honor.
Then he reached for both of your hands. “You look…” he laughed through another tear. “…You look so beautiful.”
You giggled, tears slipping down your cheeks.
“You’ve already cried.”
“I know.”
“You said you weren’t gonna cry.”
“I lied.”
The guests laughed softly.
Your father kissed your forehead one last time before placing your hand into Randy’s.
“Take good care of my little girl.” Randy nodded without hesitation. “I always will.” Your father smiled before taking his seat. the officiant cleared his throat with a grin.
“I think we’re finally ready.”
The ceremony began.
The officiant spoke about love, about commitment, about choosing each other every single day.
You found yourself barely hearing the words. You were too busy looking at Randy And he was too busy looking at you.
Nothing else seemed to exist.
“At this time,” the officiant said with a smile, “may we have the rings?”
Every guest turned toward the back of the aisle.
Anthony and Ayden stood proudly side by side in their matching little suits.
Anthony held the ivory pillow with the rings tied securely on top.
“do we go?” Anthony whispered.
Ayden nodded. “go!”
The music changed ever so slightly as the twins started their important walk.
Anthony, determined to impress everyone, whispered loudly,
“I’m gonna be faster than you.”
Before Ayden could answer…Anthony hurried forward…and immediately caught the toe of his dress shoe on the aisle runner.
He stumbled forward, the ring pillow flying up into the air before landing safely in his arms as he hit one knee.
The entire vineyard gasped.
Then…Anthony looked up with wide eyes.
“I’m fine!”
A wave of relieved laughter spread through the guests.
Ayden hurried over instead of continuing without him.
“You good?”
Anthony nodded sheepishly.
“Yeah…”
Without saying another word, Ayden reached down and helped pull his brother back onto his feet.
Anthony dusted off his little jacket before looking at him.
The guests collectively let out an audible “Aww…”
Even the officiant chuckled.
Randy wiped away another tear.
“Oh, man…”
You looked over at him. “Now you’re crying because of them?” He laughed.
The twins continued the rest of the way together. This time, Anthony slowed down.
The moment they reached the altar, they proudly presented the pillow.
“We did it!” Anthony announced. “Told you we’d be careful,” Ayden added.
Randy crouched down in front of them. “you did perfect.”
He wrapped an arm around each of them, pulling them into a quick hug.
“So perfect,” he whispered, “that I think y’all just stole the whole wedding.”
Anthony beamed. “I know.”
The guests laughed once more as the twins proudly took their seats, still whispering to each other about Anthony’s “cool save.”
You looked at Randy and smiled.
The officiant smiled as he looked between the two of you.
“Now that the rings have been exchanged, it’s time for the vows.”
Your stomach fluttered. This was the part you’d been thinking about for months.
You took a shaky breath before unfolding the small piece of paper you’d rewritten more times than you could count.
Looking at Randy, you smiled through the tears already welling in your eyes.
“Randy…I’ve tried writing these vows a hundred different ways, and somehow none of them ever felt good enough.”
A soft laugh rippled through the guests.
“How do you put into words what it feels like to spend your life with your best friend?”
You paused, your eyes never leaving his.
“You’ve loved me on the days I felt beautiful and on the days I couldn’t even recognize myself. You’ve celebrated every victory with me, no matter how small, and you’ve held me together through every moment I thought I was falling apart.”
Your voice began to tremble.
“You’ve shown me what patience looks like… what grace looks like… what unconditional love looks like.”
You glanced over at Anthony and Ayden.
“Watching you become a father has been the greatest privilege of my life.”
The twins smiled proudly.
“You’ve taught our boys what kindness looks like. You’ve taught them what respect looks like. And most importantly…You’ve taught them what it means to love someone completely.”
Randy quickly looked down, trying to hide the tears spilling onto his cheeks.
You smiled.
“I knew I loved you long before today. I loved you when we stayed up until three in the morning talking about nothing. I loved you when we became parents and had absolutely no idea what we were doing.”
A few guests laughed knowingly.
“I loved you through the sleepless nights…the hard conversations…the chaos…the milestones…the ordinary tuesdays that somehow became my favorite days simply because they were spent with you.”
Your voice cracked.
“And I know I’ll love you when we’re old and gray, arguing over which one of us forgot where we put the tv remote.”
More laughter echoed throughout the vineyard.
“So today…I don’t promise perfection.”
“I promise honesty, forgiveness, to keep choosing you, even on the hard days.I promise to keep dancing with you in the kitchen, to laugh with you, to grow with you, to remind you every single day that you are loved beyond words.”
You gently squeezed his hands.
“And if Anthony and Ayden ever grow up and ask me what true love looks like…I’ll simply point to you.”
A tear slid down your cheek.
“Because in every lifetime…It will always be you…Steven Randall Jackson JrI love you.”
The vineyard erupted into soft sniffles as you folded your vows back up.
Randy stood completely still, crying too hard to speak.
Jaafar quietly leaned over “Get it together.”
“I’m trying,” Randy whispered with a watery laugh.
The officiant smiled warmly. “Randy… whenever you’re ready.”
He chuckled, wiping beneath both eyes “I should’ve gone first.”
The guests laughed and unfolded his own paper before looking directly into your eyes.
“y/n…my uncle Michael has a song called Lady in My Life.”
A few knowing smiles spread throughout the audience.
“When I was younger, I used to think it was just another love song.”
He smiled softly.
“But as I got older and as I fell in love with you…I realized it wasn’t…It was about finding the person who feels like home, the person you choose every single day, the person you can’t imagine doing life without.”
He reached up to wipe another tear from his cheek.
“And that’s you. You’ve always been the lady in my life.”
The title alone made your lip quiver.
“You gave me a family., you gave me two incredible little boys who somehow look exactly like me…” Anthony grinned proudly. “…thank God they act like you.”
Laughter filled the ceremony.
“You’ve loved me through my mistakes, you’ve believed in me when I struggled to believe in myself, you’ve made every house we’ve ever lived in feel like home and you’ve turned ordinary moments into memories I’ll cherish forever.”
He took a deep breath.
“I love the way you laugh, I love how you dance around the kitchen, I love the way you somehow always know when something’s wrong before I say a word, I love the life we’ve built and I love that after all these years…I still get butterflies every time you walk into a room.”
His voice cracked.
“You asked me once if I was getting cold feet.”
The guests chuckled.
“The truth is…I wasn’t scared to marry you, I was scared that nothing I could plan… no surprise, no gift, no vows… would ever be enough to show you how much I love you.”
He smiled through tears.
“But maybe I don’t have to find perfect words, maybe all I have to do is spend the rest of my life showing you. So I promise to keep choosing you, to protect your heart, to grow old with you, to love you louder on the days you struggle to love yourself, to keep being the best father I can be to our boys and to never stop reminding you…you’ve always been…and you’ll always be…the lady in my life.”
By the time he finished, there wasn’t a dry eye in the vineyard, even the officiant had discreetly reached for a tissue.
You laughed through your tears as Randy gently rested his forehead against yours.
“I love you” he whispered. “I love you more” you whispered back.
The officiant cleared his throat with a smile “I think everyone here has been waiting long enough.” the guests laughed softly as he looked at the two of you.
“By the power vested in me, it is my honor and privilege to pronounce you husband and wife.”
A wave of cheers erupted throughout the vineyard.
Randy couldn’t stop smiling and neither could you.
The officiant looked between the two of you with a grin.
“Randy…”
He didn’t even let him finish Randy cupped your face so gently it was as if you were made of glass.
“You may kiss your bride.”
The words had barely left the officiant’s mouth before Randy closed the distance between you.
His lips met yours in a slow, tender kiss.
The crowd exploded into applause, whistles, and cheers.
You smiled against Randy’s lips before the two of you pulled away, resting your foreheads together.
“Husband,” you whispered with a giggle “Wife,” he replied, his smile somehow growing even wider.
The officiant laughed softly “It is my great pleasure to present to you all for the very first time…”
He paused as the guests rose to their feet.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jackson.”
The applause only grew louder as Randy intertwined his fingers with yours.
some time later..
the lights inside the reception hall softened until the room glowed with nothing but candlelight and the warm twinkle of crystal chandeliers
the chatter slowly died down and every guest turned toward the center of the dance floor
the DJ smiled into the microphone
“please welcome, for the very first time, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson”
thunderous applause filled the room
Randy extended his hand toward you with a grin “may I have this dance, Mrs. Jackson?”
you looked down at your new wedding band before slipping your hand into his “you may.”
as he led you to the center of the dance floor, the opening notes of “Lady in My Life” filled the room.
a chorus of soft awws spread through the guests.
“really?” you whispered, Randy shrugged innocently “i figured it was only right”
he wrapped one arm around your waist while your other hand rested comfortably on his shoulders and your fingers intertwined
“we did it” you whispered making Randy let out a quiet laugh “we did”
slowly, the two of you began swaying together, moving across the dance floor
“you know…i’ve been waiting to call you my wife all day,” Randy admitted “i’ve been practicing signing my new last name”
“oh yeah?” “Mhm, it looks pretty.”
he laughed “well…i guess we’re stuck with each other now” you raised an eyebrow “oh, now we’re stuck?” “very stuck”
the two of you laughed together before settling back into a comfortable silence.
you rested your head against his chest, his heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.
“i love this song” you murmured “me too” “I used to listen to it and wonder what it would feel like to have someone love me like that”
Randy gently lifted your chin until your eyes met his “and now?” you smiled, your eyes beginning to water again “now I’m dancing with him.”
he closed his eyes for a brief second, trying to stop himself from crying again “you’ve been making me cry all day” “you cried before I even made it down the aisle” “you looked so beautiful” “Randy you always say that” “because it’s always true”
your fingers absentmindedly traced the back of his hand
“you know what my favorite part of today was?” “what?” “you” he chuckled “that’s not really a part” “it is to me”
be leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead “when I told everyone you’d always be the lady in my life…” he said quietly “i meant every word.”
you looked up at him “and no matter how many years pass…no matter how many gray hairs we get…no matter how many grandbabies Anthony and Ayden give us…you’ll still be the first person I look for in every room”
tears slipped down your cheeks.
“i’ll still choose you” “every day?” “every single day”
the music continued to play as Randy slowly spun you beneath his arm, your dress fanned out around you before you landed back against his chest, laughing.
at the edge of the dance floor, Anthony tugged on Ayden’s sleeve “what?”
“one day i’m gonna marry somebody like Mommy”
Ayden watched the two of you swaying together before quietly smiling
“me too”
around the room, family members wiped away tears while others smiled at the scene unfolding before them
the reception buzzed with conversation as everyone settled into their seats for dinner, crystal glasses clinked together and laughter echoed throughout the vineyard
Anthony and Ayden were sitting between the two of you, proudly telling anyone who would listen about how they “saved the wedding” after Anthony’s dramatic trip down the aisle
“I told y’all I caught the pillow,” Anthony said with a mouth full of mashed potatoes,Ayden rolled his eyes “you only caught it because I helped you up” “i would’ve got up anyway”
as everyone continued eating, Randy quietly stood from his chair
he tapped his champagne glass with a spoon
Clink Clink Clink.
the room gradually fell silent as every pair of eyes landed on him
he smiled nervously before looking over at you “If I could steal everyone’s attention for just a minute…” he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket “i already gave my vows earlier today…but there’s one more thing I wanted to do”
you tilted your head curiously and he pulled out a small white envelope.
“I’ve known you for a long time, you’ve never been the type to ask me for expensive gifts, never cared about jewelry, designer bags…or any of that…if you did you bought it yourself”
he smiled “but there has always been one thing you’ve dreamed about.”
your brows furrowed and he held the envelope out toward you
“open it baby”
the guests watched in anticipation as you carefully opened the envelope, inside was a key fob
“…Randy?”
you turned it over in your hand,your eyes widened
“no…”
you looked back up at him
“this isn’t…”
he nodded with the biggest smile.
“it is”
your hands immediately flew to your mouth
“no way..”
“you’ve talked about that car for years, you’d point it out every single time one drove by.”
“‘one day,’” he imitated your voice with a grin, “‘I’m gonna have one of those.’”
laughter filled the room as you looked back down at the key, still trying to process what was happening
“Randy…”
he reached into his pocket again “and since I know you…you’re probably wondering if it’s leased.” he pulled out another envelope.“so here’s the title”
you stared at him “it’s…” he nodded “paid off, completely.” he walked over and gently placed the paperwork in your hands “and it’s in your name.”
you slowly looked down at the title, then back at him, then back at the title again.
the tears came instantly
“oh my god…”
you couldn’t even finish the sentence, you stood up so quickly your chair nearly tipped over before throwing your arms around his neck.
“You are absolutely insane,” you cried into his shoulder “you bought me my dream car?” “i did.” “you paid it off?” “Mhm.” “it’s…mine?” “every last bit of it”
you pulled back just enough to look at him “you didn’t have to do that” “I wanted to”
he gently wiped a tear from your cheek
“you’ve spent years putting everyone else first..me, our boys and our family so i wanted to give you something that was just for you.”
you laughed through your tears. “I don’t even know what to say” he smiled “you don’t have to say anything”
summary: marlon made sure to record every second of your pregnancy
contains: fluff! established relationship! reader is pregnant
notes: baby it’s a looong one .. inspired by home movies by @ktrsis and nine months of home movies by @angelfacediary
tape one
you sighed, watching your husband adjust the camcorder stand. “why are you setting up the camera?”
“just in case babe” he answered with a shrug, pressing the record button.
“I’m not pregnant.” replied rolling your eyes “you’ve been saying that all week.”
“it is December 8th,” he announced to the camera and then checking the watch on his wrist, “and it is currently…” he squinted at the tiny numbers. “…2:03 in the morning.”
he smiled into the lens “we’re taking a pregnancy test because y/n hasn’t been feeling too good lately. she barely touched her dinner, she’s been sick for three days…” he pointed the camera toward you. “…and jackie told me he had a dream about fish.”
the timer you set went off. you pick up both of the tests and your jaw dropped
“MARLON YOU MOTHERFUCKER” you yelled and threw the two positive tests at him
tape two
the tape began with Marlon holding the camcorder a little too close to his face.
“today is…” he looked down at a sticky note taped to the side of the camera. “…January 28th and y/n is officially one month pregnant.”
The camera flipped around to you, bundled in one of his hoodies, hiding your face with your hands.
“It’s still so early,” you mumbled. “I know,” Marlon laughed. “but tonight we’re telling my family before you start showing.”
the screen cut to a title card written in black marker on a piece of notebook paper.
GUESS THE ANNOUNCEMENT
the camera found Rebbie first, sitting comfortably on the couch.
“what do you think tonight’s announcement is?” Marlon asked from behind the lens.
Rebbie thought for a second “y’all buying a new house?”
tito barely looked up.
“what announcement?” “he announcement.”
“oh…” he shrugged. “hopefully not a divorce.”
“A DIVORCE?”
Jackie smiled almost immediately.
“…y’all having a baby?”
behind the camera, Marlon went completely silent making jckie narrow his eyes. “…why are you smiling like that?”
the recording cut before he could answer.
Jermaine rubbed his hands together excitedly.
“I hope you’re taking all of us on vacation.”
“that’s…expensive.”
“It would be nice though.”
La Toya smiled confidently.
“A new house!” “Nope.” “Dang.”
Michael looked directly into the camera.
“you’re finally buying the family a boat.”
“A boat?”
“I’ve always wanted a boat.”
the camera found Randy eating chips in the kitchen.
“what do you think tonight’s announcement is?” “…there’s an announcement?”
finally, Marlon walked into Janet’s room. she looked at him for only a second before tilting her head. “…is y/n pregnant?”
Marlon froze. “…maybe.”
Janet gasped. “oh my God.”
the recording cut before she could get another word out.
a few minutes later, everyone was gathered in the Hayvenhurst living room.the camera rested on the fireplace mantel, capturing the entire room.
you stood next to your husband and slowly intertwined your fingers together and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze.
“so…” he began. “out of everybody’s guesses…”
He looked over at Jackie and then Janet. “…only Jackie and Janet got it right.”
the room went quiet.
Jackie blinked and Janet covered her mouth.“…You’re pregnant?” they both said at the same time and you nodded with a smile on your face “we’re having a baby.”
for half a second, nobody moved then the entire living room erupted.
Janet screamed louder than anyone Jackie threw both hands in the air with the biggest grin on his face.“I KNEW IT!”
Rebbie rushed over first, wrapping you in the gentlest hug. “aww congratulations”
Jermaine was already congratulating Marlon, pulling him into a bear hug while everyone talked over each other.
La Toya was crying and Michael stood frozen for a moment before walking over and hugging both of you at the same time.“another jackson baby…” he said softly, smiling from ear to ear.
even Randy looked shocked. “…wait…” he looked around the room “y’all were serious?”
everyone burst into laughter. Marlon couldn’t stop smiling behind the camera.
he slowly panned across the room, capturing every hug, every happy tear, every laugh, knowing this was a moment they’d all want to relive forever.
tape three
the recording started in the parking lot of the doctor’s office.
Marlon pointed the camcorder at himself, practically glowing “today is February 8th,” he said excitedly. “y/n is officially two months pregnant.”
he turned the camera toward you as the two of you walked inside hand in hand “and today…” he grinned. “…we finally get to hear our baby’s heartbeat.”
“I’ve been waiting all week for this,” you admitted with a nervous laugh.
the camera rested on a nearby chair, angled toward the examination bed.
you lay back with your shirt pulled just above your stomach, absentmindedly twisting your wedding ring while you waited.
Marlon walked over, picked the camera up for a second, and slowly panned from your tiny bump to your face.
“you ready?” he asked softly and you odded
the ultrasound technician smiled as she squeezed warm gel onto your lower stomach.
“alright,” she said. “let’s meet your baby.”
she placed the probe against your skin.
for a moment…nothing.
then a rapid heartbeat filled the room making eyes instantly fill with tears.
“oh my gosh…” you whispered, your voice trembling. Marlon looked from the monitor to you and back again, completely speechless. “that’s…” he laughed shakily. “…that’s our baby.”
you reached for his hand without looking away from the screen and he held it tightly.
“Is it supposed to sound that loud?” he asked, smiling through his own tears.
the technician paused.
“…no actually…”
she leaned a little closer to the monitor, moving the probe around.
“hmm.”
the room grew quiet.
your smile slowly faded “is everything okay?” you asked.
“oh, everything looks fine,” the technician reassured you with a smile. “I’m just…taking another look around.”
she adjusted the probe again. “does twins or triplets happen to run in either of your families?”
you and Marlon immediately looked at each other “I actually had a twin brother but he passed away shortly after we were born.”
the technician nodded thoughtfully as she continued scanning.
“okay…”
she pointed toward the monitor.
“well im seeing…one…two…three sacks”
“three?” you repeated weakly.
“THREE?!” Marlon nearly shouted, the camera shaking in his hands.
the technician laughed. “It certainly looks that way.”
you stared at the screen, completely frozen. “no…” you whispered between nervous laughs. “no, no, no…”
Marlon looked like he had completely left his body. “three babies?”
the technician smiled warmly.
“Congratulations.”
tape four
the tape started with the camera pointed at the backyard.
pink and blue decorations covered every table, balloons swayed in the breeze, and family members laughed as they waited for the reveal to begin.
the camera flipped around to Marlon. “today is…” he glanced at his watch. “…April 12th and today…”
he slowly turned the camera toward you “we find out what our babies are.”
the camcorder drifted down to your growing belly, the white dress you wore hugging it perfectly he held the shot there for a second before slowly panning back up to your face and of course you were too busy on the sandwich you had
“you nervous?” he asked “a little.”
“so…” Marlon said from behind the camera. “I’m thinking two boys and a girl.” you immediately shook your head “nope.” “What do you mean, ‘nope?’” “I want two girls and a boy.”
he laughed. “well…let’s see what everybody else thinks.”
The screen cut to another homemade title card.
PLACE YOUR BETS
Rebbie smiled at the camera.
“I think it’ll be three girls.”
Tito shrugged.
“As long as they’re healthy, I don’t care.”
Jackie rubbed his chin dramatically.
“Hmm…”
He looked directly into the camera. “Two boys…and a girl.”
Jermaine didn’t hesitate.
“All girls.”
La Toya burst into laughter.
“I can’t answer.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I’m the only one who knows!”
Michael smiled softly.
“I think…” he paused. “…two girls and a little boy.”
“you always sound so sure.”
“I have a feeling.”
Randy folded his arms
“All boys.”
“No explanation?”
“Nope.”
Janet thought for a moment.
“I’m gonna say…”
she pointed at the camera.
“all boys.”
she paused “…Or!”
she laughed.
“two boys and a girl.”
the tape cut one final time.
everyone stood gathered in the backyard, cameras in hand.
three giant white boxes with oversized black question marks sat in the grass in front of you and Marlon one box for each baby.
Marlon wrapped an arm around your waist.
“you ready?” he whisperedy, you nodded, taking a deep breath “yes”
La Toya smiled from across the yard.
“okay!”She clapped her hands together.
“let’s meet baby a!”
you opened the first box.
a cluster of blue balloons floated into the sky.
“A BOY!”
Marlon laughed, immediately pulling you into a quick hug and you couldn’t stop smiling as you watched the balloons disappear into the clouds.
Marlon looked over at the second box.
“alright…baby b”
he lifted the lid.
more blue balloons burst into the air.
“ANOTHER BOY!”
Marlon doubled over laughing “Oh my God!” You covered your mouth, tears already beginning to form.
“Two boys…”
You looked at the final box. “One more.”
The backyard grew quiet.
Everyone instinctively began counting together.
“Five…Four…Three…”
Marlon reached for your hand.
“Two…”
You both grabbed the lid.
“ONE!”
Together, you lifted the final box.
A cloud of pink balloons floated into the sky
“IT’S A GIRL!”
Janet jumped up and down, squealing as she threw her arms around Rebbie.
“I KNEW THERE HAD TO BE A LITTLE GIRL!”
La Toya clapped excitedly.
“I’ve been waiting to do somebody’s hair!”
Michael smiled so brightly his cheeks hurt.
“I knew there’d be a little girl,” he said softly, watching the pink balloons drift higher into the sky.
Marlon stared at the balloons in complete disbelief.“Two boys…” He looked over at you. “…and our little girl.”
You nodded, tears already streaming down your face.“Two boys and a girl.”
he wrapped his arms around you as carefully as he could. “We’re really having three babies.”
you laughed through your tears. “I guess we were both right.”
he smiled “Yeah…” he then leaned down, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead as his hand rested protectively over your belly.
the camera lingered on the blue and pink balloons floating together against the bright afternoon sky before slowly panning back down to the family celebrating, hugging, laughing, and already arguing over who’d spoil the babies the most.
tape five
the tape began in the nursery. the walls had just been painted a soft cream, and unopened baby gifts were stacked neatly in one corner.
The camcorder sat on a tripod across the room.
You sat cross-legged on the floor with a notebook resting in your lap while Marlon settled beside you, his shoulder pressed against yours.
He waved at the camera “Hey, boys…” he smiled before looking down at your belly. “…and baby girl.” He gently rubbed your stomach.
“It’s your mama and daddy.” “And today,” you finished with a laugh, “we’re gonna try to finally name y’all.”
You looked over at the camera and smiled “Hopefully.”
“We’ve been arguing about this for three weeks.”Marlon groaned dramatically. “We have not been arguing.” “We’ve been…strongly discussing” you said and laughed a little
“Your daddy wanted one of y’all to be a junior.” “I think it has a nice ring to it.”Marlon replied and shrugged.
“I said absolutely not.”
He looked offended.
“That’s not fair.” “It is fair.”
You looked down at your notebook “I didn’t think it was fair for only one baby to be named after you, so…” you smiled proudly. “I decided all three of you are getting the same first initial.”
Marlon nodded and you flipped to the first page.
“Alright…first on the list issssss Christopher, Corey…and Courtney.” Marlon scrunched up his face. “…It sounds like Christopher and Courtney were planned…”
He pointed at the middle name. “…and Corey just wandered in.”
You burst into laughter. “You’re kinda right.”You crossed them off.
“Bryson…Brayden…and Brandy?”
Marlon tilted his head “Bryson and Brandy are cute.” you looked at him “…No love for Brayden?” he shook his head “nahhh”
You nodded and scribbled another line through the names.
“Oh!” you looked farther down the page and then at him “La Toya suggested these.”
Marlon already looked suspicious.
“Sean…Seth…and Stephanie.”
He immediately shook his head. “No” “You didn’t even think about it” “I don’t have to” You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the notebook “I knew you were gonna say that”
Another page turned and stopped.
Your smile slowly grew. “Oh I like these…Isaac…Isaiah……and Imani.” You looked over at him.
“Hmm…” You smiled to yourself as you imagined saying them out loud “Isaac Jackson, Isaiah Jackson and Imani Jackson.” Marlon repeated them under his breath.
“Isaac,Isaiah and Imani…” A slow smile spread across his face then looked at you and nodded.
“I love them.” “Really?” “I really love them.”
You immediately circled all three names with the biggest grin on your face.
“I think we finally did it.” Marlon leaned over, kissing your forehead before resting a hand on your belly.
“Well…”He smiled toward the camera. “Looks like we finally get to stop calling y’all ‘Baby A, Baby B, and Baby C.’”
You laughed. “Welcome to the family…” You said gently rubbing your stomach
“Isaac Isaiah and Imani.” The two of you smiled at each other, already picturing the day you’d finally get to call those names across the house.
The tape kept rolling for another few seconds as Marlon reached over and proudly underlined each name one last time.
tape six
the tape started with soft music playing somewhere in the house.
the nursery was almost finished. cribs stood against one wall waiting to be assembled, stuffed animals filled a corner, and tiny folded baby clothes covered the changing table.
the camera was perched on the dresser, capturing the entire room.
you reclined comfortably on a pile of pillows spread across the floor, your shirt rolled just above your growing belly.
Marlon sat beside you with a small paint palette and a handful of brushes.
“what are you painting?” you asked, trying to peek down.
“you’ll see.” “you won’t let me look?” “nope.” “you don’t trust me?” “I know you.”
he dipped his brush into another color “you’ll spoil the surprise.”
you laughed and settled back against the pillows. “fine.”
the brush tickled your skin, making you giggle. “stop moving.” “it tickles!” “it’ll only take longer if you keep laughing.”
you playfully swatted his arm.
the camera continued recording while the two of you talked.
“so…” you began “I’ve officially accepted that we have to buy everything three times.”
Marlon nodded without looking up.
“three cribs, three car seats, three highchairs and three strollers…”
“actually,” Marlon interrupted “I found one made for triplets.”
your eyes widened “they make those?” “they do, it looks like a train.”
he laughed “I’ll push the train.”
you smiled.
“I already know they’re gonna match.”
“Oh, absolutely.” “I don’t care how much they complain when they’re older they’re wearing matching outfits.”
“every holiday, every birthday, every family picture.”
you nodded proudly “and especially Christmas.”
Marlon grinned “I already bought matching little pajamas.”
“you already bought them?” “…maybe.”
you looked at him “Marlon.” “what?” “they aren’t even born yet.” “I know.”
“you have a shopping problem.” “I have excited-dad syndrome.”
after a few moments, you looked around the nursery.
“for decorations…I think I want warm colors.” “no bright blue?” you shook your head “no, I want creams…sage green…maybe little teddy bears.”
“I like that.”
“and lots of books, so they’re gonna be read to every night, even if they don’t understand.”
Marlon smiled “my mother used to read to us all the time.”
“I want that for them.” you smiled and nodded
“they’ll grow up surrounded by family.”
He quietly nodded.
“and cousins.” “so many cousins.”
you both laughed “they’re never gonna have a quiet holiday.” “oh yeah never, especially if maine keeps acting how he acts”
a comfortable silence settled over the room, only the gentle scratching of Marlon’s paintbrush could be heard.
after another minute, he leaned back proudly “done”
you immediately tried to look down “what is it?” he stood up and grabbed the camera “you ready?” “I’ve been ready”
he slowly turned the camcorder toward your stomach.
painted across your belly was a bright blue sky with three fluffy white clouds, each cloud had a tiny pair of angel wings and a smiling baby face, underneath them, in neat lettering, were their names.
Isaac, Isaiah and Imani
“you like it?” “I love it.”
you looked down at your belly, carefully tracing each painted name with your fingertip. the camera lingered on the painting for a few quiet moments before the recording faded out.
tape seven
the tape began with the camera pointing at a half full grocery cart
Marlon flipped the camera around to face himself as he walked through the produce section
“so…” he looked around dramatically before lowering his voice
“It’s 10:47 at night.” he sighed “and I am currently on my fourth grocery run this week.”
he slowly pointed the camera back at the cart. “wanna know why?”
he picked up a container of strawberries “these.”
he grabbed blueberries “these.”
then raspberries “these.”
finally, he held up a bag of frozen mixed berries “and definitely these.”
he laughed to himself. “my wife has decided that the only thing worth eating nowadays is frozen fruit but I don’t question it anymore.” he said with a shrug
the camera cut to him standing in front of the freezer aisle “I made the mistake of buying one bag yesterday.”
he reached inside the freezer and grabbed another “she finished it.”
another bag “in one sitting.”
another “so now…”
he tossed them into the cart “…I’m buying six.”
he paused
“…actually.”
he looked back into the freezer “make that eight…better safe than sorry.”
he continued pushing the cart through the store “you know…I always thought pregnancy cravings would be weird like pickles and ice cream.”
he shrugged “but no..my wife just wants fruit…cold, frozen fruit… and if I hand her room-temperature grapes…” he looked directly into the camera. “…she’ll hand them right back.”
the camera cut again
now he stood in front of another freezer
“she also likes frozen mangoes”
a bag landed in the cart
“frozen peaches”
another bag
“frozen pineapple”
another.
“I’ve basically become the frozen fruit supplier for this household.” he looked into the cart and nodded proudly
“honestly…I’m okay with it.” he smiled to himself as he kept walking “I kinda like taking care of her.”
the camera lingered on a tiny pair of baby socks hanging near the checkout lane
Marlon stopped.
“…those are little.” he picked them up “so little.”
a grin spread across his face “I don’t think they’ll fit triplet feet…” he turned the package over “newborn…yeah”
he bought them anyway
a few minutes later, the camera was balanced on the passenger seat of the car
plastic grocery bags filled the backseat
Marlon started the engine before looking over at the camera one last time
“I guarantee…” he pointed toward the bags “these berries won’t make it to next week”
he thought about it for a second
“…honestly? they probably won’t make it to tomorrow.”
tape eight
the tape began in your bedroom, the camera rested on the dresser, pointed toward the bed.
you waddled into frame wearing a loose, flowy sundress, one hand supporting your lower back while the other balanced a giant cup of ice water.
with an exaggerated sigh, you carefully lowered yourself onto the edge of the bed.
“…I’m tired.”
you looked directly into the camera.
“no…I’m exhausted.”
you rubbed your stomach before dramatically flopping backward onto the pillows “I don’t remember what it’s like to see my feet.”
Marlon laughed from somewhere the camera.
“you can still see ’em” “tch barely and I haven’t shaved my legs in…you looked at the ceiling, pretending to count “never mind I don’t even know anymore.”
Marlon chuckled “I’ll help you.” “you better.”
you shifted again, trying to get comfortable
“I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I have to pee every seven minutes and every time I bend over, I question if it’s really worth picking something up.”
“you forgot one” Marlon chimed “what?”
“you steal all the pillows” “I need every single one of them” “you have six” “I need seven”
he laughed. “you know what’s crazy?”
you looked down at your belly with a smile “I complain all day…but if I had to do it all over again for you three…”
you gently rubbed your stomach “I would…although I am glad I’m pregnant in the summer…”
Marlon zoomed in slightly “because I have an excuse to only wear dresses cause nothing fits me anymore.”
“you’ve stolen half my shirts.”
“they fit” “barely, you walk around with your butt and belly hanging out” “so?”
the screen cut to black.
the Jackson family was gathered at Hayvenhurst for a summer cookout. y’all let your family handle the baby shower
kids ran through the yard with water balloons while music played from the patio speakers
Marlon turned the camera toward himself “today’s mission…” he grinned “…is to see if anybody has a message for Isaac, Isaiah, and Imani before they’re born”
Rebbie
she smiled warmly into the lens.
“hi aunties sweet babies…we’re all waiting for you and you’ve already got so many people who love you,I can’t wait to hold every single one of you.”
Tito
he pointed at the camera.
“y’all better listen to your mama.”
he paused “…and your daddy” another pause “…mostly your mama because your daddy ain’t that smart”
Jackie
“your daddy’s been talking about y’all every single day” he laughed “I’ve never seen him this happy except the day he married your mama”
Jermaine
he leaned into the camera dramatically.
“I volunteer…to teach y’all how to stay out of trouble and talk to the ladies”
someone off-camera immediately yelled “NO!”
La Toya
she wiped away a happy tear “I’ve been praying for y’all since the day your parents told us, you picked the best family.”
Michael
the camera found Michael sitting quietly beneath a tree.
he smiled softly “Hi babies” he waved “I hope you always remember to be kind” he glanced toward you across the yard
“you got the sweetest mama and the funniest daddy. you’ll never have to wonder how much you’re loved.”
Randy
he picked up a 8 month oldRandy Jr and pointed a finger at the camera
“don’t let your daddy dress y’all” Marlon laughed from behind the camera “my outfits are nice!” “if you think so”
Janet
she leaned down toward the lens
“hurry up!” she laughed “we’re all tired of waiting we already love y’all so much and can’t wait to meet y’all”
the tape ended with Marlon pointing the camera toward you.
you sat in a lawn chair with your feet propped up, a paper plate balanced on your belly while half the family fussed over whether you needed more food, more water, or another pillow.
you caught him recording “what?”
he smiled behind the camera “just getting one last shot.”
you smiled back, gently rubbing your stomach “we’ll see y’all soon, babies.”
Marlon quietly zoomed in on your belly one last time before the screen faded to black
tape nine
the tape opened to the nursery in the middle of the night, only the glow of a small lamp lit the room
the camera found Marlon asleep in the rocking chair, his head tilted back and a parenting book lying open across his chest.
you quietly giggled behind the camera.
“babe…” no response.
you zoomed in.
“Marlon.”
he jerked awake.
“huh? the babies?”
“no they’re still in here.” you patted your belly, he blinked a few times before laughing at himself.
“I was practicing” “you were snoring” “I was resting my eyes” “right..right”
he stood up and walked over to you, kneeling in front of your belly.
“y’all heard none of that” he pointed at your stomach “your daddy does not snore”
right on cue, one of the babies kicked.
you both laughed “I think that was Isaac calling you a liar.”
the tape ended with Marlon pretending to argue with your stomach while you laughed so hard you nearly peed
tape ten
the tape opened in complete darkness. the camera shook violently before finally focusing on Marlon’s face
“it’s…” he looked at his watch with wide eyes “August 18th.. 1993 and it’s 3:18 in the morning.”
he pointed the camera toward you, you were leaning against the kitchen counter, one hand gripping your belly while the other held onto the countertop
“…it’s time?” he looked back at the camera “it’s time”
the screen cut.
the next clip showed the inside of the car. rain tapped against the windshield as Marlon drove with one hand and held the camcorder with the other.
“breathe baby.” “I’m breathing” “no, like…”
he inhaled dramatically.
“…breathe.”
you shot him a look.
“MOTHER FUCKER YOU BR-”
the recording cut again.
the next clip was inside the hospital room, you were lying in the bed, exhausted but smiling. the room buzzed with nurses preparing for the delivery
Marlon held your hand with one hand and the camera with the other “you okay?” he whispered, you nodded “I’m ready”
he kissed your forehead “so am I.”
the tape skipped forward.
the room echoed with the sound of crying.
one tiny cry, then another…then a third. three newborn cries filled the room.
a nurse gently laid the first baby against your chest.
“meet Isaac.”
you stared at him in complete awe.
“my baby…”
moments later, another tiny bundle was placed beside him.
“and here’s Isaiah.”
your tears fell freely now. before you could catch your breath, the final baby was carefully nestled into your arms.
“and this…” the nurse smiled “is miss Imani.”
you looked down at your three babies lying against your chest.
three tiny noses that looked just like Marlon’s, three tiny hands and three tiny heartbeats.
Marlon lowered the camera for the first time in months.
he wrapped both arms around you as carefully as he could, kissing the top of your head while tears streamed down his face.
“you did it.”
you looked up at him with exhausted, tear-filled eyes“we did it.”
he smiled through his tears “I love you.” “I love you, too.”
the camera was picked up and Marlon turned it toward the three sleeping newborns.
“hi Isaac.”
he gently brushed a finger across the first baby’s cheek
“hi Isaiah.”
he smiled at the second little boy
“and hi…” he looked at the tiniest baby girl curled against your chest “…miss Imani.”
he chuckled softly.
“you have no idea how long we’ve been waiting to meet you.”
the camera slowly zoomed out, capturing the four of you together for the very first time.
tape eleven
the tape flickered to life with colorful balloons filling the screen. a handmade banner stretched across the backyard at Hayvenhurst.
HAPPY 1ST BIRTHDAY ISAAC, ISAIAH & IMANI!
the camera pulled back to reveal the backyard transformed into a party.
blue, red, and yellow balloons floated everywhere, picnic tables overflowed with food, and children ran through the yard chasing bubbles.
Marlon flipped the camcorder toward himself, he smiled, shaking his head in disbelief.
“August 18th, 1994.” he looked over his shoulder toward the backyard “I can’t believe they’re one already”
the camera found you setting three tiny smash cakes onto a table, you looked up and smiled.
“don’t cry.” you said “I’m not gonna cry.”“you cried this morning” “…that was different” “you cried because Isaiah said ‘dada” “he looked me in my eyes when he said it!”
you laughed “you’re so emotional” “I have three babies” “Marlon they’re toddlers now”
“oh god don’t say that”
the tape cut to you kneeling beside the triplets, trying to straighten their tiny matching circus themed outfits.
“can y’all stay still for five seconds?”
Isaac immediately reached for your earrings.
“no baby hold still for mama please”
Isaiah leaned over to hug his brother
Imani giggled so hard she almost tipped over
Marlon couldn’t stop laughing behind the camera “I don’t think they’re listening” “they haven’t listened all year”
the next clip showed all three babies sitting in matching little outfits.
Isaac clapped excitedly at everyone singing. Isaiah was more interested in pulling at the ribbon on his birthday hat and trying to pull it off. Imani happily smacked both hands into her cake before immediately trying to feed frosting to Michael.
“oh!” Michael laughed, gently taking her tiny frosting-covered hand “thank you miss Imani” she giggled and reached for his face anyway, leaving a streak of pink frosting across his cheek
the camera cut again.
now Marlon was making his usual rounds through the party. “alright…”
he pointed the camera toward his family “it’s been one whole year, got anything to say to the birthday babies?”
Rebbie
she kissed each of the triplets on the forehead.
“I prayed for y’all before you were born and watching you grow this past year has been one of the greatest gifts.”
Tito
he smiled.
“happy birthday… promise me y’all won’t start teaming up on your parents.”
he looked at the camera “…actually, I know y’all will.”
Jackie
“I still remember guessing your mama was pregnant.”
he laughed “and now look at y’all three little handfuls of personalities.”
Jermaine
he looked at Isaac, Isaiah, and Imani.
“I hope y’all saved me some cake, cause lord knows yall like to eat”
La Toya
she crouched beside Imani who was currently focused on chewing on her teething toy
“my beautiful babies…I’ve loved watching all three of you become your own little people and i’m so excited to keep watching”
Michael
Michael sat on the grass with all three babies gathered around him.
Isaac sat in his lap. Isaiah held one of his fingers. Imani kept trying to steal his sunglasses.
he smiled softly at the camera.
“they’re very curious…they laugh all the time and they already look after each other.”
he looked down at the three of them.
“keep doing that and you’ll get far tougher”
Randy
he picked Isaac up.
“happy birthday little man.”
Isaiah immediately reached his arms up “oh…”
randy laughed.
“now I gotta pick up both of y’all...miss imani stop beating on my son!”
Janet
she scooped Imani into her arms.
“I still can’t believe you’re one already!” she kissed her cheek making the little girl giggle
“it’s like I blinked!”
another clip.
Randy chased Isaac around the backyard while Jackie held Isaiah on his shoulders.
Janet danced with Imani in her arms as she sang her song because of love through the speakers.
Rebbie and La Toya fussed over getting pictures of the three of them together.
Jermaine somehow convinced all three babies to clap along with him.
everywhere the camera turned, someone was holding, laughing with, or playing with one of the triplets.
the final clip showed the sun beginning to set, the backyard had grown quieter, wrapping paper covered the grass, galf-deflated balloons rolled gently in the breeze.
you and Marlon sat together on a blanket with the triplets cuddled sleepily against you after a long day of celebrating.
Marlon whispered behind the camera “a year ago today…I met my favorite people” you looked over at him “I thought loving one baby would be the greatest feeling in the world ”
he smiled “turns out…” he looked at the three sleepy faces resting against you “my heart had room for three.”
you leaned your head against his shoulder “and somehow…I love you more now than I did when we found out.”
he kissed the top of your head “I didn’t think that was possible.”
the camera slowly zoomed in on the triplets sleeping peacefully in your arms
Can you do reader teasing old man Jackie all day and she says "I don't want your old man dick" and that sets him off
meanie
summary: after a day of you and Jackie taking petty shots at each other, you tease him about his age, causing him to snap.
contains: usage of ‘y/n’, 18+! mdni! age gap, power play, brat taming, face-grabbing, overstimulation, forced begging, petnames: daddy ( used once)
notes: i was working on my Jermajesty headcannons and my phone glitched and this was request was the only thing that popped up on my screen and it cracked me tf up
you and Jackie have been going back and forth all day, it wasn’t serious it was just petty little arguments but you had been pushing his buttons just a little too hard.
“oh please i don’t want your old man dick anyway” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned to walk out of the kitchen
“what did you just say?” the legs of Jackie's chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood up. you didn't even make it to the living room before he caught up, his heavy footsteps closing the distance instantly.
his arm wrapped around your waist like a steel band, dragging you back until your back was completely pressed up against his chest.
“nothing” you murmured and looked away from from him
“no baby repeat that” he said as his free hand came up, clamping around your jaw. he squeezed just enough to force your lips to pucker, trapping your gaze and tilting your head up to face him
“i didn’t say anything” you muffled against his grip
“i got something for your ass”
…
“ngh-fuck! i’m sorry!” you cried out as you kicked your legs, desperately trying to wiggle your way out of his grasp.
Jackie had you pinned flat across his lap. his forearm was locked down over the small of your back, crushing you to his thighs so you couldn't move an inch. he was already working two fingers inside you, driving into your pussy aggressively at a relentless, punishing pace that had your pussy completely swollen and you gasping for air.
“your what?” he murmured, he kept his hand buried deep, slowly curling his fingers upward inside you, deliberately hooking against your sweet spot.
“say it again” he taunted softly, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down with agonizingly perfect pressure. “tell me what you don't want”
“Jackie please!” you gasped out, a loud, helpless moan tearing from your throat as his fingers hit that spot again
you bucked your hips instinctively, twisting and thrashing against his lap. gou kicked your legs out, your free hands grabbing blindly at his thigh, desperate to find some leverage to push yourself up and out of his hold. but Jackie barely even shifted. he ignored your struggles completely, his forearm staying locked, keeping you firmly pinned to his legs.
“please what?” Jackie asked, his tone maddeningly calm compared to the frantic mess you were becoming
instead of letting up, he continued his relentless pace. his fingers drove in and out while his thumb kept up that agonizingly perfect pressure. you let out another loud moan, your face turning to the side as your nails dug into the fabric of his jeans.
“I take it back! I swear!” you begged, squirming wildly
“you sure?” he mocked, a edge of satisfaction in his voice as he felt you tremble against him. “sounds like you're taking this ‘old man’ just fine”
he didn't stop. be kept you trapped right there on the edge, refusing to give you an ounce of relief or a second to breathe, drawing out every frantic squirm and every breathless, desperate beg until you had no choice but to completely surrender to him.
“I can’t it!- I can’t take it! i can’t!” you cried out, your voice breaking as a violent shiver ripped through your entire body
you thrashed against his lap, your hips bucking frantically, trying to escape his fingers. uour hands clawed at his denim, your knuckles white as you tried to pull yourself forward, but he still wouldn't let you budge an inch.
“s’too much! please Jackie! please!” you sobbed out, a high, breathless moan escaping your lips as his thumb swiped hard across your clit.
the knot building in your lower stomach was unbearable, bordering on painful in the absolute best and worst way.
“too much?” Jackie grunted, his fingers curling deeper, hitting that sensitive wall inside you over and over until you were sobbing even more “you were talking so loud a minute ago baby, where’d all that mouth go?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you begged, your head rolling to the side as you squirmed wildly now, completely unraveled, tears of sheer frustration and pleasure pricking the corners of your eyes. “please, I wanna cum... please baby!”
with a sudden tug, Jackie pulled his slick fingers out of you, making you gasp out loud and just as quickly, the weight of his forearm left your back so without his grip holding you up, your trembling, overstimulated muscles gave out completely. you slid right off his lap, tumbling helplessly onto the floor and landing hard on your knees at his feet. you panted heavily, your forehead resting against the edge of the couch as your body shivered
Jackie leaned down, his hand clamped tightly around your jaw again, his fingers digging into your cheeks to force your head back
“look at you” he cooed “all that attitude, and you’re already begging on your knees…now, what exactly are you going to say to me?”
“I’m sorry” you choked out, your face still squeezed tightly in his palm as you stared up at him with wide, desperate eyes. “Jackie, I’m sorry…I don’t wanna wait anymore…please fuck me”
Jackie let out a chuckle and slowly let go of your jaw, his fingers trailing down your neck before he leaned back against the couch, spreading his legs slightly
“work for it” he said and patted lap
the desperate ache between your legs driving out any remaining shred of pride. you eagerly scrambled up from the floor onto your knees between his thighs. your hands were trembling so badly you could barely get a grip on the button of his jeans, but you managed, tugging the zipper down in a frantic rush
when you pulled his waistband back, his dick freed itself, already hard leaking pre cum, pressing up against his stomach
you straddled his thighs, you hoisted yourself up, your knees framing his hips. Jackie didn't offer a hand to help you, he just watched you with a heavy stare, his arms resting casually along the back of the couch, letting you do all the work
positioning yourself directly over him and slowly lowered your hips. abreathless, broken gasp came from your lips as he filled you in one long, agonizingly perfect stretch, your walls stretched to accommodate every inch of him until you were sitting completely flat on his lap.
you rested your hands on his shoulders, your body trembling as you tried to adjust, your hips twitched instinctively, but you were too weak and overstimulated to find a rhythm on your own.
“sig..” you whined, your voice cracking into a pathetic little whimper. you nudged your hips against his, silently pleading for him to take over. “please... I want your help”
Jackie didn't budge, he just kept his arms stretched out along the back of the couch, looking up at you with a smug smirk. “I told you baby. gou want it, you work for it. I'm just sitting here being an old man”
“you're mean" you choked out “you're so mean to me."
“then get off” he challenged
but of course, you couldn't. Instead, you let out a breathless, desperate sob and forced your weak legs to lift you. you pushed yourself up, sliding nearly to the tip of his length, before sinking all the way back down onto him
finding your grip on his shoulders, you started riding him, going up and down, your movements frantic, uncoordinated and at a desperate pace against him. the feeling of every downward stroke was sending tremors through your legs, but you were still barely hitting the spot you needed
Jackie watched your messy, uncoordinated rhythm for a few long moments before his voice suddenly cut through your panting breaths.
“you know, you’ve been pressing my buttons all damn day” he said eyeing you “running that pretty mouth of yours, thinking there wouldn’t be a receipt to pay. you really thought you could just say whatever you wanted and I’d just sit back and take it?”
“m’sorry” you gasped out, your head dropping against his shoulder as you pushed yourself up and sank down again, a broken whine escaping your lips. you couldn't even think straight anymore
“I’m sorry Jackie, please… I can’t do it by myself, help mee, I’ll be good I promise”
finally, his arms moved from the back of the couch and his hands came down, wrapping firmly around your ass
you let out a hopeful sob, expecting him to lift you and take control but instead, he just squeezed tight, locking your hips perfectly in place right when you were at the very top of a stroke. he held you there with only the thick tip remaining inside you
“help you?” he teased as you frantically tried to push yourself back down onto him, completely trapped by his grip. “I don’t know, baby, I think you're doing just fine on your own, keep going”
“I can’t!” you sobbed, your hands gripping even harder now. you tried to force your weight down, but his grip on your bum was absolute, keeping you maddeningly close to the edge without letting you sink onto him. “Jackie, please, I really can’t! my legs! m’gonna fall! please, daddy, please!”
the slip of the pet name seemed to finally break through his restraint. Jackie let out a sigh, his jaw tight as he stared up at your completely undone, tear-streaked face. “shit..” he muttered.
his hands tightened even more around your ass, his fingers digging into your skin as his posture shifted. he finally gave in.
Jackie lifted your hips entirely, pulling you up to the very tip before slamming you down onto his length with a force that knocked the wind right out of your lungs making a loud, distorted moan come from your throat
he took total control, his powerful arms doing all the heavy lifting as he drove you up and down against him. every downward thrust was so deep inside you until you could do nothing but cling to him for dear life, completely helpless
the sudden depth of his strokes completely overwhelmed you. he picked up the pace, he drove you up and down on his dick him with a brutal, relentless speed.
every time you bottomed out on his length, he seemed to find a way to push even deeper, hitting the absolute back of your walls until your entire body shuddered from the impact.
“Jackie!- oh god!” a string of high, breathless whines spilling from your lips.
you couldn't even form coherent words anymore. the speed of his hips underneath you was too much for you. every deep plunge caused a loud, echoing moan right out of your chest, your head tossing back as your fingers dug desperately into the fabric of his shirt.
“thought it was too much, baby," he said against your neck as his pace turned even faster. he wasn't giving you a single second to recover, driving you straight toward the edge with every deep thrust. “take it..take all of it”
you could only whine in response, completely helpless, your hips trapped in his heavy grip as he ruthlessly chased your completion.
your vision blurred as you finally pushed right over the edge, a violent, trembling orgasm completely gripped your body, your tight walls squeezing him in helpless, rhythmic waves.
the orgasm drained every remaining ounce of energy from your limbs. your legs gave out entirely, and you went completely limp in his hold, your body collapsing forward, you crashed against his chest, your forehead resting weakly against his shoulder, unable to even hold your own head up.
rven though you were entirely through, Jackie didn’t stop moving, he only slowed his pace slightly, but he kept up a steady, deep grind that kept you thoroughly pinned, drawing out desperate, broken little whines and exhausted moans right into his neck.
feeling you turn to absolute mush in his arms, Jackie let out a low, breathless chuckle. bis hands remained firmly on your hips, tilting you just right to catch that sensitive sweet spot with every slow roll of his pelvis.
“now you can’t even keep your head up…all the energy in the world to run that mouth.”
you mumbled a weak, incoherent protest into his shoulder, too exhausted to do anything but whimper as he gave another deep, lazy shove inside you.
Jackie gripped your hip a little tighter, a smug, wicked edge returning to his voice as he bottomed out
🍫contains: explicit content, strong language, modern AU, reader has locs, oral (male receiving), PnV
🍫summary: Your boyfriend been on the game all day and you were needed him…and you always get what you want!
“BRO, TURN AROUND!” Marlon yelled into the headset, fingers rapidly moving across his controller. The air conditioned blasted loudly, doing a terrible job at cooling you down.
You were laid out on the bed, staring at the ceiling wondering if Marlon will ever turn his attention towards you. You stared at the ceiling fan as Marlon continuously yelled at his monitor.
You tried to distract yourself, you truly did. Doomscrolling, coloring, watching a trashy tv show, and nothing worked. Nothing could take your mind off of the wet, slick, moisture in your panties.
You’re not sure what set it off. Maybe it was the way Marlon’s arms lined with veins, the aggressive tone in his voice when he gets mad at one of his friends, or maybe it was ovulation.
Either way, you needed him and now.
You let out a huff of frustration, standing on your feet. Marlon’s eyes were trained on the violent game, not noticing you walking over. In your head you felt like a lion reaching its prey.
You draped your chest across his back, rubbing on his arms. His familiar scent filled your nose and your eyes practically rolled back. God, you were feral. “You okay, ma?” He asked.
You couldn’t bother to respond, you rather use your energy doing something else. You planted soft kisses on his neck, taking your sweet, precious time.
The warmth in your tummy only got hotter as your tongue lightly trailed against his neck. “Baby…,” he started with a light giggle, shifting his head away from you. “I gotta focus.”
You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. His game was the least of your worries. Your hand trailed down his body, landing on his print. His breath hitched at the sudden pressure.
“I need you.” You whispered in his ear and you felt the small shudder of his body. Marlon felt like he was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
He was in an intense match, almost on the verge of securing victory but his very beautiful girlfriend is begging for him. Before he could come to the final conclusion, you stood up straight.
“Just stay right there, baby.” You told him, walking to his side. He glanced at you quickly, trying to balance his attention between you and the game.
You dropped to your knees, crawling to the middle of his legs and his stomach flipped. He knew exactly what you were about to do, and it is about to be hell for him.
He muted his mic, “Ma, I can’t focus like this.” He told you with a sigh. “Yes you can, you got it.” Your nails glided up his covered thighs, stopping at the waistband of his sweats.
He exhaled out of his nose, feeling the rise of hard-on. You were perched comfortably between his legs, looking up at him as he tried to keep his composure.
You were practically drooling to see his dick, and wasted no time to tug them down. As much as he acted like he didn’t have the time for this, he sure did lift his hips to help.
An airy laugh left your lips seeing his eagerness. His dick finally came into view, and you licked your lips from pure desire.
You wrapped your hand around him and he let out a shaky breath. He felt hot and heavy, excited to feel him inside of you. But you wanted to torture him a little. “Turn your mic on.” You demanded.
A sliver of fear ran through his eyes and your hard stare let him know you were serious. You were extremely stubborn—to the point you were going to get what you want one way or another.
A shaky hand came up to his headset, turning the mic and attempted to lock back in. Your tongue lolled out and you swirled it around his tip.
The screams and laughters from his friends were heard from inside the headphones but Marlon couldn’t even focus on that. You sucked him into your mouth, trying to go as far as you could.
He had to fold his lips inwards to hold back a moan, and his hands stopped. He couldn’t play like this, “yo, Marlon, you good?” One of his friends asked noticing the silence and lack of movement from his character on screen.
“Yea bro, I got distracted.” He mumbled taking a deep breath to start back up. You continued to suck him up, coating him in your spit creating a mess between his thighs.
His eyes blurred from the suction and sloppiness of your mouth. His stomach caved in, and his fingers trembled against his controller. “M-ma,” he whispered, trying to alert his friends.
You took no notice to his words, using your hand to twist the base of his dick while you licked and sucked on the tip. His eyes rolled back, and his palm landed on the back of your locs.
He took his headset off and flung it across the room, overwhelmed from the pleasure to care about the game. His hips rocked into your mouth as he moaned. “Fuckkk, just like that.”
You hummed around his dick, sending vibrations through him. “You gon’ let me nut in your mouth?” He managed to get out. You pulled off of his dick, drool coating your chin and looked up at him with hazy eyes.
Your hand continued to stroke all of him, paying extra attention to the tip creating a slick slimy sound. “I want you in me.” You told him, biting your bottom lip.
You looked like pure sex right now and he needed that so bad. “Shit, get on top of me.” He said. You wasted no time, standing and tugging off your bottoms and panties before situating yourself over his soaking tip.
You both stared down where you two were about to meet anticipating the feeling. You slid yourself down and you both moaned at the feeling. Your warm walls clenched around him while his dick stuffed you full.
“Oh shit,” you mumbled, dropping your head into the crook of his neck. Your legs trembled from his size, and you tried to slow down your breathing but he felt too big and way too good.
You jolted after he laid a smack on your ass, “I thought you needed me, ma, go head and ride that shit.” He continued to palm your ass, one hand gently grasping your locs to bring you into a messy kiss.
Your tongues explored each other’s mouth as he distracted you from what he was about to do. Before you knew it, he thrusted inside of you causing you to break the kiss with a moan as he brushed against your g-spot.
“Nggh—Marlon,” You placed your hand on his chest as he continued thrusting into you. The force of his hips made you bounce up, dropping right back to the base.
You were about to lose your mind. Noticing your fucked out expression, he grabbed you by your ass, fucking you onto his dick. “You like this dick, mama?” He questioned with a tilt of his head, listening to the wet sounds of your pussy getting pounded into.
“Fuck yes,” you cried. You practically felt him in your stomach. “You want your nut?” He asked and you quickly nodded. “Bounce on it.” He stilled his hips, resting in the gaming chair to let you take control.
You prepared yourself, gripping onto his shoulders, shifting in his lap. You lifted yourself to the tip, slowly moving back down just to get used to it.
Marlon’s heavy lidded gaze made you feel hot, and you finally started to pick up speed. The sound of your ass dropping into his lap made your eyes roll back.
His hand reached down, pressing a thumb to your clit rubbing it in tight circles. “Wet ass pussy. You takin’ that shit so well.” He mumbled.
Your pussy repeatedly clenched around him, and your fingers tightened against his shirt. “You gon’ cum for me?” He asked, leaning in to kiss and suck on your neck.
“Y-yes.”
Marlon decided to help you both and thrust up, matching your pace. The collision made it feel like he was digging in your guts.
“FUCK!” You cried out as you began to cream on him. “Mhm, make a mess on it, mama.” He smacked your ass once again, not stopping his administrations.
“Shit, I’m bout to nut.” He said. Instead of fucking up into you, he stood up making sure to keep you planted on his dick. He carried you to the bed, laying you down to put your legs on his shoulders.
“D-deep.” You whimpered feeling him kiss your cervix with his tip. He pounded into you as he chased your orgasm. “Take that dick, baby, you got it.”
He groaned into your ear, thrusts getting relentlessly fast. The skin slapping filled the room along with your moans and whimpers. “I’m ‘bout to fill up that lil pussy.” He muttered.
“Please, please, please.”
Your pleas went straight to his dick as he spilled inside of you. He continued to pump his cum inside of you making sure none spilled out.
“Damn, girl.” He said, pulling out. Your legs were slightly shaking as you tried to catch your breath.
Your eyes closed, body finally coming from the high. Across the room you heard screaming and laughter from the headphones.
“Mar….did you turn off the mic?” You asked sitting up.
Marlon’s eyes widened, turning his head towards the headset on the floor.
pairing: jermajesty jackson x black fem!reader
summary: a glimpse into casa, part one.
cw: loveisland!au, use of the n word, 4.1k words.
notes: y'all i was trying to fit all of casa into one part, and then realized i literally don't need to do that lmfao so here's part one. and part two will be the final day and a half of casa. i'm trying to be more vague and nondescript with the shit that's happening because i want the full clips to surprise everybodyyy in movie night wink wink
series directory
when you’re finally freed from production and casa officially starts for the girls, you and alexis sit on complete opposite ends of the firepit and pretend one another don’t exist. ariana completes her introductions and brings in twelve new bombshells– telling all of you that you’d gotten double the amount that the villa boys got.
you barely register ariana’s voice as she introduces them one by one, lost in your thoughts. you glance over every so often– names and faces blurring together. you’re not cold; you say ‘hi’ in return and ‘thank you’ when necessary; but your mind is still replaying the clips from earlier in the morning. still hearing jermajesty admit to someone other than you that he’d lied. still thinking about how easy it was for him to disrespect you.
when you glance up again, scanning the line of boys standing in front of the firepit, your eyes catch on something. someone. he looks away when your eyes meet and you mirror him, focusing once again on overthinking your existence on this island.
it turns into a game of eye tag within seconds, your skin pricking and goosebumps rising in the warm summer sun– just for you to look up and catch him staring at you. and every single time a shy smile appears as he breaks eye contact immediately, turning to ariana or to the boys beside him. and every single time you notice something different about him.
deep bronze complexion.
warm, kind eyes.
buzz cut.
one of the tallest in the lineup.
by the time ariana leaves the villa with warm regards and advice–to mingle and be open– the villa is erupting with movement and conversation. you get pulled into a chat with deanna and four boys. maybe it’s the picky side of you, or maybe it’s something completely different, something you don’t for the life of you want to name, but you dissociate the entire time. every comment and question they throw your way goes through one ear and out the other– the same with your replies. you can’t remember even one of their names; nor can you remember an initial.
some time later you find yourself lounging on a beanbag near the pool, sunglasses in place. you’re sure it looks like you're asleep– you hadn't moved an inch from the moment you sat down– but you’re far from it. you watch the villa silently, observing who’s getting along and who sits off to the side like you. which is why you see the exact moment he starts to head your way.
your eyes trace him as he approaches– his steps never slowing or hesitating. he may be shy, from the way he’d been looking away from you in the introductions, but he obviously knew what he wanted. you lift your sunglasses over your hair when he comes to a stop in front of the empty beanbag beside you and asks, “is this spot taken?”
with a mostly fake smile, you shake your head ‘no’ and gesture to it. “it’s all yours, uh…?”
“cairo,” he introduces himself, picking up on your question seamlessly. you mumble back a soft “hi, cairo” as he settles into the beanbag, leaning back to mirror your relaxed posture. his entire body is turned to face you, you take note of it, as a surprisingly comfortable silence falls around you two.
“is it too bold to say i’ve been wanting to talk to you? i was thinking about it the whole boat ride over.” cairo expresses.
“oh, really?” you tilt your head slightly, the way you knew drove jermajesty crazy, a small smile playing at your lips. “and what were you thinking about, exactly?”
“honestly? i was tryna figure out how to come up to you without sounding like every other guy who’s tried already.”
“mmm,” you hum, turning your body to face him fully. pulling your knees up, you start to fidget with your sunglasses– holding the temple tip between your teeth before you continue, “and did you figure it out?”
“nah,” he admits easily, laughing a little. “i’m winging it right now.”
you can’t help the genuine smile that breaks through. “at least you’re honest, cairo.”
“you got a nice smile,” cairo says suddenly, looking down sheepishly after; as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
now it’s your turn to look down sheepishly, slightly thrown off by the compliment. much to your annoyance, it makes you feel guilty– like you were cheating, which makes you feel even more annoyed because why couldn’t he feel like that a few days ago? “thank you, you’re really sweet.” and in an attempt to shift the conversation, “so, what made you want to come on love island?”
“ahh, i was over the dating scene back in atlanta. people moving hella weird, playing games, not being real about what they want. figured if imma put myself out there, might as well do it somewhere i can actually see a person’s true colors.”
“and you think you can see that here? might need you to teach me the ways.”
“i think it’s easier to see who people really are when they can’t hide behind their phone and friends and shit.” he leans forwards slightly, squinting like he was reading fine print across your face. “like right now– i can tell you’re not fully sold on me yet. and that’s cool. i’m not expecting you to be, you got a lot going on right now.”
you blink, caught off guard by how direct he was being. “how can you tell that?”
“you’re guarded as hell,” he states, no judgement in his tone. “but i’m not here to rush you or pressure you into anything. i just wanna get to know you. whether we end up being friends or if it turns into something… more, well i’m good with it.”
for the first time since he’d sat down, you feel your mindset shift just slightly– feeling relief from the reassurance that nothing had to be forced. it makes you drop your guard, makes you want to share more and inquire more. “what do you wanna know?”
“alright, this is gonna be the most important question you answer today: what do you miss the most from home?”
you laugh, not expecting that basic of a question. but, you take the time to really think about it; comparing things you have here to things you had back in california, thinking about your day-to-day life. there’s one answer that jumps out at you, circled in flashing lights in your mind. “i’m a foodie at heart so being here has been rough, okay? i miss my sister’s cooking like crazy. she would make this curry goat and call me to get some every time.”
“curry goat?” his eyes light up. “my mom’s jamaican– i grew up on that shit.”
“ohh, so you think you know about it, huh?” you tease.
“i know i know about it.” cairo shoots back, grinning. “matter fact, when we get out of here, imma take you to my moms crib, she’ll cook for you and everything.”
“already planning dates outside the villa? you’re confident.”
“just optimistic. i think there’s something worth exploring here. and if there’s not? then at least we had good conversation by the pool.” he replies easily. there’s a brief pause as you let his words settle over you. he starts again shortly after, “alright, (name), tell me about california. what’s it like down there? besides crazy expensive.”
and just like that, the conversation flows. you tell him about your city, your family, and all of your favorite places. you can’t stop the memory of telling jermajesty about your spots too, and his promise of going there together, from popping up in your head– but you push it aside immediately after, re-focusing when cairo begins to talk about his city. he tells you about his younger sisters and friends. the banter is easy, natural, and you continue to talk until ariana madix walks back into the villa.
jermajesty missed you. a lot.
he’d barely said two words since arriving at the casa amor villa, and he was pretty sure those two words were “i’m jermajesty”. while the other boys were mingling, laughing, getting to know the six bombshell girls, jermajesty had found a corner near the outdoor daybed–identical to the one in the villa that you loved to throw yourself onto– and planted himself there. arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes covered by sunglasses.
in simplest terms, he wasn’t interested.
the bombshells all noticed immediately. and they tried–god, did they try– to pull it out of him, to get him talking, but every attempt fell flat. and i mean, flat.
so they tried again. two of them, a girl named milene and another named sarai, came to sit by him in his isolated corner.
it lasted maybe five minutes before they realized it was pointless.
“so, jermajesty, what do you usually do for fun back home?” sarai asks, leaning in with an overly bright smile. she runs both hands down her hair, and for no reason, because he doesn’t glance at her a single time.
“i don’t know. music mostly.” jermajesty shrugs, sunglasses still on and arms still crossed. “(name) and i been talking about going to this studio back in the city when we get out. she never been in one, but she’s a creative at heart so i think she might love that shit.”
sarai is deadpan, staring at him in disbelief. had he really just said that? “oh. that’s cool.”
“yeahhh, she got good taste in music too. we got three of the same artists in our top five.” it gets him thinking about late night drives with you in the passenger seat, no clear destination. the hint of a sad smile on his lips.
milene tries next. “do you have any tattoos?”
“nah, i been thinking about getting one somewhere on my arm or back,” jermajesty starts.
milene’s smile grows wider, thinking she’d finally gotten his mind away from his situation back at the villa. away from you. “oh really, what would you–”
“i’m more nervous now though. (name) has one on her spine and was tellin’ me how much it hurt. it might not be for me.”
and it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose. in fact, he hadn’t even picked up on the fact that he was. within this last week his mind had just done a complete 180.
he’d only watched one season of love island–his dad had forced him prior to coming to fiji— and he’d thought that the couples who only focused on each other were idiotic. weak. faking it. he’d thought the whole point of love island was to explore, to keep your options open, to see what else was out there… at least until you reached a certain day/week in the show.
but now? after following that thought process, pulling the shit he’d pulled, and as he’s sitting in a new villa with six girls rotating through his space, all he could think about was you.
because when you found something real– something that made you feel seen in a way you had never been before, in a way that was past the bright and shiny things that came with your last name– what was the point of looking anywhere else? what could some other girl possibly offer him that would compare to the way you laughed at his jokes, showed the same interest in him that he showed in you, and gave him space to be vulnerable? what would compare to the way you were so sure of yourself, to your magnetic personality?
nothing. the answer was nothing.
he’d been so focused on not being the ‘weak, stupid’ character to someone watching on their couch, so focused on keeping his options open that he’d nearly closed the door on the one thing that actually mattered– on the only girl he wanted.
“maj?” milene waves her hand in front of his face and, despite attempting to hold it back, he physically cringes at the nickname. nose crinkled, lips slightly curled– though he reels it in quickly, because the last thing he wanted to do was hurt an innocent person’s feelings.
“my bad, i don’t really mess with that nickname. you can just call me jermajesty.”
and as milene and sarai glance at each other, coming up with an excuse before walking away from him, they roll their eyes in perfect sync. because prior to them coming in as casa bombshells, they’d watched you call him “maj” and “majy”... and watched him give you the same large and dorky grin every single time.
BEACH HUT (CONFESSIONAL)
“he’s in too fucking deep! he’s literally impossible to talk to.” casa girl one.
“right? i asked him what he likes to cook and somehow i’m hearing about how he wants to learn this recipe that (name) loves.” casa girl number two.
“he’s so closed off. i’ve never seen someone so uninterested in their life. it’s a lil frustrating.” sarai, casa girl number three.
“i think he’s just guarded. like he’s protecting himself, maybe? i think he’ll open up.” casa girl number four.
“girl, he’s not opening up shit. i tried to talk to him earlier and he just looked at the wall behind me and said ‘oh yeah, that’s crazy.’” casa girl number one, again.
“what did you say to him?” milene, casa girl number five.
“bitch, i asked what part of california he’s from.” casa girl number one, again.
they all laugh before casa girl number six ends with, “well i’m not giving up on him just yet. i think he just needs the right person, and maybe that’s me.”
back in the main villa, only six of the twelve casa boys remain– decided unanimously by all of you girls– and ariana has all twelve of you gathered by the firepit. she announces that it’s time to turn up the heat with a little challenge and continues to explain that each casa boy will get to kiss two girls of their choosing. there’s a chorus of ‘oooh’s and some nervous laughter, mostly from the girls. to no ones surprise at all, you have mixed emotions.
once the boys are lined up, ariana calls up the first– one who’d been chatting up asia and sarah all day. he picks both of them and the kisses are quick and playful. nothing too serious. the rest of the villa cheers and whistles, the energy light and fun.
the second boy goes. then the third. for a brief second you wonder if the other villa has done this yet; if they've broken the touch barrier. if someone has gotten to touch jermajesty in this way, again.
the fourth boy calls out yours and deanna’s name and you have to pretend like this isn’t your least favorite part of being on love island. it’s a little awkward, maybe only to you, as he walks over to you and brings his lips to yours.
the kiss is fine. soft, brief, and nothing that makes your stomach flip. you kiss him back, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and you smile when he pulls away, because that’s what you're supposed to do.
but you find yourself comparing it all to him.
the fifth boy calls alexis and, again, your name– and this time you’re pulled up from the couch and pressed to his body as he delivers the same forgettable and empty kiss as before. if this was jermajesty, your face would've been cradled; his hand would've found a way to caress the skin on your hip. the thought of it makes you yearn for him so suddenly that you find yourself angry. and at no one but yourself.
cairo is the last boy to go.
“i’m picking (name),” he states. his eyes find yours across the fire pit. “just (name).”
is this what you need? for someone else to choose you and only you? did you need to push all of the bullshit to the side and throw caution to the wind?
you have only a split second to decide when cairo reaches you, pulling you up onto your heels for the second time.
fuck it.
“lay down,” you mumble, right before his mouth can meet yours. his breath fans your lips as his lips part in confusion.
“what?” he whispers quickly.
you grab his hand and tug down, hinting at what you want as you verbally direct him once again. “lay down.” he’s flat on his back within seconds and you meet his eyes from where you still stand, giving him a sultry smirk and running a nail along your bottom lip.
and once again, the villa erupts when you join him on the floor, knees caging him between and under you as you lean down, cup his jaw, and kiss him– pouring every emotion into the moment and pushing every thought of jermajesty out.
the challenge, if you could even call it that, ends shortly after and you find yourself lounging in ‘say less’ with cairo– you on your back with your head resting in his lap, and him playing with the ends of your hair. one conversation fades into the next, until the two of you are surrounded by the twinkling of the stars in the night sky.
cairo, after your laughter fades and a comfortable silence fills the space, looks down at you. “...so i know you have a situation back in the villa… jermajesty, right? how has it been going with that?”
you frown, but wipe it away fast, picking at your nails as you feign disinterest. you meet cairo’s eyes. “oh that? yeahhh, it’s dead.”
“really? what happened?”
“you really wanna talk about it?” you eye cairo suspiciously, hoping he says no– because you’d done a great job at not thinking of him for over ten minutes now.
“nah, not gonna lie.”
“good, me neither.” you sigh and close your eyes, urging the pinpricks behind them to disappear. “let's talk about something else.”
“lucky for you, i've been wanting to ask this since we sat down,” he chuckles. when he doesn’t continue you let out a questioning hum, meeting his eyes again. “is anyone in your bed tonight?”
this is necessary, this is necessary, this is necessary, plays on repeat in your mind– allowing the flirtation to seep into your expression, lips curving into a small smile. “yeah,” you say softly.
“really? who?”
“you.”
he meets your smile with a grin of his own, and the two of you stay like that for a while longer before heading inside.
that night, cairo’s arms are wrapped around your waist, his chest pressed against your back, his breath warm and steady against the nape of your neck. he’s comfortable. solid. objectively, there’s nothing wrong with the way he’s holding you.
but your body knows the difference.
it knows the weight of jermajesty’s arm draped over your waist is heavier, more possessive. it knows the way jermajesty pulls you closer in his sleep, like even unconsciously he needs you pressed to him like a second skin. it knows the soft noises he makes in his sleep, the tickle of his curls against your back when his unruly sleeping has the top half of his body in the middle of the bed instead of the top.
the body next to you now isn’t the one you’ve gotten used to sleeping next to for weeks. it’s almost as if you’re in fight or flight the whole night. every time you realize your muscles are tensed, you relax them… just to repeat the process over and over. you have to physically prevent yourself from leaving the bed to go stand outside, near the wall where you can see the other villa lit up miles and miles away.
you close your eyes and will yourself to relax again. will yourself to just fucking sleep.
but you can’t. because every time you start to drift, your mind fills in the gaps: phantom grip against your waist, sleepy and soft snores in your ear, unconscious protests from him whenever you shift even an inch away.
the hours drag deep into the night. you manage maybe an hour of sleep as the sun starts to rise, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange.
you hate your life when the shades rise and you’re all woken up to start the day. cairo shifts behind you, his arms sliding away as he stretches. “you up?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“no.” you reply, keeping your eyes closed.
he only laughs as he gets up and leaves the room, heading down to the kitchen. when you’re sure he’s not coming back, you sit up yourself, attempting to shake off the exhaustion clinging to you. you feel like you’re moving through water as you go through your routine in the bathroom and walk to the makeup room, settling into your spot and doing the most half-assed hairstyle possible.
you’re barely halfway through bringing out all your makeup when deanna pops up beside you.
“come outside real quick,” she says, tone leaving no room for argument.
and with no energy left in you, you sigh and follow behind her.
the deck is quiet, morning sun warm against your skin. deanna and elisa settle on the bench and you sit to the right of elisa, sliding your sunglasses on. at this point they were your comfort item.
deanna exhales, long and heavy, leaning back against the wooden railing. “i miss my man so much,” she says, with a sad eye roll. “like… i know it’s only been a day, but i just–” she pauses, shaking her head.
i miss isaac. i miss talking to him. i miss him.”
“have you been talking to any of the boys here?” you ask, bringing your knees to your chest.
“girl, not for real. i’m just going through the motions at this point. casa is not for me, i’m a lover girl and i don’t want to love on any nigga but isaac.”
elisa nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “yeah, i feel you. keem’s been great,” elisa mentions the casa boy she’s been talking to, “but i miss deon’s dumbass.”
you stay quiet, staring out at the water farther out. there’s a burning in your throat that won’t go the fuck away.
“what about you?” elisa asks, turning to look at you. “how’s it been with cairo? that kiss was somethin’ serious.”
you force a smile and swallow, but the burning in your throat stays. “it’s great. he’s really sweet, honestly. a real catch.”
deanna narrows her eyes immediately. “... and jermajesty?”
your stomach swoops. “fuck him,” you say quickly, rolling your eyes purely for show– forgetting your sunglasses covered you anyway. “m’not thinking about him at all…”
but your voice cracks on the word ‘all’ and your next breath hitches. your bottom lip starts to wobble and you press your lips together as you look away from them, blinking rapidly.
but it’s too late.
a tear slips down your cheek, and another follows shortly after.
“oh, baby–” deanna starts, but you shake your head, waving them off and wiping at your face with the back of your hand. elisa and deanna ignore it, already moving to wrap their arms around you, pulling you into a hug so tight it makes your chest ache even more. they give you the space to break.
“i’m try–ing so hard,” you choke out, your voice cracking as the tears start to fall faster. “m’trying but i can’t, i-i can’t stop comparing everything to him. and i’m serious, cairo is so sweet, but it’s not– it’s not maj. and i hate that. and i keep replaying everything in my he-ad, like–” you press a hand to your chest as you try to catch your breath. “we were so good together. everything was so natural with him. i didn't have to think about what to say or how to be, i just was, and he got me.”
you wipe at your face but the tears don’t stop. elisa brings a hand to the back of your head and gently pushes until it rests on her shoulder.
“and it was him,” you continue, your voice raw and shaking. “the second i walked into the villa, it was him. nothing could’ve made my head turn from him at any point, let alone make me dis–disrespect him. it was always gonna be him for me.”
as if your body is trying to push every tear out now, the clips you watched replay in your mind. “he had so many chances to stop, he could’ve pushed her off and told her no. i wasn’t even a tho–ught in his mind. i didn’t matter–”
“shhh,” deanna hushes you as she switches her seat so that you sat in the middle. she wraps her arms around you again and the three of you sit there for what feels like hours– them holding you tighter, letting you cry and break and release everything you’ve been holding in.
your husband lifts his gaze slowly from the newspaper he was reading.
"fun?" he indulges you, tilting his head slightly to search your face. you suggested something without a description intentionally to make him ask for an elaboration, meaning what you're about to tell him will either be very intriguing, or the complete opposite. he searches your features in an attempt to determine which it'll be. "what kind of fun?"
you pause to make him squirm in anticipation. "i was thinking," you murmur, tracing your finger along the couch's lines with your fingertip, a sign of nervousness. "we could try… being available to each other. like whenever one of us wants-" your face goes warm, "sex."
the newspaper lowers down to his lap so your husband can stare at you intently, but he doesn't move otherwise. he's seated with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his legs apart in a lazy manspread, looking way too composed for what you just suggested. your body is so tense right now that you feel the urge to take a cold shower before the conversation continues. why isn't he saying anything?
"available," he echoes your choice of words. "as in free use."
you nod, trying not to squirm in your seat. "mhm."
he hums, tongue running over the inside of his cheek, and his eyes drag over your body as if he's already imagining all the different ways he can catch you off guard and ruin you. just as you suggested.
"sweetheart," he murmurs quietly, folding the paper and setting it aside, "do you even know what you're agreeing to?"
you shrug, a guileless glint in your wide eyes. you couldn't seriously be asking him this. you, who cries within the first ten minutes of him fucking you and tries to crawl away from him when he's pounding into you, wants to be free use for him, constantly? "i trust you. there... shouldn't be any issues."
he leans back in his chair and lets a silence pass once more. he seems to be considering it. the longer he goes without talking the more you squirm. he lays a cheek in his palm, and continues. "and why do you want to be free use for me?"
your eyes widen and your lips press together. you're nervous but trying not to show it. "it's not just me, you know. both of us are available for each other. i just wanted to suggest it because it's been on my mind a while."
"mm. no other reason?"
you hesitate a second too long, and he notices immediately. his eyes narrow ever so slightly. "well," you fidget, toying with a thread on your shirt to break eye contact just long enough so you don't explode. "i just thought it might be exciting."
"exciting... how?"
you puff out a soft breath and try to play it off. "i dunno… like, getting dragged into a public washroom while we're out grocery shopping. or, like… in the car. pulling it over so we can go to the backseat. or while i'm doing laundry."
"so you mean you want me to be so desperate i can't wait and have to have you. right then, right there."
you fidget again, but nod. "mhm."
he laughs once under his breath. "that's cute. so if you're half asleep," he says, "and i want to wake you up with my cock inside you, you won't mind? or if we're on a hike and you're in one of those pairs of leggings i really like, i can put you up against a tree?"
you nod, but look away bashfully. "i said whenever."
he hums and looks away for a moment in an attempt to stay calm while he processes. then he looks back at you, tutting with a pitying look on his face. like you're a lamb up for the slaughter.
"you don't know what you just agreed to," he says affectionately, like he's sorry for you.
you frown, feeling like he's underestimating you. "yes, i do."
he smiles. "you really don't."
-
the first time he tries out your new agreement is when you're brushing your teeth with him the next morning. you're standing at the sink in just one of his old t-shirts, groggy, hair messy, toothbrush hanging from the corner of your mouth as you blink blearily at your own reflection. he's behind you, pretending to brush his teeth too, but he's just looking at you.
your thighs are bare. the shirt rides up when you lean forward to spit into the sink, and he can see the crease where the back of your thighs meet your plush ass. he's entranced by the quiet way you operate when you're still half asleep and unaware of how good you look.
he swishes some water in his mouth and spits, setting his toothbrush back in the holder while watching you. you didn't notice he was ogling until you look up to meet his gaze in the mirror reflection to see him reaching around to pull you flush against his chest, lifting his hands under your shirt from behind to cup your tits. you don't wear a bra around the house, much to his convenience.
"just trying something fun," he murmurs into the curve of your neck, kissing the soft skin there. you tip your head a little, a pleasant feeling washing over your body as his thumbs roll over your perked nipples. he then wraps his hand around your throat to tip your head back. "aren't you so pretty?" he coos, one hand toying with your breast while the other gives your throat a light squeeze. it does nothing for your sanity. your brain might as well be slipping out of your ears.
you try to respond, but all that slips out is a helpless little whimper, the toothbrush still dangling from your lips.
"you're already shaking," he says softly, letting go of your throat only to glide his hand down the front of your shirt, past your navel, and into the waistband of your thin cotton panties. "and it's not even been a minute since i started. why're you acting like some helpless little virgin?"
you slip the toothbrush out of your mouth and drop it in the holder, using both hands to hold his wrist to keep yourself steady. "you're being mean," you breathe, embarrassed by how quickly he's unraveled you.
he hums, slipping his fingers inside your tight pussy to find you warm and wet. your hips jolt, but you don't move away. "i'm doing what you asked of me," he corrects you, his tone patient. "you said 'whenever,' remember?" he begins to lift up your shirt and tosses it onto the counter beside you, and your panties come off right after. then he pushes you forward so you're bent over onto the smooth marble in front of you.
he leans over your back, palm pressing down gently between your shoulder blades to keep you in place. "you know what your problem is," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear, "you get way too ahead of yourself. then you ask for things you're not ready for."
"baby please," you whine, grinding your hips back, only for him to pull away. he's teasing you. you look back at him with frustration, wanting friction against your sopping core, but he's not allowing it.
you feel him hook a hand under your knee to prop your leg up on the edge of the sink for a better angle, and he tuts at how messy your little pussy is so soon. he spreads you as much as you can go, then nudges his clothed bulge against your core, listening to your breath hitch and breathy pants to leave your mouth. "hmmh... that spot... do that again,"
he hushes you patronizingly, tugging his pj pants just low enough for his cock to be free. you're completely bare in contrast. with a hand pinning you down and the blunt press of his cock between your thighs, he slowly, maddeningly starts to slip it inside with a purposeful roll of his hips, and the stretch immediately hits you. you feel so full with just the first few inches of his fat cock in you.
your mouth opens around a silent moan, eyes rolling back. your grip on the counter tightens while he rocks into you steadily, holding you firmly while his gaze flits from your hole sucking him in and the lewd look on your face in the mirror.
"you wanted this. look at yourself. look how pretty you are when you're being used."
you try. you really do. your eyes flutter open just long enough to catch sight of your own flushed, wrecked reflection, your hair a mess, mouth parted, as he slowly fills you up to the brink, tip kissing your womb. his hand gathers a fistful of your hair to tip your head up.
your head spins as he thrusts into you roughly, flesh slapping against flesh making nasty sounds that echo off the bathroom walls. "y-you're... haaa gonna be late f'work," you moan as he fucks into you deep and rough, his thick cock curving just right inside you to keep bumping against your sweet spots.
"shit... y'wanna talk about that now?" he tugs your hair a little to make you squeal, using it to keep you in place like it's a handle. "i'll grab breakfast on the way there," he says into your skin. "this is more important."
you reach behind blindly because you're desperate to feel your husband or hold him, but he pushes you back down, then leans down to push his chest flush against your back, his skin hot against yours. he nudges his cock deeper in you at the new angle, moving a bulky arm to wrap around your neck and fuck you in a chokehold.
he groans against your ear, rutting harder now, his rhythm starting to lose control while your back arches for him, trying to take more even though you're so full. his hips snap forward with more force and he chuckles into your ear when you let out a garbled, " 'm gonna cum..." followed by a loud mewl. he groans, slamming into that one spot that gets you to tighten up around him each time his mushroom tip gives it a kiss.
"hmm, ask nicely, sweetheart," he nips your ear and bottoms out with an obscenely wet squelch. "mmmm.... c-can i... fuck, c-cum? please, 'm gonna..." your eyes screw shut and your pussy gushes around his thick shaft, leaving your thighs slick and shaky.
he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep inside you so his cum can shoot as deep inside you as he can. he doesn't pull out right away. arms wrapped around your middle, nose pressed into your hair like he's anchoring himself.
"god," he mumbles, still pumping you full, and there's now a creamy ring where his cock enters your cunt. "filled your little pussy all up, didn't i? now i'll feel bad leaving you like this."
you're too wrecked to answer, slumped forward against the sink, letting him hold you up. he reaches for a washcloth by the towel rack and dampens it so he can clean you up, giving you little kisses the whole time while you cling onto him. he keeps praising you, too. "did s'good for me, pretty baby."
he leaves you with a soft peck on your cheek. "ill see you later tonight..."
-
it doesn't stop after that morning in the bathroom. that was just his warm up, after all; his first taste of what you gave him. the second the floodgates opened, there was no closing them. poor you.
there's the time in the gym changeroom, right after your shared workout ends. you're both sore and sweaty, and you duck into the locker room so you can grab your stuff and head home with him to shower. however, the second he sees your flushed skin and damp chest through your sports bra, he doesn't hesitate to tug you into one of the showers and sit down on the bench, tearing off your clothes and tugging you into his lap.
he'll stuff your panties in your mouth so your moans are muffled, and fucks up into you hard and fast with no shame, even as he hears people talking and shuffling about behind the flimsy shower curtain. "you're gonna make a mess on me, aren't you?" he murmurs against your ear. "you like knowing someone could walk in right now and see you like this? my sweet girl, cockdrunk in a gym shower?"
he makes you cum on his cock, stuffs you full of his seed and leaves with you once the coast is mostly clear.
next was the hike. you're halfway up the steep trail with him, on a quick break on the grass off the main path. you'd just bent over a little to re-tie your laces since your boots had been far too tight, when he'd come up behind you, grinding against you and palming your ass through your leggings in broad daylight.
"shouldn't bend over in front of me unless you want me to do somethin' to you," he mutters, voice low and warm at your ear as he presses himself closer, fingers kneading into the backs of your thighs.
he doesn't give you a second to argue before he's guiding you face first to a tree and dropping to his knees. he pulls your leggings down just enough to get what he wants, and the air hits your slick folds pleasantly. you whimper, bracing yourself as he spreads your ass to have your pussy fully presented to him.
"gonna be quick," he whispers, "just a little taste." he mumbles, before shoving his face right into your cunt.
you gasp loudly and your hands shoot up to brace against the tree bark right in front of you and dig into the wood. you tremble and let out a shaky breath when he licks a slow, nasty stripe from your pussy up to your clit, shaking his tongue a little so it slobbers over every inch of your drooling pussy lips, occasionally prodding your hole.
his hands are firm on your thighs to spread you open wider, dragging your hips back toward his mouth while he eats you out filthy and sloppy. his nose nudges your clit, tongue flicking in and out of you, then slipping deep inside.
you bite your lip and your eyes, wide and panicked, glance toward the trail. anyone could walk by since you're not that far off the path, hidden, but not well. if someone wandered off long enough, they'd find the two of you.
"god," he moans into you, closing his mouth around your pussy lips and sucking gently, then going back to make out with your pussy. "taste so fuckin' good, babe. made for me." your orgasm hits so fast that you barely have time to warn him, pushing back against him so you cream right into his mouth.
-
you intended to have one wholesome weekend without your man ravaging you on any available surface in the vicinity. a family gathering that your parents are hosting. you enter the countryside house with your husband's hand on the small of your back to guide you inside, smiling politely as your relatives greet you both with warm hugs and laughter. everyone is in a good mood, sipping drinks, chewing on appetizers. there's music playing, and scents drifting from the kitchen.
he lasts about twenty minutes into the evening before he leans down to whisper filth into your ear while everyone else is distracted in the dining room. "you keep looking up at me like that and you're not leaving this place without my cum dripping down your thighs."
you stiffen, body heating up with arousal instantly, even as your face stays composed for the sake of your family standing two feet away. your husband knows exactly what he's doing. he brushes his lips just under your ear again, letting his breath brush over your skin while his palm subtly slides down to squeeze your ass through your dress, making you yelp.
he's all over you most of the evening. hands holding your hips from behind, cupping your ass, arms around your waist, smelling your hair... blatant public displays of affection. he keeps whispering things. "you're dripping through this dress," he murmurs while you're getting drinks in the kitchen. "do you even know what you look like right now?"
you try to push him away, but he's already behind you, brushing your hair over your shoulder as if he's helping, just to kiss the back of your neck. he's all over you right up until you take a break to get away from the party for a bit before dinner. you choose your childhood bedroom as an escape, needing one second away from him before he decides to finger you at the dinner table or fuck you in one of the bathrooms, but he follows you shortly after.
you just entered your old room, not realizing the door didn't click shut behind you. you make it two steps before he grabs you and pins you down onto your back in your old twin bed.
you jolt. "baby! where did you- what are you- "
"shhh," he murmurs, lips already brushing your neck. "just missed you. five minutes."
your body reacts before your brain can catch up. you tip your head to the side for him, breath catching as he kisses behind your ear and tugs the straps of your dress down your shoulders and pushing it under your tits so he can cup your bare mounds. his thumbs brush over your nipples until they stiffen under his touch, and he groans at your soft whines, pinching and rubbing them with his fingers while he kisses down to your chest, laving his tongue over the swollen peaks. he's practically slobbering on them, one bulky hand playing with one while his mouth works on the other, sucking sharply and then releasing with a wet pop.
he drags your panties down and off your ankles, spreading you into a shameful position to get a good look at you.
"fuck, look at this mess," he thumbs over your pussy with light pressure, teasing you. "this for me?" you whimper a soft yes, causing him to chuckle softly. he leans over you again, playing with your hole while his other hand wraps around his cock to stroke it slow and firm from tip to base, aligning himself with your hole. he doesn't make it easy for you and put it in straight away, instead tapping his cock against your folds and listening to the nasty little squelches that come from you. he slides it up and down, delaying your pleasure to make you desperate.
you gasp and mewl, thighs already lifting for him as he lines up and starts to press in slowly. your body clutches around him immediately, the stretch making your head spin. "ohhh my- fuck," he groans, pushing in all the way until he bottoms out. "tight as ever. made to be fucked in."
you moan breathlessly and tip your head back, letting him start to plow into you. he doesn't waste any time in putting one leg up over his shoulder and thrusting so deep that his balls squish against the curve of your ass and his shaft forms a faint print in your belly from how huge he is. your head lolls back with each of his deep, grinding strokes.
"look at you," he whispers, eyes trained on your filthy expression. "getting ruined in your childhood room. all the innocent memories, corrupted by this one." he mocks you while fucking into you harder. you moan loudly, hands fisting at the sheets, then clawing his biceps, then running down his torso. you have no idea what to do with yourself right now. he's fucking you into oblivion and now you're completely out of it.
"bet your parents think you're still their good little girl," he pants, rocking into you, stretching you out with his fat shaft with every drag. you can feel every vein and the exact angle in which his cock curves inside you. "they don't know you're upstairs getting your pussy wrecked like this."
"please what?" he taunts, slowing his thrusts to an unbearable pace. "please fuck me harder?" he punctuates the question with a sharp thrust so deep inside you your vision swims. "or please fill me up in my little princess bed?" he coos, grinding his pelvis against yours. your mouth falls open in a silent scream as a particularly deep thrust hits your sweet spot, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine while your back arches off the bed, pressing your heaving tits more firmly against his chest. you can basically feel his heartbeat against yours, thudding in time with his sloppy thrusts.
" 'm gonna cum inside you," he grits, pounding into you hard, cock scraping against your plushy walls and the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every inward thrust. "goddamn, look at me. want you to -haa- remember this." your nails scrape his back. you're crying out softly, trying to stay quiet, but you're so close. you clamp down on him so hard when it hits that he chokes on a groan, hips stuttering as he starts spilling into you with a harsh jerk of his body.
his cock jerks and pulses as he hilts inside you, the thick head flaring inside you as he releases ropes of hot cum pumps into your greedy cunt, your womb quickly filling to the brim.
within seconds, excess semen is already bubbling out around his shaft, dripping down onto the sheets beneath your ass. your pussy clenches and ripples, desperately trying to milk every last drop of him, and he continues rocking his cock inside you as he cums, fingers moving to play with your clit, and you cum shortly after, gushing around his cock and adding to the mess on the bed.
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، summary𓈒 you go live on tiktok and your fans realize you gotta boyfriend and they wanna know who he is.
، pairing𓈒 jermajesty Jackson x influencer!black reader
، warnings𓈒 no use of y/n, fluff.
، notes𓈒 lauv ittt- enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. jermajesty is a chud and I love him, so ignore how corny this is. Now im GETTING back to the requests.
"First of all, whoever said my lace is lifting in the back...your mama is a man."
You leaned in closer to the ring light, squinting at the chat flying across your iPad screen. The tiktok live was currently sitting at eighty four thousand viewers, and every single one of them had decided today was the day to choose violence.
"I’m serious," you muttered, parting your freshly installed 30 inch bustdown middle part. "Don't play with my stylist like that. She glued this down with the tears of my enemies. It’s sitting. It’s melted. It’s giving scalp but you bitches are just blind."
User38492: Not the wig defense protocol 😭
Kayla_From_The_Block: GIRL forget the hair, who was that tall shadow in the background of your vlog yesterday??
TeeTee_Bandz: Wait hold on because I saw him too! Tall, broad, and moving like he own the place.
Mya.M: SPILL THE TEA SIS. WHO IS HE?!
You paused, your edge brush frozen mid swoop.
Damn. You thought you had cropped that clip perfectly. It was a three second transition in your "Spend the Day with Me in LA" vlog- just a quick aesthetic pan across your living room to show off the new sofa. But the internet FBI apparently had 4K vision and a magnifying glass.
"What shadow?" you asked, trying to keep your face deadpan. You went back to swooping your baby hairs, acting like your heart didn't just do a little skip hop drop. "Y'all are hallucinating. That was probably just the coat rack. Or a ghost. This apartment is old as hell, I keep telling y'all."
Breezy_B: A coat rack in a designer Balenciaga hoodie? Chile, please.
NoName90: And the coat rack got shoulders like a linebacker? Okay.
RealRecognizeReal: Is she blushing??? OH SHE BLUSHING.
"I’m not blushing- black people don’t blush!" you yelled, laughing despite yourself and covering your face with your long, acrylic french tips. "Y’all are so nosey! This is why I don't show y'all my business. Can a girl just live? Can I just have my little apartment in peace without a whole interrogation committee?"
The truth was, you did have a man. And not just any man.
You had been lowkey seeing Jermajesty Jackson for the last six months. Yes, that Jackson. The legacy, the boy with a name so grand it sounded like a decree issued by a medieval king. He was sweet, incredibly fine, ridiculously tall, and, much to your amusement, absolutely obsessed with you.
Up until this point, you guys had kept things strictly on the low. You weren't hiding, but you definitely weren't broadcasting. In the influencer world, once you show your relationship, it belongs to the public. You weren't trying to have tiktok tea pages analyzing your man’s micro expressions to see if he secretly hated you.
"Anyway," you tried to pivot, grabbing your lip gloss. "So, I’m thinking about doing a closet sale next week because..."
The apartment door clicked open.
You froze. The chat froze- or rather, it started moving so fast the text became a blur of vertical light.
You heard the heavy, unmistakable thud of size 12 designer shoes hitting the hardwood floor. Then, a low, melodic hum. He was singing. Because of course he was. The man couldn't walk into a room without sounding like a three part harmony.
"Baby?" his voice boomed from the hallway. "I got the tacos from that spot you like. They was packed but you know I got us taken care of."
You squeezed your eyes shut. Jermajesty, please, not right now, you prayed to the heavens.
"I'm on Live, baby!" you called out, trying to sound casual while throwing warning daggers with your eyes toward the doorway.
But Jermajesty was already halfway into the room.
He stopped dead in his tracks just on the edge of the camera’s peripheral vision. He was wearing a black hoodie, with some black sweatpants, and his hair was perfectly curly. He looked down at his hands, holding a massive brown paper bag that smelled like heaven, then looked at you, then looked at the glowing ring light.
"Oh," he said, his eyes widening slightly. "My bad. I didn't know you was tapped in."
"It's fine," you laughed nervously, waving your hand to dismiss him. "Just set it on the counter, I'll be done in a minute."
But it was too late. The chat had officially lost its collective mind.
Keisha_D: BABY???
Tink_88: HE GOT THE TACOS???
TheGhettoGourmet: HOLD ON THAT VOICE. WHY THAT VOICE SOUND SO FAMILIAR?
BadLilThing: Show him! Show him! Show him!
DripOrDrown: Girl if you don't turn that camera to the left right now I’m unfollowing
"They want you to show your face," you murmured, looking up at him with a helpless grin. "They think you're a shadow demon."
Jermajesty chuckled, a chesty sound that probably made half the girls in the chat weak in the knees. He stepped closer, leaning his hip against the edge of your vanity desk. He wasn't shy, you don't grow up with the last name Jackson and fear a camera, but he respected your boundaries.
"They wanna see me?" he asked, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I don't know, baby. I ain't got my makeup on. My skin might not be camera ready for your millions of fans."
"Boy, stop," you laughed, hitting his hip with your hand. "Your skin is clearer than my future. Quit playing."
"Let me see what they saying," he said, leaning down over your shoulder to look at the iPad screen.
And just like that, his face entered the frame.
The chat went dead silent for approximately one second. Then, it exploded like a firecracker in a trash can.
SpiritualGhetto: WAIT.
Lexi.K: IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS???
NoWayJose: JERMAJESTY???
BaddieOnABudget: GIRL YOU GOT A JACKSON?!
Mimi_Monroe: Not Jermajesty! Oh you eating good fr
Nene_T: HE IS SO FINEEEEE LORD
Jermajesty saw his name flashing repeatedly on the screen and raised an eyebrow, looking down at you. "Damn, they recognized me quick. I thought I had a disguise on with the hoodie."
"You are literally six foot something, looking like majority of your family, Maj. There is no disguising you," you said, tossing your hair back and finally giving in to the chaos. You turned your chair slightly so the camera captured both of you. "Alright, y'all. Yes. This is my man. Satisfied now? You can stop spamming the chat about the Balenciaga coat rack."
Jermajesty looked directly into the camera, waving with a charming, easygoing smile. "What's up, everybody? I'm the coat rack. Nice to meet y'all."
"Don't encourage them," you warned, though you couldn't stop the massive smile spreading across your face.
"Nah, they cool," Jermajesty said, eyes scanning the comments. "They saying you bagged a prince. I don't know about all that, but I definitely bagged a queen."
"Oh, brother," you groaned, covering your face as the chat went into a full cardiac arrest.
Chrissy_Pooh: HE IS A SMOOTH TALKER OMG
LoverGirl: The way he looked at her...I’m throwing myself in traffic
Didi_100: We need a Q&A! Right now! Turn this into a couple's stream!
YeezyTaughtMe: Q&A! Q&A! Q&A!
You looked up at Jermajesty. He looked down at you, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.
"You got time before the tacos get cold?" you asked him.
"For you? I got all the time in the world," he said, pulling up a rolling stool from your vanity and sitting right next to you, his frame completely taking over the screen. "Let's give the people what they want."
"Alright, keep it respectful in the comments," you warned, pointing a manicured finger at the screen. "Because I will block a bitch. Do not try me today. Keep it cute or get booted."
"Yeah, keep it cute," Jermajesty echoed, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest, looking entirely too comfortable. "I’m sensitive, y'all. Don't hurt my feelings."
"You are not sensitive," you laughed, nudging him.
"I am! I’m a libra. We feel things deeply," he protested, putting a hand over his heart with dramatic flair.
User9028: How did y'all meet? Who shot their shot first?
"Oh, this is a good one," you said, pointing at the comment. "Because he likes to tell a whole lie when people ask this."
"A lie?" Jermajesty gasped, looking genuinely offended. "Excuse me? I am a man of integrity. I tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"Okay, go ahead then. Tell 'em how we met," you challenged, crossing your arms.
Jermajesty cleared his throat, looking directly at the camera like he was about to deliver a monologue. "Alright, so look. We was at this private party in the Hills. Very exclusive, very lowkey. I’m standing by the bar, minding my business, looking majestic as usual-"
"See, lying already," you cut in, rolling your eyes.
"Let me finish! I’m standing there, and I see this beautiful, radiant black woman walk in. She was wearing this orange dress-"
"It was rust colored."
"Orange, rust, whatever, it was fire. And she was walking like she owned the whole villa. I said, 'Hold on. Who is that?' So I did my little walk over. I gave her the look. I said, 'Excuse me, miss, but I think you dropped something.' And she looked at me and said, 'What?' And I said, 'Your standards, because you ain't talking to me yet.'"
You stared at him, completely deadpan, before turning back to the camera.
"Y'all, please do not believe this man," you said, shaking your head. "This is not what happened at all. First of all, he was not 'standing by the bar looking majestic.' He was standing by the buffet table eating chicken like he hadn't eaten in three business days."
"Hey! The catering was fire, I wasn't gonna let it go to waste," Jermajesty defended himself.
"Secondly, he did not use that corny ass pickup line. What actually happened was, he accidentally backed into me while trying to take a selfie with his cousin, and he spilled half a cup of ginger ale down my back."
"It was an accident!" Jermajesty protested.
"He ruined my dress, y'all. I turned around ready to cuss him out- and I mean, I had the words lined up in my head. I was ready to give him the full treatment. But then I looked up, and he was looking down at me with this big, goofy, puppy dog face, saying, 'Oh my god, I’m so sorry, please don't beat me up, I'll buy you a new dress, I'll buy you ten dresses.'"
"And did I lie?" Jermajesty asked triumphantly. "Did I not get you the dress?"
"He did," you admitted, a soft smile slipping through. "He literally followed me around the rest of the night making sure I had water, napkins, and dry cleaning contacts, and even gave me his jacket so I didn’t look a mess. By the end of the night, he asked for my number so he could 'verify the dress delivery.' Smooth, but goofy."
"Hey, it worked," he said, leaning over to kiss your temple. "You here, ain't you?"
Jasmine_Rose: OMGGGG that is so cute! He was sweating!
Tasha_T: Not the ginger ale 😭 he was nervous!
Kiara_D: He was folding under pressure
"I wasn't folding!" Jermajesty argued, though he was smiling wide. "I was just being a gentleman. My mama raised me right."
LaToya_S: Does Ms. Katherine know about her? Has she met the family?
The chat went wild at this question. Meeting a famous family is one thing, but meeting the Jacksons is a whole different level of pressure.
"Oh, they wanna know about the family," you said, looking at Jermajesty.
"Oh, they love her," Jermajesty said instantly, without a second of hesitation. "My mama loves her. My aunts love her. My grandma...man, grandma wanted to keep her at the house last Thanksgiving. I had to tell her, 'Grandma, she gotta come home with me, stop trying to adopt her.'"
"It’s true," you laughed. "I was so nervous, y'all. You have no idea. When he first told me he wanted me to meet his family, I almost booked a one way ticket to Ghana. I was like, 'Nope, I’m changing my identity, I cannot do this.' I was practicing my posture in the mirror, trying to make sure I didn't say anything too outta pocket."
"You was tripping for no reason," Jermajesty said, shaking his head. "You walked in there and had everyone laughing in five minutes."
"Because I was masking my terror with humor- that’s how I cope!" you shouted. "But no, they are literally the sweetest people. His mom is so gorgeous, and she made me feel right at home. She actually gave me some old family recipes."
"Which she still hasn't cooked for me," Jermajesty pointed out, giving you a look.
"Because you eat too much! If I cook that big pot of peach cobbler, you’re gonna eat the whole thing in one sitting and then complain about your stomach," you shot back.
"I have a fast metabolism," he argued. "I burn it off."
"You burn it off by playing video games and yelling at fifteen year olds on the game," you retorted.
The chat was eating up the banter, the viewer count now climbing past one hundred thousand.
User4820: Who is more clingy?
"Him," you said immediately.
"Her," Jermajesty said at the exact same time.
You both looked at each other.
"How am I clingy?" you asked, offended. "I am a strong, independent woman. I have my own bag, my own apartment, my own schedule."
"Baby," Jermajesty said, leaning forward and looking at the camera. "Let me tell y'all something. This girl right here? If I don't text her back within five minutes, she starts sending me tiktoks of women saying 'If he wanted to, he would.' She starts playing sad SZA songs in her stories."
"That is a lie!" you screamed. "That is a complete fabrication of the truth!"
"It is not!" Jermajesty laughed, enjoying your reaction. "And then, when we sleeping, she gotta have her whole leg wrapped around me like a koala bear. I’m hot, y'all. I’m like a human radiator, and she’s there clinging to me like she’s trying to survive an ice age."
"First of all, your apartment is cold," you defended yourself, pointing a finger at him. "Secondly, you love it. Don't act like you don't pull me right back if I try to move."
"I gotta keep you safe," he said softly, his tone suddenly dropping into that warm, sincere place that always made your heart melt. He looked at you, his hand reaching out to gently tuck a strand of your track behind your ear. "Even if you do kick me in your sleep."
"I do not kick you," you mumbled, looking away, suddenly shy under his gaze.
"You do. You got some strong legs, baby. I think you be running track in your dreams."
The chat was practically sobbing.
Aaliyah_99: I am crying in the club rn
Renee_Baby: They are so real for this
FineAssGirl: No but why are they actually perfect for each other?
LoveLies: Jermajesty is down BAD. Look at his eyes!
"Alright, alright, next question," you said, trying to clear the air before you got too mushy. "We aren't trying to do a whole romance novel on here."
BigDrip_12: Can he do your hair though?
You read the comment out loud and immediately looked at Jermajesty with a devious smirk. "Ooh. Now this is the real test. Maj, do you think you can lay my edges?"
Jermajesty looked at the pink edge brush and the jar of edge control sitting on your vanity. He looked back at the screen, then at your hairline.
"Lay your edges?" he repeated. "Like, swoop them? The little wavy things y'all do?"
"Yes. The swoop de swoop."
"Oh. Easy," he said, puffing out his chest. "Give me the brush."
"Oh lord," you laughed, handing him the brush and opening the edge control. "If you ruin my hair, we are breaking up. I’m telling you right now. This is a high stakes situation."
"Trust the process, baby," he said, taking the brush with absolute confidence. He leaned in close, his face just inches from yours. He put one hand gently on the back of your head to steady you, and his touch was so warm and gentle it made your breathing stop.
The chat slowed, everyone watching intently.
Jermajesty dipped the tip of the brush into the gel. He looked at your forehead like he was Da Vinci looking at the Sistine Chapel.
"Alright, so you gotta do the wave, right?" he muttered, his tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. He placed the brush at your hairline and made a tentative, shaky swoop.
"Ow, not so hard!" you laughed, wincing slightly. "You're scraping my skin, not painting a fence!"
"My bad, my bad," he whispered, softening his touch. He used his thumb to smooth down the gel, just like he’d seen you do a thousand times. He actually didn't do a terrible job, managing to create a decent, slightly thick, swoop near your temple.
"Hold on," he said, looking at his work. "Wait a minute. I might have found my calling. Look at that! That is a masterpiece."
You looked in the mirror and laughed. "Maj...it’s literally in the middle of my forehead."
"It’s a modern art swoop," he insisted, waving his hand. "It’s avant garde. You don't understand the vision."
"It’s giving 'I fell face first into some grease,'" you teased, but you didn't wipe it off. You looked at him, his face still close to yours, his eyes bright with laughter.
"You love it," he murmured.
"I love you," you whispered back, before you could even think to stop yourself.
Jermajesty’s smile softened into something incredibly warm and private, completely forgetting about the hundred thousand people watching. "I love you more, baby."
The chat exploded into a final, chaotic frenzy of hearts, crying emojis, and caps lock keys slamming.
"Alright, y'all," you said, turning back to the screen with a flush on your cheeks. "We gotta go eat these tacos before they get soggy. Thank y'all for tapping in! Say goodbye, Maj."
Jermajesty leaned over, waving at the screen. "Bye, y'all! Keep supporting my girl, she’s the best to ever do it. Peace!"
You blew a kiss to the camera and hit the 'End Live' button.
As the screen went dark, the quiet of the apartment settled back in. Jermajesty immediately wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest.
"So," he murmured in your ear. "The whole world knows now."
"Yeah," you said, looping your arms around his neck. "They do. You ready for the crazy?"
"With you?" Jermajesty smiled, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. "I’m ready for whatever."
pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n
words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)
summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?
sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean
“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”
Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.
You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.
“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”
Her answering look is sympathetic.
“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”
“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.
“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”
Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”
Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”
“Have I met him?”
“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”
You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.
Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”
You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.
“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.
You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.
You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.
Out steps a mountain of a man.
Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.
“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.
“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”
His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.
“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”
He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.
“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”
You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.
“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“
“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.
Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”
Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.
Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’
But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.
“Try it again,” an order, not a request.
Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.
“Terminal clamp.”
You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.
“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.
“Pop it,” he calls out.
You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.
You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.
Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.
“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”
He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.
“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”
“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.
“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.
“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.
Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”
You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.
“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.
“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”
A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”
You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.
“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.
He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”
He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”
“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”
He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.
“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.
“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.
“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“
“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.
“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“
“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.
“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.
Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”
That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.
“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.
“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.
“Shit—“
You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.
You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.
It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.
That’s worth celebrating.
You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.
You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.
You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.
Bucky.
The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…
You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.
As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.
You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…
You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.
Nothing.
Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.
Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.
Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.
With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.
You really wish you kept those beers.
When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.
Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?
The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.
You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.
You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.
You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.
Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.
When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.
Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.
He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.
You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.
You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.
But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.
Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.
The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.
Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.
But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.
By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.
You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.
“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.
He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.
You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.
So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.
On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.
You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.
Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.
Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.
You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.
So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.
This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.
The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.
Occam’s Razor strikes again.
You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?
Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?
Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.
Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.
It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.
You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.
The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.
You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.
“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”
“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”
She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”
You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.
“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”
There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”
You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”
“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”
“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”
“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.
You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.
“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.
“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.
“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.
“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”
You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.
“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”
You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”
Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”
Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.
“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.
“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.
“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”
A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”
You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.
While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.
You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.
Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.
You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.
It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.
Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.
Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.
The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.
“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.
Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.
“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.
“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“
“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”
You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.
You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.
You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.
Your lips part.
Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.
He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”
You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.
“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.
Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”
“Then you should drink with us.”
“Not interested.” You blink.
“…why not?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.
A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”
“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”
Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.
Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.
Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.
Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.
Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.
Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.
You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…
Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.
This turns out to be easier said than done.
You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.
Then a knock interrupts.
You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.
Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.
“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.
Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”
His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”
Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.
“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”
He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”
“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.
“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”
“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.
“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.
“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.
“Then at least let me watch.”
Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.
“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.
“Smells good.”
His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.
“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.
“I told you not to call me—“
“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”
Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.
“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”
From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“
Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.
“You asked me to fix your shower.”
“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.
“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”
Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“
“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”
“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”
“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”
He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.
“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”
You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”
“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”
You scoff.
“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”
“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.
“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.
“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.
“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”
You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.
“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”
Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”
“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”
He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”
“What night?” Bucky grunts.
“The night we were drinkin’.”
He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”
“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”
He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”
He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”
Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.
“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”
“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”
“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.
“It’s — well, I’m just—“
“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.
“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”
You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?
You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.
“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.
“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.
“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.
For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”
You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.
“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.
Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.
“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”
You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”
“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.
“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”
“I thought you got things to do today.”
“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”
It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.
A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“
“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—
“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.
“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.
“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”
Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”
He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”
Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.
“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”
“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.
“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”
You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.
“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.
“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.
“And?”
You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“
Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”
A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.
The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.
A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.
A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.
Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.
A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.
But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.
When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.
You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.
You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.
Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.
You take a large sip of beer for courage.
“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.
Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.
Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.
“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”
Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”
“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”
“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“
“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”
There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.
“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”
He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”
Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.
Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.
You blink.
“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”
Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”
“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.
“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”
“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”
“I got what?”
“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”
Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”
The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.
“Uh…”
He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?
You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.
“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.
“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.
“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”
“Please don’t,” you groan.
He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—
“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.
You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?
But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.
Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.
Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.
When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.
“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”
By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.
You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”
Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”
Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”
She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”
“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.
“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“
After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.
Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.
That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.
The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”
Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.
“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.
“Good to see you again, Viz.”
You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.
But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”
“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.
“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.
“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.
“Nat’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”
The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.
Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”
You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.
As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.
You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.
“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”
You’re dragged away before you can say a word.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.
As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.
Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.
Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.
“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.
Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.
“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”
A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”
“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”
“Maybe four years ago,” he says.
“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.
“Whaddya mean?”
He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“
Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.
“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”
“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”
“Nope — not Texas.”
You pout. “Gimme a hint.”
“East coast.”
You stare.
“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.
“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”
“Worse. Brooklyn.”
Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”
“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.
“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”
“A story for another time.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.
“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.
He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.
“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.
You balk. “I never said that—“
“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.
“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”
“Yeah — do you know him?”
He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.
“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”
“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”
Bucky nods. “Good…good.”
Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.
“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.
“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”
You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.
Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.
“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.
You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.
“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.
“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.
“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”
“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.
“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.
“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.
“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”
You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—
“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”
Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—
“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.
The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.
“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.
“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”
Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”
You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”
Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”
She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.
“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.
“Thought I’d walk you back.”
You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”
“You can see my door from here.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”
“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”
You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”
“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”
“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.
Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.
“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.
Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.
“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.
“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.
“You think that’s enough to stop me?”
Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”
Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.
It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.
Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.
But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.
You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.
Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.
Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.
While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.
You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.
“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.
Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.
“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.
Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.
So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.
When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.
You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.
And then you hear it.
It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.
A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.
You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”
Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.
Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.
Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.
You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.
Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”
You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.
His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”
Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”
“But you didn’t.”
The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.
“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.
“Bullshit,” he counters.
“It’s the truth—“
“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”
You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”
“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”
There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.
“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.
“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.
“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.
You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.
But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you whisper back.
This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.
He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.
You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.
You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.
And then he kisses you.
Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.
You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.
His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.
The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.
“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.
And then he gently pushes you off his lap.
Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.
“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.
“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”
“Then why did you stop?”
He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.
“I know. You shouldn’t.”
Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.
“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”
You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”
“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”
“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—
He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“
“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”
Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.
“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”
His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.
“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.
He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.
The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.
Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.
He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.
“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.
The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.
Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.
What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.
Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.
But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.
And Bucky…
You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.
You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.
His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.
He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.
Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.
On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.
Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.
You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.
So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.
The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.
But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.
You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.
The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.
But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.
“Where’ve you been?”
You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.
“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”
His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”
You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.
“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.
“What for?”
“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”
He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”
A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”
Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”
Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”
He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”
A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”
“You need money?”
“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“
“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”
“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“
“Because it helps me to not think about you!”
The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.
“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”
“Kid…”
“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”
“That’s not why I’m here—“
“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”
Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”
“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“
Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.
You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”
You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”
He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”
Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”
“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”
His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.
Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.
But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.
His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.
“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.
“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”
The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…
“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”
He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…
You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”
As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.
Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.
“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”
You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.
“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”
Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.
“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”
A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.
Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.
You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”
Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.
“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”
He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.
You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.
It’s the easiest decision to make.
You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.
Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.
“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”
“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”
He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”
Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”
“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.
“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.
It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.
“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”
His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.
“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.
Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.
“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”
Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.
Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.
“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”
You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”
“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.
“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.
But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.
But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”
His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.
“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.
“More, Bucky, please.”
He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.
“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.
His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.
You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.
“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.
“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.
“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”
You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.
“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.
“But—“
“No.”
You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.
Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.
Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.
He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.
“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.
“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.
“S-so— so good—“
“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”
“…m-more?”
Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.
He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.
“Bucky,” you warn.
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”
A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.
“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”
The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.
“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”
He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.
The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.
He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.
“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.
He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.
Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.
You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”
“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.
“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”
His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.
You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.
You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.
With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.
His good girl.
“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”
A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.
Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”
The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”
“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”
“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”
Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.
The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.
Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”
You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.
“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”
Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.
His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.
“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”
His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.
“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”
Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”
All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.
“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.
“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.
“Shit—“ you exhale.
Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.
“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”
He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.
“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”
His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?
“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.
Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.
“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.
“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”
He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”
There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.
“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”
Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.
“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”
You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Never.”
A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.
“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.
“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.
His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”
A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”
He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”
You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.
“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”
Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.
Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.
sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!
good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!
as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️
𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐌𝐑. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 | eren jaeger x black fem!reader
VI. a million pink roses
✧ summary — how does one get over a breakup with their presidential candidate affair partner? a benadryl nap? feeble attempts at self care? another man’s yacht? all of the above?
✧ warnings — angst, mentions of pregnancy, miscarriage, and suicide (no ideation), random yale slander, jean x reader!fluff, alcohol consumption, yachting (🛥️), eren is a sorry bastard
✧ author’s note — the way this chapter is like the calm before the storm…please. writing is so fun sometimes lolz anyhow i love you all & thank you for reading 🪽💕😽🦢
✧ word count — 3.8k
17 SEPTEMBER
upon waking up, you were greeted by the sight of hange pacing the foot of your bed with the straw of a chocolate milkshake being ripped to bits between their teeth. an infomercial for erectile dysfunction pills played on an endless loop on your television, captivating their attention and providing a healthy distraction from the mess behind them.
“no way it does that,” hange whispered, stopping in place as a cartoon penis inflated twice its size in a matter of seconds. “modern medicine, i guess.”
“crazy, right?” you droned, propping yourself up on an elbow. a greasy bag of fast food sat folded up on your bedside table, as well as a half empty cup of dr. pepper. five guys, the bag read. as delicious as it sounded, you weren’t sure if you could stomach anything more than a single french fry.
just as you began to reach for the bag, your entire rib cage was flattened under hange’s body weight. “you’re awake, thank god!” they frantically giggled into your neck, giving you a face full of messy, coconut scented hair. had they used your shampoo? how long had they been here? you crookedly wrapped an arm around them before deciding that none of it mattered.
“do you know you scared the literal shit out of me?” they reprimanded, pupils expanded over the brown of their eyes. “like, avoid your downstairs bathroom for a week.”
“okay, ew.” you murmured, patting their back and signaling a cry for personal space. “i hope you sprayed at least.”
“let’s not dwell on the past.” hange quickly deflected. “i’m just so glad you’re alive.”
rubbing their back in a soothing set of circles, you silently regarded the old band tee and ripped jeans they wore. a peek beyond their shoulder showcased their briefcase and opened duffel bag sitting on your futon.
you pushed yourself into sitting upwards, angling two pillows behind your back against your headboard. “well, i wasn’t trying to kill myself or anything, hanji.” you weren’t, right? surely not. dying hardly crossed your mind in all the flurry of emotions leading up to your… act. and you definitely weren’t going to commit suicide over eren jaeger, of all people. just thinking his name sparked a fury in your gut that was so close to hate, but not quite there. fledgling hate, if you will. “it was just a benadryl nap.” you finished, hoping your voice didn’t sound as shaky as your nerves.
“okay, but you could have died.”
your brows furrowed in an emotion somewhere between worry and confusion. had anyone ever died from taking one benadryl? probably. but you really couldn’t see that sort of thing happening to you.
“don’t be silly. i can’t die. not until i meet that girlfriend of yours.”
hange’s cheeks tinted a burning pink behind their glasses as they made themself comfortable on your bed. “enough about me.” they squeaked. “how about you? how are you feeling? with, y’know, the whole eren thing?” their voice dropped over his name as though it were a curse word.
“numb, i guess. i haven’t really had time to process it ‘cause of the—” you glanced over at the time on your clock. six forty-two. “seven hour nap.”
hange recoiled if they had just fired a shotgun. “poor baby,” they took your hand between both of theirs. “i’m sorry.”
“don’t baby me, hange.” your voice left your mouth as hardly a whisper, and you could feel your throat become heavy with a lump of emotions, none of them good. the numbness only lasted so long, it seemed. “i’m almost thirty. i knew better.”
and i did it anyway. just twenty two hours ago, things were perfect. or as close to perfect as you could get. maybe perfect wasn’t the word. you sure felt perfect. you felt like a gazillion bucks. his eyes constantly drawing over you, telling you all those sweet things in the backseat of his limo. it would be so easy to say he made you forget all the morals you had instilled within yourself, but that was hardly the truth. you had a choice, and you happily left your morals at the door.
“true, but so did he. you did wrong, he did wrong. hell, maybe even wronger.” before you could cut in to tell them that wronger wasn’t a word, they continued. “i knew he was evil! no one is that handsome and politically correct and morally sound.”
you only nodded, forcing some semblance of a smile.
“i’m sorry!” hange said, immediately catching on. “did that sting? we can talk about something else. yeah, actually, let’s do that.”
you took this time now to reach for your bag of food and explore the contents. a little bacon cheeseburger with fries practically spilling out of the bag. enticed by the food’s familiar aroma, you figured you could attempt to eat.
“did anyone call while i was out?” you asked, popping a french fry into your mouth.
“yeah, only governor jaeger about a hundred and fifty times. i had to unplug your phone just to keep my head on straight.”
“are you serious?”
“as a fucking heart attack. he left message after message after message, all of which i deleted, so don’t get any funny ideas.”
at that, you actually smiled. your resolution to talk about anything other than him was already a failure, an almost comedic one. “no funny ideas here.”
you giggled softly, and it sent a blunt pain spreading through your chest. as though your rib cage had been broken inward and was now making incessant little jabs at your heart every time you dared laugh or move or attempt to forget.
twenty two hours ago, things had been so perfect. you were kissing eren and watching swan lake. you were thinking about how good he looked in his suit. how had things progressed into such a horrible state so quickly? part of you wished you had never answered hange’s call, or never turned on that news broadcast. you ached so badly to cling to ignorance just a little longer.
messily, you split your burger into halves, hoping the mutilation would make it less intimidating. this way, you could see everything squished between the ordinary looking buns. you wished you could do the same with men. succulent beef, cooked to perfection. trying for a baby. lettuce so crisp it would probably break like ice against your teeth. pregnant wife. greasy slices of applewood smoked bacon. a miscarriage. a hearty dose of ketchup leaked from the sandwich and began to bleed down your fingers.
“you better start eating before it gets cold.” hange suggested, pulling a fry out of the bag and pushing it past their lips. “then, we can start looking over your schedule. unless you wanna save that for later.”
“hit me,” you murmured.
“well,” hange began, reaching for something on their side of the bed. it was a bulky, cherry-red filofax planner. they flipped through the pages until the month of september came into view. “you’ve got your date with jean friday. then, that sunday we fly to new york for your shoot that week. then, when we get back, you’ve gotta start preparing for the arlert cancer benefit in october.”
you practically sprung to life at the last bullet point. “that's this year?”
a philanthropic multi-millionaire who couldn’t seem to give enough of his money away if he tried, armin arlert was the benefactor to many causes. from cancer to public infrastructure to scholarship funds for inner city kids, there was hardly a charity he hadn’t donated to in the past ten years. you admired his work, his alma mater, not so much. when you were first invited last year, the place was swarming with pretentious yale alums. all disgustingly wealthy with eyes that had grown glassy from either excessive alcohol consumption or the clear lack of a soul.
“it's every year, honey.”
your chest swelled around a heavy sigh. “you can skip it, if you want.” hange pulled a pen from the planner's spine and held it steadily over one of the sections of messily scrawled ink. “won’t be long before he throws another one.”
“no,” you said, at the same time wrapping the burger in front of you back up in its greasy aluminum foil. as much as you detested that forsaken institution and almost everything it produced, you were still a wealthy actress with no better way to spend your money. “put me down for it.”
a glimmer sparked within hange’s eyes. “atta girl. i'll call your stylist in the morning.”
there was no point in even letting your head touch the pillow that night. you knew you wouldn't be able to sleep. not with thoughts of him terrorizing your psyche so relentlessly.
mentally, part of you was still in the limo with him. soaking up the scent of his cologne and letting his eyes trace over you in ways that made your body hot.
according to your nightstand clock, the time had only just brushed past eleven. you kicked your feet out from under your covers and trekked through the darkness of your room until you reached your closet.
you fumbled with a pair of dimmers until the space was illuminated to your liking.
walking through your closet always felt like something akin to a dream. the sumptuous carpet fabric snaked in between your toes like blades of soft field grass. sometimes, when you were feeling extra theatrical, you would graze your fingertips along the length of an entire row of dresses. or do a little twirl around the case of jewelry in the middle of the space.
not tonight, you thought as you passed the aforementioned dresses. not a single fiber of your being longed to graze or twirl.
you dragged yourself up to the second story, where in an unsuspecting wardrobe, a lone tom ford suit jacket hung on an otherwise vacant rack.
here, let me. you pinched the cloth between your fingers as eren's words rang in your mind. when your eyes drifted shut, it was as if you were still there that night. you recalled the feeling of him draping you in the jacket. the warmth of the fabric against the chilled raindrops, lips still a little bruised from the way he kissed you.
you weren't sure how long it was before you noticed you weren't even breathing. just standing there with your eyes closed and chest heavy. clinging to a memory that you couldn't even be sure meant anything.
a single stream of air left your lips, but you didn't breathe in. you wouldn't, or you would risk taking in the aroma of him that was surely wafting off the material. you'd get the urge to rush down to your room, plug in your house phone, and call him. just to give him a piece of your mind, or tell him you missed him. or both.
you wondered if he held mikasa while it was happening. surely he had. even if he wasn't the perfect husband. even if he wasn't in love with her anymore. he at least held her during what was easily one of the most painful moments of her life. did he cry with her? did he at least tell her everything was going to be alright? he at least held her, you hoped, before he slinked off into the adulterous abyss with you.
your vision blurred around the edges and a tremor overtook your bottom lip. shit, you were going to cry. you bit back the urge, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth and staring helplessly at the ceiling, waiting for your eyes to dry.
22 SEPTEMBER
the week crawled by, and your date only grew closer. on tuesday morning, you had woken up feeling like run over crap. eyes swollen and face mask-tight with dried tears. as you chewed on a bowl of dry cereal and listened to the latest polls coming out of the race—pyxis ahead with married men fifty and up, jaeger leading exceptionally well with married women across all demographics—you wondered if the misery you were feeling would last forever.
wednesday was slightly better, only because you woke up hellbent on wringing the heartache out of your body. you made yourself a fancy looking bowl of oatmeal with banana slices and blueberries sprinkled over top. it tasted horrible—like you'd scooped up a bowl of dirt from your garden. you much preferred dry cereal. to counteract your piss-poor effort at making a healthy meal, you set up your old yoga mat and got twenty minutes into a jane fonda tape before giving yourself a gnarly looking bruise.
by thursday, you had come to terms with the fact that your sadness wasn't going away any time soon. you would just have to work around it.
with your date looming close by, it wouldn't be a hard feat. you tried to think of it as a reward. you got to spend the end of this hellish week getting wined and dined by a handsome man. in any circumstance, even yours, that had to be considered a win.
***
dress light, wear sunscreen, pack a swimsuit.
those were jean's only instructions. so, when friday came, you coated your body in a thick veneer of sunscreen, threw on a featherlight romper, and packed a bikini in your tote bag. well, two bikinis. but only because you wanted options.
jean awaited you at the entrance of the trost yacht club, his cheeks stained an uncharacteristic shade of pink by the california heat. “you look…” he started, but trailed off as his gaze raked over your body—from the chanel sunglasses resting upon your hairline to the threads weaved over the toes of your fendi wedges. “like a dream.”
blood rushed to your ears. “oh, stop it.”
he palmed at the nape of his neck with one hand and outstretched the other for you to hold. reflexively, you check for paparazzi before remembering you were on private property. you let his hand envelope yours. “let's get you inside.”
it turned out that inside wasn't really inside. you were inside of a boat, if that counted. but you could still feel the california sun glaring at you from above and taste flakes of sea salt drying your tongue.
“you sure you don't want a bite?” jean asked, puncturing a piece of fried shrimp and holding it out to you.
“positive.” you smiled, pouring a helping of syrup over your french toast, sausages, and eggs. “isn't it a little bougie to be eating seafood while we're in the ocean?”
“okay, but shrimp is barely a seafood. it's like a fancy kind of chicken.”
“yeah, ocean chicken.”
“you're the last person who can call anyone bougie.”
you chuckled, washing your bite of food down with a sip of mimosa. “are you trying to flip this on me?”
“that's exactly what i'm doing. you have closets in your closet.”
“i like to have options, okay? and besides, is it a bad thing for a girl to be a little high maintenance?”
“not when she's as pretty as you.” a ribbon of sunshine caught jean’s hair, and made the honey brown locks shine like gold. you weren’t sure if it was your ego talking, but he almost seemed to look prettier whilst complimenting you. you could get used to that. “you following the election?”
okay, moment over, you decided. despite his absence in your life, eren and his stupid presidential candidate status decided upon haunting the narrative at every turn. your little attempts at forgetting him were almost comically pathetic.
“um, somewhat,” you said, stabbing into a sausage and trying not to imagine it as eren’s neck. “you?”
“yeah, i think jaeger’s got it in the bag.”
that seemed to be the popular opinion around here. here, being the entire united states. eren was leading exceptionally well with all kinds of people. his handsome face was everywhere that could be touched by the american eye. meanwhile, you knew next to nothing about pyxis. hell, you didn’t even know if pyxis was his first or last name.
“i’m surprised you even keep up with american politics.” you half chuckled, trying to shift the conversation away from eren.
“you guys have an interesting way of doing things.”
“not as interesting as guillotines.” you washed a hearty bite of food down with more mimosa. “would you ever go back?”
jean set his fork down, clearly pushed into deep thought by your question. meanwhile, you were letting out an inner sigh of relief at having diverted the topic of conversation.
“maybe,” he said finally, gazing at you as if you held the answer to a question he’d yet to ask. “whenever i settle down and find a woman crazy enough to marry me.”
slowly pulling your eyes away from his, you sliced a bite-sized corner of your french toast before topping it with a respective pieces of sausage and scrambled egg. “oh yeah?” you murmured. you stabbed the breakfast concoction with your fork and shoved it past your lips. “good luck with that.” you joked through a mouthful of food.
jean didn’t speak again until your food was swallowed and you were looking back up at him, a brow furrowed at the awestruck impression on his face.
“you’re…beautiful,” he said, with utter sincerity, as if it were his first time seeing your face.
nonetheless, the blood under your cheeks warmed a comfortable amount, and you felt yourself smiling. “thank you.”
you were on your third or fourth mimosa. now, thankfully, too inebriated to be thinking of eren. though, you couldn't be sure if that was due to the alcohol or the fact that you were watching jean backstroke in impressively fluid circles. he zipped so fast through the water that you were nearly dizzy trying to steady your eyes on him.
he came up from the ocean just as you were sipping the last bit of liquid from your glass.
“how do you feel about miami?” he asked, pushing himself out of the water and back on to the yacht with an attractive ease.
you pulled your suglasses off your eyes and let them sit just above your hairline. “is this a trick question?”miami was where you shot your first movie with jean—an indie coming of age romance with so much chemistry oozing off of it that directors and audiences alike fell in love with you.
despite the fond memories on set and off, (you thought back to the first time the two of you had sex with a girlish giggle) you never visited the city again. mostly due to its fatal humidity and your busy schedule.
“no,” jean chuckled, now towering over where you sat, sprinkling your skin with ocean water in a strangely erotic sort of shower. “i got invited to this art thing down there, and was wondering if you would want to…” his last few words were colored under a light french accent, a telltale sign of his sudden timidness.
“be your date?” you finished.
fortunately (or unfortunately, you weren’t sure) jean was stepping away from you to fetch a towel from somewhere. “it’s no pressure at all,” he dabbed the soft fabric over his body before letting it hang on a stray rail. “think of it as a hangout, if you want. or don’t if you don’t want to. again, no pressure at—”
“i’ll go,” you decided with not much thought process behind it other than wanting purge a certain green eyed governor from your system. “just have your people talk to mine, and it’s a date.”
jean sank to his knees in front of you. still taller than you, but just low enough to comfortably anchor his lips to yours in an ardent kiss that placated you just the sweetest amount.
you were floating on an unsteady cloud on the way home. the mimosa flutes you threw back coupled with some less than apt decision making filled you with the rush of a relapsing addict. you rode home alone, head pressed against the window as you pondered other stupid decisions you could make. maybe you would buy a new dress, or call er—
your brain skidded to a halt. based on the dizzied rhythm of your heart and the warmth pooling under your skin, you were nowhere near ready to joke about that. because part of you really wanted to do it. you longed to feel the beguiling tone of his voice lulling you to sleep. or keeping you awake. you could indulge in either.
but you couldn’t. not when he had a formerly pregnant wife whose mere existence made your mortal compass tilt disgustingly south. you rolled your eyes. you would just buy two dresses. you rolled your eyes again at how vapid you sounded. then you realized your period was due in a few days, so you gave your eyes a break by shutting them until you arrived home.
daytime bled into the horizon as you reached your stoop, completely toasted by the sun with a chanel tote bag hanging on your limp arm. you only registered the object at your front door when your toe nudged it while you fumbled with your keys.
a wicker basket so large you could fit six heads inside, brimming with about a million pink roses. a card sat on top of it, your name inked over it in beautiful script. you flipped it around, and a gasp punched out of your throat at the first of many words written on it.
Please
you turned around, ready to hurl into your hydrangeas before seeing that your driver was still parked out front, waiting for you to make it inside.
you lugged the heavy thing across the threshold, not allowing yourself to read the card until the door was shut and locked behind you.
Please read this before you throw it away. You’re angry at me, and you have every right to be. I just want the chance to explain myself before I’ve lost you forever. Call me when you get this, please. I will answer, even if it’s the dead of night. I know I don’t deserve to hear your voice ever again, so you don’t have to say anything. Just call me, please.
the bottom right corner of the card was signed MG in expensive cursive. mr. governor. you just wanted to slap him. and slap him again and again until you had blisters on your palms. you read over his words until your eyes stung and white hot anger poured from them.
you let the letter fall to the ground, right atop the flowers it came from, and made a beeline to your bed. why did the most perfect man on earth have to be this one?
𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐀𝐘, 𝐌𝐑. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 | eren jaeger x black fem!reader
II. what did i tell you?
✧ summary! — following a blundered primary and a heated argument with his wife, eren knows exactly who to call.
✧ warnings! — mentions of alcohol consumption, suggestive sexual language, adultery (eren is an aspiring cheater again), age gap—reader is 29 and eren is 40
✧ author’s note! — part 2 is here! so happy that you all are loving this series & i thank you for all the support!! 🤎🪽 lmk if i missed anything in the warnings!
✧ word count! — 2.5k series masterlist! / previous chapter! / next chapter
AUGUST 12, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION
“i can’t even…” mikasa sputtered, running a shaky hand through the sable—and once perfectly coiffed—hair atop her head. “i can’t believe you, eren.” she let the sleek mop of her fur coat droop down her arms, seemingly indifferent as to whether or not it landed on the nearby coat rack. as he watched it collide with the tile floor of their foyer, eren recalled the eight thousand dollar price with a scoff.
“save it, mika.” eren huffed, trying to drown out the sounds of her heels clicking against the floor as she tailed him into the living room.
“oh, trust me, i have. i saved it on the bus. i saved it on the plane. i even saved it on the ride home when it was just the two of us.”
“i meant save it for someone who wants to hear it, ‘cause i sure as hell don’t, mikasa.” he blew the words out as an exasperated sigh.
mikasa barked, the tone of her voice akin to a creaky window. “i’m gonna speak now, and you will hear every word!”
eren could tell just by the way the words scratched against her throat that she was about to lay it on thick. and mikasa had a very poor habit of not knowing when to fucking stop. if he wanted to listen to someone berate him for every mistake he’d ever made, he’d pick up the phone and call his father.
“honestly, eren, do you even want this election?”
“of course i do. do you not see how hard i’ve been working?”
“oh, is that what that was? were you working hard at that primary, because all you managed to do was piss me off.”
“don’t start with me right now. i’m not in the damn mood for this.”
“and you think i am? you think i’m in the mood to be having this conversation?” mikasa laughed, but it felt more like a sarcastically delighted scoff. her eyes went glossy with something familiarly maniacal, and eren could more than tell what she was getting ready to do. arranging a beautiful artillery of words at the tip of her tongue for the sole purpose of destroying him in that very moment. “i mean, do you not realize how lucky you are? you’re smart, you’re rich, you’re handsome, you come from one of the most powerful families in the country. you could have the office right now if you wanted. but you don’t want it.
“i had dreams, y’know. i could’ve been a partner at my firm, but i gave it up. and for what? so you could screw around behind that podium?” mikasa kicked out of her shoes before hooking the heels under her fingers.
eren released the bridge of his nose from the pressing grip of his fingers. “i’ll be at the guest house tonight.”
mikasa only sighed. they seldom got in fights that led to them sleeping separately, but in those rare instances, it was the best (and sometimes the only) option. “right. well, get some rest. we’re meeting with levi tomorrow.”
he took a chance glance into his wife’s eyes—an oasis of grey, brimming with thoughts and emotions of which she had barred his access. save for the frustration evident on all the other parts of her face.
it was so eerily similar to that of his mother. he could count on both hands the number of times she blinked that same world-weary gaze in his father’s direction. how long had she been sleeping in the guest bedroom before she’d considered a divorce?
“yeah. you too.”
14 MAY, SIX MONTHS AFTER THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION
“don’t even try to deny it.” mikasa said. a sick, wifely part of her burned with satisfaction at the sight of your infuriatingly beautiful face—cracked into a myriad of distressing pieces, like a plate she’d just struck with a hammer. “and before you ask, no. i don’t have proof.” if she were being a hundred percent honest with herself, it hadn’t even crossed her mind to gather any proof. what had her marriage done to her? she was a lawyer, and top of her class, godamnit! if eren’s classless affair reduced her to a point of throwing around baseless accusations, then she was just as bad as him. which meant that she needn’t waste any more time on this than absolutely necessary. “but i don’t need any, either. i mean, look at you two.”
you scoffed, seeming to forget that your glass was empty and being met with a jarring (and actually rather rude) slurping noise. thankfully, the waiter was there to swipe the glass from your hand before any more damage to her ears could be done. although, mikasa was almost sick with pleasure as she watched your futile attempt at trying not to crumble. “look at—look at what, exactly?”
“i don’t know what it was, but part of me could just tell he wanted you. maybe it was me being his wife and such, but i just knew. that first night i introduced you two, he had this—this hard-on in his eyes whenever he looked at you.” she thought back to that very night. where you’d seemingly been oblivious to her husband ogling you like you were a piece of meat. “but i could deal with that. i could screw him a little more often. we were supposed to be trying anyway. but then,” at the mention of them trying, mikasa caught you shifting uncomfortably in your seat, and thought to herself, good. she hoped your mind would run itself wild imagining all the trying they did.
“but then?”
mikasa had to brace herself. because eren could be as horny for as many twenty year olds as he wanted. he could have as many stupid, meaningless affairs as he wanted. him being unhappy in their marriage, she could handle that. her husband being careless enough to risk his presidency over some college freshman, she could handle that. none of it would’ve been worse than what he actually did. “i think he actually started to like you.”
AUGUST 12, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION
you put your house phone out of its ringing misery with a clipped, “hello,” for you had barely graced past your front door and kicked off your heels when it began it’s treacherous trill.
“bad time?” the voice on the other end answered, a voice you immediately (and with some chagrin) recognized to be governor eren jaeger. it’s smooth and relaxed, like he’s just ran a glass of whiskey down his throat. your drunken timbre feels clumsy in comparison.
“oh.” you realize aloud, situating yourself at the foot of your bed. “hi, mr. governor.”
“unh-unh. what did i tell you?”
almost giddily, you plunged your head backwards into your plush, messy comforter, your house phone still clutched in your fingers. “eren.” a low hum rumbled through the receiver, as palpable as though your ear was pressed against his chest. this was an unbelievably bad time for you. your body was still mangled with remnants of fun. you were drunk, sprinkled in party glitter, and you had sporadically made out with jean kirschtein, so you were a little horny too.
“that’s better.” this was so incredibly bad for you. eren was so incredibly bad for you. he was even more enticing over the phone, if not more so. you were so stupid, and you were so screwed if you stayed on the phone with him any longer.
but, really, you couldn’t help yourself. “well, eren, how’d you get my number?”
“uh, mikasa, actually. she wrote it in my planner.”
“that sounds like her. are you forgetful like that?” in the background, you heard the almost hypnotizing sounds of ice clink-ing against a glass. somehow, you just knew it was scotch he was drinking, and you couldn’t fight the various mental images that came with that knowing.
eren only chuckled, and you could practically feel the scotch roll down his throat. “oh, she doesn’t do it for me. it’s in case her planner gets caught in a fire or something.”
at that, a clumsy laugh punched from your throat. “can’t tell if you’re funny or if i’m just drunk.”
“which do you think it is?” your dress suddenly began to feel like a thousand pounds of hot fur on your body rather than the skimpy piece of sequins that it was. eren did that to you. and when you left an ecstatic giggle in the form of your answer, he only further egged you on in your flustered state. “what, you think i’m funny? c’mon tell me.”
if he were in front of you at that moment, you would’ve slipped from your dress without a second’s hesitation. how crazy would it be for you to take your dress off while you were on the phone with him? it’s not like he’d see it or anything. but you so desperately wanted him to, and the fact that he wouldn’t made you so fucking crazy. “i think that you’re lots of things, eren.”
“mhm, like what?”
“can’t say. i’m too drunk.” you let your eyes press shut for a bit, trying almost futilely to think of anything that didn’t involve flashing the governor of california. “and, hey, why’d you call me, anyway? not that i mind or anything, but don’t you have, like, an election to win?”
eren breathed a sigh—docile, yet so strangely and dangerously persuasive. “yeah, but…talking to you is a lot more fun.”
“noooo, come on. tell me the real reason.”
“that is the real reason. i swear on it. we actually were supposed to call you at some point and congratulate you on the premiere. just figured i should get around to it now.”
“do you call all your famous actress friends at—” you cut your eyes over to the alarm clock on your bedside table. “—almost one in the morning? i mean, you’re lucky i was coming home from a party, and not dead asleep or something.”
“party, huh?”
“yeah.” you actually couldn’t help the way your thighs pressed together. “still got my dress on and everything.”
“really?” the muffled sound of him shuffling in his seat made you pinch your lip between your teeth.
you giggled, a reaction you’d probably have to start getting used to for as long as you were around him. “yeah.”
“bet you look real pretty.” he thinks i’m pretty. you could’ve moaned at the thought.
suddenly, your voice was a higher, breathier octave. like you were whispering the words in his ears. “are you thinking about what i look like in my dress?”
“why wouldn’t i be?”
you wanted to take it further. you wanted to ask him what he was wearing. you wanted to ask him if you were making him hard, although a part of you knew you were. you wanted to slide your fingers under your panties and let him hear just how bad he was for you.
just as desire began to pool in your belly, so did a sharp pang of guilt. married man, married man, married man. but he had thrown a few compliments your way and you managed to forget all about that.
“eren,” how wrong would it be for you to slide your dress up your legs until it bunched at your waist? “you know we...” if you slipped the straps off your shoulders and let the rest fall from there, what then? “we c—”
“i know, i know.” he cooed, and his voice crawled out of the receiver and laced you with something. you needed him to whisper those words over your ears, or between your lips, or against whatever body part of yours he’d just finished kissing. you needed it so bad you could’ve cried. “i’m sorry.”
you sat upright, feeling immediately more sober than you had all night. “don’t be.”
“let me. let me be sorry, because i am.” the way he spoke to you was so toothachingly sweet, you think you would walk yourself off a cliff if he was talking you through it. “‘m sorry.”
your eyes close, and you were not sure if they were fluttering shut from tiredness or pressing closed from angst. the only thing you were sure of was that this conversation couldn’t possibly continue any longer. “it’s alright. i think i should be getting to bed anyway. i don’t usually stay up this late talking to future presidents.”
eren chuckled. “maybe you should do it more often.”
“maybe i should.”
AUGUST 12, THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION
“what the fuck,” was how you answered the phone the following morning. you had fallen asleep with it still tucked against your ear and clutched between your fingers, so you’d felt its ringing in all of its chirruping treachery.
“bad time again?” eren responded, his voice tiptoeing over a laugh.
“extremely.” you sat up in bed and took a chance glance at your bedside clock. the only person who could get a pre-eleven o’clock answer from you on one of your off days was hange. and even they knew that the resulting response was usually so grouchy that they’d be better off not bothering. so it all but bewildered you as to why you’d even let eren stay on the phone long enough to come to this realization. “it’s barely ten.”
“so i gather you’re not a morning person?” eren seemed to be the exact opposite. his voice was as brilliantly ecstatic at ten in the morning as yours would normally be after a shot of tequila. it made you want to swing your curtains open and stand tall in the sun, even with the headache spearing through your skull.
despite the small onslaught of revelations, you answered, “if it wasn’t obvious enough.”
“sooo, i’m assuming this is a really bad time to invite you to dinner with mikasa and i.”
“dinner?”
you’re only briefly surprised at his audacity to ask you to dinner with his wife after the night you two had. but then again, you doubt he would’ve even called you if she hadn’t planted your number in his planner. the realization was an emotional whiplash that wasn’t helped by your hungover state.
“uh, yeah. i meant to ask last night, but i guess i didn’t really get around to it.”
i wonder why, you’d wanted to say, but suppressed the urge with a cough. “oh, well, i—”
“and don’t feel pressured to say yes. i know my wife can be a force.”
his wife. the woman who probably awoke him this morning with a smattering of kisses. the woman who felt his arms wrap around her in the comfort of their bed not two minutes after he’d gotten off the phone with you. the same woman whose eyes were filled with nothing but guilt-inducing kindness when she invited you over for golf that night.
the answer should be a flat no. sorry, eren. i don’t think i can do dinner with you and your wife. partly because i’m very obviously and very, very inappropriately sexually attracted to you. and partly because i think i’m a little jealous of your wife. i haven’t quite unpacked that part yet, but i’m sure here—on the phone with you—is probably the worst place to do it. yeah, uh, bye. so, when you fix your stupid lips to say, “eren, the last thing you could ever do is pressure me. of course i’ll go.” you can only assume it’s for those same reasons.
